Sapper John Everitt

Jack Everitt was the son of John and Mary Margaret Everitt, and husband of Doreen Elsie Josephine Everitt, of Steventon, Berkshire. He served with 9th Field Company (Airborne) Royal Engineers and took part in the Battle of Arnhem, during Op Market Garden.

He enlisted into the Royal Engineers at Reading on the 7 June 1939. [1]

On Sunday, 17 September 1944, Jack was amongst those from the 9th (Airborne) Field Company, RE that took off in sixteen Horsa gliders (Chalk No’s. 381 – 396), from RAF Keevil, as part of the 1st Lift of Operation ‘Market’ in Holland.

Piloted by members of ‘D’ Squadron, The Glider Pilot Regiment, and towed by the Short Stirlings of 299 Squadron, 38 Group RAF At 13:40 hrs, the gliders of the Company landed on LZ ‘Z’ between Wolfheze and Heelsum about eight kilometres west of Arnhem. Within thirty-five minutes the Company had reached the Rendevous Point (RZ) at the South corner of the landing zone. 

Jack went with 2 Platoon to Arnhem Bridge in support of the 2nd Parachute Battalion and became a casualty. He suffered multiple gun-shot and shrapnel wounds in his foot and left arm.

He was taken as a Prisoner Of War to Fallingbostel, Stalag XIB. None of 2 Platoon that got to Arnhem Bridge escaped.

On the 11 October 1944 he was officially listed as ‘Missing’. On the 27 November 1944 he was officially listed as being a ‘Prisoner Of War’.

He had an aneurism, as a result of his wounds and died in the Lazarette at Falingbostel on the 29 November 1944, aged 23.  Initially buried in the cemetery at the camp, he is now buried in Becklingen CWGC Cemetery, (4. E. 10) Northern Germany.

Sapper John Everitt was the son of John and Mary Margaret Everitt, and husband of Doreen Elsie Josephine Everitt, of Steventon, Berkshire.

Doreen was informed, by a War Office letter, of his death on the 6 January 1945.

Article in the AVC Newsletter, November 1997.

THE DISTAFF POINT OF VIEW. (From Doreen, Jack’s widow)

When Jack came home on leave, 11 September 1944, I asked, “Is there any significance about this leave, Jack?” I watched him closely as he said, “Just a spot of leave”. Normally we’d walk the country lanes talking easily about films we’d seen, dance bands, singers and songs, but we never said much about the war. But, on this leave, Jack busied himself about the home – until Wednesday 13th.

“When my leave ends I won’t be going back to Tatersall, I’ve got to report to Westbury in Wiltshire. It is possible that I’ll be going into battle”. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes belied the calmness of his voice. I had dreaded this day. I prayed it would never come, but I knew I had to be realistic; I had tried to prepare myself for such news. I now knew that this was no rehearsal, but for Jack’s sake I couldn’t let him go into battle with the vision of a frightened, clinging wife to contend with. I heard this quiet, casual voice ask of my husband, “Where will it be, Jack? If you go, where will the battle take place?”

Jack stood in front of me and I watched as, one by one, he showed me clever little “survival” items hidden about his uniform. Then he produced some paper currency. I looked into Jack’s eyes as I said “Netherlands” Jack nodded “Holland” he quietly replied. After a moment he said in a casual manner, “Nothing is certain yet; we might not be going. We’ve been in and out of the planes and gliders so many times already that this could be another cancellation”. His eyes urged me to believe that possibility.

After tea, Jack laughed. “It’s such a lovely evening, shall we go for a walk?” Although neither of us spoke about the impending battle, it was uppermost in our thoughts. The sun was lovely and the scenery tranquil and beautiful. It was very difficult to understand why such dreadful devastation was going on in the world. Before it was time for Jack to catch his train to Westbury we walked again and I knew I couldn’t let him go without saying something.

“Jack, I have to say all this has put me at Sixes and sevens; I feel anyhow”,  I confessed. Jack nodded. “Yes I know. But please, Dee you’re not to worry about me. I shall be with my good mates. We all mean something to each other. We all look out for one another. I shall be alright. I want you to promise that you’ll not worry about me”.

I’d find it easier to swim the Channel, I felt so desperate. Instead I quietly replied “I’ll try to do as you ask, Jack”.

On the station platform we heard the train approaching. As it slowed to a halt, windows and doors were flung open and hundreds of Airborne men spilled out. Jack laughed and pointed to a carriage ahead of us. “There they are. Can you hear them?” We started to walk towards where Jack had indicated. The Airborne men were jostling and milling from group to group, laughing and calling to mates as more men left the carriages. This was a troop train; I hadn’t realised it would be so. I thought I’d be seeing Jack off on a normal service train. We skirted a thronging group of men and Jack and I became separated; I couldn’t see him anywhere in that boisterous, milling crowd. I guessed he had been ‘claimed’ by his mates. I heard the guard’s whistle. All the men were once more packed into the carriages and I watched the train steam away from the station. On its way to Westbury in Wiltshire.

On Sunday, September 17 about midday, I became aware of a drone. This drew nearer and became a roar as the Airborne Force filled the sky. This lift hadn’t been cancelled. Like Jack’s previous campaigns North Africa, Sicily and Italy this one also was going ahead. I waved frantically and wished Jack and his mates God speed – to Holland; to Arnhem.

Article in the AVC Newsletter, June 2004.

ALL MEN WHO ARE COMING HOME . . . . .

Saturday, 30 September 1944.

‘I stand by the door, where as your bride I stood, four months before. This day, today is Officially the last day for the Men of Arnhem to return home. Those who are coming home.

I watch the trains pull in. Empty, then move on with their journeys. Each face is studied in the jostling crowd. I search for your face, eager to see you separate from the throng.

Saturday’s busy traffic. Are there other special passengers being awaited? Hours pass. I still look for the train that is bringing you home. How will I greet you? With a smile as I walk to you? All of the anxiety eased away. Or, with great shouts and joyous tears as I bless this God-given day? You return from the Battle that should never have been. You must come, Jack. Please, make it soon.

One man leaves the station. He is tall; his hands are adjusting his Red Beret. Just as Jack does. The hands move away from the face; the man turns right, away from where my prayers are. But wait. Maybe there are others . . . . a group of Airborne men following. Please, Jack, be approaching the exit. Doors slam. The guard’s whistle shrills, the train pulls away. Passengers have left. Jack, where are you? This is the last Official Day, you must come. A thought creeps into my mind – the wounded had to be left behind. Those able to had swum the Rhine to safety. How strongly could Jack swim? Was he wounded? Was he taken prisoner? My Jack and his mates had been beleaguered; they were exhausted; the Rhine was swollen; swift currents. Dread thoughts would not go away. It was almost dark, the station dimly lit; no more trains. The late evening was still warm. Jack loved the warmth of Autumn.

Jack, where are you? How are you? I think of how Jack spoke of his mates, how they all look out for one another. Maybe I shall hear from one of his good mates, someone who saw him last. I shall not have to wait for Officialdom to tell me of my husband’s whereabouts, I will hear first-hand from a caring mate.

I felt anger against the “Chairborne Plotters” who had sent these brave young men into this battle. What of Jack’s mates? Where are they? How are they?

All is very still. The last Official Day is over. There is a milk train; in the still darkness a brake clanks against metal wheels. Smoke and steam; light from the engine’s furnace. All goes very quiet again. Dear God, let this desolation be but a brief interlude. Before all is well again.

This account was written by Mrs Doreen Everitt on 1st October 1944.

NOTES:

[1] Casualty Cards