The horizon sank as the sun began to droop wearily over it, spreading a spectrum of azure shades into the darkest corners of the sky. The night crawled and crept its way back across the astral fields and clawed fiendishly at the retreating sun. It was getting late over the plains of Holland, the evening calm invading every square inch of the cities that lay beneath. In particular, one of the interconnected towns garrisoned the surviving men of the 1st and 3rd British Battalions, who recently had been receiving new recruits every few minutes.
Captain McIntyre watched the sun disappear over the horizon, popping behind the silhouettes of houses. The streetlights and porch lights buzzed on with a faint hum that resembled a swarm of bees collecting nectar for the summer harvest. If only life were that simple. The illuminating bulbs drenched the streets in pools of light that shone off the fresh paving stones. He shielded his eyes from the surprise of the bright blast, then let his eyes adjust as his fellow soldier showed him around the perimeter.
"We've had soldiers from the South Staffords popping in every ten minutes from all directions, we were about to wonder what the hell was going on when you lads showed up." The soldier led McIntyre through the winding narrow streets and alleys; on every corner and doorway sat the tired shapes of soldiers, weary and despondent in their predicament. Each clung onto their gun like a lifeline and a hope to get them through till the foreseeable end.
The soldier stopped in the street and addressed McIntyre, "Before I go on, name's Captain Clements," he outstretched a hand in an attempt to shake McIntyre's. McIntyre repaid the gesture replying, "I'm Captain McIntyre. Nice to meet you Captain." Clements removed his hand from McIntyre's and looked inquisitively at him, "Captain Jim McIntyre?" he asked. McIntyre looked about and said, "Yes? Do you know me?" Clements folded his arms and sighed, "Well, bugger me. I heard about you in Renneville, but I thought…"
"…It was just propaganda" finished McIntyre, looking tired of hearing people toss that statement around, "Well it's not, I survived that place through everything it threw at us, now if you don't mind Captain we have more pressing matters at hand."
Clements jumped around McIntyre and stopped him once more, "Actually, I have a special request to ask of you." McIntyre dropped his head and sighed, "Is it important?" Clements seemed eager at this, his hands itching all around in anticipation, "Well, I just need you Captain. Your men are free to join the rest of the South Staffords on the more southern side of the perimeter. Broderick, come here!" Private Broderick scrambled out from his resting spot and stood in attention to the Captain. Clements leaned against the wall of the street, this emphasised the thin wiriness of the space actually provided by the city. Clements asked Broderick, "Take these men to the South Staffords section, would you Broderick?" the soldier saluted his officer and led all but McIntyre along the wispy roads into the distance.
Clements coaxed McIntyre to follow him to what appeared to be half of a bank. Two of the walls had fallen in such a way that they now supported each other up, yet barely. The remaining parts of the structure groaned and sighed with stress and pain with their very fabric falling apart in the night time breeze. Luckily, the walls had the sturdy support of supply crates that lay rigid against the soft walls. The temporary lights hummed shadows up against these walls that seemed arcane to the passer-by. Most of the furniture remained upright and Clements grabbed himself a chair, McIntyre stood standing.
He swivelled the chair around till he faced McIntyre again, "Look, Captain, we've been fighting these Germans off for days, and I have to pull my men out of the area." McIntyre contorted his face in puzzlement, "Why pull out? These Germans won't be able to put out for much longer, and besides we need to reach…" Clements but in, he knew what the Captain meant, but had to shatter his ideas, "They've got tanks, Captain." McIntyre stopped still for a minute as he calculated the risks of street fighting with tanks.
"An entire divisions worth. They moved in whilst my sections made a path for Arnhem. We pulled out this far and they lost our scent. I'm not letting my men be killed with such ease as they did when we first reached the outskirts of the town." Clements placed his fingers against its counter-part on the opposite hand and strummed them together. After a screeching moment of silence, Clements continued, "We got word from the lads at HQ that they want to send an 'experienced soldier' to sneak past the German lines and retrieve some information from a Dutch resistance member on the movement of these tanks." Clements' gaze stayed on McIntyre for five more minutes and neither of them said a word as the gravity of the task sank into McIntyre. Clements handed McIntyre a map, saying, "This map shows the location of our insider with the necessary information and where we intend to move the perimeter to. Take care of it"
Clements shuffled over to the pile of crates and prised one of them open, "Like I said earlier, you're going to need a gun, and this happens to be the last one we have going spare." His hands fished inside the wooden box, rummaging through the straw packaging and finally finding its prize. McIntyre tipped his head in puzzlement at what Clements had in store. From the crate, Clements produced a fairly long rifle-shaped weapon. A dull black metal barrel extended past the wooden stock, and slung underneath the barrel clung a pump-action. Clements held the pump-action in one hand and loaded the shotgun. He handed the weapon to the seated McIntyre as well as a handful of shells, "You'll need them, and maybe some more."
Gradually through the course of the conversation between the two men, the faint sound of pattering feet made their debut onto the scene accompanied by another, it was Broderick and Timms. Clements pulled himself up away from McIntyre and picked up his Sten from beside his chair. "What's going on, lads?"
