Thursday, August 15, 2024

Forthcoming 80th Anniversary of Operation Market-Garden and Arnhem Jim Blog Origin

It is rapidly approaching the 80th Anniversary of Operation Market-Garden, the World War II Battle of Arnhem (September 17-25 1944). It was a specific interest in this battle that initiated the Arnhem Jim blog in 2011, and which has provided the impetus for its growth and continuation to date. Suffices that the author’s companion interest in toy-soldiers/military miniatures, has served as a parallel vehicle for an apparent equal reader interest.

This being the case through the introduction in 1984 and 2007, of two series of miniatures conveniently named “Arnhem ’44” and “Market-Garden” by Andy C. Nielson of King & County Miliary Miniatures located in Hong Kong. Of coincidence, being this author’s opportunity to serve as technical consultant on one of his series military vehicles (Universal “Bren” Carrier, M Mk III).

However, returning to the principal subject of the anniversary of the battle, the author has spent over a decade of research and analysis documented in the blog; http://arnhemjim.blogspot.com/p/operation-market-garden.html


It is always gratifying as a rank amateur military historian, to be effectively acknowledged as correct by an established best selling author, and former active duty British Army officer, Antony Beevor.

With full acknowledgement and expressed gratitude the following recent article condenses analysis from his book, ARNHEM; The Battle for the Bridges, (Viking 2018).


"Why Operation Market Garden, the Allies' battle for Arnhem, was a disaster in the planning

Antony Beevor

Market Garden, the ill-fated Allied operation to break through the German defences in the Netherlands in September 1944, is often portrayed as a risky yet worthy gamble. In truth, argues historian Antony Beevor, it was a flawed idea from the start, more driven by ego than practical considerations.




There are many myths about the battle for Arnhem and Operation Market Garden. Historians of the battle have often been tempted into the ‘if-only’ trap. If only this, or if only that, had been different, then it would all have turned out to be a brilliant success. This cherry-picking of faults is a grave distraction from the harsh fact that Market Garden was a perfect example of how not to plan an airborne operation.

Market Garden was one of the greatest Allied disasters of the Second World War – immortalised in the 1977 film A Bridge Too Far. The plan was for Allied paratroopers and land forces to launch a combined attack, which would break through German defences in the Netherlands. Beginning on 17 September 1944, it ended in failure just a week later, resulting in thousands of casualties. The British airborne troops who spearheaded the assault suffered particularly badly in their doomed attempt to capture the bridge in the Dutch town of Arnhem.

A month earlier, the mood among the Allies had been very different, as their forces routed the Germans in the concluding phases of the Battle of Normandy. As they advanced towards the Reich, the Allied commanders now had to decide on the next step to take. It was here that the disastrous plan was born.

At the heart of the failure in preparation lay the ambition of Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, who had commanded the Allied ground forces in Normandy. He wanted to seize control of Allied strategy by being first across the Rhine so that General Dwight D Eisenhower, supreme commander of Allied Expeditionary Forces in Europe, would have to give him full priority in supplies and command over American formations. The prospect of ‘jumping the Rhine’ with an airborne operation leading all the way to the bridge at Arnhem, the northern route into Germany, would force the First US Army to support him on his right flank.

 

To do this, Montgomery needed the First Allied Airborne Army, formed on 2 August 1944 on the order of Eisenhower, who thought a single agency was required to coordinate airborne and troop carrier units. Despite Eisenhower’s devotion to balanced Allied relations, its leadership was lopsided. US general Lewis Brereton’s staff consisted mainly of US air force officers. The only senior British officer was Brereton’s deputy, Lieutenant General Frederick Browning. Matters were not helped by a strong mutual dislike between Brereton and ‘Boy’ Browning. The only characteristic the two men shared was vanity.


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Browning, a hawk-faced Grenadier Guards officer with the air of a matinée idol, was married to the author Daphne du Maurier. Although brave, Browning was highly strung. He was desperate to command an airborne corps in action. His barely concealed ambition, combined with a peremptory manner, did not endear him to American paratroop commanders.

On 3 September, Montgomery met General Omar Bradley to discuss an airborne operation in south Belgium across the river Meuse. They agreed to cancel it, as Bradley wanted the troop carrier aircraft to deliver fuel to Patton’s Third Army. But Montgomery had not been straight with Bradley. He promptly ordered his chief of staff to organise an airborne operation “to secure bridges over Rhine between Wesel and Arnhem”. This was to be called Operation Comet, an idea in keeping with Montgomery’s ambition to lead the main push into Germany. Needless to say, Bradley was furious when he discovered that Montgomery had tricked him.


Freezing out the air force

‘Boy’ Browning was far from alone in his desire to use paratroop and glider forces in a decisive way. American generals longed to try out the new airborne army. Churchill also wanted the operation to boost British prestige. Victory euphoria following the rapid Allied advance from Normandy to Belgium fuelled a mood of optimism.

Unfortunately, Montgomery did not want to consult the RAF over Comet, even though the War Office and Air Ministry had agreed, following airborne chaos in the invasion of Sicily in 1943, that the air force side must lead the planning process. Montgomery even called Air Chief Marshal Leigh-Mallory “a gutless bugger” because he had predicted disaster for the airborne drops that had taken place in the assault on Normandy.

On 9 September 1944, the commander of the Polish Independent Parachute Brigade, Major General Sosabowski, joined Roy Urquhart of the First Airborne Division to discuss Comet with Browning. “Sir,” said Sosabowski, “I am very sorry, but this mission cannot possibly succeed.” It would be suicide with such small forces, he said. Browning took deep offence.

In Belgium, General Dempsey, commanding the Second British Army, had just reached similar conclusions to those of Sosabowski. General Horrocks of the British XXX Corps (which would later play a key role in Market Garden) had confirmed that a bridgehead over the Albert Canal in north-east Belgium was “being strongly opposed by the enemy”.

The next morning, Dempsey went to Montgomery’s headquarters and managed to persuade him that Operation Comet was too weak. They needed at least three airborne divisions. Montgomery liked the idea. It would bring the American 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions under his command. But to Dempsey’s dismay, Montgomery also brandished a signal at him that had arrived from London. The first V2 rockets had landed in England, having apparently been fired from the area of Rotterdam and Amsterdam. For Montgomery, who wanted to go north via Arnhem (Dempsey preferred to go east), this was the just the confirmation he needed to justify his decision.

