Postcards From No Man's Land (20 page)

Dirk had scribbled a note at the end.

I never saw Henk again.

Beloved sister
,

We cannot wait any longer. We must help rid our country of the invader. Dirk is right. The Germans will raid the farm more often now. Later, when the Allies are near, they will take it over as a command post or stronghold for a gun emplacement. If—no, when—that happens we would be caught. And then the Germans would treat us badly and you and the others too. Rats always behave worst when they are cornered. Better that Dirk and I go now while there is a chance of fighting rather than wait to be captured and killed or made to work for them. This is also the best thing for you. Less harm will come to you if we are not found here. For this reason also, help Jacob to leave as soon as he is fit enough.
Do not delay
.

We have decided to try and contact the Resistance, and, if they cannot use us, to make for the British army in the south. We should have done this months ago. Anyway, after the battle that destroyed our home
.

I know you will be upset. I would have told you of our plan but I would not have been strong against your tears. What we are doing I must do. To keep faith with Dirk. But also for my own pride. I hope you understand
.

Be sure Dirk and I will see you very soon, when we will bring freedom with us. Until then, dearest sister, whose life is more precious to me than my own, take good care of yourself
before all else
.

Your brother Henk
.

I carry you in my heart. All my love, Dirk
.

POSTCARD

A bridge too far.

Lt-Gen. F.A.M. Browning

I still have nightmares so violent

that my wife gets bruised in bed.

I am not bitter; I’ve had nearly

fifty more years than those poor devils

who lie in the Oosterbeek cemetery.

It seemed a good idea at the time.

It was a gamble;

some you win, some you lose.

We lost that one.

Staff Sergeant Joe Kitchener
,

Glider Pilot Regiment, the Battle of Arnhem

SUNDAY 17 SEPTEMBER
1995.

08:00. Filtering through the haze of what will become a bright, warm, late-summer day free of the rain that showered the previous three days of his trip, the reflected light of the morning sun woke Jacob in the guest room of Geertrui’s apartment on the Oudezijds Kolk in Amsterdam.

On his way down to the bathroom he neither saw nor heard any sign of Daan, whom he assumed must still be asleep behind the Chinese screens beyond the kitchen. After a quick wash and use of the lavatory, he dressed in, at last, his own clothes. Black sweatshirt, clean blue-green jeans, red socks, light tan Ecco town boots. Feeling more himself than he had since arriving in Holland, he ate a quick breakfast of toast, honey and tea, prepared with as little clatter as he could contrive in a kitchen still strange to him
so as not to disturb Daan, whose early-morning testiness he wished to avoid. Already there was too much occupying his mind for comfort. The feelings spun by Geertrui yesterday tangled with his anticipations about today.

After leaving Geertrui, Daan had taken him to the Van Riets’, where they collected Jacob’s belongings and ate a meal with Mr van Riet, during most of which Daan and his father discussed family business in Dutch, apologising for doing so, but which Jacob was glad of, being in no mood for polite chatter. The visit to Geertrui had disturbed him in ways he could not yet explain even to himself.

When they got back to Amsterdam Jacob took a long hot bath and spent the rest of the evening on his own, thankful that Daan had a date and would not be back till late. It was a relief after the constant company of strangers to be on his own, with the pleasures of the apartment to himself. He poked about among the books, played music on the super sound system, flicked through the numerous channels on television, and spied now and then from the front windows into the rooms in the hotel across the canal. (Surprising how many people left the curtains open, their rooms lit like little stages, while they performed private functions. Unpacking, undressing, sorting money, applying make-up, lying on the bed in their underwear. Daan had told him of seeing people having sex straight and gay, of a naked young woman dancing round her room and other similar entertainments. But, typical of his luck, Jacob thought, all he saw that was out of the ordinary was a middle-aged man of awkward obesity, dressed in singlet and boxer shorts, trying to cut his toenails, a project the man gave up after failing by various contortions to reach his toes with the clippers.)

But all the while and until he fell asleep sometime after twelve Jacob brooded on his hour with Geertrui, trying to reset his dislocated emotions. Now, this morning, the disturbance was just as aching.

