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For Curtis, too, the fighting was over. He was moved to a barn doubling up as an aid post and then, strapped to the bonnet of a jeep, driven to the makeshift field hospital set up in the Tafelberg Hotel at Oosterbeek. As he was carried into the foyer, he saw the mayhem of many wounded comrades and heard the clatter of gunfire from just outside. Clearly, such was the scope of the battle, there were no safe havens in and around Arnhem. ‘Ah well,’ he told himself, ‘we will have to make the best of it.’ It was fast becoming the brave and stoical motto of the entire enterprise.²

The greater part of the British assault on Arnhem may well have been stopped in its tracks short of its target, but its fighting presence bought time for those on the bridge – time perhaps for XXX Corps to get through. Knowing this, the German military command was desperate to destroy Frost’s beleaguered force on the bridge’s northern approach as quickly as possible and ordered it to be swept away like a nest of irritating ants. But while other ants were swarming around at the edges, the Germans could not focus their military superiority on the siege at the bridge. They had to spread their forces. What spurred on the likes of Fred Moore as they continued their advance into Arnhem was the message filtering through that Frost’s paras had indeed reached their objective. ‘But we faced a bloody battle through a built-up area against defended positions.’ Progress was so slow that his company was ordered to occupy some houses and try to get some rest. As they settled down they were aware that the Germans were camped in nearby houses too, perhaps even next door. ‘We made as little noise as possible,’ and Moore had angrily to silence the snores of one of his men to avoid alerting the enemy.

They made an early start next morning, hoping to sneak the remaining 2 miles to the bridge under cover of darkness. They kept to one side of the road, ducking low and creeping along at the back of buildings. They made progress – until the dawn revealed that they were fully exposed to a German artillery position on the other side of the river. ‘They raked us with a concentrated barrage. We had nowhere to hide.’ Moore’s three-man machine-gun crew was sent out into the open to try to pin down the German gunners, a near-suicidal position. He could only watch as one of his crew slumped sideways, dead. ‘I pushed his body aside and moved into his position. I hoped that he had been hit by an indiscriminate shot rather than a targeted one. A shout from the rear signalled us to pull out and, stopping only to collect the identity disc from our dead comrade, we beat a hasty retreat. We were but one mile from the bridge!’

This was their limit. Any further advance along this line was blocked by armour and there was no alternative but to fall back. As he withdrew, just up the road, Moore came across Andy Milbourne being attended to by a medic. ‘He had been manning a machine gun to cover our retreat and had taken a direct hit. His hands were shattered and his face covered in blood.’ Milbourne’s own recollection was of being in a garden and firing into a wood where the enemy were massing. ‘Shells and mortars kept bursting among us. It seemed as if a thousand devils were raging in our midst. Death reared its ugly head on all sides. German SS infantry were trying to rush us.’ He heard himself shouting, ‘Let the bastards have it,’ and there was ‘a flash … then stars’. When he came to, his hands felt strange – ‘no pain but far away’. He asked where the two men who’d been at his side were. They were dead. ‘Now, old son,’ a voice said, ‘let’s get these bandages. Just relax while I give you a jab of morphine. Easy does it.’ The next voice he heard was a long time later, and it was German. Milbourne’s Arnhem experience would leave him with just one eye and no arms.