Arnhem

‘The men were passed forward in little groups. I must have wallowed in the ditch an hour or more before our turn came. Someone called from across the field. We ran across the slope of grass and clattered on to the shelving stones of the bank. A canvas assault boat with an outboard motor screwed to the stern and, manned by two Canadian sappers, was swinging against a groyne of stones that sloped into the water. We waded out and heaved ourselves over the side. The boat was pushed off from the groyne and a sapper jerked the engine-starter with a rope. The engine spluttered, chugged a few turns, then died. We twirled downstream in a fast current, drifting back to the bank. As we grounded, a voice shouted: “Why in hell’s name don’t you paddle with your rifles?” We dipped the butts in the river and did just that. The boat’s head began to swing upstream. We passed mid-current. Suddenly the engine started with a jolt that flung us off our balance. The bows lifted and we raced across the final reach into the shadow of the dyke.’

Back on the other side, Ennis and his men were still waiting. They had been on the go for two and a half hours. It was midnight. Heavy rain began to fall, an added burden that later led Horrocks – a man who loved a good phrase – to bewail that ‘even the gods were weeping at this grievous end to a gallant enterprise.’⁴ The men soldiered on. ‘We lay in the soaking mud, wet through, and every few minutes a boat would pull in and take off a party of men – twelve to fifteen at a time.’ There were supposedly thirty-seven boats in all, but some were lost and, though the twenty-one motorized ones could speed across in three minutes, they were liable to break down.⁵ Given the current, the ones depending on paddle-power required as many as four crewmen to get them across, thereby reducing the number of passengers they could take. The growing queue was patient, with a discipline that awed one leading Arnhem historian. ‘Everyone took their turn, irrespective of rank. Urquhart and the other senior officers queued like everyone else. One brigadier showed some reluctance to cross until he was sure that all of his brigade had left but was persuaded that such honourable gestures were not practicable.’⁶ One veteran recalled the calming voice of a stalwart officer urging everyone not to panic and directing traffic with his arms as if on point duty in the middle of Oxford Circus.

Still Ennis waited. ‘At two in the morning I was still among those waiting a turn. The beach seemed to be as crowded as ever, and now mortar shells were landing among us. I saw one of the boats hit as it left the shore, loaded to capacity, and heard the screams of drowning men.’ Ennis could see that there were not enough boats to move everyone before daybreak. Life-or-death decisions had to be made. ‘An officer called out that every man who could swim should get across as best as he was able, leaving the boats for wounded and non-swimmers. When we left England we were each given a Mae West inflatable lifebelt in case we ditched in the sea. On landing, I had untied mine, and I put it inside my smock. It was still there, and I pulled it out. I am a poor swimmer but the river was only about 500 yards wide and I reckoned that with the lifebelt I might be able to struggle to the far bank. I tore off my boots and steel helmet, inflated the Mae West and waded out into the water.’

But this was no easy stretch of water. It was cold and fast, with tracer and mortar shells flashing across the surface. ‘As soon as my feet left the bottom, I felt the current catch me and swirl me along downstream. I was so exhausted that I could do little more than feebly struggle against it. I knew then that I would never reach the other bank. I was going to drown. Just when I had practically given myself up, a boat laden with men passed by me. I made one last effort, my fingers reached out and clawed at a rope. I hung on, while the men in the boat paddled with their rifle butts, fighting to beat the current. In that manner I was towed across until I was able to let go of the rope and crawl ashore. I tried to get on my feet, but my legs were unable to support me, and I crumpled into the mud, gasping for my breath.’ Ennis eventually managed to stand up, only to throw himself flat again into the mud as machine-gun fire rattled around him. ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said a friendly voice. ‘They’re ours.’