After breakfast he padded his way from the kitchen,
across the cool expanse of Spanish tiles, to the ship’s gangway that took him to the upper deck and to his room, where, in a plastic carrier bag with a logo and the word
Bijenkorf
printed on it [beehive: he’d looked it up last night], which he’d found in the kitchen, he packed his Olympia camera and a pvc jerkin Daan had loaned him in case of rain.

Ten minutes were left before Mrs van Riet would come for him. They would take the 09:32 to Utrecht, where, Daan’s meticulous accountant father had told him, they would arrive at 10:00 on platform 12a and leave six minutes later from platform 4b on a train that would get them to Oosterbeek at 10:47, allowing only just enough time to walk to the battle cemetery by 11:00, when the main ceremony was due to begin.

Sunday 17 September 1944, Southern England
.

By 09:45 on a day that began misty but soon became fine and sunny, 332 RAF and 143 American aircraft, along with 320 gliders hooked up for towing to their LZs [Landing Zones] by the other aircraft, altogether carrying approximately 5,700 men and their equipment, including such items as jeeps and light artillery guns, were ready to take off from eight British and 14 American airfields dotted across England from Lincolnshire to Dorset in the largest paratrooper operation ever undertaken
.

The remainder of the total of 11,920 men who were to fight in the battle were to be flown to the battle in a second wave the next day, Monday, to the DZs [Dropping Zones] in fields near the village of Wolfheze, three miles west of Oosterbeek and seven miles from their objective, the now famous ‘bridge too far’ that spanned the Lower Rhine in the centre of Arnhem 20 kms from the German border
.

Private James Sims, aged 19, of ‘S’ Company, 2nd Battalion The Parachute Regiment, 1st British Airborne Division, Battle of Arnhem:

On the Saturday night most of us relaxed; some played football, others darts. Some read and some wrote letters. I went over to the canteen and sat on a chair with my feet up on the unlit stove. The cat crept on to my lap and purred contentedly as I scratched its ear. One of the ‘C’ Company men showed me a religious tract he had just received in a parcel from home. On it was a picture of a windmill and the words ‘Lost on the Zuider Zee’. He thought it was a bad omen; it was certainly a strange coincidence [because the coming operation was secret]. We eventually turned in and I slept surprisingly well.

Sunday started off just like any other day except for some butterflies in the stomach. ‘Have a good breakfast,’ they advised, ‘as you don’t know when you’ll get your next meal’ …

Young Geordie and myself were warned to get ready. As we had not been in the battalion long, we were designated as bomb carriers and were given the harness with six ten-pound [4.5 kgs] mortar bombs to cart into action. We were issued with Dutch occupation money, maps, escape saws, forty rounds of .303 rifle ammo, two .36 grenades, an anti-tank grenade, a phosphorus bomb, and a pick and shovel, as well as the rifles we already had. [
Sims, pp 50–1
]

Major Geoffrey Powell, officer commanding ‘C’ Company, 156 Parachute Battalion, 4th Parachute Brigade, went in the second wave
:

Now came the familiar toil of struggling into jumping kit. Over my battle-dress and airborne smock, I was already wearing full equipment: the haversack containing maps, torch and other odds and ends; [gas-mask] respirator, waterbottle and compass; pistol holster and ammunition case; and on my chest the two pouches crammed with Sten [gun] magazines and hand grenades. Across my stomach I then tied my small pack, solid with two days’ concentrated rations, mess tin, spare socks, washing kit, pullover, a tin
mug, all topped off with a Hawking anti-tank grenade. Slung around my neck were binoculars, while a large shell dressing, a morphia syringe and red beret were tucked into my smock pockets. Next I wrapped myself in a denim jumping jacket to hold the bits and pieces in place and prevent the parachute cords snagging on the many protuberances. Over everything went a Mae West life-jacket, with a camouflage net scarfed around my neck and the parachutist’s steel helmet, covered with scrim-decorated net, on my head. On my right leg I then tied a large bag, into which was packed a Sten gun, together with an oblong-shaped walkie-talkie radio, and a small entrenching tool: a quick release catch allowed this bag to be lowered in mid-air so that it would dangle below on a thin cord and hit the ground before I did. Next Private Harrison helped me into my parachute, and I did the same for him, after which we both tested each other’s quick release boxes to make certain that they were working properly … After much thought, I had decided to take two luxuries, a red beret and an
Oxford Book of English Verse
. [
Powell, pp 19–21
]

Promptly at nine fifteen Mrs van Riet rang the bell at her mother’s apartment. Jacob picked up the
Bijenkorf
bag, clumped in his town boots down the steep gangway to the main floor, checked his appearance in a mirror on the wall by the door to the main stairs, and was on the way out when he heard Daan call from his bed behind the screens.

