Splintered and divided, the houses lay; creaking and moaning in the autumn sun. Their frames too weak to support themselves, and no one could criticise. The houses were beaten and blown apart, aerial bombardments had twisted the landscape of the city into a blurred swirl of masonry and bricks. Somewhere in this tangled web of ruins were the remains of two British battalions that had set out to liberate the decimated wasteland of Arnhem.
Private Stubley traipsed at the back of the section, painfully lugging his Bren Gun. He wasn't actually any good with it either; just because he couldn't shoot straight, he was given the weapon that needed the least accuracy. He was a frightfully young man, just turned eighteen as he was sent into the army; he seemed weak and out of place in comparison to the other, more seasoned soldiers. No one back home would believe he was actually marching through Holland at this precise moment in time, and neither could he.
The sun rested over the tops of the fallen houses and buildings and gently rocked back and forth over the horizon, lulling itself into a calm relaxation. Captain McIntyre slinked along the arch of one of the ruins, his back pressed firmly against the crumbed wall. Just in front of him, leading the section was Lieutenant Telford, his rifle clutched in dire embrace to his chest. He was crouched low onto the corner of the building, every now and then twisting his head to the side to check the main road for German activity.
Captain McIntyre stopped just next to the Lieutenant and ordered the rest of the men to take a rest. They had marched non-stop from the drop point to find the remains of the first and third battalions. Sergeant Matthews gave a sigh of exhaustion and rested his Sten on the buildings' side, every fragment of his body ached in shattering pain. Private Timms still stood aloft, rifle in ready position. He glanced down to Matthews, who gave a huff and sat on the rubble that had dusted the city. Timms took a minute to smirk at his Sergeant's inability to withstand the threshold. Matthews grumbled despondently at Timms' lack of respect for his superiors.
Private Stubley finally dragged his blistered form to the rest of the men, who now stood around the corner of the fractured building. He collapsed into himself and began panting and struggling for breath, Matthews looked at him in disgrace, "Captain," he asked McIntyre, "Why do we have to drag this failing weed with us everywhere?" McIntyre pushed himself off the wall and looked to the wheezing Stubley, "Private, take five minutes to catch your breath, if you need a hand to carry that Bren gun, just ask." He smiled friendlily at Stubley who tried to repay the complement through his tired expression, but was too vague to make a difference.
"Why did you do that?" asked Matthews, rather disgruntled at McIntyre. McIntyre removed his helmet; the dimming sun glimmered through his fatally dark hair, which now swayed majestically into the wind. He stared Matthews in the face, "It's our duty as soldiers to treat each other with respect. We needn't haze each other. That's the Germans job," Privates Timms and Stubley squeezed a faint giggle at the Captains words, "We were all as fresh out of training as Private Stubley at one point." Private Stubley raised his head and said to Captain McIntyre, "I can't really imagine you being a Private, sir. It doesn't seem right." McIntyre smiled at Private Stubley's exclamation, "You know Private, I've been on every major assault on the western front in this war: Dunkirk, El Alamein, Sicily, Normandy, and here in Holland. That has been the first time anyone has ever thought about me as a Private. Even when I was just starting out on the bloody desert fields of Africa, the other soldiers thought I was a Sergeant or something." He paused, as the scorching memories of his tour in Africa came creeping back to the front of his mind. "They treat me so kindly, with such comradeship and respect, and that's what got me through. The Germans were relentless and despicable, if not for my fellow soldiers I wouldn't have made it back." He stood over Sergeant Matthews, staring almost into his inner soul; his figure blotting out the sky from Matthews' view, "We are brothers, we don't need to fight ourselves."
While McIntyre gave his speech, Lieutenant Telford had scouted to check the main road ahead. The building they had stopped by sat just by the side of the main road that wrapped itself through the intricate buildings and crumbled ruins. It was like the spine of some colossal snake that once roamed the lands, and had been honoured by using it's remains as a means of transport and connection. Private Timms peered around the Captain and asked, "Sir, where did the Lieutenant go?" McIntyre fleeted a look behind his shoulder and replied, "Off scouting ahead. Don't worry, he'll be back soon."
A few minutes passed, when all of a sudden the rolling crack of rifle fire was heard erupting from down the street followed by the cryptic slander of German shouting. The shots grew closer, and Lieutenant Telford fell around the corner, gripping his leg. "S-S-S-Sir," he stammered to McIntyre, "German patrol headed this way." McIntyre and the others picked up their arms, "Where, Telford?" He pointed down the main road, "Eight of the bastards, four riflemen, two machine gunners and a Panzerschreck pair." McIntyre looked to Telford's leg, blood oozed between his fingers and collected in the folds of his trouser leg. "Shit. Matthews, stay with him. Timms, Stubley, go to that building opposite, hold fire till you get an open shot." The soldiers agreed and ran for cover. Timms and Stubley fled into the hollow house they had been told to and covered themselves with the rubble that lay around. Stubley opened the tripod for his Bren gun and looked down the iron sights, Timms did the same with his rifle, resting his arm on bended knee. Over the road, McIntyre and Matthews had dragged Lieutenant Telford into the empty house they had been resting on before, or the two-and-a-half walls that remained of the house. "Load your Sten, Matthews," ordered McIntyre, "It's not going to be pretty…"
The house seemed to have an organic feel to it, as the walls rotted and decayed after their untimely beating from the German air force. Matthews had propped Telford against a wall, the shards of building that lay on the floor sank up into Telford's wound and he hissed at its sting. Matthews crouched next to McIntyre, who readied his Sten gun in wait, finger inching ever closer to the trigger.
