After the horrors of D-Day, they find themselves plunged into even greater chaos and mayhem as they land in the deceptively tranquil countryside around Arnhem, Holland, as part of Operation Market Garden. What should be a pushover – the ingenious scheme that everyone thinks will end the war by Christmas – turns into Britain’s biggest military disaster of the Second World War. But if it’s a cock-up, by golly is it a glorious one. Rarely if ever have Allied soldiers acquitted themselves better than the British, Americans and Poles, as they fought against the might of the SS, in their bid to capture ‘The Bridge Too Far.”

As usual Coward and Price are in the thick of it. They have to be. If Coward doesn’t get a VC this time, he’ll be booted off the family estate for good, and stand no chance of winning the heart of the fickle, dangerously beguiling Gina.

Will he get the medal? Will he get the girl? Will Price be driven so mad by his master’s Bertie Wooster-like stupidity that he ends up throttling him first?

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1

Cupboard Love

Did I ever tell you about the time I found myself locked in a cupboard with a stunning seventeen-year-old blonde nymphomaniac who couldn’t keep her hands off me? Worst moment of my life.

Well, top ten anyway.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Dear old Grandpa doth protest too much. But you don’t yet know the circumstances and you don’t know the occasion.

The occasion was one of the more unfortunate operations in the annals of British military history, a show in the Netherlands in September 1944 known as Market Garden. The circumstances will require a little more explanation.

First, the cupboard. It is set into the wall of the large, airy drawing room of one of the numerous well-proportioned villas which abound in this lovely, leafy enclave of haut bourgeois Holland. If you didn’t know what to look for – the hinges aren’t obvious and the keyhole is discreetly hidden within the eye of the toucan on the exotic, rainforest-print wallpaper – you probably wouldn’t even notice it was there. Hence its appeal as an emergency hiding place.

At a push, it can accommodate two people – but only so long as they press themselves close together and don’t wriggle around too much. Extensive movement, certainly, is quite impossible in this cramped, narrow space, which was designed to house books, not humans. Were you, for example, to find a female hand straying inexorably towards your crotch at the most unsuitable of moments and you wished to pull sharply away, you would have great difficulty doing so. Rather, you’d have to remain stiffly as you were and take it like a man.

This is what I do for the first minutes of the girl’s attentions. To be perfectly honest, it takes me most of that time to convince myself that she really is doing to me what I think she’s doing. It all seems so jolly unlikely.

I mean, put yourself in our shoes: during the last week this tranquil resort town to the west of Arnhem has been bombed, shelled, machine-gunned and mortared almost to rubble, with barely a brick or tree left undamaged; the air is rank with clogging dust and the throat-catching stench of rotting flesh merged with cordite; there are Germans everywhere, many of them, happily, dead, but many more of them alive and on the hunt for people just like us: surviving soldiers from the 1st Airborne Division; Dutch men and women brave enough to risk their lives by concealing them.

No one in their right mind would think about hanky-panky at a time like this, I’m saying to myself, as this innocent young Dutch girl’s hand slips beneath the dangling flaps of my Denison smock and begins negotiating its way inside my trousers. It’s some sort of nervous tic, that’s all. Trembling hands brought on by the constant shelling: that’ll be it.

From outside there’s another of those guttural shouts which drove us to hide in the first place. It’s followed by the crunch of glass and splintering wood, as the remnants of one of the window frames are rifle-butted or jack-booted open. They never were ones to knock politely first, the Germans.

I tense, waiting for the almost inevitable grenade blast, thinking how little protection these thin wooden walls will offer when it comes.

But providence is on our side. There’s no grenade. Perhaps they’re Wehrmacht, not SS.

‘Is there anybody here?’ a voice calls out in German. ‘Is there anybody here?’

Whoever it is then picks his way through the window – lands on the floor of the room we’re hiding in with a loud thump – pauses awhile and then scrunches through the debris of glass and fallen plasterwork towards the front door.

‘Ground floor clear,’ he calls to his comrades, who surge in moments later.

You can hear two or three of them galumphing up the staircase and down into the cellar to inspect the other floors. Several more pairs of boots stomp around the room in which we are hiding.

I scarcely dare breathe. It’s this Dutch girl’s shell shock I’m particularly concerned about, for she seems quite unable to stop her hand brushing against my John Thomas in what, if I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe were caressing motions. Mind you, what was it Price said when this girl first showed an interest in me a week ago? Something like: ‘I’d keep off, if I were you. She’s only just escaped from that loony bin up the road.’ That was just his sense of humour, though. Surely?

More thundering feet, this time on the way down from upstairs.