‘Have a good day.’ He parodied the American cliché so heavily Jacob wondered whether Daan wasn’t taking the piss. ‘Say hello to Mother,’ Daan added with no less slant.

To which a sleepy female voice unknown to Jacob tagged on, ‘
Tot ziens, Engels
man.’

In automatic reflex Jacob called back, ‘See you.’ All the way down the three flights to the street Daan’s bedtime companion pricked his curiosity.

Mrs van Riet waited on the makeshift
stoep
, her cropped
greying hair matched by the grey of a hooded half-coat worn loose over a calf-length linen dress in an abstract pattern of greys and dark blues, a much-used light tan leather handbag, the tone of Jacob’s town boots, hanging at her waist from a shoulder strap, sturdy dark brown walking shoes on her feet. She looked tired but smiled a welcome, putting on a good face in a way Jacob recognised from the times when his mother was ill before her operation. Getting through, Sarah called it. He instantly felt guilty and an impulse to do whatever he could to please her and make amends for being a chore.

They exchanged good-mornings with a hello handshake and a kind of semi-formality Jacob regarded as a touch old-fashioned but enjoyed nevertheless. He felt again, as he had each time he had met Mrs van Riet, that she was wary of him. Or, he decided now as they set off up the street, she was a shy person. Not, then, like her mother or her son, nor, come to that, her talkative husband. He warmed to her for that, as people are apt to do who find their own embarrassing weaknesses present in another.

‘My son,’ Mrs van Riet said, ‘I know is not one who will look after you as he should. I would prefer you stayed with me.’

Shy maybe, but direct enough.

‘I’m doing fine, thanks,’ Jacob said. ‘It’s a lovely flat.’

‘Yes, my mother’s apartment is, let’s say, unusual. But my son’s way of life—. Well, so long as you are not completely neglected. I suppose being young you understand more than I approve. I’m very conservative, my son tells me.’ And after a pause. ‘You are very welcome to stay with us in Haarlem at any time.’

‘Thanks, but really, I’m all right. Daan’s been very good to me. I like him very much.’

‘I feel responsibility for you to your family.’

‘I’m seventeen, nearly eighteen, Mrs van Riet, I can manage, honestly I can. But I’m grateful to you for being
concerned.’

‘It would be easier for you to call me Tessel, if you would like.’

‘Yes. Thanks.’

They crossed Prins Hendrikkade at the junction into the station, too busy watching the lights and avoiding traffic, especially the higgledy-piggledy trams and buses and bicycles, as well as the streams of people, to hold any kind of conversation. The forecourt was even more crowded than yesterday. Blocking the middle, a thick circle surrounded a busking sextet dressed in national costume (Peruvians?) playing a jaunty tune on wooden Pan-pipes and podgy drums. Inside, the concourse was a scrimmage of Sunday trippers. Tessel led Jacob straight to their platform.

‘I bought your ticket on the way,’ she said, handing it to him. ‘You should have it in case we are separated.’ She glanced him a smile. ‘Beware of pickpockets!’ And at the thought clutched her handbag closer to her.

On the platform with a few minutes still to wait, Tessel said, ‘You heard about the old soldiers parachuting yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘Several of the men who survived the battle. I read of it in the newspaper this morning. They parachuted yesterday on to the same fields where they landed in nineteen forty-four. Think of it! Most of them in their later seventies. They were going to do it last year for the fiftieth anniversary but the weather was too bad. So they did it yesterday instead. To be sure they were safe they were each attached to a young soldier.’

‘Amazing!’

‘I thought so too. I think it said that one of them was eighty.’ She laughed. ‘And one asked if he should take his false teeth out in case he swallowed them when he landed.’