A Formidable Assignment – Operation Varsity, a Glider Pilot’s Perspective, by Des Page.

I was born and educated in Maidstone, Kent, but with my mother and father, moved to Birmingham in 1937.

After leaving school I went to work for a small cinema and theatre circuit in the City centre and was fortunate enough to gain rapid promotion. However my cinema was bombed twice in three months and I decided I would be safer in an army tank.

I volunteered and was accepted by the 58th Royal Armoured Corps Training Regiment at Bovington in Dorset. I was given a sound training in all tank crew activities and then informed I was not officer material.

For crashing a Christie Cruiser through a garage wall in Burleigh, in the New Forest, I was given 10-days ‘jankers’ and 10-days behind the guard. From there I was transferred with the Montgomery brothers and Brian Marchant, who later, like me, became glider pilots.

Brian and I were in ‘C’ Squadron and very often on the same tank. Our tank commander never did see this as a good move and did not realise our expertise.

Although the 9th Royal Tank Regiment guys were a great bunch of lads to be with, Brian and I decided that being nursemaids to a couple of Churchill’s was not our forte.

Taking a synoptic view of incidents were RAF aircrew diced with death, it struck me that the prime cause in most cases was engine trouble. Engines packed up, seized up, blew up, caught fire, ran out of fuel or coolant – the list was endless!

I gave this some serious thought and then the blindingly obvious solution to the problem came to me in a flash. If you didn’t have any engines to start with, they clearly couldn’t cause you trouble. Having thus satisfied myself of the logic of this I straightaway volunteered to become an Army Glider Pilot. Admittedly this built-in safety factor of no engines was disquietingly offset, to some extent, by the later discovery that we didn’t get parachutes either. I don’t believe that this meanness on the part of the authorities; they probably simply took the view that it would look bad if the pilots got out while the going was good, leaving the troops in the back to pot luck. Modern airline pilots find themselves in the same position but of course they’re paid a lot more than we were. To an outsider it must have been a moot point anyway as to who was the crazier between, on the one hand, airborne forces hell-bent on landing in enemy occupied territory, and on the other, RAF aircrew hoping that they wouldn’t have to, yet constantly at risk that might do so involuntarily.

We reported to Fargo in Wiltshire early in January 1944 for the sorting out process. We gritted our teeth and survived, were made full corporals, given red berets and reported to Booker for flying training on Tiger Moths. All of us were expecting First Pilot wings with one exception - me. I had got into the habit of using a flight hut - to mark my approach on landing. Returning from a solo flight one day, I selected the wrong hut and landed cross wind in the take-off area. So I became a Second Pilot although I did receive First Pilot wings after the Rhine.

I did the usual glider training and joined ‘E’ Squadron early in May. I was lucky enough to team up with Stan Graham as my first pilot. He passed on all his experience and expertise to me. The squadron was over-crewed and I missed ‘D’ Day. I think they wanted to win!

Along came Arnhem and Stan and I took off on the second lift, carrying a Jeep, trailer, a motorcycle and three men of the Royal Army Service Corps. We landed on Landing Zone ‘Z’ towards the end of the afternoon and unloaded under fire. We didn’t hang about. We moved to Wolfheze and the home for the blind there, where the inhabitants sang the National Anthem for us. Despite the odd bit of sniper fire we stood to attention, though I felt more like ducking down.

After a short while the members of ‘E’ Squadron marched off towards Oosterbeek. I got involved with a lorry and trailer that had been shot up and missed my ‘Flight’. When I arrived in Oosterbeek I was dog tired and bedded down for the night on the grass verge. Occasional Very lights lit up the sky and there was distant firing, but nothing to worry about.

We sheltered in an adjacent plantation or allotments area, until morning - Wednesday - when we entrenched along the end of the hotel grounds nearest the station. I was manning a Bren gun. Members of the Kings Own Scottish Borderers - KOSB - were also entrenched in the grounds and had fortified the Hotel.

About mid-morning I heard a sound like a light pompom gun which fired for 15 minutes over the heads of the glider pilots’ position, making us keep our heads down. We avoided casualties but were hit by debris from trees, which overhung our position. During the firing the enemy had moved snipers into two houses across the road facing the end of the glider pilots’ trenches. One of our pilots, Bruce MacKenzie, was shot in the back. He was just eight feet from my Bren position on a sunken path near the steps of the hotel. We shouted for a medic, who confirmed that MacKenzie was dead. A sniper then shot the medic in the knee and thigh and we had to carry him to the regimental aid post. We then cleared the two houses opposite of snipers using PIAT bombs and small arms, killing three of them.