‘Upper floors clear, Herr Hauptmann.’

‘Cellar also,’ reports another.

Good. Now piss off somewhere else, why don’t you? I mentally urge them.

A born telepath, clearly, for almost immediately their captain replies, ‘Excellent. Feldwebel: get this room cleaned up and bring me a table and more chairs. It will serve very well as our interrogation centre.’

Interrogation centre?

I’d like to think that I’d misheard. Or that this was my German playing tricks on me. Unfortunately, it never does, for as you know, Jack, I speak the lingo fluently. If I didn’t I’d have died a dozen grisly deaths by now.

‘Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann,’ says his sergeant, and in less than an instant – God, there’ve been times when I wished it could have been German soldiers under my command, not British ones – furniture is being shifted, debris swept and further chairs retrieved. One of them, by the sounds of it, has been placed directly in front of our hiding place.

Christ! We’re in for it now, I think. If they’re going to use this room for interrogation purposes, we could be stuck here for hours. Days, even.

We’ve got no food. Nothing to drink. My back and neck are already killing me from being in this cramped position – and we can’t have been here more than five minutes. The tiny cracks in the door won’t allow nearly enough air in. And then there’s this girl’s shell shock. If it is shell shock. It seems to be getting worse.

Crickey, what if Price is right. What if she really is one of the nutters who escaped through the walls after we bombed the Wolfheze asylum? Whether she is or she isn’t, what she’s doing to me now isn’t arousing, it’s just ruddy dangerous. That rustling noise she’s making against my battledress: I don’t know how loud it is on the other side of the cupboard, but from where I am it sounds like Krakatoa erupting.

I clasp my hand firmly over hers and the nervous shaking, erotic massage or whatever it is stops. I hold it there to make damned bloody sure. Don’t want to miss a word they say outside. The captain has given the order for the prisoners to be brought over. His clerk is setting up a writing desk; a lieutenant is being summoned to assist with the interrogation. Whether we like it or not, we’re about to get a ringside seat.

More scuffling, stomping and furniture-shifting. Then, the muffled sound of tramping boots from outside the house – British Army-issue boots – marching in perfect unison.

‘HALT,’ yells a German-accented voice. The boots keep marching. ‘HALT!’ screeches the voice.

‘PLATOON. PLATOON,’ bellows a voice which could only be the property of an English regimental sergeant major. ‘HALT!’

As one, the boots crunch to a halt.

Now there is a burst of angry shouting, followed by derisive laughter, and still more shouting. I can’t hear every word but I can work out the gist: the German officer is trying to impress on his captives that he is in charge now; the prisoners are telling him where to get off; the German is making threats.

There! A volley of shots. Warning shots, one hopes.

No cries of pain: that’s promising. No laughter either.

The angry fellow seems to have made his way inside the building now, for next thing I know he’s yelling almost in front of my cupboard.

‘These prisoners. Do they belong to you, Herr Hauptmann?’

‘They do, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’

Hauptsturmführer. That’s an SS rank.

‘Then I would suggest that you teach them to show their victors more respect,’ says the Hauptsturmführer.

‘In the Wehrmacht we are taught that respect must be earned, not given automatically.’

Utter bollocks, of course, as I know from my own experiences on the Eastern Front. Still, got to hand it to the cheeky Hauptmann. Not only has he got balls of steel but he’s a damned useful wind-up merchant.

As you’d expect, there are sharp intakes of breath all around, and from the SS officer a testy pause.

Then, the Hauptsturmführer says icily, ‘In that case, Herr Hauptmann, may I request that when you have finished questioning your prisoners in the Wehrmacht way, you allow my men to investigate them using SS methods. Then afterwards we can compare notes and see which style works best.’

‘These Engländer are my prisoners and they shall remain my prisoners.’

‘Then — ‘ begins the Hauptsturmführer, in a voice full of menace.

‘However,’ interrupts the Hauptmann in a more conciliatory tone. ‘If you would care to assist at this interrogation, I would more than value your presence.’

The SS officer appears temporarily mollified. More chairs – and another table for the SS unit’s own clerk – are brought in, then, without further ado, the first prisoner is marched in and the interrogation begins.

‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ says the Hauptmann. ‘You must be very tired. Are you sure you vould not like to sit down?’

‘Thanks, but I’d rather stand.’

‘As you vish. Now, Sergeant, could you kindly tell me your name.’

‘McTavish. Jock.’

‘You are from Scotland, zen?’

No answer.

‘Answer the Hauptmann!’ snaps the Hauptsturmführer.

‘You are from Scotland?’ asks the Hauptmann.

