Signalman Eric Weeks

Unit : "E" Section, No.2 Company, 1st Airborne Divisional Signals

Army No. : 6924003

Eric Weeks, from Primrose Hill, Huddersfield, was born on the 11th November 1923. He originally enlisted in The Rifle Brigade but later transferred to The Royal Corps of Signals. He was posted to the 1st Airborne Divisional Signals and served with "E" Company, attached to the 1st Airlanding Light Regiment, where he was a wireless operator with their Second-in-Command.

The following is from a letter he wrote on the 17th November 1996:

I belonged to 'E' Section Royal Signals attached to the 1st Airlanding Light Regiment, Royal Artillery, and served in North Africa and Italy prior to the Arnhem Operation.

As I recollect, we loaded our Horsa Glider with a jeep and trailer plus two motor-cycles. I can remember only that at the rear of the glider there was three of us sat, Arthur Hole, [14264154 Signalman Arthur Frederick Hole, POW, Stalag XIB, POW number 90121] also like myself Signalman in rank, Sgt Grant, [2585608 Sergeant William Joseph Grant, wounded 23/09/44, but managed to withdraw across the Lower Rhine 25-26/09/44, and thereafter admitted to a hospital in Nijmegen.] and myself. We set off from Broadwell Farm on the second lift. Apart from the usual 'highs and lows' of glider flying, we had an uneventful flight, until over the coast we were subjected to some anti-aircraft fire and we could see the bursts round about us in the sky. We heard a 'crack' and discovered that a piece of shrapnel had passed between where I was sitting and my mate Arthur. Quite a shock I can tell you. Eventually we were cast off and came down in the usual steep dive and the crash landing.

We landed pretty well, and after going through the various motions of unfastening bolts, cutting cables, etc, the tail finally came off. We got our jeep and trailer [and] joined what looked like complete chaos. I have recollections of fires burning around the landing area and the sound of gunfire. Eventually things became a little more organised and we got on the move. I remember Dutch people welcoming us and giving us fruit and such like. We had an officer with us and I think it was Major De Gex and again I think our job was to get to the Bridge as soon as possible in order to be in contact with the guns. We set off at pace and the first thing I can remember was passing a German vehicle with a couple of dead Germans hanging out of it. We continued down the main road [Utrechtseweg] until we suddenly found ourselves under heavy small arms fire. We were instructed to pull off the road and into a side turning for some sort of cover. It was at this time when I found out that I was unable to contact my control and pass on the information. We had been properly 'netted-in' before embarking and it came as a shock that we were unable to contact anyone.

[Tuesday, 19th September1944] My next recollections were joining a group of soldiers advancing down the railway track towards Arnhem. We tried climbing up the railway embankment with our sets to put an aerial up higher, but each time we did this we came under heavy fire and eventually had to give it up as a bad job. Believe me, we were absolutely gutted. It was about this time when we suddenly found everyone retreating and it was hereabouts that I cannot for the life in me remember what happened to our wireless set or our Jeep, also the whereabouts of our officer. I remember someone who had managed to salvage a Bren carrier and was certainly not the driver of the vehicle which caused everyone to get out of his way a bit smartish.

From this point on, things appear to me in flash back.

[Probably Wednesday, 20th September 1944] I discovered that we were amongst remnants of the 156 Btn, 4th Para Brigade. At one point we were ordered to make a stand as we were informed that we were to be attacked by tanks. We were by now in the woods and Arthur and I built a barricade of dead wood that was about and got down behind it with some trepidation. I remember Arthur saying to me, 'what do they expect us to do with a Sten gun and a rifle against tanks'. The waiting was not very pleasant and eventually we heard the rumble of approaching tanks. We kept our fingers crossed and waited with some [further] trepidation.

The rumbling got louder and then we heard them pass us by. Naturally we breathed a sigh of relief and then we regrouped. It was here when I just cannot remember the passage of time. I honestly cannot remember having a sleep, eating or for that matter drinking or what day it was. With having no wireless set I found myself on perimeter defence. Fortunately, before joining the Royal Corps of Signals I served in the Rifle Brigade, and the infantry training came in useful. We suffered a continuous barrage of sniper fire, air bursts fired into the trees, etc.

