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Desert Raiders
Shaun Clarke
Ultimate soldier. Ultimate mission. But can the SAS face the might of Rommel’s army and win?In the North African desert in 1941 the war is being won by the brilliant German commander General Rommel, and the British are in retreat on all fronts.A young British army lieutenant, David Stirling, believes that the only way to reverse this situation is to attack the enemy behind their own lines, using small groups of men who can insert by land, sea or air as required. The first of these men are dropped by parachute to attack enemy airfields in the Gazala area, but the raid is a disaster, with many lives lost.The following year, the survivors of that operation, now working hand in hand with the Long Range Desert Group, mount a series of spectacular raids in heavily armed jeeps against airfields in the Benghazi region, destroying nearly a hundred enemy aircraft, leaving the German army reeling, and reversing the course of the war.Desert Raiders is the colourful story of the birth of the SAS, the most renowned regiment in the history of the British Army – forged with fire and steel in the vast, sun-scorched plains of the North African desert, pitting themselves against the might of the formerly invincible German army, and gaining a reputation that will make them a legend in their own time.





Desert Raiders
SHAUN CLARKE


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by 22 Books/Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1994
Copyright © Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1994
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Cover photographs © Popperfoto/Getty Images (soldiers in jeep); Keystone/Getty Images (planes); Shutterstock.com (textures)
Shaun Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008155001
Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008155018
Version: 2015-10-15
Contents
Cover (#udf0e4a4b-261a-5df8-a6da-46d926b8e4f8)
Title Page (#uaab406e8-d5c0-53a9-8794-0c9bba1dd1f7)
Copyright (#u28a16c71-e047-57ea-847a-5acd9fe6d77a)
Prelude (#u525b9886-461f-5193-91a1-6106e943f3db)
Chapter 1 (#u87705a12-6660-59b9-8c8c-f2b5d571290c)
Chapter 2 (#u5438e3f8-09ae-50a7-adee-1f57187c7611)
Chapter 3 (#u68e745b9-224d-5878-98bb-917283579fad)
Chapter 4 (#u35517e64-9214-51e1-8b5a-c46c2f329b55)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

OTHER TITLES IN THE SAS OPERATION SERIES (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prelude (#u45d3129f-2531-5d6a-9e97-79e589d4b4b5)
‘It’s one helluva sight to behold,’ Lieutenant Derek ‘Dirk’ Greaves said, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘Very impressive indeed.’
The camp was located just outside Mersa Brega, in Libya’s vast Cyrenaica Desert. It was a sprawling collection of tents, lean-tos, makeshift huts and caravans overflowing with the men of the 7th Armoured Division and Selby Force, 4th Indian Division, 6th Australian Division, Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers (REME), Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC), sappers, a Cypriot labour battalion and the hundreds of ragged Italian 10th Army soldiers packed into POW cages near the southern perimeter. Though holding a vast array of artillery and tanks, the camp was also protected by British infantry divisions spread out in a defensive line consisting of a series of ‘boxes’ – slit trenches for the infantry, gun pits for the artillery – surrounded by barbed wire and minefields, though these were far away, well spread out, and out of sight.
The camp itself, Greaves noticed, was ringed with the 25-pounders of the Royal Horse Artillery, an equal number of British six-pounders, Bofors anti-aircraft guns, stone sangars manned by teams equipped with Bren guns and 0.5-inch Browning machine-guns, and even some captured Italian 75mm and 79mm guns to be manned by infantrymen, signallers, orderlies and cooks if battle commenced. It also contained what appeared to be hundreds of armoured vehicles. All dispersed evenly behind the line, these included the M3 Stuart light tanks of the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars, the Grant tanks of the Royal Gloucester Hussars, the Matildas of the 7th Royal Tank Regiment, the Bren carriers of the 9th Rifle Brigade, and Marmon Herrington armoured cars.
Beyond the perimeter, on all sides, Greaves saw nothing but the ‘blue’ – the soldiers’ term for the desert – stretching away to the dust-wreathed horizon under a brilliant azure sky. By night the desert was freezing cold, but during the day the heat was fierce, shimmering up off the desert floor, hurting the eyes, making the sweat flow and leading to short tempers and fist fights. Tempers were also sparked off by the constant dust, blowing every second of every day and night, covering everything, filling the throat and nostrils, getting into food and drink and even sleeping bags, and which swirled in moaning clouds and drifted over the plains of rocky ground, soft sand and gravel. The dust also charged the metal parts of vehicles with electricity, shorting out the engines, often stopping the vehicles altogether and giving the men electric shocks.
Even worse were the flies, thousands of them, all enormous, attacking eyes and ears, dropping into the tea and bully beef, the tinned ‘M and V’ (meat and vegetables), into the herrings and tomatoes and dehydrated potatoes, buzzing noisily, frantically, all day long, and making a visit to the ‘thunderbox’ to answer the call of nature a veritable endurance test.
As for the freezing nights, though there was some respite from the flies, an alternative torment came in the shape of lice, bugs and cockroaches and, if a soldier became too careless, poisonous scorpions. All of these drove the men crazy and led to frayed tempers.
Last but by no means least of their torments was a constant and hellish thirst. The water, which had to be transported laboriously from Cairo or Alexandria, was warm, salty, distilled sea water that just about kept them alive while failing dismally to assuage the unrelenting dryness of their throats. Foul to drink on its own, it was more satisfactory in a brew-up, though even then its high salt content curdled the tinned milk and filled the mugs with soft, disgusting curds. The tea was more refreshing than the water, but even that failed to quench their thirst.
