Renaldo (67 page)

Just after dawn, a routine German patrol discovered one of the commandos

who had slipped and broken his ankle some three hundred yards from the

main Marine command post. Not wanting to alert the enemy of his presence,

the commando had simply waited for daylight in hope that his mates would

discover his predicament. As luck would have it, a German shepherd tracking

dog picked up the poor fellow’s scent first. The two Nazi handlers were shocked

to discover the injured commando, but their shock turned to rage when the

Englishman skewered their animal with his assault knife. A firefight ensued in

which the commando and one German were killed, the second Nazi fleeing to

alert his superiors of the unwelcome discovery.

The noise of the exchange tipped off Captain Russell to the fact that the

jig was up, and he radioed intelligence that they had been discovered. The

commander then took his Marines forward to assess the situation. They had

advanced some two hundred yards when mortar rounds started dropping in

their midst, one of the initial rounds exploding just to Reggie Russell’s left. He

had barely uttered the words “take cover,” when he was propelled to the ground

and knocked unconscious.

The commanding officer lingered in a haze-like state for what seemed

an eternity. As he slowly regained his senses, he became aware of a sharp pain

in his left temple. Voices were coming from somewhere close by, but Captain

Russell was unable to discern what they were saying. He wanted to right

himself, to assess the situation, but for some reason he could not move. The

voices were closer now, but they were not English voices. These people were

speaking German.

The mortars had ceased along with all small arms fire, and for the first

time in his life, Reggie Russell felt terribly alone and scared to death. Where

was his command? Had they surrendered? Were they all dead? He tried to

keep his wits about him, but his mind would not function to its usual military

standard. Intermittent rifle fire could be heard nearby, and suddenly the

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horrible truth dawned on the mission commander. The Nazis were shooting

the wounded!

It was an outrage to be sure, but one that he was powerless to stop. He

heard footsteps approaching, then felt a piercing blow to his rib cage as he

lay face down on the muddy bog. The enemy was at his side now, poking and

prodding. The Royal Marine clenched his teeth and stifled an urge to scream.

Another blow to the ribs, but again he managed to keep silent. The only word

that registered in his pain-racked mind was ‘kaput,’ meaning that the German

soldiers had mistaken him for dead. His would-be killers moved on, leaving

him where he lay, and it seemed a lifetime before he dared to open his eyes and

attempt to assess the situation.

The pain in the left side of his head was excruciating now, pounding like

a sledge hammer to the brain. Reggie tried to focus his eyes on something,

anything, but his usually reliable vision just wasn’t functioning. He touched

the soreness with his hand, for his head felt wet and somehow different. Even

with his failing eyesight he could discern the blood that covered his fingers. He

felt the wound again, and was aghast to find that his scull had been split open

down the middle of his cranium, similar to one of the coconuts that his father

had often chopped in half back on the wharf many years ago.

Captain Russell still could not move his legs or lower torso, and as he

lay there in the Belgian muck, he was forced to come to grips with his own

mortal being. The commando had seen many a man die in battle, but he had

developed a fatalistic attitude about the quick and the dead. It wasn’t that he

didn’t care for those fallen patriots, it was just that he believed that death was

their ordained fate. Reginald Russell’s fate was to endure, to lead, to live a full

and rewarding life! His fate was to be different than the poor departed souls

that lay around him, or so he had thought until that very moment. The brave

Marine captain was forced to accept the realization that he could do nothing

except wait to meet either ‘His Maker,’ or the Royal Marines.

Fortunately, his ‘maker’ happened to be a medic in 41 Commando Brigade.

The commencement of the main thrust of the operation coincided with the

discovery of the SBS commandos by the enemy. Tracked amphibious vehicles

as well as paratroopers were landing on Walcheren almost immediately after

the sighting of the first injured commando by the unlucky canine. The mortar

attack had been unleashed against what the Germans thought was the main

assault force. Their short-lived reconnaissance expedition to collect trophies

and the odd prisoner from the fallen SBS men ended quickly when the sky

reverberated with the sound of the Lancasters above them.

The pounding that the German defenders took was horrible, but it also

caused severe trauma to Captain Russell, who had to deal with the earth shaking

furiously beneath his prone body. It seemed never-ending, one continuous roar

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of deadly ordinance from the heavens. As he lay in the midst of the apocalypse,

Reginald Russell sang his favorite Canaries fight songs over and over to try to

keep from going ‘starkers.’

“Upward, onward, Canaries, soaring to new heights, thousands shout your

praises, thousands fight your fights . . .” Over and over again Reggie kept the

tunes coming. “Rule Canaries, Canaries rule the waves, yellow birds never,

never, never will be slaves.” Even the little ditty that had been a favorite on the

terraces, but much too graphic for the gentle folk in the main grandstand. “I

wish I were a Canary, ’cause I’d fly up in the sky, and find me- self a Hammer,

and shit right in his eye.”

It was this particular melody that attracted medic Archie Monteith of 41

Commando to the blood-covered form that lay in front of him. He was in the

advance assault unit and preceded the amphibious landing craft ashore at the

same location that the SBS had disembarked the night before.