The next recollection I have is being laid down by a Sergeant watching a path through the woods, when I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my back. Putting my hands to my back to find out what had happened I discovered that my hands came away covered in blood. I then found that I was unable to move my legs. The poor Sergeant next to me received severe shrapnel wounds in his buttocks area and was far worse off than I was. Eventually a medic came and applied a field dressing to the wound. I was then taken to a tree and laid there trying to dig a hole with my entrenching tool for some kind of protection. This I soon packed up, as not being able to move my legs and tree roots all over the place, it was a case of just hanging on. My arms and spare ammunition, etc, was taken from me and I felt extremely vulnerable.

The next recollection was a lot of noise and suddenly a Bren gun opened up just behind me. I must have been unconscious for a short spell as when I enquired in a surprised way as to why they were firing over me, I was told that the soldiers concerned thought that I was dead! Eventually things quietened down a bit and along with the Sergeant I was draped over the back end of a trailer and off we went. This was at times only a few yards when we came under fire. Everyone made a bee-line into the edge of the woods off the track. I had no other recourse but to drop off the trailer and pull myself on my elbows into the cover available. The lads were very good as they were quite helpful in putting us back on the trailer again. How many times this occurred I have no recollection. I still haven't a clue as to what day it was, could have been the Thursday [Wednesday] when all 'Hell' was let loose. The noise was deafening and not having anything to defend myself with, aggravated my already agitated feelings. Eventually there was a silence and I felt myself picked up along with a few other survivors onto the track.

Captain Buck [Captain John Buck, RAMC, was the Regimental Medical Officer for the 156 Parachute Battalion. It was he who had probably been driving or in charge of the Bren carrier recounted earlier in this account.] I think was the Medical Officer and he was doing his best for everyone. Our captors were S.S. Panzer Grenadiers as I remember the cap badge worn was the skull and crossbones. They treated us well and offered cigarettes, etc. It was at this time when a young German, probably a member of the Hitler Youth wanted to throw a hand grenade into our midst. The German Sergeant that seemed to be in charge gave him an almighty belt around the ear and sent him off with his tail between his legs. We were put into trucks and the next thing I remember was being in hospital. My legs were still not functioning and I remember things were chaotic with German and British doctors working side by side. We were laid three on two mattresses and the bandages were of the paper variety.

In a day or so, my legs started to respond and I gave a heartfelt sigh of relief. On getting around we were asked to help in any way we could and we had some monstrous jobs to carry out which are best left forgotten. One thing that happened to me there, was a German with a badly scarred face, for sometime had been following me around and I was getting a little worried as to his reasons. Eventually he caught up with me and I managed to find out with broken English that all he wanted to do was to show me a picture of his wife and family. Breath of relief.

I was then moved out by cattle truck to a holding camp which turned out to be Limburg [Stalag XIIA]. On arrival at the local station we were stoned by the local populace, probably because the R.A.F. had most likely paid them a visit. The German guards of course were laughing their heads off and made no attempt whatsoever to stop them. Anyway, we finally marched off from the station and eventually we entered Limburg Camp, which was a staging post for prisoners. As I recollect the place smelled of spilled effluent as the toilets were overflowing. We were bedded down in tents that had been put up to house the well overpopulated camp. I found a couple or so of my own 'E' Section there, and was glad of their company. [Lance-Corporal Dennis Uphill and Signalman Arthur Hole] My only recollection of the place was that it was an evil smelling, inhospitable dump.

I was then taken out with a few more prisoners, who also were recovering from wounds and we were shipped out by cattle truck (again) and we found that our destination was a German Military Prison at Frankfurt on Maine [Dulag Luft]. Here I was put into a small cell with a little window high in the wall, a cot, and a small table. There was also a piece of wire that when pulled dropped an arm outside the cell which denoted that one wished to go to the toilet. I found in time that one had to estimate quite early as there was always some delay. When going to the toilet a guard was always accompanying and stood there the whole time while the necessary functions were performed. It was also known that a prisoner was not allowed to use the toilets if another prisoner was already there. I also found that my prison number was 99, and I must confess that being the owner of this number, I immediately thought of 'convict 99' which helped my sense of humour. ['Convict 99' was a 1938 British comedy film directed by Marcel Varnel and starring British comedian Will Hay and Googie Withers.]

I was glad to say that although most of my personal belongings had been taken from me I was still in possession of a New Testament Bible which had been given to me before going off to Arnhem. After a day or two I was getting decidedly edgy as I had no idea whatsoever what the outcome was going to be. Anyway I read and reread my New Testament and will never forget that the Book of Revelations was not very pleasant to read. Food as ever was at a bare minimum and after a couple of days or so I started to get visits from a German Feldwebel who brought me a sandwich of sorts, sat on my bed, and showed me photographs of various places accompanied usually by, "I believe that your unit spent some time there, etc, etc". I gradually learned to keep my own counsel, remembering a piece of paper I had found hidden in the bed frame, which said 'Tell the bastards nothing'.