In combination with the heat, dust, and insects, the thirst may have contributed to some of the men’s crazier antics. Having just completed their spectacular rout of the Italian 10th Army, the Tommies were flush with victory and displayed it in the way they dressed. A company commander of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders wore an Italian brigadier’s uniform with sea boots; British troops of the 2nd Armoured Division boasted Australian slouch hats, a bersagliere’s plumed hat, or the regalia of Blackshirt colonels; soldiers of the 9th Australian Division bore captured Italian pistols, with binoculars slung rakishly around their necks, as well as wearing the ceremonial gold-braided tunics of Italian officers instead of their own plain army jackets. In general the men preferred Italian uniforms, usually obtained by bartering with the POWs, to their own.
This sartorial excess, Lieutenant Greaves had noticed, was complemented by a great deal of high spirits, including the indiscriminate firing of enemy rifles and pistols, exploding Thermos bombs, a lot of showing off in captured enemy vehicles, collecting wild dogs as vicious pets, bartering with Italian prisoners, betting on organized scorpion fights, hunting gazelles and other desert animals. There was a surprising indifference on the part of most officers to such undisciplined, and often dangerous, activities.
Lieutenant Greaves, formerly with the Scots Guards, now 8 Commando, was there for only two days as an observation officer from the Middle East Headquarters (MEHQ) in Cairo and due to fly back the following day from Tobruk. Though he understood the men’s high spirits, he did not approve of their behaviour. The scorpion fights, in particular, were a particularly vicious form of blood sport in which someone would dig out a circular shallow in the sand, pour petrol around the edge, set fire to it, then place two scorpions inside the ring of fire. The heat of the flames would drive the scorpions wild and they would viciously fight one another – so much so that often one of them would inadvertently sting itself fatally with its own tail. Another sport, equally unsavoury, was hunting desert gazelles, which the men would pursue in trucks, firing at the unfortunate creatures with their rifles. While the deaths of the animals had the undeniable merit of supplementing the men’s rations, Greaves viewed it as yet another barbaric activity spawned by a combination of victorious excitement, post-victory boredom, and a general lack of discipline.
Since the start of the British offensive in December, these men, including the 4th Indian Division, had resolutely pushed back the Italian forces in Egypt, stopping their advance at Sidi Barrani, taking Sollum, capturing Bardia with 40,000 Italian prisoners, and then Tobruk, and finally, after two months of relentless fighting, cutting off the main body of the Italian Army at Beda Fomm, with approximately 130,000 enemy troops captured. Now, in the closing days of March 1941, aware that advance elements of General Irwin Rommel’s Afrika Korps, including the 15th and 21st Panzer Divisions, had recently arrived in Tripoli and, supported by the Italian mechanized Ariete Division, were advancing across Cyrenaica, the men, still torn between high spirits and boredom, were in no mood for the necessary discipline of camp life.
Greaves would put this into his report when he returned to MEHQ, where the staff officers, known contemptuously as the ‘gabardine swine’ because their uniforms were made of that material and the Tommies thought they had an easy life, were anxiously biting their nails over the arrival in Tripoli of Rommel and his Afrika Korps.
Greaves could understand the Tommies’ contempt for the staff officers back in Cairo. Life there was certainly much easier and, in some cases, even luxurious. And yet, while he was supposed to be going back on an RAF Hudson transport the following day, he realized he would prefer to stay in the desert. A man who thought of himself first and foremost as a soldier, not as an officer, he was experiencing the frustration of the born soldier with no war to fight.
‘Looks like a sandstorm coming,’ he said to Major Gervase Reynolds, 3rd Hussars, one of the Regiments of the 7th Armoured Division.
‘I hope not,’ Reynolds replied, tugging distractedly at his handlebar moustache. ‘Bloody dreadful things. Make you feel you’re being buried alive and bugger up everything. Absolutely the worst thing about this damned place, which has many bad things.’
‘It certainly looks like a sandstorm,’ Greaves said as he squinted into the heat haze, surveying the distant horizon beyond El Agheila. The cloud was taking shape as an elongated band of darkness that spread higher and ever wider as it advanced across the flat, sun-scorched plain.
‘No wind,’ Major Reynolds observed. ‘Not the slightest breeze, Captain.’
Greaves sucked his forefinger and held it up. ‘Damn it, you’re right,’ he said. ‘No wind at all.’ Continuing to stare across the dazzling plain, he saw the cloud growing and still advancing at what he estimated was about thirty miles an hour. Then a series of black dots appeared in the sky above the horizon, distorted in the heat haze, but growing fatter by the second, racing forward above the duststorm until, in under half a minute, they took shape as winged birds.
Greaves realized they were not birds when he heard a familiar, distant rumbling sound.
‘JERRY!’ someone suddenly bawled behind him.
As the distant rumbling grew louder, the silhouetted birds became a squadron of German Ju-87 Stuka dive-bombers, all heading straight for the camp.
‘Damn it!’ Reynolds exclaimed. ‘He’s right! We’d better take cover.’
Even as Greaves recognized the enemy aircraft and, like Reynolds, hurled himself down behind the stone wall of a 25-pounder emplacement, the air-raid sirens wailed and the men in the laagers roared instructions at one another, frantically preparing their Bofors anti-aircraft guns. Jeeps and Bren-gun carriers roared into life and raced this way and that, churning up clouds of sand, as some of the men, arriving late, raced after them to jump aboard or get hauled up by their mates. The many troops in the tents poured out to grab weapons and helmets, then rushed to find cover in the defensive trenches around the perimeter. Others burst out of the latrines, some still pulling up their trousers.
