Across the other side of the town, things were of a bitter matter. A still mist clung to the fabric of the city, sinking its claws into the soft and weakened structure of Arnhem. It obscured the clearest image to a grey blur and spat at the attempts to break through it with light.
The tank wailed in pain as it bubbled and burst in a fiery blast; they had all had been defeated. The men whooped with triumph, they thought it couldn't be done, but it had. The German Panzer division had fallen to the British. Captain Fender wiped his face down, it had been a gruelling battle, many men lost, but the end result was worth it.
All across the bridge at Arnhem were the corpses of many men, and the beastly statues of burnt-out tanks. The flames from the empty vehicles waved and flickered weakly in the wind. The bodies slumped motionless and eerily over one another, in an attempt to shield each other from the horrors of the battle. They had not been so fortunate. Blood poured down the roads and in every crevice possible. The sick and torturous vision made Captain Fender wince. He sat by one of the charcoaled tanks and took a while to settle himself.
Captain Fender was big for a man his age. He towered over most of the new recruits and made a name for himself among the veterans. His hair was golden ginger like that you would find bristling on a wild fox, which aptly applied for his beard which shrouded the lower part of his face.
He squinted down the bridge and the bloody destruction that laid over it like a macabre dinner cloth. He was reluctant to get up, the sight weakening his legs. Over his right shoulder propped the 6-pounder guns. These huge machines rested their smoking snouts on either side of the bridge, relaxing their aching frames. They had punched gaping holes into the tank onslaught that sat drooling in the centre of the road, a shadow of its former formidability.
"Ease up men," he told the gun crews, "Pack your stuff and head back to the base, we've done enough damage here." And nor a truer word was said, the utter devastation caused by the crack anti-tank weaponry seemed slightly excessive in Captain Fender's terms.
He twirled a weathered and fairly battered 2p coin between his grubby fingers and skilfully slipped it back into the top pocket of his uniform. "Still keeping that lucky penny, eh Captain?" came a voice from the houses towards Fender. He stood up and straightened his jacket, "Shut up Sergeant and get back inside" he ordered, feeling quite embarrassed being seen with his "lucky penny".
As Captain Fender waddled painfully back to the housing, a shrill, piercing whistle scratched down through the atmosphere. It ignited the road beside him, spewing earth and metal into the air. His gaze darted around the area; they were being shelled. The whistling became a choir of terrifying proportions; a cacophony of descending shrieks that flared on contact with the floor. Fender raced into the house yelling before him, "Artillery fire! Find cover fast!" dirt smudging his view with a splash of pavement.
He wheeled his way into the house and skidded into another soldier. There were about eleven soldiers in the building each ripe with a fear that budded from their faces. "Men," started Fender, "We've got to pull back to the buildings deeper inside Arnhem." A panicked yelp from the back of the room said, "But the fucking Gerries are in there! We'll be killed for sure!" Fender pushed his way to the voices owner through the crowd of men and picked him up with the swift movement of his left forearm. "Listen Private, I know we're in a fix, but I don't seriously give a fuck as to what the long term effects could be. It's either die now, or die later!" He removed his arm and let the soldier drop back down to the floor. He addressed them all, "Take as much gear as you can manage and head back a few streets, tell the others to do the same."
From behind the cascading explosions of the artillery fire, came a feeble plea for help. Fender looked back out the door to the battlefield to see Private Hepple cowering in fright beneath the body of a German tank. "For fucks' sake!" hollered Fender, "Why in the hell is Hepple still out there!" As the soldiers bustled past him, Fender knew the promise he made back in England: he would never leave a man behind. He looked back to the remaining soldiers in the house, "Someone needs to go out there and save Private Hepple." From the side came a response, "I'll do it Captain. You go on with the other soldiers, I'll catch up." Fender smiled and scratched the back of his head, "Thanks Sergeant, you know you're going to get promoted for this." The soldier chuckled, "Well, it's nothing I haven't done before." He handed his rifle to one of the exiting soldiers and stood by the door.
A bomb crashed into the roof and shook the ceiling, dust belched from the corners of the room, accompanied by the occasional spittle of wood. The Sergeant held onto the sides of the doorframe and ran into the road. The downpour of mortar and artillery fire churned the road into craters and mud, yet the soldier kept running through the hellish rain of explosions and flames. He slid beneath the tank's form and grabbed a vice like grip on Private Hepple. "Hepple, where's your rifle?" he asked. Hepple's hands worryingly fingered under the body of the tank, "I…I don't know…I-I-I think I must've dropped it before I got here." The Sergeant held onto Hepple's uniform and put his gaze in a determined clutch; "Hepple, can you walk?" desperation began to take its toll on the Sergeant, his voice wavering through the sirens of shells that fell like an autumn torrent onto their position. Hepple shook his head in dismay.
The Sergeant sighed and hauled Private Hepple onto his back; "We'll get you out of here in no time, Private" Through the layer of smoke and dirt that was continuously coughed into the air, the Sergeant could make out the disappearing figures of Captain Fender and his squad. "Shite," grumbled the Sergeant; the distance to cross was insane. The shells kept blistering open the floor, tearing it apart one crater at a time. He tapped Private Hepple on the head and said, "Don't hate me for this." Hepple looked baffled; what was he doing? The Sergeant squirmed from under the tank and began the gauntlet across the open road.
He ran as fast as Private Hepple would allow him to, the shaking young man teetering him off balance. The shells were still falling all around him, his path through as erratic as their descent. His feet twisted and span on the spot to navigate the explosions. Dirt and pavement were launched from all around. As he ran, his feet slipped over one another in anticipation and he collapsed into the beaten floor. Helpless, he couldn't get up.
He lay on the floor for a while. The Sergeant couldn't believe his luck; the shells had stopped. He laughed at his fortune and picked himself up. Private Hepple still held on tightly to his back, fingers almost piercing the Sergeant's skin. The Sergeant finished the distance to the new frontline. Outside one of the doors stood Captain Fender, a huge friendly grin on his face that seemed quite out of place amongst the blood and suffering. "I don't believe it," he exclaimed, " I thought you lads were done for. You are the luckiest git in the world, you know that?" The Sergeant let Private Hepple down by the door and sat himself beside the frightened little man; the oak support of the door re-aligning his back. "Thanks Captain," replied the Sergeant, "I was almost sure that I was going to die out there." Captain Fender laughed a hearty laugh that roared through the streets of Arnhem, "Don't worry lad, if you died, I'd be the first to hear about it" The Sergeant chuckled softly to himself at his Captain's idea. He rolled his helmet off his head and wound his hand through his hair. His face was painted in obscure splashes of dirt, mud, and all sorts of grime. His hair was a fine brown-blonde that echoed that of the summer harvest, yet clumps were tagged together by kernels of mud and dirt. How they managed to get under his helmet, he hadn't a clue.
Captain Fender trotted nobly into the house, his men had performed gallantly today. As he did, he led the partly conscious Private Hepple to the medical supplies. From within the house, the Captain called out, "Rest easy Williams, you've done us a world of good." Sergeant Edward Williams smiled softly to himself and did what he never could in France; he fell sound asleep. Safe in the company of his brothers, he slept heavily, dreaming of the woman he left behind, and the friend who was busy advancing through the other side of the city to find him.