Corporal Monteith was shocked to see the carnage that spread out before

him as he and his fellow commandos made their way inland. At least ten Marine

corpses littered the immediate area, and there seemed to be no evidence of

survivors. The roar of the Lancasters and their deadly cargo had passed further

inland by the time medic Monteith began inspecting his fallen brothers for any

signs of life.

As luck would have it, Archie Monteith was a Cockney who had grown

up on the Isle of Dogs, his father being a foreman on the West India docks.

Archie had been an ardent Canary supporter through thick and thin, and when

he knelt beside the badly wounded officer, he could scarcely believe his ears at

what he was hearing. The captain’s head seemed split in two, and there was

blood everywhere, but here he was, alive and singing ‘Rule Canaries.’

Corporal Monteith joined his injured compatriot in a hearty chorus of that

particular tune to reassure the man that he was in friendly, knowing hands.

Stretcher bearers were called up immediately, and Captain Reginald Russell

was evacuated to a hospital ship lying off the coast. He was barely alive and still

unable to move his lower extremities, but he was in friendly hands, and the war,

at least as a combat commando, was over for him.

What the surgeons discovered aboard the Royal Navy hospital ship was

not encouraging. The exploding mortar’s shrapnel had not only fractured

Captain Reginald Russell’s skull, it had also lodged fragments close to his

spine. Reggie was seven hours on the operating table, and the prognosis for a

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full recovery was very slim. He had lost a considerable amount of blood, and he

lay perilously close to death for several days.

The captain clung to life long enough to be transferred to the Dreadnought

Seaman’s Hospital in Greenwich, where his family assembled by his side in an

around-the-clock death watch. Fortunately, his condition stabilized, allowing

two further operations to be performed to remove additional metal fragments

from his back and skull.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to gain back his vision and some of the

feeling in his lower legs. Intensive physiotherapy was commenced as soon as

the head wound had healed sufficiently, and the young Marine captain showed

amazing courage and fortitude in making slow but steady progress.

Emotionally, the most difficult thing for Reggie to deal with was the

horrible scar on his shaved head. The surgeons had informed him outright that

he should consider wearing a toupee from now on, for his hair would not grow

in sufficiently to cover the wound. He was not a vain man, but he did not relish

the fact that he would be disfigured the rest of his life. His sisters were most

helpful in this regard, bringing to his bedside the latest in hairpiece fashions.

They all had great fun trying out various styles and colors, sometimes with

hilarious results.

Reginald Russell became quite a celebrity on his hospital ward, for his

continuously changing ‘rugs’ were a diversionary source of amusement in

those normally serious surroundings. Even women’s shoulder length wigs were

procured to entertain and uplift the other patients and staff. Reggie never lost

his sense of humor throughout his painful ordeal.

Learning how to walk again was the worst part. Torturous hours were

spent on the parallel bars trying to perform the most rudimentary leg functions.

Stretching, bending, and weight training were also included in the tedious

routine. But Captain Russell had two things for which to be thankful. Firstly,

he was alive and making tangible progress, and secondly, his personal therapist

was a doe-eyed beauty that had stolen his heart.

Emily Ladbrooke was the young woman’s name, and she came from a

titled family of merchants that had served the Royal Family for hundreds of

years. Her father and two older brothers had served in His Majesty’s Armed

Forces during the present conflict, and it was the loss of her eldest brother’s leg

at Dunkirk in 1940 that had precipitated Emily’s joining the Royal Nursing

Corps as a rehabilitation therapist.

Her aristocratic background was in no way evident during the trying

duties that she now performed for His Majesty’s maritime warriors. While

she was gentle and sympathetic to the physical limitations of her patients, she

could also be a stern taskmistress. She was bluntly capable of shaming the

injured men to push themselves harder and farther than they thought possible.

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Foul language often filled the therapy hall, but Emily Ladbrooke would swear

right back at them as if she had grown up in a bowery instead of swanky

Knightsbridge.

The therapist pushed Reginald Russell particularly hard, and he, in turn,

looked forward to their daily sessions of torture and profanity. It was really

Emily Ladbrooke that brought out the baser side of Reggie’s humor. They

engaged in a small wager to see if the captain, before each session commenced,

could recite to her a joke or story that would make her blush. If Miss Ladbrooke

failed to take his bait and turn crimson, she would have the right to extend

the therapy session an extra quarter hour. During this time, he would be forced

to perform his least favorite therapy routine again. The primary reason for

Captain Russell’s remarkable progress, as he was later to admit himself, was

that his beautiful therapist never once lost their wager. Within six months of

his arrival, Reggie was able to walk with the assistance of a cane, a feat that

astonished his surgeons.

The war in Europe was drawing to a close, and thoughts of the future were

brimming in the Marine commando’s mind. Reggie loved the order of military

life, the spit and polish, the camaraderie, and the opportunity to educate

himself in a well-defined environment. He had asked his father if there might