Greaves and Reynolds hurled themselves down behind the nearest sangar wall as the first of the Stukas reached the camp, primitive, ungainly and with swastikas clearly marked on their fins, and peeled off to begin their dive-bombing.
The Bofors gun in the sangar exploded into action with a deafening roar, jolting dramatically as it belched fire and smoke, forcing Greaves to cover his ears with his hands as sand and gravel whipped up by the backblast swept hissing across him. The other anti-aircraft guns began roaring at the same time from all around the perimeter as the Stukas, which had been growling softly in an almost slumberous manner, screeched loudly, making their first attacks, their machine-guns firing as they descended. The bombs exploded nearby with a catastrophic roar and Greaves felt the earth shake beneath him as some Stukas screeched directly overhead before climbing above the pall of smoke. A lot of Tommies opened up with their .303 rifles and Mark 6 Webley pistols, adding their staccato snapping to the general bedlam.
‘Fat lot of good that’ll do!’ Greaves shouted to Reynolds, who was crouched beside him, removing his hands from his ears and shaking his head to remove the dust from his ears.
Reynolds glanced at the men firing rifles and pistols, then tweaked his walrus moustache and grinned. ‘It’ll do the men good. Make them feel less helpless. That’s a good sign, old boy.’
The Stukas were slow in flight but extremely fast when diving, the pilots fearlessly holding their course, ignoring exploding flak and streamers, and not levelling out until they were practically scraping the ground, when they would release their bombs, wobbling visibly as the load was dropped. Then they would straighten up and ascend steeply, back through the black clouds of flak and criss-crossing tracers, gaining velocity even as the bombs were exploding around the British positions.
‘Courageous buggers!’ Major Reynolds bawled. ‘Got to hand it to them, old boy. The Jerry pilots are admirable. I…’
He was cut short by a series of explosions that tore up the ground nearby, creating a mushroom of swirling soil, gravel and debris, including large rocks and sandbags from the wall of a nearby sangar. The screaming of an injured Tommy daggered through the general clamour but was swiftly blotted out by the even louder bellowing of the British six-pounders, Bren guns and 0.5-inch Browning machine-guns, and the captured Italian 75mm and 79mm guns. The gun positions were hurriedly being manned by infantrymen, signallers, orderlies and cooks, most of whom were stripped to the waist, gleaming with sweat, and were gradually being covered in a film of dust and sand as swirling smoke obscured them.
‘The tanks!’ Reynolds bawled, rising himself to his knees and jabbing his finger to the front.
Sitting up, Lieutenant Greaves saw the Mark III and Mark IV tanks of the Afrika Korps Panzer divisions emerging from a billowing cloud of dust, spread out over half a mile, followed by motorized infantry and six-wheeled armoured cars.
‘God, there’s a lot of them!’ Greaves exclaimed.
‘Too many,’ Reynolds sighed. ‘They must have broken through our defensive boxes, forming a wall between them and us, which means the boxes won’t be able to help us now.’ He turned away from Greaves and bawled for the nearest radio operator to come and join him. When a sand-smeared 4th Armoured Division corporal with a No 11 wireless set had crawled up to Reynolds, the latter grabbed the wireless mouthpiece, contacted the tank commander of the Royal Gloucester Hussars and told him to move out. Still holding the wireless mouthpiece, but with the switch turned off, he looked back to the front. ‘Let us pray,’ he whispered.
As falling shells exploded between the German tanks, the enemy’s 55mm and 77mm guns opened fire, creating a curtain of smoke and fire. With the British guns responding in kind, the noise was truly hellish and made marginally worse when the Grants moved out between the gun pits and sangars, to engage the Germans on the open ground beyond the perimeter.
The Panzers emerged from their own smoke with pennants fluttering from wireless aerials and their treads churning up sand, gravel and billowing clouds of dust. Assuming hull-down positions, they blasted the Grants, which were advancing with their 37mm and 75mm main guns firing at once, creating another nightmarish curtain of fire-streaked, streaming smoke.
The battle was awesome, like the clash of dinosaurs, the tanks obscured in the swirling smoke and boiling sand resembling hunchbacked, fire-spitting beasts. But it was a battle in which the odds were distinctly against the British, who were greatly outnumbered and lacked the practised skills of the Germans. The advancing Grants were soon stopped in a gigantic convulsion of erupting soil, swirling smoke and raining gravel, many of them exploding internally, others losing their treads, the rest peppered by 55mm and 77mm fire, which also cut down the men trying to escape.
‘Oh, my God,’ Greaves said to Reynolds. ‘It’s a slaughter.’
Major Reynolds responded by switching on the wireless mouthpiece and ordering the Bren carriers to move out. As the Grants were exploding, bursting into flames, shuddering and belching oily black smoke, with the survivors clambering down from the turrets, some on fire and screaming dementedly, the Bren carriers moved out to give them cover. While the Bren guns roared, spraying the German tanks and the infantry moving up behind them, the Tommies fired their .303s and M1 Thompson sub-machine-guns on the move from the open-topped armoured vehicles. Unfortunately, they too were slaughtered by the Panzers’ guns, many falling right out of the carriers and slamming into the sand.