During the day I tried to guess how many hand spans it would take to cover the distance between each wall. After doing it so many times I knew exactly how many before I started so began thinking of something else to pass the time. The day came when (after about a fortnight, I think) I heard a lot of noise, rattling of keys and a shout of Kriegsefangener neun und neuntich (excuse my German). My cell door opened and I was told to follow the guard, who took me into a room that was occupied by an officer and had maps on the wall. I thought to myself after being invited to sit down and being offered a cigarette (which I refused) that we were now on the gentle approach, with the heavy stuff to come at a later stage. After a lot of chat and then the remark that they knew everything there was to know about the Arnhem operation, I didn't do myself any favours when I told him that if he knew everything, what the hell was he wasting his time for, asking me stupid questions?!! Then the haranguement came. Arms waving, shouting and finishing with the inevitable threat that did I realise that I could be shot for being a spy behind German lines. The answer to this was, "My name is Eric Weeks, my rank is Signalman and my Army number is 6924003". More shouting, etc, and then I was shoved out and back to my cell. There I was thinking to myself 'what now'?

The following day I was herded out with another bunch of prisoners, from various units, and marched off once again to the inevitable railway station. Whenever I was on a station it always struck me that even the porters loved to dress up in military type uniforms and carry a briefcase. A train came in and we were herded into a cattle truck and set off, to God knows where. Conditions were atrocious with very little air until eventually holes were made in the sides of the truck for air and to see what we could on the outside. We were many days in this truck and memories of the journey are few, but I do remember that on the occasion when we were allowed out to relieve ourselves our guard who only had one hand and a hook, used to grab us with the hook as we came out, belt us with a pick helve and count in Germen, one, belt, two, belt, three, belt, etc, until we were all out of the truck. The same occurred on the way back in. I vividly remember that when arriving in marshalling yards we were shunted from one line to another. We used to feel a bang as the train hit us, we were thrown from one end of the waggon to the other, all in a heap. Not a very pleasant experience at all. I still cringe when I hear someone talk about shunting. One day we were going along when the train suddenly stopped and from our peep holes we could see the German Guards leaving the track and moving well away. We then heard an aircraft engine and we listened to it. In our wagon was a pilot, and he suddenly said 'That's a Typhoon and they don't often miss'. Naturally the catcalls and verbal abuse that he received were nobodies business.

I remember stopping at a station where we were given some hot so called stew, because as I said earlier, that food was very much at a premium.

Our final destination appeared to be Stalag 8C at Sagan. My first recollection of this camp was being told by a sergeant that should we be fortunate enough to receive [a] Red Cross parcel then we must never let it out of our sight as he told us that a blind prisoner had his hand on his when it was deliberately stolen from him. We wondered what kind of person we were about to be incarcerated with. I have few recollections of the camp other than it was very full, beds three or four high. Bed-boards cut up for firewood and kitchen utensils made from old tins, etc.

Early on we found that the older and more established prisoners had made themselves a wireless which was hidden somewhere and a couple of times a week or so someone would bring us the latest news. I remember the Camp Padre telling us that no matter what or how we felt we must continue with the niceties by saying Good morning or Good night to our neighbours. This we tried to do in order to have some sense of normality.

Goon baiting was anther pastime and we continuously told the guards that Germany was kaput. This got under their skins very much indeed.

I spent my twenty first birthday in the camp. It was the 11th November, and in the mornings the guards used to shout Raus, Raus, etc. We usually replied by barking at them like dogs. Again it was not appreciated by the guards. This birthday morning I refused to get out of bed. The camp interpreter was sent for and I was asked why I would not get out of bed. I told him that I was '21 today and my mother said I could do as I like', so in bed I wanted to be. I also asked him for the key of the camp, as it was the done thing in England that when 21 one received the key of the door. Having no sense of humour a guard was sent for and I was told 'get out of bed, or have a bayonet up the bum'. Discretion being the better part of valour, I got out of bed with a show of ill grace.