Dempsey summoned Browning. In just two hours, they put together a plan. Market Garden consisted of two parts. Market was the airborne operation, in which the American 101st and 82nd Airborne Divisions would seize river and canal crossings from Eindhoven to Nijmegen, with the bridges over the rivers Meuse and Waal, the largest in Europe; the British First Airborne Division and the Polish brigade would drop near Arnhem to capture the great road bridge over the Lower Rhine. Operation Garden would consist principally of Horrocks’s XXX Corps, led by tanks, charging north to meet the airborne troops. They would have to travel up a single road, with flood plain on either side broken only by woods and plantations.

Montgomery’s complaints were halted by Eisenhower saying, 'Monty, you can’t speak to me like that'

Montgomery now headed for Brussels aerodrome to see Eisenhower. It was the famous meeting when Montgomery’s tirade of complaints was halted by Eisenhower putting his hand on Montgomery’s knee, and saying: “Monty, you can’t speak to me like that. I’m your boss.” Eisenhower reminded Montgomery that he had previously given him the support of the First Allied Airborne Army, yet this led to no more than a mention of Market Garden. Here, Eisenhower followed standard US Army practice. Having agreed an overall strategy, he did not believe in interfering further.

By the time Montgomery returned to his tactical headquarters, Dempsey had “fixed with [Browning] the outline of the operation”, his diary entry stated. Browning’s excitement was palpable. He sent the codeword ‘New’ from Dempsey’s HQ back to First Allied Airborne Army at Sunninghill Park. This signified that a planning conference was to be called that evening. Brereton must have been affronted that Montgomery had made no attempt to consult him in advance. Eisenhower had ordered that planning should be shared. Montgomery had deliberately ignored this.



Fateful meeting

Twenty-seven senior officers gathered in the Sunninghill Park conference room at 6pm. Astonishingly, neither Urquhart nor Sosabowski had been invited. Browning presented what he and Dempsey had worked out, using an airlift timetable based on an earlier operation. Disingenuously, he implied that it had Eisenhower’s blessing. Brereton and his staff privately dismissed it as just “a tentative skeleton plan”.

They first of all decided that it was to be a day operation because “the supporting air forces available could knock out flak positions in advance”. Brereton then asked Major General Williams of IX Troop Carrier Command to speak. His words must have come as a bombshell to Browning. Most of the key assumptions on which he and Dempsey had worked that day were now thrown in the air. “The lift would have to be modified, due to the distance involved, which precluded the use of double tow lift… single tow only could be employed.” This meant only half the number of gliders could be taken on each lift. And since the mid-September days were shorter and the mornings mistier, Williams ruled out two lifts in a day.

These changes signified that it would take up to three days to deliver the airborne divisions, assuming perfect flying weather. No more assault troops would be landing on the crucial first day than with Comet, because half the force would have to be left behind to guard landing and drop zones for later lifts. And the Germans, having identified Allied intentions, would be able to concentrate troops and anti-aircraft batteries against these areas. Williams’ obdurate attitude might have contained an element of revenge after Montgomery’s refusal to consult the air force side in advance, but Montgomery’s determination to impose an ill-considered plan was the real problem.

At a follow-up meeting, American air force officers more or less dictated the choice of drop and landing zones. Their main priority was to avoid German flak batteries on the way in and out. Major General Williams also rejected the idea of glider-borne coup de main parties (advance assault troops) to seize the main bridges, a key element in Comet.

Troop Carrier Command wanted to stay well away from the key objectives of Arnhem and Nijmegen bridges because of their anti-aircraft defences. At Arnhem, they were also threatened by the Luftwaffe airfield of Deelen just to the north of the town. As a result, the British division was to be dropped well to the west, with an approach march of between six and eight miles to the road bridge through a major town. Surprise, the most vital element in airborne operations, was therefore lost before they even took off.


An ill-conceived idea

Operation Market Garden was quite simply a very bad plan right from the start and right from the top. Every other problem stemmed from that. Montgomery had not shown any interest in the practical problems surrounding airborne operations. He had not taken any time to study the often chaotic experiences of north Africa, Sicily and the drop on the Cotentin peninsula in Normandy. His intelligence chief, Brigadier Bill Williams, also pointed to the way that: “Arnhem depended on a study of the ground [which] Monty had not made when he decided on it.” In fact, Montgomery obstinately refused to listen to Dutch warnings about the impossibility of deploying XXX Corps off the single raised road onto the polderland flood plain.

Towering over everything was the fact that the operation depended on everything going right, when it is an unwritten rule of warfare that no plan survives contact with the enemy. This is doubly true of airborne operations. The likelihood of the Germans blowing the road bridge at Nijmegen over the river Waal was barely discussed. Had they done so – and their failure to do so was an uncharacteristic mistake – XXX Corps could never have reached the First Airborne at Arnhem in time.

Flaws in the plan became more evident day by day, but Browning refused to advise Montgomery to reconsider the operation. On 12 September, Sosabowski heard that the number of gliders allocated to him had been reduced. He would have to leave behind all his artillery while his anti-tank guns would be landed on the opposite side of the river to his main force. Two days later, he pointed out that the bridgehead to be held extended for 10 miles in difficult terrain. There was thus the possibility that his brigade might have to drop straight onto enemy-held ground. And if the British failed to capture the bridge, the Poles would be left on the wrong side of the river.

Operation Market Garden was quite simply a very bad plan right from the start and right from the top

British brigade commanders were not nearly so critical, mainly because they could not face another cancellation. They just wanted to get on with it. And, in the view of Brigadier Hicks, who commanded the First Air Landing brigade, Market Garden at least seemed to stand a better chance than several “absolutely insane” previous plans.

Brigadier General Jim Gavin of the 82nd Airborne was appalled that Urquhart should have accepted drop and landing zones so far from his main objective. Yet Gavin himself had been told by Browning that his first priority was to secure the Groesbeek heights south-east of Nijmegen. They overlooked the Reichswald, a great forest just across the German border, thought to conceal tanks. Browning's argument was that if the Germans occupied the Groesbeek heights, then their artillery could stop XXX Corps reaching Nijmegen. Its great road-bridge thus slipped down to become a lower priority, partly because the First Allied Airborne Army refused to land coup de main glider parties.

Montgomery refused to listen when Eisenhower's HQ expressed concern about German strength around Arnhem. The SS Panzer Divisions Hohenstaufen and Frundsberg were indeed in the area, although with only three serviceable Panther tanks and fewer than 6,000 men between them. Yet they were still able to form a nucleus onto which other less experienced units could be grafted. What the Allies failed to grasp was the extraordinary ability of the German military machine to react with speed and determination. Almost all the tanks that Allied troops faced in Market Garden were not present at the start of the operation, but were brought in from Germany on Blitztransport trains.