Apart from odd shots shooting died down. It was now dark, but moonlight reflected from the side of the hotel onto our area. We were looking very weird and very knocked about. Using MG34 or MG42 tracer fire, the enemy set fire to the barn behind our trench. Despite the danger a KOSB soldier freed an animal - I think it was a cow - trapped inside.

By Thursday afternoon we had a lot of casualties and there was a general move into the plantation grounds. A defence line was set up. Tilley, a GP, came round with a KOSB officer from HQ to check the position. One hour later the enemy made its final assault and rather than be overrun we dropped back across the road alongside the plantation, into houses commanded by ‘E’ Squadron under Major Peter Jackson. The enemy did not cross the road.

Our original band of glider pilots, now down to eight men under the command of Lieutenant Ash, was told to find our way to the line behind the Bilderberg Hotel in order to strengthen it. We moved into this position just before dawn. Under mortar fire we split and ran into what I think were ‘F’ Squadron’s lines. We had a visit from the padre during the morning, now Friday. In the afternoon the Germans played us patriotic British music and suggested that we surrender. We sang them ‘Lilly Marlene’ as a reply. That night was quiet. It rained as dawn broke, and a chap two trenches away shot a German sniper and purloined his watch.

At the end of the day we were moved to the top of the Hartenstein Lane and entrenched on the grass verge. It was fairly quiet until the next morning, Sunday, when our little band decided to join other glider pilots in the Hartenstein Lane houses, and those beyond. Most of the houses were badly damaged. Sniper fire and mortar fire continued right round until Monday afternoon, though it was not too bad. Finally an officer came round and told us the plan for getting out that night.

We left the area under mortar fire and eventually reached and crossed the river back to Nijmegen from where we returned to Down Ampney. After debriefing and some leave ‘E’ Squadron sent a detachment to India, Stan, my first pilot included. Others went to Italy.

I was lucky again in being teamed up with Norman Elton, who, like Stan, passed on his experience and expertise to me. We were both then sent to ‘F’ Squadron at Broadwell where the RAF joined us and we combined for various training exercises.

At last the Squadron moved to prepare for Operation ‘Varsity’, the crossing of the Rhine. We became part of the Coup de Main, which comprised four gliders carrying 26 Oxs & Bucks men, plus a trailer. Our mission was to take the Northern Road Bridge over the Issel Canal.

In England on exercises mass landings of fully laden gliders in a defined space was really very simple, especially for those at the head of a glider stream. It became only marginally more difficult for those at the back of the queue as the available landing space diminished, but even then it was no more hazardous than, say participating in the first day of a Harrods Sale. But transpose this to operational conditions and a very different picture presents itself particularly when the enemy, resenting the intrusion on his privacy, hits back with everything short of catapults.

Such was the situation when the Allies launched their last and biggest airborne assault to capture and hold ground beyond the Rhine in the area of Hamminkeln and Wesel, and thus enable the main Allied ground forces to cross the river and push into the industrial heart of Germany.

So here we were, seemingly endless streams of planes carrying Paratroops and, above them, 1,430 glider-tug combinations all heading for their various dropping and landing zones. Leading the gliders were three Horsa that comprised Number 1 Coup de Main Force whose task it was to seize the northern bridge over the Issel canal that carried the main road west of Hamminkeln. This bridge lay outside the airborne perimeter (on the enemy side) and as such it was vital that, when captured, it be held or, if necessary destroyed, to prevent German armoured counter-attacks across the canal.

A special operation agent had informed London that German Paratroops guarded the bridge and that it could be expected also to be heavily defended by flak. In short a formidable assignment; but the three gliders each carried 26 soldiers of the Ox & Bucks Light Infantry Regiment as well as the two pilots who could join the fight after landing. A total force of 84 Officers, NCOs and men, all highly experienced in this type of operation, so the task was well within their capabilities. With one proviso! Any serious depletion of numbers before we could mount the attack could put the entire operation in jeopardy. Inevitably we had to expect casualties on the ground but we could hope to avoid them in the air by minimising the time between casting off from our tugs and landing, when we were at our most vulnerable and our passengers quite defenceless. This could be done by selecting full flap immediately, diving steeply straight ahead, and then one turn toward the bridge and land. All three Horsa are fitted with parachute arrestor gear. But there was a snag! We had been briefed to carry out an approach and landing which was suicidally leisurely by comparison, but the officer piloting the lead glider (all the other pilots were NCOs) was adamant that the brief was to be adhered to despite our misgivings.

Nevertheless, I and my co-pilot in the third glider and the two in the second glider had agreed prior to take off that if, in the event, things went badly wrong from the beginning, we would revert to our own contingent plan. I didn’t know just how prophetic that would prove to be.

