Arnhem

Such solidarity was a hallmark of the evacuation. Arthur Ayers had his chance to get away, but his headlong dash to the river came to a halt when a freshly wounded man, his face macerated by a mortar, pleaded for help. Ayers knew he was about to blow his chance of escaping, but he couldn’t just turn away. ‘As the man moaned in pain and grasped my arm for support, my mind was made up. “Of course I will help you,” I said.’ Years later, he had no regrets. ‘I didn’t even know what his name was, just that he was one of our men and he was wounded and needed help. I never thought of leaving him and saving myself. The thought didn’t cross my mind. I just did what I believe any reasonable person would do. How can you leave a wounded man? Well, I couldn’t.’ The man, a glider pilot, had managed to stand, and Ayers, knowing that it was imperative to keep moving if they were to reach the river bank and the possibility of boarding a rescue boat, urged him to try walking, though there was still more than a mile to go. ‘He moved one foot forward, then swayed, complaining of giddiness. I steadied him, put his arm around my shoulder and we staggered slowly along, looking like two old pals on their way home after a night on the beer.’

They came to some houses, now deserted, just as mortar shells started to fall, sending up showers of masonry and timber into the air. Ayers hauled his friend into a building to shelter. ‘The front door opened to my push and I led him into the hall. Leaving him propped up against the wall, I struck a match and started to explore. Down some narrow stairs was a cellar, with a table and chairs and a large mattress. Tins of food and bottles of wine were stacked in a corner, a heart-warming sight. I fetched him down and we sat facing each other. “What’s my face like?” he whispered. “Is it bad?” “No,” I lied, but he didn’t believe me. “I used to be quite good looking,” he sighed. “Never had any trouble getting girlfriends.”’

Ayers found water and a bowl and began to clean the man’s face. ‘He sat patiently as I carefully washed away the blood, wincing in pain when I touched an open wound. When I had finished, the wounds didn’t look so bad but I realized he needed proper medical attention. I suggested we gave ourselves up to the enemy so he could be taken to hospital, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “Not bloody likely,” he said. I dined on tinned meat and fruit in syrup, washed down with a bottle of wine. He found it too painful to eat, but managed to drink some wine. Then we laid our weary bodies down on the mattress and tried to sleep.’ It was ten thirty the next morning when Ayers woke. ‘My companion seemed to be sleeping soundly, so I left him and went up the stairs. Suddenly I was conscious of activity and voices outside. I peeped through a window to see dozens of German soldiers walking along the road. A large truck pulled up and several men in field-grey uniforms jumped out, automatic weapons at the ready. My heart sank. It looked as though they were going to search the house. But then they formed up and marched off up the road, out of my sight.’ His relief was momentary. This, he realized, was only a reprieve. ‘It could be only a matter of time before the houses would be searched.’

Ayers scouted the house. He came to a window overlooking trees and a field. ‘I heard shots and then saw half a dozen British paratroopers appear out of the trees, escorted by their captors. I made my way back to the cellar, where I found my companion sitting up. He tried to smile, but the effort was clearly very painful. The wounds on his face looked red and angry. I told him what I had seen and we debated our future. The decision we came to was to stay where we were and take a chance the houses would not be searched. After all, we had food and shelter and, besides, there was a chance that the Second Army would arrive in Arnhem at any moment and we would be relieved.’ That incredible airborne optimism was undimmed even now.

The two airborne evaders lay in the house through Wednesday and Thursday, dozing mainly, and eating. ‘My companion, who had kept very cheerful during this ordeal, despite the damage to his face, was now able to eat a little solid food. At mid-morning on Friday I made my usual trip upstairs to the window to look out. The road was quiet and deserted, but as I turned away I heard voices. English voices. They were singing “Roll out the Barrel”, and my heart leaped. It had to be the Second Army. They’d got here at last.’ His joy at the prospect of rescue, of going home, was short-lived. ‘When I returned to the window and looked out I saw a column of dirty, dishevelled but still defiant paratroopers marching along the road, flanked by German soldiers. Some were bareheaded but others still proudly wearing their red berets. They looked very tired but far from disheartened. I watched until they passed out of sight, then returned to the cellar feeling hopeless and abandoned.’