Arnhem

That afternoon Ayers heard footsteps in the house above and was startled when a figure appeared at the top of the cellar stairs. ‘It was a smartly dressed civilian. He stared down at us, a surprised look on his face, then turning hurriedly he disappeared back through the doorway. Uncertain if he was friend or foe, we decided to leave the house and find shelter elsewhere. We quickly packed the remaining tins of food in my haversack and prepared to leave. But it was too late. As we reached the foot of the stairs, I heard the sound of heavy boots and I looked up to see two German soldiers. ‘They shouted at us and motioned with their rifles. I was a prisoner, something I had never visualized being. Part of me was pleased that my war was finished, though I was sad that I wouldn’t be going home right away. But I presumed I would get there at some point, and perhaps sooner rather than later. We still thought the war would be over pretty shortly.’ As the two men were led away to a jeep, they passed the man dressed in civilian clothes who was standing by the front door. ‘He stared at us with no expression on his face. I stared back.’ They were driven out of Oosterbeek, getting glimpses along the way of the devastation the battle had caused. ‘The few civilians we passed turned and just stared, their expressionless faces showing nothing of the misery they must be feeling. I wondered if they blamed us for all this. Then we pulled into the grounds of the St Elizabeth Hospital on the outskirts of Arnhem, and my wounded companion was taken inside. This was the last I saw of him.’

In the back of the jeep, Ayers shared a tin of pears with one of his captors before being driven away. ‘We were travelling through Arnhem itself now and I was hoping to get a view of the bridge, which, after all, was the main reason for us being here. But I never did.’ On the edge of town, the jeep came to halt outside a large marquee. ‘I was roughly pushed out by the guard, and that was when it really hit home to me. Like the many British troops in airborne smocks and red berets milling around there, I was a prisoner of war.’

In the hospitals and casualty stations, the hardest task was telling the wounded that the division had evacuated Oosterbeek without them, that the Second Army wasn’t coming to rescue them and that, therefore, they were now destined to live behind barbed wire for the duration of the war, now certain to last beyond Christmas 1944 and, if the pessimists were to be believed, possibly beyond Christmas 1945 as well. There are indications in some accounts by the wounded that they may have been misled into thinking all was well so they would not panic at being left behind. One para recalled being specifically informed by a messenger sent from divisional headquarters on Sunday night that the Second Army had captured the bridge at Arnhem and that the Guards Armoured Division would be rolling into Oosterbeek the next morning. Others were told that the Polish Brigade had arrived with tanks. An officer excused the deception. ‘We must keep the wounded quiet. They must not feel too anxious, so we tell them the big lie.’³ The truth, though, had to come out, and inside what had until a few hours ago been the perimeter, sick and injured men were now discovering what had happened in the night while they slept.

Fred Moore, with shrapnel wounds in his hand, leg and arm, was in the casualty station at Kate ter Horst’s house down by the river in Oosterbeek, and it was here that he learned his fate from her. She had woken that morning in the cellar and been struck, as so many people were that day, by the incredible silence. It was so quiet that one Dutch civilian believed the world had ended and he was the sole survivor. Either that, or his eardrums must have shattered. Kate looked up through a hole and saw a German officer on her doorstep. Bravely, she went up to face him. Her old vicarage, she told the officer, housed hundreds of unarmed wounded soldiers, who needed immediate evacuation to hospital. He sent her back in to break the news. Down in the cellar, Moore remembered, ‘she came in and said: “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Your comrades were evacuated across the river last night and the house is surrounded by Germans. An officer is waiting outside to speak to someone who is able to walk.” I volunteered and, emerging from the front door, was confronted by this officer, who saluted and said in impeccable English, “Your people have withdrawn back to their lines. I congratulate you on your efforts but you are now our prisoners. Please accept these gifts.” He gave me tins of cigarettes and chocolate, which obviously came from supply containers meant for us that had dropped outside our lines.’