The British gun batteries then unleashed a heavy concentration that made the German Mark IIIs and Mark IVs withdraw slightly. But they did so only long enough to let their infantry move against the flank exposed by the advance of the British Bren carriers. Reynolds immediately called up the Northumberland Fusiliers, who soon arrived with their heavy guns and temporarily plugged the gap, allowing the survivors of the Bren carriers to make their way back inside the perimeter as darkness fell.
‘Incoming message for you, Major,’ the radio operator said. Reynolds listened to the earpiece, then handed it back to the corporal and turned to Greaves. ‘We’re pulling out, Lieutenant. Back to Tobruk. Let’s get up and go.’
With the German tanks temporarily withdrawn, they were able to evacuate the camp under cover of darkness. Soon the tanks, Bren carriers, armoured cars, Bedford trucks, jeeps and marching men formed a vast column on the road leading back through the desert to the harbour town of Tobruk. Unfortunately, with too many units on the move at the same time, there was an almost palpable sense of panic, with many men abandoning the all too frequently stalled trucks and running to get on others without bothering to check what was wrong with theirs. Other vehicles were abandoned when they ran short of petrol – even though there were many three-ton trucks loaded with petrol passing by on either side. This, too, was a sign of growing panic.
Eventually, however, without being fired on by the German big guns or dive-bombed by the Stukas, the men found themselves inside the perimeter of Tobruk, mingling with the Aussies, who directed them to numerous positions along the wired perimeter, between gun pits and slit trenches. The tanks and trucks were lined up behind the wire to afford further protection.
‘You’ve got to hold that position at all costs,’ Major Art Wheeler, 6th Australian Division, said to Reynolds. ‘That’s the order I’ve just received from the gabardine swine. Fat lot those bastards know!’
Spitting in the sand, Wheeler stomped off to supervise the activities of his men. Greaves and Reynolds did the same with their own men before taking cover behind their jeep. They had barely done so when German infantry broke through the wire a mere hundred yards away and surged forward through the moonlit darkness.
‘JERRY!’ someone yelled again.
A British lieutenant with a corporal and five troopers rushed out to meet the Germans, charging against heavy machine-gun fire. Two of the troopers went down, convulsing as the bullets struck them, but the others managed to reach the first of the advancing Germans, killing some with their bayonets before succumbing themselves to bayonet and bullet. The rest of the Germans then rushed through the gap, ghostlike in the smoke-filled darkness, followed by the tanks, which headed straight for the British gun positions, located three miles inside the perimeter.
About forty tanks managed to get through before the Tommies could bring up enough men to engage the enemy infantry and gunners who were trying to bring their guns through the gap. The Tommies shot up their crews before they could get into action and the Aussies, fierce fighters as always, did the same along the barbed-wire perimeter.
One German was trapped on the wire, bent belly-down over it, screaming in agony. ‘Put that bastard out of his misery!’ one of the Aussies shouted and another, not hesitating, rammed his bayonet down through the soldier’s spine, slamming him deeper into the barbed wire so that he kicked convulsively before he was silenced for all time. The Aussie withdrew his bayonet with a jerk, then dropped to his knees, raised his rifle to his shoulder and started firing again at the advancing Germans, ignoring the bloody, twisted corpse on the wire beside him.
‘Those Aussies are impressive,’ Greaves said. ‘I’m glad they’re on our side.’
‘Damn right,’ Reynolds replied.
After the tanks went through, the gap was closed and no German guns or infantry got past the Tommies or Aussies.
‘Let’s get back to the defensive line,’ Reynolds said. ‘Leave the men to mop up here.’
While the medics raced out to the closed gap to tend to the dead and wounded, Greaves followed the major to his jeep, climbed in beside him, and was driven away from the perimeter, following the three-mile route taken by the Panzers. As the tanks could only travel at thirty miles per hour, the jeep soon caught up with them and Reynolds raced boldly between them, determined to reach the British defensive line before the Germans. He had just driven up over the crest of a low hill, giving a clear view of the British six- and 26-pounders, when the tanks behind him opened fire and one of the first shells came whining down to explode with a mighty roar.
Greaves heard the roar of the explosion, felt the blast hammering at him, then was picked up and spun in the air, before falling through a great silence. He smashed into the ground, bounced up and rolled over it, then blacked out.
Regaining consciousness, he found himself on a stretcher, being carried back through more explosions, geysering soil, sand and gravel, to where the big guns were belching fire and smoke. Laid down on the ground beside Reynolds, who was on a stretcher and covered in blood, Greaves, whose lower half was numb, was forced to watch the ongoing battle without being able to take part in it.
While he had been unconscious the Panzers had continued their advance, firing their 55mm and 75mm guns, with the tracers illuminating the darkness like neon lights. When the tanks were about 700 yards from the British gun positions, the gunners fired on them with their 25-pounders and anti-tank guns, about 100 rounds per gun, which temporarily stopped them again. Then the British tanks moved out to engage them and, with luck, push them back a second time.
Two of the heavy enemy tanks tried to get around the British flank. One was hit by a 25-pounder shell and exploded, breaking down as it tried to struggle back. The other fired and hit the British 25-pounder and its crew, causing dreadful carnage before making its escape with the other tanks.
After knocking out seven of the Panzers with their 25-pounders, the gunners eventually turned them back for good. Escaping through the gap they had created when they broke into the perimeter, the German tanks left pursued by a hail of shells and bullets from the Tommies who had taken command of the gap.
A sudden, startling silence reigned until, as if only slowly realizing that they had won, the gun crews clapped and cheered.