Anyone with any experience of airborne operations could see that the British landing and dropping zones, up to eight miles to the west of Arnhem, were too far away to achieve surprise. Major General Richard Gale, who had commanded the Sixth Airborne Division on D-Day, warned Browning that the lack of coup de main parties was likely to be disastrous and that he would have resigned rather than accept the plan. Browning refused to agree and asked Gale not to mention it to anyone else as it might damage morale.

There was little Urquhart could do about the other basic flaw. While the First Parachute Brigade was to march off towards the bridge, Hicks’s First Airlanding Brigade would have to remain behind to guard the drop and landing zones ready for Hackett’s Fourth Brigade. This meant that Urquhart had just a single brigade to secure his chief objective, and his division would be split in two with a wide gap in-between. Worse still, his signals officers were rightly worried that their radios might not work over that distance.


Suicide operation

Urquhart gave no hint in any of his reports, or in his book written after the war, that he opposed the plan, but then he was not a man to rock the boat or contradict the subsequent version of events that Arnhem had been a heroic, worthwhile gamble. Yet according to General Browning’s aide, Captain Eddie Newbury, on 15 September Urquhart appeared in Browning’s office at Moor Park, and strode over to his desk. “Sir,” he said, “you’ve ordered me to plan this operation and I have done it, and now I wish to inform you that I think it is a suicide operation.” (Editorial Note: It is by virtue of the recollection of this quotation that MGEN Robert E. “Roy” Urquhart should be exonerated of any substantive responsibility for the failure of Operation Market-Garden.)


The fears of those who had grave doubts about Market Garden were soon realised. Out of the First Airborne Division, only a single battalion made it to the bridge at Arnhem and could hold no more than its northern approach. At Nijmegen, the 82nd Airborne lacked the strength to secure its flank on the German border and also seize the great bridge over the Waal until after the much-delayed Guards Armoured Division finally arrived. By then the battalion at the Arnhem bridge had been crushed, and on 25 September, the battered remnants of the First Airborne at Oosterbeek had to evacuate to the south bank of the Lower Rhine. Out of approximately 10,600 men north of the Rhine, some 7,900 were left behind – dead, wounded and PoWs.

The Dutch suffered not just the 3,600 killed and nearly 20,000 severely disabled in the fighting, but faced German vengeance afterwards for having helped the Allies. More than 200,000 civilians were forced from their homes, which were looted and destroyed. The northern Netherlands were then subjected to famine quite deliberately in what became known as the Hunger Winter, with around 18,000 dead from starvation. They were the chief victims of the disastrous plan for Operation Market Garden.


Who were the key Allied players in Operation Market Garden?

Eisenhower and Montgomery

THE CHIEF AND THE CHEERLEADER

The man in charge of Allied forces in Europe, Eisenhower found the opinionated hero of El Alamein, Montgomery, difficult to work with. Eisenhower even considered sacking Monty after Operation Goodwood, part of the Normandy campaign, but feared a backlash in Britain.

Frederick Browning

UP FOR THE FIGHT

The British deputy commander of the First Allied Airborne Army was desperate to command troops in battle and pushed to make Market Garden a reality.

Lewis H Brereton

SIDELINED FLYER

Monty didn’t consult Browning’s American boss – or any other airman – over Market Garden.

Stanisław Sosabowski

PLAIN-SPEAKING POLE

The paratrooper warned that Market Garden would fail. This infuriated British commanders and they took revenge.

Miles Dempsey

THE PLANNER

The commander of the British Second Army helped draw up Market Garden but was worried the plan had serious flaws.

Roy Urquhart

THE DUTIFUL SCEPTIC

Urquhart thought Market Garden to be “a suicide mission” but methodically helped bring the plan to fruition.

Williams

TRANSPORT CARRIER COMMAND

The USAAF general rejected key parts of the plan yet Browning did not tell Monty he should reconsider.

Antony Beevor is one of the leading historians of the Second World War. His new book is Arnhem: The Battle for the Bridges, 1944 (Viking, 2018)."

 

For those readers who might be interested in learning additional information about Operation Market-Garden the following article from HISTORY EXTRA, with total acknowledgement and fully expressed gratitude;

 

"9 things you (probably) didn’t know about the battle of Arnhem

The battle of Arnhem (17–25 September 1944) was a bold – but ultimately failed – attempt to outflank German defences in north-west Europe by establishing a bridgehead across the lower Rhine river at the Dutch town of Arnhem. Author Iain Ballantyne reveals nine lesser-known facts about the battle.



The plan was for Allied paratroopers and land forces to launch a combined attack, which would break through German defences in the Netherlands. But the bridge at Arnhem was never captured – the plan ended in failure just a week later, resulting in thousands of casualties. Codenamed Operation Market Garden, it was the largest airborne operation in history and one of the biggest disasters of the Allied war effort. 

Here, Iain Ballantyne, author of Arnhem: Ten Days in The Cauldron, reveals nine lesser-known facts about the battle immortalised in the 1977 film A Bridge Too Far…

During the battle of Arnhem in September 1944, great valour was shown by lightly armed British Airborne troops in the face of German panzers [tanks] and other heavy weaponry. Meanwhile, the people of the town on the Lower Rhine, and its suburb of Oosterbeek, suffered terribly as the combatants grappled to the death in their streets and even in their homes.

 

The prime objective of using 30,000 British and American paratroopers and glider-borne infantry to seize multiple river and canal crossing between the Dutch-Belgian border and the Rhine was to enable tanks and troops to dash up 64 miles of highway deep into the Netherlands. The British Second Army was then to make a right hook into Germany and take the Ruhr – the heart of the enemy war industries – intending to force the collapse of Hitler’s military machine.

However, another urgent priority was to capture territory in the Netherlands from which V2 ballistic missiles were being launched in an attempt to devastate London and other parts of southern England. That terrifying missile blitz had only just started in September 1944 when Operation Market Garden began, and the Allies badly wanted to snuff out the V2 threat.



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Sergeants J Whawell and J Turrell of the Glider Pilot Regiment of the 1st Allied Airborne Army search a bomb-damaged school in the Netherlands for snipers during the battle of Arnhem. (Photo by Keystone/Getty Images)

When looking at this famous episode in the Second World War, I decided to focus on the struggle at the very tip of the lunge into the Netherlands. In writing Arnhem: Ten Days in The Cauldron, I was able tease out of the stories of individual soldiers and civilians caught up in the chaos and destruction of a savage battle, including some remarkable aspects that offer a more nuanced understanding even 75 years on.