Around this time we had received an invalid food parcel which gave us a tenth share of the parcel. My pal 'Al' Jenkins asked me for my share, which was a tin of Bengers Food. Imagine my surprise when later in the evening 'Al' and a few of the lads came in singing '21 today, twenty one today', wished me a happy birthday and presented me with what came to be known as a Mother Jenkins Bengers cake, it had silver cigarette packet paper round it and twenty one matches on the top. I was overcome at the lovely thought by the lads in such horrible conditions. The cake itself was as heavy as lead. We all had a piece and the resultant tummy pain was well worth it.

I also recall here that we had a camp concert which was Gilbert and Sullivan's Pirates of Penzance. We were humming those tunes for days afterwards. Another recollection I have, but cannot say where we were, was being called out on parade and informed that General Rommel had died. [Field Marshall Johannes Erwin Eugen Rommel died on the 14th October 1944.] This, I am afraid to say, was met with loud cheers and was not the effect that the authorities had expected.

My whole recollection of the camp I think, was the boredom interspersed only by getting under the guards skin. Any little thing over them could be classed as a victory. The lack of food, getting a few potatoes occasionally, turnip done all ways, raw, stewed, all endlessly. The small piece of black bread we got daily. This we often cut up into thin slices in order to have 'breakfast' and lunch. Mangolwursel stew which was bitter and acrid with the odd dice of meat in it which we carefully picked out and tried to fry in anything we could get hold of. Mint tea, which we smoked and acorn coffee which the only saving grace was that it was a hot drink. We never wasted potato peelings, and these were often fried up to try and make them crispy. Anything that was edible was eaten. Thoughts of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding were often sources of conversation and we often talked about what would be the first thing you would ask for on release. My answer was 'a piece of white bread'. Occasionally we had a type of millet porridge which was quite edible, but unfortunately had the effect of one continuously passing water. We nicknamed it, I think, birdseed soup.. We had again occasionally a kind of pea soup which was reasonable, but the Germans were not averse to making it well salty and then turning the water off for a spell.

I also saw my first Russian prisoner and saw that he was dressed in rags and with no legs at all. He got about by propelling himself along with a couple of sticks. We also found out that when a Red Cross parcel had been received there was usually bartering going off by the Russian compound. They were paid for working in bread and this they wanted to swap for cigarettes.

I did mention previously about being able to see a production of The Pirates of Penzance in which were female characters who had to be played by prisoners. Before any knowledge of these things I used to see prisoners with long hair and some quite female hairdo's. I wondered as to why they were like that and I found out that they had props for their shows, but were not able to get wigs.

By this time of course weight had dropped off us and we were rather weak. My particular clothing was a ragged old battle dress with a Frenchman's coat fastened around me with a bit of string. We walked constantly around the compound near to the trip wire thinking and talking of escape. Our chances at this stage of the proceedings were somewhat thin. When a ball was kicked into the trip wire area we had to ask permission from the guards to get it out. If not the order of the day was to shoot.

Even though a lot of memories are now indistinct I can safely say that not once did any of us think anything other than we would win the war and be released. It was, to us, mainly a matter of time. The Germans, quite naturally, could not understand the logic. In my experience I found that if a German was on top of you, he was arrogant and did a lot of shouting and threatening, but conversely if the position was reversed I found that they were apt to be somewhat servile. The young Hitler Youth I found the most arrogant and overbearing of the lot. One thing I have just remembered that upset the Germans very much, was at morning roll call. We would obey the commands of our own superiors, but tended to ignore any from the Germans. Each morning we were formed up to be counted, and the German responsible would go down the columns counting. When approaching the end, someone would move out of line which threw the German off completely. He had to start again with a loud cheer ringing in his ears.

I don't know when it was, but one day we [were] told that we had to go on a working party. I found myself with others directed to work in a clay pit. Anyone who has worked with wet clay will know that it is extremely heavy. At the start of the day we had two prisoners pushing a loaded wagon to its destination. At the end of the day it took about four to do this job. We could never understand why we pushed the wagons up hill and brought the wagons back down hill. We did not get any extra rations, so we continued to lose more weight and became weaker. We had an old German overseer called Jakob. He was well turned seventy and one of the nicest Germans I have ever met.

