Читаем Arnhem полностью

Prisoners though they now were, the captured paras were not about to kowtow to an enemy they had fought against so bravely. Eric Mackay’s spirit was far from broken, even though his wounded foot had gone septic, his head injury was troubling him and so was that sharp bayonet wound he’d received when he was captured. He demanded – and got back – the water flask taken from him when he was first searched. Taken to SS headquarters for interrogation, he quietly reminded his fellow prisoners that it was their duty to escape. By surreptitiously switching queues, he managed to avoid the strip-search that would have uncovered the escape maps he had held on to. He watched the German soldiers at work and noted their regiments and equipment ‘for future reference’. When an English-speaking German officer tried to worm his way into the men’s confidence, he made sure that all the inquisitor got from any of the captives was back-chat. Then, when the captured paras were bundled on to trucks, they fussed and shuffled around and refused to budge up for two German sentries to sit at the back. Eventually, room was made for just one guard, and Mackay sat opposite him at the back of the truck, with two other men between them. ‘As we moved off down the main road to Germany, only 16 miles away, I inched my legs over the tailboard. When the truck slowed for a bend, my two men deliberately lurched into the sentry and smothered his rifle while I jumped.’ Mackay rolled twice as he hit the ground, as any good parachutist would, but he had chosen a bad place to attempt his escape. He landed virtually at the feet of a German soldier standing sentry outside a building. There was a desperate tussle. ‘He gave a yell as I dived for him. I got him down, and had very nearly knocked him senseless when his pals arrived. There was a battle royal before I was eventually overpowered and thrown back on the truck. I was too dazed to make another attempt.’

But he was still undaunted and, determined to show it, at the first opportunity, he went among the men collecting what little shaving equipment they had managed to hang on to. It was time to smarten up. ‘We managed to raise one complete shaving set and, using our steel helmets as bowls, we all had a wash and a shave.’ It was a gesture, but gestures were all they had left. The captured Major Freddie Gough told the men he was with, ‘Let’s show these bastards what real soldiers look like,’ and he put them through a fifteen-minute parade drill before they were marched away from Arnhem as prisoners of war. ‘This boosted morale and restored our self-confidence,’ recalled Tony Hibbert. ‘We marched very smartly, and as we went along we gave the local Dutch the Victory sign, as they looked in need of cheering up too. This infuriated our German guards and they threatened to shoot us if we did it again – which we did whenever possible.’

Voices were raised in song, cracked, strained and out of tune but remarkable in the circumstances. Another para recalled lines of British soldiers making their way into captivity, all weary, many in great pain, some limping, others burning with fever from festering wounds that had not been disinfected. Miraculously, someone produced a mouth organ. ‘With what we hoped was true British spirit, we joined in singing – though with far more enthusiasm that melodic accuracy. Dutch people peered at us encouragingly from behind their curtains as our pathetic, battered crocodile “marched” by.’ Then, when the men were interrogated, they amused each other by giving preposterous peacetime professions to their inquisitors. One man said he was a ballet dancer, another an opera singer and a third a lion-tamer. ‘More and more improbable answers were given as we fell into the spirit of the moment.’ They were down but not out.