Three Bridges Too Far

The decision to extend the attack so far behind enemy lines was famously described by Lt General Frederick ‘Boy’ Browning – top field commander of the Allied Airborne forces – as possibly “a bridge too far”. This remark was made to Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, the overall commander of the British-led 21st Army Group and mastermind of Market Garden, when he and Browning were discussing the plan.

When Montgomery asked Browning if the 1st Airborne Division could take and hold the road bridge at Arnhem for two days, Browning suggested his troops could do it for twice as long – but added a telling caveat about the wisdom of the plan’s final objective: “I think we might be going a bridge too far,” said Browning. This famous response inspired the title of Irish reporter and historian Cornelius Ryan’s classic book on the operation, A Bridge Too Far, which was itself made into a spectacular star-studded Hollywood war movie in the mid-1970s.



In fact, it was a case of three bridges too far. Not only were the British Airborne troops asked to capture the road bridge over at Arnhem, but also a railway bridge and pontoon bridge. The former was blown up as paratroopers ventured onto it, while the latter had been dismantled.


Germans v Germans

The first soldiers of the 1st Airborne Division to drop into the Netherlands on 17 September 1944 were the 21stIndependent Parachute Company, the pathfinders who marked out the Drop Zones (DZs) and Landing Zones (LZs) and set up homing beacons. Among them were Germans and Austrians who had assumed fake British identities in order to fight the Nazis. They were Jewish refugees who had fled persecution in their homelands and were determined to exact payback on behalf of loved ones and families who had suffered so much under Adolf Hitler.

They were very fierce soldiers and, despite the fact they would probably be shot as traitors if taken prisoner, they made no secret of their identities, shouting insults at their foes in German.


Dutch bullets, Dutch kisses

On 18 September, when the second lift of 1st Airborne Division troops was going DZs and LZs beyond Arnhem – leaping from their Dakota troop transports or coming to earth in gliders – they were shot at by Dutch soldiers. Those troops belonged to Landstorm Nederland, a unit of the Waffen SS composed of Nazi collaborators. Dutch SS troops even fought soldiers of the Free Netherlands Army’s Princess Irene Brigade during earlier battles, in northern Belgium.

No sooner had some British soldiers survived the experience of being shot at by the Dutch SS near Arnhem than they were being embraced and kissed by overjoyed locals. The civilians came out to the DZs and LZs to greet the British soldiers with water and wine, to celebrate liberation, which sadly proved short lived.


War among the people

The majority of Dutch civilians of course hated the Nazis and yearned to be free of a brutal occupation after more than four years of oppression. They greeted the arrival of British troops with great joy, but, in the subsequent battle, thousands of them were trapped in the cellars of their homes in Arnhem town and neighbouring Oosterbeek.

As the Airborne soldiers shot at the enemy from rooms in houses on once-pleasant and pristine streets, beneath their feet civilians sheltered in the cellars and miserably awaited their fate. Enduring terrible conditions for days – going short of water and food, their homes destroyed above them as exploding artillery shells, machine gun fire and grenades roared all around – they were often terrified. Hundreds of civilians were killed during the fighting, but the astonishing thing is that thousands of those who took refuge in cellars survived.

On emerging from the cellars, they were told by the Germans to leave and not come back: anyone who did not evacuate themselves from Oosterbeek and Arnhem would be shot.

Despite the British bringing ruin to their homes, the Dutch people to this day salute the sacrifice of the Airborne soldiers who tried and failed to lift the yoke of fascist oppression.


Suffer not the animals

Suffering alongside the humans as the battle raged in the streets, fields, woods and gardens were animals — some of which fought back. One British soldier who threw himself into a slit trench to escape death under German bombardment found he was sharing it with a fierce little squirrel. It proceeded to attack him and had very sharp teeth. Hurling the animal out, the soldier found the squirrel determined not to yield. It bolted back into the trench and burrowed underneath him.

During the battle at Oosterbeek, a Dutch girl (who could speak English) pleaded with a British paratrooper to help her care for a horse, which was in a barn behind her house. He reluctantly took her out to feed and water the animal, fearing they would be shot down. Yet the Germans held their fire while Corporal Harry Tucker and the girl cared for the animal. Tucker later said: “I told the girl to hurry up with feeding and watering the horse. We then went back across the yard and she thanked me for helping her. The thing that still amazes me is that not a single shot was fired at us during the whole episode. Maybe the Germans were showing us some mercy, or maybe they were just temporarily out of ammo.”



One British officer even brought an animal with him to Arnhem from England. This was Myrtle the (so-called) parachick, a hen who jumped into battle strapped to the shoulder of paratrooper Lieutenant Pat Glover in a special canvas bag. Sadly, during a skirmish Myrtle was exposed to fire and killed.


Just pick up the phone

The radio problems suffered by the 1st Airborne Division at Arnhem are well-known. The radios may have worked sufficiently in carefully controlled exercises on Salisbury Plain, but they did not function well in the tree-lined suburbs, woods and polder of Holland [lowland reclaimed from a body of water by building dikes and drainage canals]. However, the British could have just picked up the phone. Much of the local telephone system functioned throughout the battle and was used to great effect by the Germans, who had seen a lot of their radio equipment destroyed during the retreat from Normandy. The British made limited use of the telephones as they did not trust them to be secure.

The famous episode in the 1977 movie A Bridge Too Far, in which 1st Airborne Division commander Major General Roy Urquhart (played by Sean Connery) is forced by radio problems to race around in a jeep, trying to speak to his commanders face-to-face, is absolutely true. Not only was Urquhart at one point trapped in an attic while evading enemy patrols, but he really did shoot dead a German soldier wo made the mistake of peering in the front window of another house the general was hiding in.


Vera Lynn and other psychological warfare

Radio contact was established with higher command headquarters and even between some units, when ranges were short. As part of normal practice, both sides listened in to each other’s radio broadcasts and tried to interfere with them. They exchanged insults over the airwaves, sometimes also masquerading as each other in attempts to glean intelligence or trip up their foe.

The Germans tried to break the British troops’ spirit by broadcasting loudspeaker messages suggesting their sweethearts were missing them and that senior British commanders had been taken prisoner. They even tried to make the British homesick by broadcasting Vera Lynn songs, which, rather than break the Airborne troops’ morale, raised their spirits. The British replied with loud curses and used their weapons to destroy the offending enemy loudspeakers.