‘Can’t really say,’ says the Sergeant and I’m hardly surprised. With a name as unlikely as that, odds are that he’s one of the Division’s numerous German-Jewish volunteers, fighting incognito.

‘Ven did you volunteer for ze glider pilot regiment, Sergeant McTavish?’

‘I can tell you my serial number, if that helps.’

‘Sergeant McTavish, please do not play these games. You are vearing a glider pilot’s uniform vith a glider pilot’s vings.’

‘My mother always used to say it can be a mistake to judge by appearances,’ says McTavish.

The SS officer chips in nastily, ‘She was a Jew perhaps, your mother. With a hooked nose. A hooked nose like yours, Sergeant McTavish – wenn das wirklich Ihr Name ist.’

Crikey! I don’t know what those last comments have done to poor McTavish but if he has turned anywhere near as sick and pale as I have then he’s done for.

But these German Jews, if he is a German Jew, are made of sterner stuff.

’79341201,’ says McTavish in a calm, even voice. ‘Now don’t let me detain you, please. I know you’ve got quite a few more of us to get through.’

‘Give him to me,’ says the Hauptsturmführer in German. ‘I will make him talk.’

On the other side of the wall, I can imagine McTavish being careful not to adjust his expression.

‘Take him away,’ the Hauptmann commands one of his guards, ignoring the SS man’s request. Then: ‘Next prisoner.’

Now, I’ll say one thing for those two or so hours I spent hiding in the cupboard with a nubile, gorgeous, panting Dutch girl that day in Oosterbeek: it didn’t half show the British soldier in a splendid light. He can be a tricky customer, your Tommy – bolshie, sarcastic, truculent, stubborn, far too often ready to disobey an order if he thinks there’s half a chance he can get away with it – but by golly when the chips are down, his natural bloody-mindedness is the making of him. It makes him ferocious in attack, tenacious in defence and – should you be unlucky enough to capture him – the biggest pain-in-the-bum POW this side of Airey Neave.

Just listen to the way these chaps are handling their interrogation. All right, so one or two of them are gulled by the Hauptmann’s easy manner into giving away rather more information than an intelligence-trained chap like myself might prefer (just a unit’s designation here, a pub or street name there – but it’s enough, you know, it’s enough). But the majority of them stick so rigidly to the principle of name, rank and number, you could almost be eavesdropping on a dramatised training manual.

What’s more, they rarely miss a chance to rub Jerry’s nose in it. It’s like being at school again, listening to the boys at the back of the classroom testing how far they can cheek the master without being thrashed. And the Germans of course don’t like it one bit. The Hauptsturmführer is itching to have them all shot. Even the unflappable Hauptmann is fast losing his patience. Someone, quite soon, I have a nasty feeling, is going to find himself being made an example of…

Speaking for myself, I find this note of tension in the proceedings rather a relief. As I’m sure you can imagine, no matter how charming the company, being cooped up, squashed and skew-whiff in an airless cupboard for two or three hours, is both maddeningly uncomfortable and mind-numbingly tedious. It’s the tedium that worries me most for there’s always the danger I’ll fall asleep. And what if I snore or if my head lolls and thumps against the wall? What if this Dutch girl gets another attack of the shell-shocked tremblies?

Outside, there’s some sort of commotion as a particularly troublesome prisoner is brought in. Another sergeant.

‘This is the man I told you about, Herr Hauptmann. The man who cost Schweitzer his foot,’ says one of the guards in German.

‘Vot is it zat you find so funny, Sergeant?’ the Hauptmann asks his captive. ‘Vielleicht sprechen Sie Deutsch?’

The Sergeant, whether he speaks German or no, quite sensibly doesn’t reply.

‘Sergeant, while resisting capture you cost me one of my best men. Do you think this is a laughing matter?’

The Sergeant mutters something I can’t hear, partly because it’s under his breath, partly because Blondie’s hand has gone to work again. And this time I know it isn’t shell shock. I can tell by the way, taking advantage of my momentary distraction, she’s somehow managed to dart her hand inside my shredded battledress and grab a hold of the end of my you-know-what, which she is now pumping very determinedly between thumb and forefinger.

Madam. This is neither the time nor the place! I think, trying to drag her hand away. But from my awkward position this is harder than you’d imagine, and when finally I do get sufficient purchase to give her hand a salutory, crushing squeeze, she says in a whisper so loud it almost counts as talking, ‘Let go or I scream.’