It was now eleven miles to the Rhine and a further seven to our target at the farthest point beyond the river. Our select tug crew obligingly assisted our navigation now by reporting over the intercom each mile to the target. Very soon we reported to the tug that we could see the Rhine below. Then came the unexpected. Across the river was a black pall of smoke and dust stretching either side as far as the eye could see and rising up to our flying altitude of 2,500 feet. Transport aircraft, having dropped their sticks of parachutists some three miles beyond the river, were now returning toward and below us; some of them on fire. Flak was bursting above the smoke and fire flashes could be seen within it. We had seven miles still to run.

For the first three of those miles, heavy flak was bursting all around, several shells exploding between our tug and glider. During the next three miles the smoke began to thin. We could now see the ground but equally the German gunners could now see us and began firing over open sights. The flak was now continuous and heavy.

My co-pilot went back into the body of the glider to alert the troops to prepare for landing which involved their linking arms and lifting their feet off the floor. I began to swing the glider from side to side on its towline hoping to confuse the German gunners below. A shell exploded under our tail just as my co-pilot returned to the cockpit, he was thrown forward into the Perspex. We were now half a mile from the bridge and reported to the tug that we had our target in sight. After the usual hurried farewells all three gliders released and, as ordered, assumed a line-ahead formation at normal flying angle and speed.

The flak was murderous and almost immediately the leading glider was literally blown to pieces, the flight cabin, men and bits of fuselage fell away in front of us and most of the undercarriage hit our tail plane. No one was going to survive that. Then the second glider lost nearly half its port wing, turned and fell away towards the ground. This was no time for playing silly buggers! Disobeying orders we made a high-speed maximum angle diving turn to starboard with the intention of reaching the bridge low and fast. The officer in charge of the troops in the back told me later of the tremendous G forces induced in the initial dive and subsequent turns at high speed. He thought that we up front were both dead and that he and his men soon would be.

We lost about 2,000 feet in the initial dive, turned to port and levelled at 300 feet and were now seconds away from our final turn to port and landing. Guns within yards of the bridges were now recovering from our surprise dive. We could see one of the guns and its crew it was clear that if we turned to port now we would present them with a huge target and at touchdown be looking down a gun barrel. Again, contrary to orders, we swung to starboard, crossed a row of trees, lost the flak and tried to land in the adjoining field. Our speed was too great and we lifted over another row of trees and released our parachute arrester. The weakened tail started to break away but we were down and ploughing through wire, hedges and ditches. We came to a halt with a tree embedded in the starboard wing and the nose wheel up through the floor. Only one of the troops was injured, we quickly disembarked and ran into a defensive position around the glider which was being riddled with Machine Gun and small arms fire. A burst from my Bren gun gave a respite and now under command of the assault officer we dashed for the canal. A man died as we reached it.

Behind us our glider was on fire and mortar bombs were raining down on us. After a few sharp skirmishes the bridge was taken. Later it was mined and fortified with the help of men and equipment brought by five follow-on gliders that had landed within the perimeter. Later still, during the night, the bridge came under attack by Tiger tanks and was blown by the men from our glider; so in the end it was denied to the Germans.

But what was the cost? All in the first glider were killed before landing. In the second Horsa, one Glider Pilot was killed; the other lost an arm and a leg but amazingly seven of the troops survived to fight on. In my glider only one of the troops killed and another wounded. So, out of the 84 men that took off from England, 49 were killed, 2 were wounded and 33 survived.

[Flying No 1 glider was Captain Angus Carr [Buried in Reichswald War Cemetery, 40. A. 9], with Sergeant Herbert Coomber as his 2nd pilot. [Buried in Reichswald War Cemetery, 40. A. 8]

Flying No 2 glider was Staff Sergeant ‘Bill’ Rowlands and Sergeant Geoffrey Collins [Buried in Reichswald War Cemetery, 40. A. 3] F

lying No 3 glider was ‘Des’ and Staff Sergeant Norman Elton. Glider No 3 carried Lieutenant ‘Hugh’ Clark’s 19 Platoon, ‘B’ Company of the Ox & Bucks Light Infantry. Capt Carr and Sgt Coomber and all on board their glider were killed.]

Once all was secure we returned to the UK where I went on a short course for First Pilot’s wings, after which I joined ‘D’ Squadron. After a Japanese culture course I moved to ‘N’ Squadron.

At last the war came to an end and I was able to take part in the Victory Parade in London. Then with two other glider pilots was sent to three large houses in Luton, to take charge of recruits for the Luton Technical Training Centre. Soon after that I was demobbed.

My thoughts, on looking back, are that glider pilots are highly individual characters. They were bonded together only by their wartime job. They are a great bunch. I am glad to have been among them. I never regretted the move from tanks to gliders.

By Des Page, part of this courtesy of the EAGLE magazine April 2015.