Each day he would bring us a sandwich from his own meagre rations to give to one of us in turn. He would take us into his little hut, look out of the windows and then keep a watch while it was being eaten. He would get us around him, look about and say 'Roosevelt shitz, Churchill shitz', look around again and say 'Hitler shitz, us, all OK'. We also had a Czechoslovakian guard with us. We found that he had been pressed into service and was not a happy man. It was bitterly cold and sometimes we had to pick up frozen pieces of clay which Jakob broke up with a small charge. An edict came out that POW's would not be allowed to warm themselves during working hours, but old Jakob would take us round the back, and light a fire for us to get warm by. The Czech guard kept an eye out for any intruders. One day we had a new man and discovered that Jakob had been taken away to do some form of military service. Things then altered for the worse.

As I said before, it was bitterly cold, but in our hut, we had an old type stove with a plate on top which opened allowing coal to be put in. The pipe from this went up through the ceiling. Our fire was never out, and the German sentries often came in for a warm and told us that they could not understand why our stove was always burning and they often ran out of their quota. The reason for this was that in the claypit yard was a pile of briquettes used for the kilns to make the bricks. They were covered with snow and in order to pinch some for ourselves we had found a bucket of whitewash and a brush which we splashed all over the spaces where the coal that we had pinched was, leaving it in its natural state, covered in 'snow'.

When we were marched off home we had to pass a grinding machine which chewed up old bricks, etc. We did our utmost to find pieces of metal which we lobbed in when passing and could hear the teeth of the grinders making an unpleasant noise. After a little while the Germans got the message and took us back to camp a different route. Any little thing to annoy them was a victory for us.

At this time too, on alternative Sunday mornings we had to go to the claypit yard and help to load newly made bricks into a railway wagon. We were on the dock side and a plank of wood was running from the dock into the wagon. There were other nationalities there, but it was amazing that whenever one of us pushed his barrow down the plank that he 'suddenly slipped' and spilt the bricks on to the railway line, usually breaking some in the process. There were loud shouts and much threatening, but our ploy used to be that after listening to them, say in German 'I don't understand, I am an idiot'. Eventually they again got the message and our Sunday work was cancelled. Another small victory.

Food was still minimal, and in order to maintain the niceties, we saved a little of our small ration of bread to eat as breakfast before being marched off to work. The bread we had saved was usually wrapped up in a handkerchief or suchlike and placed under the pillow for safe keeping. One day we discovered that bread was being stolen during the night. A watch was kept, and one night one of the POW's was caught with his hand under a pillow. The entire hut was woken up and after some discussion his hand were held on to the hot plate of the stove. Not a pleasant sight to see or hear, but I can safely say that nothing was ever pilfered again in that hut. Since coming home and talking to other ex POW's it was not an uncommon practice to punish thieves, especially of food, in this or some other manner.

The weather remained bitterly cold and breath froze on our faces which we tried to cover up with old Balaclavas or whatever was available. I shall never forget the cold and the hunger.

One day we were taken back to our main camp. At that time we did not know what for. After a couple of nights we found ourselves rousted outside for a count. We were out there until the early hours of the morning being counted and recounted. I remember it was bitterly cold and our clothing was very thin. Eventually we were allowed back into our huts. In the morning we made enquiries as to the reason for the counting. We had hoped that someone had escaped, but you can imagine how surprised we were when we discovered that there were too many people in the camp. This came about due to some Frenchmen getting back into the camp to avoid any disciplinary charges that could be brought against them after the war due to their giving their parole and working on farms, etc, which was a pretty good little number.

My next recollections was when we were suddenly marched out of the camp on to what came to be known as the death march. Since returning home I was able to get the itinerary of the march as it affected us.

We left stalag 8C on Feb 8th, 1945. I remember seeing German civilians with red Cross parcels after raiding the camp store. We were particularly annoyed about this, because we were not receiving those life saving parcels. The first day we walked 22 kilometres and after that we walked on average 20 to 26 kilometres a day until I eventually dropped out at an official Dressing Station. I with many others at this point had walked some 343 kilometres. Before starting out we were told that no one must drop out at any time other than at official stations otherwise we would be bayoneted and left. We found that the German sentries were itchy and dithery and not at all amenable.

Things I remember about the march was the walking in a daze, cold, hungry, filthy dirty and having lice about our persons. I remember once during the march an ox that had been pulling the Germans equipment cart at the back of our column dropped dead. To give the Germans their due they cooked the carcass and gave us some thin and very watery stew. The bones were left, and in a free for all I managed to 'win' a shin bone. The marrow in the bone helped myself and two other comrades to keep going. I will always remember suddenly dashing out of the column, banging the bone against the wall to break some off and darting back into line again before the sentry could do anything other than shout and bawl.