At the Arnhem bridge, the senior Waffen SS commander thought he could persuade Lt Col John Frost, commander of the British force, to surrender by sending a captured Airborne soldier to tell him resistance was useless. They best give up or die! Frost decided such a tactic was evidence of enemy desperation. He and his troops became even more determined to keep on fighting, hoping Allied tanks and troops charging up the highway would soon reach his besieged force.


For the Allies, the war was not over

Eventually, with very few weapons left to fight the panzers, the British at the Arnhem road bridge surrendered. When the 1st Airborne Division – trapped in a cauldron of fire at Oosterbeek, with its back to the river ­– withdrew across the Rhine, it left behind several thousand wounded and/or captured soldiers, in addition to 1,200 dead.

Many of these elite troops were determined that this was not going to be the end of the matter. Hundreds of them evaded the enemy, or almost immediately escaped captivity to go on the run and into hiding with brave Dutch hosts. Some escaped from prison camps in Germany. As the Reich collapsed in April and May 1945, many of the remaining PoWs found themselves left to their own devices by guards who disappeared to avoid capture by the Allies.



One of the most remarkable escapes was by Major Tony Deane-Drummond who, after being taken prisoner in Arnhem, hid in a book cupboard for two weeks, surviving on a lump of stale bread and a little water. Once he felt the coast was clear of enemy troops, Deane-Drummond emerged and eventually made it to sanctuary and then home thanks to help from the Resistance and other Dutch people.

Along the way, while hiding out with a Dutch family, Deane-Drummond would visit nearby homes to listen to secret radios in an attempt to keep up with news from the outside world. During one listening session he met Baroness van Heemstra, whose family came from Arnhem, mother to 15-year-old daughter Edda – who would after the war be known to the world as the Hollywood actress Audrey Hepburn. The future movie star’s mother later sent a bottle of champagne to the house where Deane-Drummond was hiding to cheer him up.

Working with the SAS, Dutch Resistance and British intelligence operatives, some fugitive 1st Airborne Division officers organised a mass escape over the Rhine in late 1944. The British escapers were organised into fully armed units and, with assistane from American paratroopers and Canadian assault engineers, finally got out of enemy territory.


Hitler’s last victory in the west

Arnhem was the last time the Germans inflicted a major defeat on the Allies in the west. From then on, they lost every battle against the British, American and Canadian armies, while the Red Army steamroller shattered German armies in the east. At Arnhem, and also during the subsequent Ardennes offensive of December 1944, the Germans expended their last military capital in the west. While the fighting remained hard in the west, the British-led forces in the north were able to send a massive airborne and amphibious assault across the Rhine in spring 1945. The Reich was finished.

It would be going too far to say the western Allies could have perhaps taken Berlin if the Germans had lost at Arnhem. It was not in Supreme Allied Commander General Dwight D Eisenhower’s endgame plan to do so, as he preferred to leave that bloody job to the Russians. Yet, the effort involved in achieving victory at Arnhem and staging the Ardennes attack helped sap German forces at a time when they needed everything they could get to defend the Reich itself.


Iain Ballantyne is a journalist, editor, and author who has written several military history books, including those on the Second World War and the Cold War. His latest book, Arnhem: Ten Days in The Cauldron, is his second title for Agora Books, following on from Bismarck: 24"


Specific Events

Individuals with a specific interest in attending currently scheduled events are advised to refer to URL;

https://arnhem1944fellowship.org/arnhem-commemorations-2024/.


Military miniatures commemorating Operation Market-Garden Battle of Arnhem

Others who may be interested in obtaining military miniatures recreating the battle may want to refer to following specific articles within this blog;

http://arnhemjim.blogspot.com/2011/03/whats-form-general-mgen-re-urquhart-at.html

http://arnhemjim.blogspot.com/2011/03/battle-of-arnhem-whos-son-and-heir.html 

https://arnhemjim.blogspot.com/2014/03/a-photographic-catalog-operation-market.html   

http://arnhemjim.blogspot.com/2015/09/operation-market-garden-series-by-king.html

http://arnhemjim.blogspot.com/2015/09/wolfheze-junction-it-werent-no-ok.html

https://arnhemjim.blogspot.com/2017/09/an-addendum-to-photographic-catalog.html




 

 

Wednesday, October 25, 2023

A Different Kind of Bespoken Gun for a King at War

When one thinks of a bespoken firearm, names like Boss & Co., Holland & Holland, Purdy and Rigby, and shotguns, normally come to mind, particularly for the King of Great Britain. But that would not be the case with King George VI during World War II.  An entirely different gun once which belonged to George VI, now resides in the Imperial War Museum. It is in  a suitably inconspicuous wooden cased (attache type), and is a STEN Mk II 9mm Machine Carbine, with three fully loaded magazines, and additional ammunition in the nine boxed compartments to the left part of the case (estimated 450 rounds). Unlike the normal production cost $10.00 USD configuration it has an extremely well finished exterior surface, and I feel certain precisely toleranced interior parts, specifically the magazine followers and feed lips. There is a question as to how frequently either he personally, or his equerry, carried the cased weapon during the entire World War II. (Editorial note: Perhaps the recommendations of certain current leaders should be reviewed in the context of the King's choice. He gave both Elizabeth and Margeret shooting instruction, Elizabeth learning at the age of 14, on a Thompson .45cal. Model 1921 Sub-Machine Gun, which purportedly belonged to Prime Minster Winston Churchill).




It is not known to the author whether this image of Prime Minister Winston Churchill shows him with that specific weapon, but it is the correct configuration.



For those who might have additional interest the following article provides background on the origin and development of the STEN machine carbine.


Cheap Shot: How the Sten Gun Saved Britain 

In 1940 Britain desperately needed a submachine gun that could be made for about $10. The Sten gun fit the bill. 

by Chris McNab10/29/2019 

a submachine gun that could be made for about $10. The Sten gun fit the bill.

ON JUNE 5, 1940, THE SMOLDERING BEACHES AT DUNKIRK, ON THE WEST COAST OF FRANCE, were largely silent. German soldiers, having stormed across Western Europe in less than a month, now milled about the bomb-blackened sands. Over 10 frenetic days, the British Royal Navy and a vast fleet of auxiliary civilian vessels had managed to evacuate more than 330,000 soldiers—all that was left for a fragile but continued resistance to the German juggernaut. Yet the physical evidence of a massive British defeat lay all around. In the last-gasp scramble to escape enemy clutches, British forces had abandoned nearly 2,500 artillery pieces, 85,000 vehicles (including 445 tanks), 75,000 tons of ammunition, 416,000 tons of supplies, 11,000 machine guns, and tens of thousands of other small arms. 