Broderick looked to his Captain, then back to where he and Timms had just came. "Sir, a group of SS troopers snuck through the lines, they've got themselves some cover inside a house. A couple of the lads managed to take three down, but there's still seven lurking there." Clements took a murmuring breath and stood downhearted in front of his fellow soldiers. McIntyre finished filling his pouches with ammunition and approached Broderick, "Where exactly are these Stormtroopers?" Broderick looked to McIntyre hesitantly, "Near the South Staffords' Section."
McIntyre gripped his shotgun tighter and was about to ask another question when Timms finally spoke up, "They've got a sharpshooter, taking pot-shots at anyone willing to come close. I don't think we should take any unnecessary risks, sir." Clements reclaimed the attention of the soldiers, "There's no such thing as an unnecessary risk, just bad choices. Now, lead the way, we'll sort this out when we get there. In the meantime, Broderick, go round telling all the soldiers to start pulling out now. We can't take more Germans breaking in." The private saluted his officer and ran off, Timms stayed with the two Captains and led them on through the city streets.
As they moved through the narrow alleys and paths of Oosterbeek, all the soldiers they passed had already packed their trappings and had made a start on their pull back. The rubble lined the streets like fallen rain, collecting puddles in predominant patches on the floor. As the soldiers left, they grabbed the lamps, blacking out the streets with sinister mystery as to what lay ahead. Finally, they reached the combat zone, the crackling of gunfire electrifying the air with danger and death.
The house was the most intact on the street, a faded blue tint covering the outer walls, yet with jagged, shattered windows. From one of the tallest windows came a flare and the solitary spitting sound of rifle-fire. Resting by the corner of the house they approached on was Matthews, he clutched his hand in pain, blood bubbled between his fingers.
"Thank God you're here Captain," he exclaimed, "that fucking sniper's been pinning us down like total fucking idiots." Around Matthews were several other soldiers, propped against the wall was Lieutenant Telford with his wounded leg still bleeding profusely, and next to him Private Stubley, still holding onto his Bren gun while overlooking the weary Telford. Clements spied Matthews' hand and asked, "What happened to your hand?" Matthews looked at his crimson appendage and sighed, "Oh yeah, that thing. Well, I stepped out around the corner, not expecting much, when that fucker up there took a bloody shot and hit me. It went right through my fucking hand, it did" He raised his hand to reveal the fleshy gap that shone through. McIntyre tried to get a better look, when the sniper sent fire and made McIntyre flinch behind the wall again.
"We tried to grenade them out, but they keep throwing them back out the windows" explained Stubley. McIntyre was sick of excuses, something was to be done, and he decided to do it.
McIntyre grabbed a hold of Clements, "Tell your men and the rest to pull out with the others. We'll sort out these bastards." Clements called his men to do as McIntyre suggested, and with that, they slinked back into the shadows. "So Captain, what's your plan?" asked Clements cockily. McIntyre kneeled with his back against the wall; he could feel the gaze of the sniper bearing down on him, yet behind his wall, he was safe.
Captain Clements grew impatient of watching McIntyre crouch beside the dilapidated wall, "Captain, what are we going to do?" he asked again. "All you need to do," replied McIntyre plainly, "is throw this grenade." McIntyre produced a large cylindrical device with the letters "AT" printed on them. Clements looked confused. McIntyre pointed to the base of the house and nodded. Clements looked at the odd-shaped grenade again. All it had was a large pin protruding from one end and the letters "AT". He shrugged his shoulders, "Oh well," he sighed, "here it goes." Clements pulled the pin from the grenade and threw it.
As the device descended toward the base of the blue house, McIntyre dove to the floor and covered his head. He looked up at Clements, who stood around waiting for something to happen, McIntyre grabbed Clements' trouser leg and pulled him down. Clements stumbled to the floor crying, "What was that for?" Just then, the grenade contacted the base of the house. A thunderous roar blew from the grenade and it shot off half of the house. Fire and masonry was sent blaring everywhere in a flurry of material that rained down around the two Captains.
Swiftly, McIntyre rose and armed the shotgun. "Come on!" he cried, "Get them while they're down!" McIntyre ran into the open house and its screen of smoke and dust. Clements picked himself up with his gun. He looked into the thick mist of dirty dust, it choked his vision; he couldn't see anything. From the vicinity of the house, a spattering sound shuddered through the cloud, then another, followed by two more, then silence. Clements fought his way through the sawdust and grit to find what he hoped to find.
McIntyre stood inside the remaining house, four dead Germans on the floor surrounding him; the damage to their bodies was extensive, one had had his arm torn straight off from the blast of McIntyre's shotgun. Blood dribbled into the cracks and broken floor, finally resting on the path. McIntyre looked to the amazed Clements and wiped some dirt from his face. He hopped down to meet with his friend and they walked off. "What the fuck was that I threw?" asked Clements. "American Anti-Tank grenade. Thought they'd come in handy one day. Never thought it would do that though: kill three Gerries and half a house." replied a content McIntyre. The two shared a laugh and walked on.
As both Captains reached the main road, Clements could see the last of the fleeing soldiers and decided to go with them. McIntyre was left alone on a dark main road in the middle of Holland, shotgun in hand. He reached for his metal flask and took a swig, the smooth taste of scotch scampered nicely down his throat. He looked to the sky and groaned to himself, "I never get a single bloody rest do I?" he shimmied his shoulders until he felt them click with satisfaction, and then began his path deep into Arnhem. The fate of many rested on his shoulders once more.