The Gates of Hell. What followed next can only be described as a living nightmare, a nightmare of sheer agony. Put into an army ambulance with other wounded in racks on each side and in a very confined space, the inside had been blacked out so that we had to lay there on our stretchers in pitch black darkness. The Journey in this square box of an ambulance took us over the uneven and cobbled roads all the way to Eindhoven in the South of Holland. This journey was the nearest thing to hell on earth that it is possible to imagine, with my broken bones grating and the indescribable pain of my back injuries. In the beginning, I had been determined not to join in the moaning and groaning with pain, but it was not long before I was crying out in pain just like the other wounded, so much pain that it was not possible to talk to the other men. Hell and back is not an exaggeration. Nor is the term Nightmare, I still find it very difficult to convey just how ghastly that journey was. I never knew who the other wounded were, and I do not think it was possible for the others to have survived the journey. As we drove on, the groans had became fainter and fainter and eventually stopped. Yet, still this square steel box of an ambulance, trundled along over the broken, shelled and potholed, cobbled war time roads, with its precious load of three dead men and one nearly dead. This is the other side of war, being badly wounded, a side that nobody wants to know about. Arriving at what I think was Eindhoven? I was put into a little cupboard full of cardboard boxes with my stretcher balanced precariously on top of them, above head height, with just enough room inside the cupboard, still lying on the same stretcher that I had been on for many hours, during the journey the blood had soaked through everything, even under my back and into the stretcher. So bad, that thick congealed blood stuck me to the stretcher. By now the pain had become unbearable, given morphine, the pain would still not subside and a nurse told me, "you must not have more, you will become an addict". Transferred later to a small ward with beds crammed all round the room, several other wounded were there. Trying to get to sleep was impossible, the pain being bad enough, some of the other men kept waking up, screaming. Picture this scene, if you can! A small dark, square shaped ward, with all the curtains drawn, dimly lit from a small red light in the centre of the ceiling, The overpowering, sickly warm stench of human blood pervaded everything, with beds crammed in and almost touching, men with terrible wounds and with limbs missing. Some men, motionless, wide eyed, still, silently staring at the ceiling. God knows! what thoughts held them in this silent manacled iron grip. Blood stains everywhere, some men had thrown the covers off the beds in their agony, some sitting up leaning on an elbow, silently gazing into space, the low moaning of men in great pain, your own continuous and unremitting pain of back, leg, and knee injuries. Some men talked in their sleep, often in a conversational tone, ending with a scream or a loud shout of pain, or despair. Sleep, because of pain, was only possible for very short periods when exhaustion overtook us, then! To be wakened by the blood curdling screams and shouts of men who had suffered the agony, not only of body, but also of mind. Men, who had seen the worst of the hell of war. Dante’s Inferno had nothing on this. For here, was a glimpse into what lay beyond the ‘Gates of Hell’ For me, there is no escape from that vision, for many years I dreamed about, and relived the memory of that dimly lit ward, that ward that still exists in my mind, still there on the mental pathway that leads to the ’ Gates of Hell’ Even today, some 65 years on, that ward still remains with me, every detail, sharp and clearly defined. It was a place that any sane person would run screaming from, saying “For Gods sake! don’t make me go back in there” Next day, still laying in my own thick, dried, and congealed blood that by now had firmly stuck me to the stretcher I was driven to Eindhoven airport and was flown back immediately to England in a Dakota ambulance plane, arriving at Croydon airport. Six men ran me across the tarmac at speed,,, straight into Croydon RAF Hospital. Straight down the corridor: into the operating theatre. I awoke in a clean bright ward. But covered in plaster from my toes to my chin. A complete body plaster cast. A plaster mummy! Spica! (how did they lever me off the congealed blood on that stretcher?) Sapper
This is the other side of war, being badly wounded, a side that nobody wants to know about. We can't plead ignorance now. Thank you for giving us another unusual point of view. Sapper: never think that people aren't reading what you write; it's just that some of us are lost for words.
Brian Idler had it just about right when he wrote: Sapper: never think that people aren't reading what you write; it's just that some of us are lost for words. As someone who was lucky enough to survive WW2 unscathed I have always had nothing but respect for those who were not so lucky and, let's face it, you have always told it "as it was", warts and all. Please continue to edify and inform us and do stay well Ron
What memories bought at such personal cost ! My mind cannot begin to comprehend the horrors of a battlefield.Only accounts such as these can give any idea. Thank you. I could say much more but cannot find words worthy of the subject.
Brian, than you for posting. What memories bought at such personal cost ! My mind cannot begin to comprehend the horrors of a battlefield.Only accounts such as these can give any idea. Thank you. I could say much more but cannot find words worthy of the subject. I couldn't agree more. Regards, Nick
I always read your posts sapper, but I think that this is possibly the best.!!!! Brian, I too read all your posts and have to agree that this post has exceeded all before it. No one can even think what pain you went through. You have certainly brought your experience alive for us all to know the full horror and hell of a combat soldier. Many, many thanks for sharing. Regards Tom
Know the feeling Brian - been there - done that - BUT we are still here - your e mial address is rubbish - hopefully see you in May 2010
As I read it, I was trying to think of a situation in my life when I've been uncomfortable and in pain (like severe toothache in the middle of the night with no available painkillers) for example. How I'd long for morning, so I could sooth the pain with freshly bought paracetamol. Trying to imagine what it must have been like in that ambulance. Trying to understand the unimaginable desire to be comfortable and pain free. I can't. Full respect to Brian and to all those who endured the same.