Great Britain now faced an industrial as well as a military emergency, compounded by accelerating casualties from the German U-boat campaign, the ongoing neutrality of the United States (its Lend-Lease program would not begin for another year), the expansion of its armed forces through national conscription, and the looming specter of a German invasion. A particularly pressing problem was how to arm Britain’s newly constituted Home Guard, which by July 1940 numbered 1.5 million men. The guards, embarrassingly short of weapons, were sometimes forced to drill with broomsticks, eliciting nervous laughter from the British public. If the country was to survive, its fighting men had to be properly armed.

Fortunately, an unlikely—and unlovely—solution was about to appear. It would officially be known as the Sten gun, though some soldiers would come to call it the “Plumber’s Nightmare” or the “Stench Gun.” By any name, it would prove to be one of the most unusual and ubiquitous weapons of World War II.

BRITAIN’S DISASTROUS CAMPAIGNS OF 1939 AND 1940 MADE AT LEAST ONE THING CLEAR: Its armed forces needed submachine guns. During numerous close-range scraps in Norway and France, British soldiers—almost exclusively armed with .303-inch bolt-action Lee-Enfield No. 4 rifles—had come off worse against German troops armed with 9mm MP 38 and MP 40 submachine guns, which delivered blistering fire at 500 rounds per minute over an effective range of 200 yards. Besides increasing British firepower, submachine guns would also be also ideal weapons for the expanding ranks of auxiliary troops and tank crews who needed compact, easily accessible weapons they could store inside their vehicles.

Through most of the 1930s, the Small Arms Committee of Britain’s Ordnance Board had dallied over acquiring submachine guns, testing several foreign-made types but opting for none. When World War II broke out in 1939, the British government hastily acquired limited numbers of submachine guns by importing Thompson M1928s from the United States and by commissioning the Sterling Armament Company in East London to manufacture its own 9mm Lanchester for issuance to the Royal Navy and Royal Air Force. Neither weapon, unacceptably expensive for a wartime economy, solved the problem. What Britain really needed was a homegrown submachine gun that could be produced rapidly and inexpensively and that would tick off all the core tactical and functional boxes. “The most important consideration at the moment,” a member of the ordnance board noted, “seems to be to get some form of machine carbine acceptable to all three services into production as quickly as possible.”

The solution came in December 1940, almost six months after Dunkirk. Harold John Turpin, a senior draftsman at the Royal Small Arms Factory in Enfield, produced a drawing for a simplified trigger mechanism that had only two moving parts. He then worked closely with Lieutenant Colonel Reginald Vernon Shepherd, the inspector of armaments in the design department of the Ministry of Supply at the Royal Arsenal in Woolwich, to develop a prototype “street fighting machine carbine” that could be produced with minimal machine tools by unskilled laborers. In just 39 days Shepherd’s designers came up with two working prototypes. After performing well in function and endurance tests, the winning prototype was adopted, on March 7, 1941, as the Carbine, Sten, Mk I. The name Sten, the popular story goes, was derived from the initials of Shepherd and Turpin’s surnames, plus the first two letters of Enfield.


The Sten gun broke all the rules. Basically, it was little more than a steel tube fitted with a barrel, bolt, magazine, recoil spring, and trigger; most of its parts could be made with ultra cheap and fast stamping and welding processes. Only the gun’s barrel and bolt required precision machining. As a bonus, it used readily available ammunition: the 9 x 19mm Parabellum. The simple blowback mechanism fired at a cyclical rate of 550 rpm and was fed from a side-mounted magazine—a direct copy of the Germans’ MP 38/MP 40—to aid prone firing. Weighing seven pounds without the magazine and nine pounds with it, there was no wood anywhere on the gun. With just 59 metal parts, the Sten was purposely designed to be churned out by the tens of thousands. The Mk I initially had some frills—a “spoonbill” flash hider, wooden handguard, and vertical folding foregrip—but these were quickly jettisoned to produce the guns in ever larger numbers. Still, the new weapon proved too complicated, requiring up to 12 man-hours to produce, and by the late spring of 1941 a new prototype, the Mk II, was adopted. British prime minister Winston Churchill visited the test facility at Shoeburyness, Essex, on June 13, 1941, and personally test fired the Mk II.

THE MK II WAS AN UGLY GUN, MORE AKIN TO JUNKYARD OFFCUTS THAN A MILITARY-GRADE WEAPON, with a tubular profile, blobs of welding, and a simple skeleton stock. But that was the point: It was the perfect gun for emergency wartime production. And it was stunningly cheap: each gun cost about $10 to manufacture as opposed to $70 for a Thompson. From start to finish, the Mk II took just five and a half hours to make. The challenge now was to mass-produce it. 

Given the shortage of precision machine tools in Britain at the time, plus the continuing stress on British manufacturing companies, the Sten was designed for stamping and pressing processes that could be performed in the humblest of workshops. Stables, lofts, even hen houses or the garrets of private homes became improvised Sten gun factories. Various Sten subassemblies were also farmed out to hundreds of small industrial operations scattered across the United Kingdom, often to companies with no experience in weapons manufacturing.

Nor was production just a British affair. The huge Small Arms Ltd. production plant in Toronto, Canada, manufactured 104,553 Mk IIs; it also made 1.1 million Sten magazines. New Zealand chipped in with another 1,000 Stens. Australia, always stubbornly independent, preferred to develop its own variation—the Owen submachine gun, which was heavier, had a wooden stock, and was rated far superior to the Mk II. 

Innovations streamed in from all corners of the United Kingdom. One of the most important of them came from Walter W. Hackett, the joint managing director of Accles & Pollock, a tube-making firm in Birmingham. The War Ministry had asked Hackett how Sten barrels could be produced more efficiently. He pioneered a method in which cold hammer-forged barrels were manufactured using hardened steel mandrels, obviating the need for expensive boring and rifling machines. Hackett’s process prevented delays of up to a year in Sten production and saved 1.4 million feet of metal tubing at a time when resources were precious. Using Hackett’s method, one Sten barrel could be made every 10 seconds. Sir Claude Gibb, an engineer who oversaw British weapons manufacturing during World War II, said later that Hackett “made the greatest contribution to the production of small arms during the whole of the war”: in all, an astonishing number of Sten guns—some 4.5 million in all—were manufactured. 