Still stretched out on his stretcher and not able to move, Greaves felt a spasm of panic, then groping carefully, discovered that he had broken his left leg and badly bruised the other, but was otherwise not seriously hurt or permanently injured. Glancing sideways at Reynolds, he saw that although covered in blood, he seemed fairly perky.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Lots of blood from shrapnel wounds in the thigh,’ Reynolds replied with a cheerful grin. ‘Looks much worse than it is, old chap.’
‘Well, we certainly appear to have given Jerry a good hiding,’ Greaves said, wanting to sound as cheerful as Reynolds looked.
‘We did,’ the major replied, ‘but I wouldn’t call it a victory. Tobruk is now surrounded by the Germans and in a state of siege. This could last for months.’
Greaves tried to sit up but passed out from the pain. He dreamt that he was relaxing on the deck of a ship with a cool breeze blowing across the open deck and cooling the sweat on his fevered brow.
Regaining consciousness a few hours later, he found himself lying on a stretcher on the open deck of a British destroyer heading from Tobruk to Alexandria. Glancing sideways, he saw Reynolds, now swathed in clean bandages and still relatively lively.
‘Rommel,’ Major Reynolds murmured as if continuing a conversation with himself. ‘He’s a formidable enemy.’
‘We can beat him,’ Greaves said quietly.

1 (#u45d3129f-2531-5d6a-9e97-79e589d4b4b5)
‘I agree,’ 24-year-old Lieutenant David Stirling said, packing his rucksack on his cluttered bed in the Scottish Military Hospital in Alexandria. ‘Rommel’s a brilliant general, a man to respect, but he can be beaten.’
‘And doubtless you know how to do it,’ Lieutenant Greaves replied sardonically, knowing that Stirling was a man who loved soldiering and was full of ideas. Born in Scotland of aristocratic lineage – his father was General Archibald Stirling of Keir – young Stirling was a bit of an adventurer, passionately fond of hunting, shooting and mountaineering, as well as being devoted to the Army.
‘Of course,’ Stirling replied with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve been studying the subject for weeks. Saved me from going mad in this bloody place and kept the marbles…’ He pointed to his head with his index finger. ‘…well polished. Know what I mean, Dirk?’
‘Yes,’ Greaves said, also packing his rucksack, for he, too, was finally leaving the hospital. ‘If a man spends too much time in bed, his brain tends to rot.’
‘Too right.’
Having been in hospital for over six weeks, Greaves understood the dangers of chronic boredom. He had managed to get through his own first few weeks by dwelling on how he came to be there, although it was rather like reliving a bad dream.
After being knocked unconscious by the explosion, he had regained his senses as he was carried on a stretcher through a series of explosions to the Regimental Aid Post a few hundred yards away. Placed on the ground in a large tent between men worse off than himself, including those classified as Dead On Arrival, he had to wait his turn while the harassed doctors and medics assessed the injuries of those being brought in, carried out emergency surgery, including amputations, and passed the casualties along the line.
Reaching Greaves and Reynolds, they found that the former had broken his left leg and the latter had suffered serious perforations of the stomach from shell fragments. Greaves’s leg was put in a temporary splint, Reynolds’s stomach was temporarily bandaged, then both were placed with other wounded men in an ambulance and driven to the Main Dressing Station in a white-painted stone building in an area being torn apart by the shells of enemy tanks and dive-bombing Stukas.
Lying on a real bed in a large, barn-like room converted into a makeshift hospital ward, receiving warm smiles from the RAMC nurses, Greaves nevertheless could not shut out what was going on around him: essential first-aid and medical treatment, including blood transfusions, the removal of shell splinters from bloody limbs, and even more complicated amputations and other operations. It was a grim sight, made worse by the moaning and screaming of men in terrible pain.
Greaves’s broken leg was reset and encased in a proper plaster, then, even as Reynolds was being wheeled into the surgery for an operation, Greaves was picked off his bed, placed on a stretcher and carried out of the building, into another ambulance. He was then driven to the harbour of Tobruk where, under cover of darkness, he was casevacked – casualty evacuated – in a small boat to one of the four destroyers anchored in the harbour. Those swift vessels, he knew, were the lifeline to Tobruk, running the gauntlet of Stukas under cover of darkness to bring food, ammunition, letters, and reinforcements to the besieged harbour town, as well as shipping out the casualties.
While crates of supplies were being lowered on slings down one side of the destroyer, Greaves and the other wounded men were hoisted up the other and carried down on their stretchers to the sick bay located deep in the crowded, noisy hold. There they had remained until the ship reached Alexandria, when they were transferred from the ship to the present hospital. After a minor operation to fix his broken leg, Greaves had been transferred to the recuperation ward where he had been given a bed right beside his fellow lieutenant, David Stirling, who was recovering from a bad parachute drop.
The hospital was pleasant enough, surrounded by green lawns bordered by fig and palm trees where the men could breathe the fresh air while gazing at the white walls and bougainvillaea of Alexandria, as well as the blue Mediterranean stretching out beyond a harbour filled with Allied destroyers. Yet a hospital it remained, with all the boredom that entailed, and Greaves and Stirling had passed the time by swapping stories about their experiences, the former in Tobruk, the latter along the Cyrenaican coast, and speculating on the outcome of the war and how best it might be won. Stirling was a man who liked conversation and was brimful of energy. Greaves liked him a lot.