Brian, I have read entire books which could not convey even a fraction of the pain and misery you so wonderfully articulated in your post. While many of us so appreciate the sacrifice you and the other veterans have made, I suspect sometimes that I will never be able to fully comprehend and do justice to what that actually was. The debt owed to all of you can never be paid in full.
The Gates of Hell. What followed next can only be described as a living nightmare, a nightmare of sheer agony. Put into an army ambulance with other wounded in racks on each side and in a very confined space, the inside had been blacked out so that we had to lay there on our stretchers in pitch black darkness. The Journey in this square box of an ambulance took us over the uneven and cobbled roads all the way to Eindhoven in the South of Holland. This journey was the nearest thing to hell on earth that it is possible to imagine, with my broken bones grating and the indescribable pain of my back injuries. In the beginning, I had been determined not to join in the moaning and groaning with pain, but it was not long before I was crying out in pain just like the other wounded, so much pain that it was not possible to talk to the other men. Hell and back is not an exaggeration. Nor is the term Nightmare, I still find it very difficult to convey just how ghastly that journey was. I never knew who the other wounded were, and I do not think it was possible for the others to have survived the journey. As we drove on, the groans had became fainter and fainter and eventually stopped. Yet, still this square steel box of an ambulance, trundled along over the broken, shelled and potholed, cobbled war time roads, with its precious load of three dead men and one nearly dead. This is the other side of war, being badly wounded, a side that nobody wants to know about. Arriving at what I think was Eindhoven? I was put into a little cupboard full of cardboard boxes with my stretcher balanced precariously on top of them, above head height, with just enough room inside the cupboard, still lying on the same stretcher that I had been on for many hours, during the journey the blood had soaked through everything, even under my back and into the stretcher. So bad, that thick congealed blood stuck me to the stretcher. By now the pain had become unbearable, given morphine, the pain would still not subside and a nurse told me, "you must not have more, you will become an addict". Transferred later to a small ward with beds crammed all round the room, several other wounded were there. Trying to get to sleep was impossible, the pain being bad enough, some of the other men kept waking up, screaming. Picture this scene, if you can! A small dark, square shaped ward, with all the curtains drawn, dimly lit from a small red light in the centre of the ceiling, The overpowering, sickly warm stench of human blood pervaded everything, with beds crammed in and almost touching, men with terrible wounds and with limbs missing. Some men, motionless, wide eyed, still, silently staring at the ceiling. God knows! what thoughts held them in this silent manacled iron grip. Blood stains everywhere, some men had thrown the covers off the beds in their agony, some sitting up leaning on an elbow, silently gazing into space, the low moaning of men in great pain, your own continuous and unremitting pain of back, leg, and knee injuries. Some men talked in their sleep, often in a conversational tone, ending with a scream or a loud shout of pain, or despair. Sleep, because of pain, was only possible for very short periods when exhaustion overtook us, then! To be wakened by the blood curdling screams and shouts of men who had suffered the agony, not only of body, but also of mind. Men, who had seen the worst of the hell of war. Dante’s Inferno had nothing on this. For here, was a glimpse into what lay beyond the ‘Gates of Hell’ For me, there is no escape from that vision, for many years I dreamed about, and relived the memory of that dimly lit ward, that ward that still exists in my mind, still there on the mental pathway that leads to the ’ Gates of Hell’ Even today, some 65 years on, that ward still remains with me, every detail, sharp and clearly defined. It was a place that any sane person would run screaming from, saying “For Gods sake! don’t make me go back in there” Next day, still laying in my own thick, dried, and congealed blood that by now had firmly stuck me to the stretcher I was driven to Eindhoven airport and was flown back immediately to England in a Dakota ambulance plane, arriving at Croydon airport. Six men ran me across the tarmac at speed,,, straight into Croydon RAF Hospital. Straight down the corridor: into the operating theatre. I awoke in a clean bright ward. But covered in plaster from my toes to my chin. A complete body plaster cast. A plaster mummy! Spica! (how did they lever me off the congealed blood on that stretcher? Tell me…Does that paint a picture of the reality of war? Can you see it? Sapper
Tell me…Does that paint a picture of the reality of war? Can you see it? Sapper Brian, You have painted the most graphic picture of the horrors of war and the extremes of human agony. Once again, thank you for sharing your traumatic and haunting memories. Tom.
Sapper Similar on a four stretcher jeep with one Vandoo with no legs and his morphine wearing off - for just 50 miles to the CCS...over fields and roads full of Tanks and guns and vehicles of all kinds - took all night..... Know what you mean ! Cheers
Brian, reading what you have written has brought many images and emotions forth, but I can't even begin to imagine what it must have been like for you - thank you for sharing that. Wendy
Brian, Thank you for sharing that. You do paint a graphic picture but I'm sure I have NO idea. What would you say was the worst legacy from your combat experience? The horrors you witnessed and experienced or the deeds that you inevitably had to do. A Canadian veteran I know well said that despite the hell he experienced in Italy, it was the faces of the people he had killed which caused him the most sleepless nights.