Private Stubley beaded his aim down the barrel of his gun as they approached. Sweat began to carve a perspired path down his forehead. However, as the Germans approached, one plucky soldier noticed something. From within one of the houses they were advancing on, a small, shiny light had been flickering like a beacon: an alarm. He shouted to his comrades, "It's a trap!" and pulled them back from the line of fire. The suns rays had sparkled off the tip of Stubley's iron sights, alerting the Germans. He panicked, "Sir! They've spotted me!" His voice trembled and quaked with every letter. McIntyre's voice came faintly from the opposite side of the road, "Put some suppressing fire on them Stubley! You too Timms!" Timms barked back to McIntyre, "Sir, yes sir!" and began firing. Stubley looked back down his iron sights and pulled the pin of his Bren gun. The beastly weapon thundered in his hands and propelled rounds down the road, blasting gaping holes into the slabs of brick that lined it.
One German decided to make a run just as Stubley opened fire, he heard the roar of the Bren gun and began to run back. A stray bullet shot into his ankle, bursting it open in a bubble of blood. Ligaments and tendons frayed and writhed open as the scarlet fluid sprayed over the road. He wailed in pain and pulled himself onto the pavement.
McIntyre cursed himself, he had gotten them into a tricky position, and he knew it. He looked at the wounded Telford and grumbled, "Should've went myself." He then grabbed Matthews and pulled him upstairs, "Come on lad, we've got a job to do. Telford, keep a hand on your rifle and shoot anything that doesn't speak English, okay?" Telford nodded sluggishly and picked up his rifle. Upstairs was in equal ruin as downstairs, with the front side facing the road completely missing in a pile of rubble beneath it. McIntyre signalled to Matthews, "Throw a grenade down there and flush them out!" Matthews flung one of his grenades down to the roadside and covered his head. The bomb churned out dirt, mortar, and glass, along with the coughing Germans, who now seeked more shelter. From up high, Matthews and McIntyre let loose a volley of bullets from their Stens down onto the Germans, blood popping in ruby flowers over their bodies. Suddenly there was a clink from McIntyre's Sten and the pin fell off. He ducked for cover and slammed his fist onto the side of his weapon, but to no avail: his gun was broken. Matthews flinched as the final German flung a rifle slug his way. "Bloody hell sir!" he exclaimed, "This last ones fucking smart, he doesn't want to give up for anything!" McIntyre couldn't hear him; he was too busy beating the life back into his gun.
The last German was in heavy cover, hiding on the other side of the street inside one of the more sturdier houses. He stuck his rifle over the edge of the window he was hiding under and sprang off a round every now and then.
Private Stubley turned to Timms, "We'll never hit him, he's too far in cover."
McIntyre tossed his weapon away and looked down to the final German. Matthews slumped down beside the Captain and sighed. "Looks like we're stuck here, eh Captain?" As if telling him to shut up, a deafening shot was heard from within the abode of the final German. His body was slumped out over the window and thudded limply onto the glass stained floor. Matthews raised his weapon, "Don't shoot!" protested McIntyre and pushed down Matthews' gun, "That was an Enfield .303, it's the perimeter!" McIntyre stood up from his position and called down to the house, "British 1st Airborne! Hold you fire!" like some miraculous dream, out strolled three British soldiers.
McIntyre jogged down the stairs to meet them, as did Timms and Stubley from their hiding spot, Matthews collected Telford from the floor and carried him to where the men had congregated. The first man to exit the house tipped his helmet, revealing a bolt of blonde hair, and said, "Evening chaps, what took you?" McIntyre scratched his forehead and replied, "Well, it take some time to navigate these streets, and the fact we all split up to search for you quicker mightn't have helped as much…" The soldier batted his hand in a dismissive gesture, "Don't fret mate, just get yourself inside and we'll look after you. You might consider getting yourself a gun, not much point in fighting without a weapon." McIntyre looked sheepishly around and then back to the soldier, "It got broken," he said, "and I was rather quite fond of that Sten gun." The soldier laughed aloud, "Cheer up, I've got something better than a poxy Sten. Follow me." McIntyre and his squad followed the soldiers into the besieged house and into the perimeter of Oosterbeek.