Eventually, myself and 'Al' Jenkins, my mate, were dropping further and further behind. The wound in my back was causing me problems with my legs, and 'Al' who had suffered a wound in the groin was having some difficulty walking. We finally came to the tail end of the column where a sergeant was in charge of the German's equipment truck which was being pulled along by a number of POW's. Bearing in mind that we had 'had it' if we dropped out, the sergeant suggested that we got on to the cart for a spell to rest. The POW's refused point blank to let us do this, so we finally finished up with a piece of rope attached to our wrists and fastened to the back of the cart. We had no other option than either walk or be dragged which happened on a number of occasions. We finally came across a way side Dressing station and dropped out with a number of others.

We were taken off to a little village called Kulkwitz as I recollect and housed in a building of sorts. We were still under the control of a German sergeant and a couple of German sentries. After a few days we were beginning to feel better when we suddenly experienced shelling. We were taken out and put into some kind of trench system. The noise was deafening and we heard one or two shells had hit the trench killing one or two POW's. The shelling stopped and we discovered that the German sentries had fled leaving only the sergeant. He was not a bad fellow and he organised [us] into groups of here or four to make our way towards the sound of the guns. I remember seeing white sheets on the houses and white flags hanging out of windows, etc. We set off and just followed our instincts. We finally came across an American gun unit who waved to us and told us that we were to carry on as we were not the first.

I remember this only after that, we were in an American camp with a mobile canteen. We were allowed to go to the canteen and there I asked for a piece of 'white bread'. It tasted delicious. We were deloused and medically examined and eventually sent home in an American Air Force plane. At this stage we could still not understand that we could do what we wanted, when we wanted.

To sum up the march, I walked approx. 343 kilometres from the 8th February 1945 to approx. 24th February 1945. Sixteen days of which I shall never, ever, forget. Boots with holes in, thin clothing, starving hungry, socks with no soles on, which were put on religiously each morning. Sleeping in barns or whatever was available, but mainly the bitter cold. those left in the column covered a further 232 kilometres in the next nine days. we found the reason for the march was because the Russians were advancing quickly and we were to be moved into central Germany and used as hostages. In some respect I was one of the luckier ones. My weight had also gone down to skin and bone level. My thoughts of the Prison Camp were mainly of hunger and boredom. The Working camp one of hardship, hunger but we were able to get back at the Germans in our own small way.

Regarding the battle of Arnhem, my account may be somewhat sketchy, but I will always remember the noise. I cannot remember eating or sleeping during this time, and up to getting wounded I cannot tell you what I did or what I saw as that is locked away in my memory with no wish to bring it out. Over the years and even now, I occasionally still wake up with memories going through my mind. I cannot say which was worse, the battle or the 'march', but I can safely say that I have no love for the German nation as a nation. Not as individuals, but as a nation that I still considers wants to be 'Top Dog' in Europe. Rightly or wrongly, but that is how I feel.

On return home, I was months convalescing before finally being sent to Germany to the 53rd Welsh Divisional Headquarters, where I remained until being demobbed. I missed my old mates in 'E' Section and never enjoyed my stay in Germany.

One thing stands out loud and clear, and that was at no time did anyone ever consider that we would lose the war. It was a case of 'when are we going to win'.

For what it is worth, this is one man's story of his exploits, and is only one amongst many of all those who served at Arnhem or other places in the fighting in the world that occurred.

WE'LL SEE YOU IN SEPTEMBER.

"We'll see you in September"

Are the words that we all hear.

"We'll see you in September Come back again next year."

We shake our Dutch friends by the hand

And always shed a tear.

"We'll see you in September,

We'll see you all next year."

I heard these words just yesterday

In Oosterbeek where old friends lay.

I found the stone and read the name,

Signalman Bloomfield, the very same.

Signalman Bloomfield he may be,

But 'Tosh' he'll always be to me.

You loved to laugh and dance and sing,

Together we made the rafters ring.

Remember the George on a Saturday night?

Where we had the odd beer,

And had the odd fight.

You always were a 'son of a gun',

A mere lad of twenty one.

Well old son, it's time to go,

So long you dear old so and so.

I laid my cross and bowed my head,

The better to remember.

Then I heard his voice,

Quite loud and clear,

"See you in September,

Come back again next year."

Eric Weeks.

Signalman, 'E' Section, Royal Signals.

1st Airborne Division.

My thanks to Bob Hilton for this account.

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