‘The problem with Rommel,’ Stirling said, taking up a favourite theme, ‘is not that he’s invincible, but that we’re going about him the wrong way.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Well, for instance, take those raids we made with Laycock along the coast of Cyrenaica. Bloody disasters, practically all of them! Why?’
Greaves thought he knew the answer. He and the energetic former Scots Guards officer had been members of 8 Commando, posted to General Wavell’s Middle Eastern Army with other commandos on attachment to ‘Layforce’, the special unit formed by Colonel Robert Laycock to mount raids against the Axis forces in Rhodes, Crete, Syria, around Tobruk, and all along the coast of Cyrenaica. However, after a series of disasters which were blamed on a chronic shortage of manpower and equipment, Layforce was disbanded and the men and ships used for other, presumably more fruitful, missions.
‘Bad weather,’ Greaves began, echoing his own thoughts. ‘Shortage of manpower and…’
‘No! That’s damned nonsense cooked up by MEHQ to save face. The raids were disasters because we took too many men, inserted by orthodox means – in other words, by sea – and so couldn’t keep ourselves hidden; usually being observed well in advance of the raids by Axis reconnaissance planes. The Krauts or Eyeties on the ground were therefore waiting for us to arrive, all set to cut us to pieces and send what was left of us packing. The very idea of using up to 2000 men for raiding parties landing by boat is ridiculous. Impossible to keep such an op secret. Just begging for trouble.’
‘We’re back to your idea of hitting the enemy with small groups of men rather than whole regiments.’ Greaves said, completing his packing, tightening the ropes of his rucksack, and glancing along the ward, his eyes settling on a pretty RAMC nurse, Frances Beamish, whom he hoped to get to know better once he was on convalescent leave in Cairo. ‘It’s become an obsession.’
Stirling laughed. ‘What’s a man without an obsession? How do you think I ended up in this hospital? By trying to prove a point! You don’t use large groups of men, which are bound to attract attention. You use small groups of no more than four or five and insert them as invisibly as possible. If you land them well away from the target area, letting them hike the rest of the way, they can really take the enemy by surprise. That’s the point I was trying to prove – and that’s how I ended up in this damned hospital, wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy, as stiff as a board.’
Greaves had heard the story before. Learning that another former Layforce officer, Captain ‘Jock’ Lewes, Welsh Guards, had acquired fifty static-line parachutes offloaded in Alexandria, Egypt, for shipment to India, Stirling had charmed the taciturn but adventurous Welshman into joining him in experimental jumps with the chutes. Unfortunately, he and Lewes made two of the first jumps from a Valentia, an aircraft quite unsuitable for this purpose. To make matters worse, both men lacked the experience required for the task. After tying his static line to the legs of a passenger seat, because the Valentia did not have the proper overhead suspension for the static lines, Stirling jumped out the wrong way, snagged and tore his ’chute on the tailplane, dropped like a stone and practically crashed to the ground. He was lucky to be alive. In the event, he had been knocked unconscious by the fall and came to in the Scottish Military Hospital, badly bruised and with two damaged legs. Now, after weeks of treatment and exercise, he was, like Greaves, about to leave for a period of convalescence.
‘Look,’ he said, lifting a clipboard off his still opened rucksack and waving it dramatically in the air, ‘I even wrote some notes on the subject. Want to hear them?’
‘I’m all ears.’
Stirling grinned. ‘The Germans and Italians,’ he read, ‘are vulnerable to attacks on their transports, vehicle parks and aerodromes along the coast. However, plans to land the 200 men of a commando for such raids against a single target inevitably destroy the element of surprise when their ship has to be escorted along the coast – a high risk in itself for the Navy.’
‘I agree with that,’ Greaves interjected, recalling many of his own doomed ventures with 8 Commando along the coast around Tobruk, when the boats had been attacked by Stukas or Italian fighters.
Stirling nodded, then continued reading. ‘On the other hand, landing five-man teams with the element of surprise could destroy about fifty aircraft on an airfield which a commando would have to fight like blazes to reach. Such a team could be inserted by parachute, submarine or even a disguised fishing boat. They would then approach the enemy by crossing the Great Sand Sea, south of the Jalo and Siwa oases, which Jerry doesn’t have under surveillance. By making the approach from that unwatched flank, moving overland under cover of darkness, the element of surprise would be total.’
‘Makes sense to me,’ Greaves said, ‘except for one problem. The Great Sand Sea presents enormous difficulties of navigation and survival. I don’t think we could cross it.’
Grinning like a schoolboy, Stirling held his forefinger up in the air, calling for silence. ‘Ah, yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘But that problem’s already solved. I’ve been hearing stories about a little-known unit called the Long Range Desert Group, composed mostly of old hands from Major Ralph Bagnold’s desert expeditions of the 1920s and 30s. It’s now being used as a reconnaissance and intelligence-gathering unit that operates in the desert with the aid of ten open-topped Chevrolet lorries. Those men know the desert like the back of their hands and could be used as a taxi service for us. We parachute in, make our raid against the enemy, then rendezvous with the LRDG at a preselected RV and get driven back to base by them. I think it would work.’
‘Sounds fair enough,’ Greaves said. ‘The only problem remaining is to keep your newly formed group under your own command. I think it should be separate from the main body of the Army and devise its own methods of training.’
‘I don’t think the top brass would wear that,’ Stirling said, placing the clipboard on top of the other gear in his rucksack and tightening the rope to close it up.
