As the evening fell into an ocean of darkness with hordes of twinkling mariners submerging and bobbing in the vibrant seas of the sky, the towns below basked in their own wounded arms. The battered and bruised branches of the Dutch cities lulled themselves back to a gentle slumber as the crackling of guns began to open up again. The sun had all but disappeared into the edges of the horizon, yet both sides could easily mark out their opponents. The flares from the rifles and machineguns brilliantly lit the streets up with the random flickering of bullets being launched in all manners of directions. Scampering along the cobbled roads and paths to meet their targets and tear them apart.
Williams woke up to a different surrounding, and shuddered in disbelief at his new location. Inside the building were several wounded men, clutching their wounds as blood leaked in collected pools of the men's fluid. The walls were drab and stained with things that Williams didn't want to have noticed. He hauled himself up using the wall as a balance; legs wobbling like balsa wood stilts. He yawned and stretched his back, he felt too at home amongst these dying men. He then noticed the distant whizzing of what sounded like bullets; he crept toward the door to the street to take a better listen, when Private Hepple landed into him.
Hepple got up and re-aligned his helmet; he brushed himself down and wiped his nose, he looked very shocked and in the deepest worry. "Williams," he panted, "The Gerries are attacking!" Williams shook himself fully awake and confidently scrabbled around his side for his rifle. His hands were left unappreciated and empty, where was his rifle? Williams looked around; his weapon had gone. "Hepple?" he asked, "Where's my rifle?" Hepple's eyes dropped sheepishly down to the floor and began to graze the pastures of the bloody surface. Eventually he raised his head and replied, "I gave it to McAffrey" Williams took an exasperated sigh and paced around the room, but before he could say what he felt, Hepple jumped in, "They had just started to attack. There wasn't anything else to do, so I gave him your rifle." Williams groaned and put his hand to his face, "It's not your fault Hepple; you're not to blame. No one is."
Hepple still crouched by the doorframe and felt guilty for giving away Williams' rifle. Suddenly a bullet spat through the wooden beam of the doorframe and sent chips of wood and dust spraying everywhere. Hepple flinched at the nearby shot and scurried further indoors. Williams pulled Hepple away from the door, "Where's McAffrey now?" Hepple pointed out the door, "Down the road and along a bit, the building with the red flag on it." Williams slinked a look outside to the building, it was under heavy fire, muzzle flares randomly crackling from windows and gaps in the buildings structure. Williams returned to Hepple and unfastened his side arm's holster, the beaten, leather-bound case felt rough against his hands, and he elegantly pulled the revolver from its nest. He flicked open the catch and checked the ammunition for it. Williams then made his way back to the far end of the room and to the back door that lead onto the alleyways. Hepple tumbled after him, asking, "What are you doing Williams?" without needing to turn his head he replied, "I'm getting my gun back."
The alleyways were dim and bleak in the near nighttime; the ability to negotiate the difference between friend and foe was almost gone. It was sheer luck that they happened to be on opposite sides of the street. Williams silently manoeuvred through the narrow alley, revolver gripped tightly in his hand. His free hand began to paw its way along the walls, negotiating its way through the bleak light. Hepple bumbled behind him, not knowing what to do exactly.
From the edge of the house, Williams could see the British barricade; the entire length of the road had been sealed off with all manners of furniture, shrapnel, masonry and such. The barricade was also wound up with barbed wire that had been found in a nearby pillbox guarding the bridge. All down the makeshift fortification were soldiers firing against the German hordes. The flash of gunfire lit up the street better than any lamp actually still in operation in the area. The twinkling, blaring barrage of bullets kept up against the enemy. Williams crawled behind it, desperately trying to keep covered whilst making sense of what was going on.
In the centre of the barricade was Staff Sergeant Bill Fitzgerald. He gripped his weapon and began firing sporadically down the street; he also was barking orders to the poor soldier on the radio, "TRY TO GET US SOME FUCKING SUPPORT!" The little soldier ferociously tried to use the radio, but was left high and dry as no signal was picked up. "Sir, I can't get a signal, looks like we're alone." Fitzgerald bashed his fist onto the floor, "Bastards!" he cursed. Just then, he caught the shape of Williams going by, "Sergeant!" he bellowed over the roar of gunfire, "Come here!" Williams hauled himself over to the officer, "What the hell is going on?" asked Williams as the bullets soared like vicious rain over their heads. Fitzgerald leaned in so Williams could hear him better, "The Krauts sprang a surprise attack on us. I've had to pull all the active soldiers out of the more frontal houses back to the barricade to hold them off." He let out a burst from his Sten and continued speaking, "Captain Fender tried to send a group of lads to grenade the fuckers from that post office, but it seems he got caught and had to take refuge in there for a while." He let out another flare of bullets, and then reloaded his weapon with determined intent. Williams knew his rifle was in that post office; he just had to reach it. Somehow.
Just then, Fitzgerald noticed that Williams only held his service revolver. The dull tin metal of the gun standing out from the vast array of wooden shapes of the rifles. "Williams," he asked, "Where's your rifle?" Williams shuffled to the soldier and replied, "Hepple here gave it to McAffrey when I was taking a rest in the medical centre." The Staff Sergeant took a brief glance at Hepple, who had readily begun to join in the defence of the barricade.
Fitzgerald sighed and sat down, his back resting up against the barricade, bullets skidding by his head. "You can't go on without a gun, Williams." He took a moment to breathe in and look into the far distance of Arnhem Bridge. The last remaining light dribbled over the heavy metal structure and the officer turned back to the battle.
"Sir!" a voice cried from the right flank, "Sir! Ingram is down, they got him! We're losing fire superiority!" Fitzgerald tapped his helmet and looked to Williams as if he knew what he was thinking. "Well go on then," he insisted, "Take up Ingram's position on the right flank…NOW!" Williams apologised for his slow reaction and darted down the line to where Lieutenant Ingram lay dead.
His body was slumped unaided over the barricade, blood dripping from his mouth and swirling down into the street's gutter, forming a sickly hybrid of sewage and crimson. Next to the body, Williams noticed a Bren gun; it had Ingram's name etched onto it with a penknife, a penknife that was clearly visible from one of his uniform's pouch. Williams set up the Bren gun and strained his eyes down the sight; the German silhouettes were forming up and moving down in what seemed like a last attempt to take the barricade. Williams slapped a fresh magazine into the Bren gun and armed it. The Germans where getting closer now, the new night covering their advance. Williams followed the group with his sights. The screams of bloody determination from down the line grew as a choir of rage and all of the men began emptying every last round they had into their foes. Williams saw his chance and opened fire, the gun booming out bullets that found their targets; but they still came. The two forces bellowing with all their might, casings dropping like dead, bronzed flies.
Williams swivelled his gun around and came face to face with one of the charging Germans, his rifle held high, bayonet attached. Williams fell back from his gun and lay paralysed as his attacker lunged, face broken with murderous rage.