In the second half of 1941, soldiers began using the Sten gun in combat. Some of the early recipients had less than encouraging responses to their new weapons—first impressions not helped by its industrial crudity, especially when compared with the polished wood and high-grade steel of the long-serving Lee-Enfield rifle. “They were said to cost thirty shillings each and I do not doubt it,” one officer of the Home Guard remarked. “It is inaccurate over fifty yards and apt to be dangerous in the hands of an untrained man.” But British parachutist Alan Lee gave the Sten a qualified endorsement: “When you went into a village or went into a house, whatever it was, it was a reliable weapon. It wasn’t a reliable instrument for anything over 100 yards, but for anything close-quarters it was very reliable.”

One of the first recipients of the Mk II—and certainly the most prominent—was King George VI of Britain, who as honorary colonel in chief of the Home Guard carried his weapon around with him in a custom-built wooden briefcase. (Every night, when he and Queen Elizabeth made the 25-mile trip in a bulletproof vehicle from Buckingham Palace to Windsor Castle, the Sten gun went with them.) The king even had a shooting range installed in the gardens at Buckingham Palace and in 1940 arranged for Princess Elizabeth, age 14, and Princess Margaret, age 10, to be given shooting lessons there.

Like the British, many European resistance groups produced their own Sten guns but often, necessarily, in furtive and frequently interrupted turns in clandestine workshops. The Danish resistance made 1,000 or so Stens, adding to the 3,500 air dropped to them by the British and the 1,000 brought in by boat from Sweden. The Norwegians made about 800 Stens in basement workshops and secret rooms in Oslo. Polish resistance groups manufactured 1,300 Stens, many of them virtually handmade by local blacksmiths, machinists, and other skilled craftsmen.

The Sten became the weapon of choice of numerous resistance operations throughout Europe, from shock ambushes in narrow French lanes to heavier use in the Warsaw uprising of August–October 1944. It could be disassembled in a matter of seconds, the pieces then packed conveniently into a parachute drop box or quickly hidden behind a false wall or under floorboards. It took almost no formal training to use a Sten; once a resistance fighter learned the basic loading and unloading procedure, he had only to point it in the right direction and pull the trigger. The Sten offered the additional advantage of firing the same 9mm Parabellum bullets the Germans used, so resistance fighters could supplement their own precious supply of bullets with ammunition captured from the enemy.

For the Germans in the occupied territories, finding a Sten, or parts of a Sten, was a clear signal of organized British-­supported resistance, and their retribution was swift. In 1942 the discovery of a parachute-dropped Sten hanging from a tree in Norway led Reichskommissar Josef Terboven to decree that anyone found in possession of a Sten would be summarily executed. Sometimes even less evidence brought doom. British special operations teams in France, for example, had to take utmost caution not to leave any evidence of their passing in French farmhouses, where they often made overnight stops. In one instance, German troops inspecting a haystack found a single British-­made round for a Sten gun, and on the basis of that flimsy evidence killed the French family living there and burned the farm to the ground.

ONE OF THE STEN GUN’S FIRST MAJOR TESTS CAME ON AUGUST 19, 1942, when 6,000 Allied (mostly Canadian) infantry launched an exploratory amphibious operation against the German-occupied port of Dieppe, France. The operation was a fairly emphatic disaster, with some 60 percent of the attacking force killed, wounded, or captured, and the Sten proved unwieldy and inaccurate on the battlefield. Many reports from surviving Canadians spoke of Stens jamming at the worst possible moments. The problems were not entirely with the Sten’s design. The weapons had been issued immediately before the raid, and many were still clogged with packing grease when they were taken into action. Shortages of ammunition also meant that many of the Canadian soldiers had not had the chance to conduct live-fire training with the Sten before going into combat. The failures at Dieppe gave Allied planners some much-needed lessons as they began preparing for the D-Day landings, but it was not a promising early combat trial for the new gun.

Nor would the Sten’s failures at Dieppe be isolated instances. The gun was generally regarded as “unpredictable,” to use one of the more charitable terms British soldiers applied. Sometimes when an uncocked Sten was inadvertently knocked or dropped, its bolt bounced backward just enough to clear the magazine well, at which point the recoil spring would drive the bolt forward, chamber a round, and fire. This issue was particularly serious for paratroops, whose very method of deployment was an exercise in bumps and jolts. During a jump by the 1st Parachute Battalion near Tunis on November 16, 1942, four parachutists were wounded by a single runaway Sten; the 3rd Parachute Battalion suffered its only fatality when a trooper accidentally shot himself with his Sten. The failures were mainly attributable to the Sten’s magazine, whose double-stack-to-single-feed configuration was prone to jamming, a problem that was never entirely resolved. There are numerous reports of British or Commonwealth soldiers taking a bead on enemy troops, pulling the Sten’s trigger, and hearing nothing more than the bolt slapping the back of the breech with a metallic clang. Little wonder that the Sten gun earned a variety of wry nicknames.

One of the Sten’s most famous malfunctions occurred on May 27, 1942, when Jozef Gabčík, a commando in the Czechoslovak army, stepped in front of SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich’s open-topped Mercedes-Benz touring car near Bulovka Hospital in Prague. Gabčík was to fire the opening rounds in a two-man assassination attempt on the much-hated Nazi officer, one of the key architects of the Holocaust. When Gabčík pulled the trigger, nothing happened—the Sten had jammed. Gabčík’s partner, Jan Kubis, stepped into the breach, tossing a modified antitank grenade at Heydrich’s vehicle. The subsequent explosion severely wounded Heydrich, peppering his side with shrapnel and bits of upholstery that ultimately led to a case of fatal blood poisoning. The SS hunted down Gabčík and Kubis, killing them and several compatriots in a six-hour gun battle at a Prague cathedral. (They remain Czech heroes to this day.)

 British airborne troops spearheading the invasion of Italy in September 1943 had their own misadventures with the balky weapon. Trooper Ron Kent of the 21st Independent Parachute Company recalled that the Sten often proved more dangerous to its users than to the enemy. Men in Kent’s company suffered several injuries because of the old model Sten’s instability. “Sid Humphries sustained a nasty nick below the knee cap,” Kent said, “when his section sergeant, rounding some rocks, accidentally caught the toe of his boot against the butt of a Sten leaning against a stone and pointing straight at where Sid was busy cooking for his section. The miserable weapon fired a nine millimeter bullet at Sid’s leg.” British parachutists and glider-borne troops carried Stens into combat during the D-Day invasion, where the bitter hand-to-hand fighting in the hedgerows and small-town streets of Normandy was precisely the sort of close-in action for which the Sten was designed. 