‘Well,’ Greaves said, smiling automatically when he saw Nurse Beamish coming along the ward towards him, ‘tell them you want the raiding force to come under the Commander-in-Chief Middle East. In real terms that doesn’t mean a damned thing – the raiding party would soon get conveniently lost in that command and you’d have virtual autonomy over your own men.’ He grinned at Stirling. ‘Naturally that presents you with another problem: how on earth do you persuade them to let you do it?’
‘Oh, I think I can manage,’ Stirling replied deadpan. ‘I’ve already written a detailed memorandum on the subject for the attention of the Commander-in-Chief Middle East Forces. Once he’s read it, I’m sure he’ll agree.’
While recognizing Stirling’s boldness, Greaves was struck by his naïvety. ‘Are you joking?’
‘No,’ Stirling replied. ‘Why would I joke about it?’
‘If you submit that memo through normal channels, it will almost certainly get buried by a staff officer and never be seen again.’
‘Which is why I’m going to deliver it personally,’ Stirling said with a big, cocky grin.
Greaves was opening his mouth to reply when Nurse Beamish, petite, with black hair and green eyes, stopped between him and Stirling, smiling warmly at each in turn but giving most of her attention to Greaves, who had flirted relentlessly with her during his stay here.
‘So you two are ready to leave,’ she said.
‘Yes, dear,’ answered Stirling.
‘Corporal,’ Nurse Beamish corrected him.
‘Yes, dear Corporal,’ Stirling replied.
‘Where do you plan to stay in Cairo?’ Nurse Beamish asked of Greaves.
‘Shepheard’s Hotel.’
‘Oh, very nice!’ the nurse said, raising her eyebrows. ‘My own leave starts on Friday, but I’m restricted to a miserable leave camp. Perhaps I’ll give you a call.’
‘That would be delightful,’ Greaves said. ‘I look forward to it.’
Nurse Beamish smiled, nodded at Stirling, then turned away and walked off, her body very pleasantly emphasized by her tight-fitting uniform.
‘I think you’ve made it there, old son,’ Stirling said. ‘That woman is keen.’
‘I hope so,’ Greaves said softly, and then, after a pause: ‘You’re not really going to try delivering that memo personally to the C-in-C, are you?’
‘Who dares wins,’ Stirling said.
Lieutenant Greaves picked up both rucksacks from the beds, waved goodbye to the other patients, then followed Stirling. In an instant the Scotsman was on his crutches and out of the hospital to catch a taxi to the station for the train to Cairo.

2 (#u45d3129f-2531-5d6a-9e97-79e589d4b4b5)
While Stirling went off to the British Embassy to collect the key to his brother’s rented flat in Cairo’s Garden City quarter, where he would be staying, Greaves booked into the opulent Shepheard’s Hotel, which was off-limits to other ranks and used mainly as a place where officers could meet their lady friends. Once booked in, Greaves shucked off his desert clothes, drank whisky while soaking in a hot bath, then shaved and put on his dress uniform. In fact, though Stirling did not know it, Greaves had a date that same evening with Nurse Beamish and would, when the time came, be wearing an immaculately tailored bush jacket and slacks. He was wearing his dress uniform for the sole purpose of escorting the cheeky Stirling to MEHQ in his bold attempt to take his memorandum personally to the Commander-in-Chief. While Greaves was of the opinion that Stirling did not stand a chance, he could not resist the opportunity of going along with him to see what transpired.
Dressed, Greaves drank another whisky by the window while looking out on the great sprawl of Cairo, with its bustling pavements, open-fronted cafés, shops, bazaars and its white walls strewn with red peppers and purple bougainvillaea, covered in green vines and shaded by palm trees. Here many of the women still wore black robes and kept most of their face covered; the men dressed in jellabas and sandals. Around tables in the cafés, some of which were directly below, the men drank coffee, smoked hashish pipes, played backgammon and talked noisily all day, ignoring the soldiers swarming up and down the pavements, hotly pursued by filthy, screaming bootblacks. It was a dreadfully noisy city, with radios blaring out shrill music and high-pitched singing, trams clattering to and fro, horse-drawn gharries clattering over loose stones, water gurgling from pipes and splashing onto the streets, and cars, including many military vehicles, roaring and honking in a never-ending traffic jam. It was also, as Greaves knew, a smelly city, but the closed window spared him that.
When he heard a knocking on the door, which was unlocked, he turned away from the window and told the visitor to enter. Stirling entered on crutches, his head almost scraping the top of the door frame. After kicking the door closed behind him, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning the crutches against the bed beside him.
‘I’ll be glad to get rid of these things,’ he said. ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
‘Whisky.’
‘Just the ticket,’ Stirling said. While Greaves was pouring him a drink, Stirling glanced around the room. ‘A nice hotel,’ he said without irony.
‘I think so,’ Greaves replied.
‘I notice it’s conveniently located almost directly opposite Sharia il Berka,’ Stirling continued, referring to the Berka quarter’s notorious street of brothels.
‘Quite so,’ Greaves replied solemnly. ‘That’s where the other ranks are commonly to be found with a much lower class of lady than you’ll find in this building.’
‘Such as Nurse Beamish.’
Greaves grinned. ‘Let us pray.’ He handed Stirling the glass of whisky.
‘Are you ready to leave?’ Stirling asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’ Stirling polished off the whisky in one gulp, handed the glass back to Greaves, picked up his crutches and awkwardly balanced himself between them.
‘How much longer will you need those things?’ Greaves asked.
‘I can actually walk without them,’ Stirling replied, ‘but for short distances only. Then my legs start hurting. However, I should be finished with them in a week or so. Well, let’s get at it.’