It’s at this point, that I begin properly to appreciate what a pickle I’m in. Price – as ever, blast him – was right. This is not just some ordinary sweet Dutch girl who took a fancy to me a week ago because I am such a splendid, handsome and generally lovely fellow. She is, in fact, one of those women one used to imagine were a male fantasy, but who one now belatedly realises do actually exist: a totally insatiable, utterly fearless succubus who is never happier than when practising sex under the most dangerous of circumstances and most imminent risk of discovery.

All of which distraction has led me to miss some of the proceedings next door. Annoying, since I now recognise the Sergeant’s voice – war abounds with such coincidences – as that of Price himself. By the sounds of it he’s in an even bigger mess than I am.

Instead of surrendering nicely, as far as I can gather, he not only booted one of his captors in the privates, and broke another’s wrist, but also sent a third staggering backwards onto a Schuhmine, which cost him one of his feet. Why the Germans didn’t shoot him immediately I can’t imagine. But the way Price is carrying on, they’ll surely soon remedy this oversight.

‘Well, it wasn’t me who put it there, was it? “Hoist by your own petard”, that’s what we say in Blighty.’

Shut up, man! Shut up! I’m mentally urging him. Well, one part of my mind is. Another’s wondering how on earth to stop this missy carrying on with her appalling tricks.

Or maybe, another part of me is thinking – possibly the one marked ‘randy young bugger who never gets quite enough of what he thinks he deserves’ – maybe, if I just let her get on with it and bring events to their natural conclusion, she’ll be content enough with that.

Unfortunately, as if reading my thoughts, she decides to make new demands on me. With her spare hand she takes the nearest one of mine and guides it gently towards one of the breasts she has helpfully exposed by slipping off her dress.

Well, I know what she’ll do if I refuse to obey orders: she’ll scream, won’t she?

A jolly nice breast it is too. Perky. And very excited.

Oh God, no, please. No, please don’t do that. But she has, I’m afraid: the girl has started to breathe very, very deeply.

No, worse than that. She has started to moan.

Quickly, before anyone outside hears, I stop playing with her nipple.

‘Don’t stop or I scream,’ she says.

This time, someone outside ought definitely to have heard. The only reason they haven’t is because the Hauptsturmführer is screaming to his fellow captain in German, ‘Give this impertinent pig to me. I will show him how we treat prisoners who try to escape!’

‘If he goes on in this way, then I might well give you that pleasure,’ says the Hauptmann, his patience now exhausted. ‘Sergeant Price,’ he says. ‘You are no doubt familiar with the SS?’

Deep sighs from Blondie. What am I going to do? How can I shut her up before it’s too late?

‘Do not misunderstand me, I am a man of my word. This is your very last chance to cooperate -’

‘I will scream,’ warns Blondie, as yet again I try to stop the manual nipple-stimulation which is making her so damned noisy.

Buggeration! You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

‘Sergeant Price, do you understand me?’

Oh God, she’s moaning again. Louder. And louder. And louder.

‘Sergeant – what was that?’ says the Hauptmann.

‘What was what?’ says the Hauptsturmführer.

‘There. In the wall behind us.’

‘A rat. Probably a rat.’

‘It almost sounded human.’

A pistol cracks. Bang! And, damn it, wouldn’t you know, a hole appears in the cupboard wall barely an inch above my head.

‘Can you hear him now?’ asks the Hauptsturmführer – rhetorically, since even Blondie now seems to recognise the gravity of the situation.

‘Sergeant Price?’

‘That’s me.’

‘I’m asking you one more time -’

I don’t believe it. She’s back at it again already. Breathing heavily.

There’s nothing for it. I don’t want to do this but I’m going to have to. With the hand that isn’t compulsorily attached to Blondie’s breast, I reach for the razor-sharp knife strapped to my leg. Steady now. Don’t want to alert her. I’ve got hold of the grip. It’s coming smoothly out of its sheath. There. Ready…

‘Tell us all you know now and we will spare your life. Otherwise I shall have to pass you over to the Hauptsturmführer for further questioning -’

Not much longer now. I shall have to get this over with quickly. Is the blade sharp enough? Yes. Can I achieve all I need to do swiftly in so confined a space? We’ll just have to see. It’s my only hope.

‘So, Sergeant Price. The choice is yours. Do you wish to live? Or do you prefer to die?’

Sighs. Loud sighs from my cupboard-mate.

‘Hmm. The options are so tempting. Let me think that one over for a moment.’

‘Enough. Enough of your games!’

I go to work with the knife, in long swift cuts. The girl screams!

‘What was that? What was that?’

The moment has come. And I’ll bet you thought I was exaggerating when I said it was among the worst of my life. Well, you don’t now, Jack, do you?

But first, I want to take you back two or three months, so I can explain how I got into this mess in the first place.

© James Delingpole 2009

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