British sergeant major Stanley Hollis, who landed at Gold Beach on D-Day, rushed to suppress a German battery at Mont Fleury. His company commander pointed out an enemy pillbox. “It was very well camouflaged,” Hollis said, “and I saw these guns moving around in the slits and I got my Sten gun and I rushed at it, spraying it hosepipe fashion. They fired back at me and they missed. I don’t know whether they were more panic-stricken than me, but they must have been.” Hollis went around to the rear of the pillbox, where he found two soldiers dead and several who “were quite willing to forget all about the war.” For his gallantry in silencing the Mont Fleury battery, Hollis received a Victoria Cross, the only one awarded for a D-Day exploit.

During the subsequent Normandy campaign British paratroops carried Stens along with rifles. The Stens went to platoon commanders and their batmen, as well as signalers, pioneers, and other auxiliary troops. In the fighting to seize and hold the vital Orne River bridge and canal bridges, Lieutenant Richard “Sandy” Smith of No. 14 Platoon, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, was leading his men across the bridge when a German threw a grenade at him. “I was very lucky,” Smith recalled.  “I don’t really know what happened. I just felt this smack. I didn’t see him throw the stick grenade. I saw him climbing over the wall to get to the other side and I shot him as he was going over—I made certain too. I gave him quite a lot of rounds, firing from the hip—it was very close range.” Smith received the Military Cross for his role in the mission.

Private John Butler of the 7th Parachute Battalion was not impressed with the Sten’s lack of stopping power. “I was kneeling back looking at the top of the slope with my Sten gun pointing,” Butler later recalled. “Suddenly, a Jerry came in view with his rifle pointing towards me and I pressed the trigger of my Sten, but to my horror the man didn’t fall down as I expected and just stood there looking at me, and I was in absolute terror. Then the magazine ran out, it had been about half full, twelve to fourteen rounds, and probably took about two to two and a half seconds to fire off. And then the man came at me, collapsing on top of me and his bayonet pierced my left thigh, hit the bone and flipped out again, and the left side of my smock was covered in blood.” To Butler’s relief, he quickly saw that the German was dead—“the thud of the bullets in his chest had held him for those few seconds, though at the time I did not realize this.” 

The men in the British 1st Airborne Division received new Mk V Stens before the ill-starred Market Garden operation at Arnhem, in the Netherlands, in September 1944. Though the operation was an unmitigated catastrophe for the Allies, the Mk V performed better than the Mk II. Lieutenant Jimmy Cleminson of No. 5 Platoon, B Company, 3rd Parachute Battalion, encountered a German armored vehicle on the first day of the operation. “I got up into a house and found myself behind the German vehicle,” he later recalled. “I was joined by [Major] Peter Waddy. I shot a German soldier in the garden below me with my Sten and wondered what I could do to get rid of our armored visitor.” Cleminson was wounded and captured and was later awarded the Military Cross for his service at Arnhem.

Major Erick Mackay of the 1st Parachute Squadron, Royal Engineers, took shelter in a two-story schoolhouse close to the bridge at Arnhem, only to discover that the building was surrounded by 60 German soldiers unaware the British troops were hiding only yards away. “On a signal, [grenades] were dropped on the heads below, followed instantly by bursts from all our six Brens and fourteen Stens,” Mackay later recalled. “Disdaining cover, the boys stood up on the window-sills, firing from the hip. The night dissolved into a hideous din as the heavy crash of the Brens mixed with the high-pitched rattle of the Stens, the cries of wounded men, and the sharp explosions of grenades.”

When the Sten worked, which it did more often than not, it could be a fearsome weapon. Lance Corporal Dennis Longmate of the 4th Battalion, Dorsetshire Regiment, recalled using his Sten following a brutal combat crossing of the Rhine in late 1944: “We were debating what we were going to do when a German patrol appeared, about a dozen men coming in our direction. ‘Are we going to kill or be killed? It’s them or us.’ It was pretty poor odds with a dozen of them and three of us. But I told the other two to hold their fire and when the patrol came in range I fired the Sten. I’d never killed at such close quarters before, literally seeing the whites of the eyes. I saw the bullets hit, saw them go down, all of them.” 

Such accounts demonstrate that the Sten was every bit as lethal as the German MP 40, and it largely corrected the imbalance between German and British forces in the struggle of fire superiority under 100 yards. The reported problems with the Sten also must be weighed against the vast scale of its production and distribution. Hundreds of thousands of troops took the Sten into action. Many units found that, as with most weapons, proper training and maintenance were the most significant factors in keeping the Stens functional.

DESPITE ITS DRAWBACKS, THE STEN GUN WOULD HAVE A LONG LIFE IN THE POSTWAR WORLD. British troops continued to use the Sten Mk V until the late 1950s in Cyprus, Korea, Malaya, Kenya, and Suez, before the Sterling SMG (submachine gun) replaced it. Surplus World War II Stens were a standard weapon in both pre- and post-independence Israel, providing Israeli insurgents and later the fledgling Israel Defense Forces with an SMG until the indigenous arms industry produced the Uzi. Stens also cropped up in the Vietnam War, with U.S. Special Operations Group forces using the Mk II(S) for quiet ambushes or prisoner snatches. The Irish Republican Army once raided the largest British Army barracks in Northern Ireland and made off with 50 Sten guns, among other weapons. Even today, Stens occasionally make an unwelcome appearance in terrorist or criminal hands in the Middle East or the Balkans.

In 1949 Reginald Shepherd, who had retired from the military with the rank of major, went before Britain’s Royal Commission on Awards to Inventors to seek remuneration for having invented parts of the Sten gun. (He and Turpin had been denied British patents for their work on the weapon.) Though Shepherd told members of the commission that the “en” in Sten stood for England, not Enfield, the mythology surrounding the gun’s name persists to this day.

The Sten was not a perfect gun, but it was the right gun for its time and place. For all its shortcomings, the Sten had two crowning strengths: It worked (for the most part), and it was available. Those might not sound like the most superior of virtues, but in a country that was facing a clear and present threat to its very survival, they were the most important virtues of all.

As Canadian soldier S. N. Teed apostrophized poetically: “You wicked piece of vicious tin! / Call you a gun? Don’t make me grin. / You’re just a bloated piece of pipe. / You couldn’t hit a hunk of tripe. / But when you’re with me in the night, / I’ll tell you, pal, you’re just alright!”