They left the room, took the lift down, crossed the lobby and went out of the hotel. Immediately, on the pavement outside, they were assailed by the bedlam of Cairo: blaring music, clattering backgammon pieces, the babble of conversation; the clanging and rattling of trams with conductors blowing their horns; and the roaring and honking of cars and military vehicles of all kinds, including the troop trucks of the Allied forces. To this deafening cacophony was added the growling and occasional screeching of the many aircraft flying overhead. They were also assailed by the city’s many pungent aromas: sweat and piss, tobacco and hashish, petrol and the smoke from charcoal braziers and exhausts; roasting kebabs, kuftas and ears of corn; rich spices and flowers.
‘The Land of the Four S’s,’ Greaves said, waving his hand to indicate the busy road and pavements, which were packed with Arabs in jellabas, women in black robes and veils, grimy, school-aged bootblacks, and the troops of many nations, most of them swarming through the city in search of a good time. ‘Sun, sand, sin and syphilis.’
‘You can think about those while you take your pleasure,’ Stirling replied. ‘For now, let’s stick to business.’ He turned to the jellaba-clad hotel doorman and spoke one word to him: ‘Taxi.’
‘Yes, sir!’ the doorman said in English, flashing his teeth and waving his hand frantically even before reaching the edge of the pavement.
Less than a minute later, Greaves and Stirling were sitting in the back of a sweltering taxi, heading for Middle East Headquarters.
As Greaves soon found out, even on crutches Stirling was both agile and adroit. When the taxi dropped them off at the main gates of MEHQ, he attempted to bluff his way in by pretending he had forgotten his papers and hoping that the sight of his crutches would dispel any doubts the guard might be harbouring. The ruse did not work, and although perfectly polite and sympathetic, the guard was adamant that Stirling could not enter without proper papers.
Unfazed, Stirling thanked the guard, turned away, manœuvred himself on his crutches to one end of the long double gates, then glanced up and down the road, ostensibly looking for another taxi. But, as his nod indicated to Greaves, he had noticed that there was a gap between the end of the guardhouse and the beginning of the barbed-wire fence, and clearly he intended slipping through it when the guard was not looking.
His chance came within minutes, when the guard was leaning down, his back turned to Stirling and Greaves, to check the papers of some officers in a staff car. As soon as the guard turned away, leaning down towards the side window of the car, Stirling dropped his crutches, waved to Greaves, then led him through the gap.
‘Act naturally,’ he said to Greaves while gritting his teeth against the pain of his unsupported legs and trying to walk as normally as possible. ‘Behave as if you belong here.’
Feeling an odd excitement, like a naughty schoolboy, Greaves followed Stirling across the field to the main building of MEHQ. Just as Stirling reached it, one of the guards called out to him – either he had recognized him or seen his crutches in the road – ordering him to return to the main gate. With surprising alacrity, considering the state of his legs, Stirling ignored the guard and hurried up the steps to enter the main building, with an excited and amused Greaves right behind him.
Once inside, Stirling marched resolutely, if at times unsteadily, along the first corridor he saw, searching for the office of the C-in-C. Before he found it, however, he heard the guard behind him, asking in a loud voice if anyone had seen two 8 Commando officers enter the building.
Immediately, Stirling opened the first door he saw, which was marked ‘Adjutant-General’. He came face to face with a startled Army major, who demanded to know what the hell he was doing bursting in unannounced. As Stirling was trying to explain who he was and what he wanted, the major, who turned out to be one of his old instructors from Pirbright, where Stirling had done his basic training, recognized him and became even angrier.
‘Still acting the bloody fool, are you?’ he climaxed after a lengthy tirade about Stirling’s unorthodox behaviour, past and present. ‘Well, not in this office, you don’t. Get out of here instantly!’
Greaves backed out first, followed by Stirling, who was, to his amazement, grinning broadly.
‘Worst instructor I ever had,’ he said coolly. ‘Come on, Dirk, let’s keep searching.’
‘I think we might be pushing our luck,’ Greaves warned him.
‘Tosh!’ Stirling barked.
Wincing occasionally from the pain in his unsupported legs, he led Greaves further along the corridor, brushing past many senior staff officers, looking for the office of the C-in-C.
‘That guard’s bound to be trying to find us,’ Greaves said, ‘so if we don’t come across the office of the C-in-C soon, he’ll be on our backs.’
Stirling stopped at a door marked ‘DCGS’. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, Dirk. Let’s try our luck in here.’ Boldly, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Greaves followed him in and closed the door behind him. Though bold in war, Greaves now suffered a racing heart at the thought of facing the Deputy Chief of General Staff without an appointment, let alone a pass into the building. His heart thumped even more when he saw the DCGS, General Neil Ritchie, looking up in surprise from his cluttered desk.
‘Who…?’
‘Lieutenant Stirling, Scots Guards, sir,’ Stirling interrupted breathlessly. ‘And Lieutenant Greaves, also Scots Guards. Both with 8 Commando and formerly part of Layforce.’
Before the general could respond or get over his surprise, Stirling apologized for bursting into the office, explained that there had been no time to arrange it and said that he had come on a matter of particular urgency.
‘It had better be,’ General Ritchie replied darkly. Then, distracted by Stirling’s ungainly stance, he asked, ‘Why are you standing in such an odd way, Lieutenant?’
‘Spot of bother with the legs, sir. Parachute drop. Just got out of the Scottish Military Hospital and had to leave my crutches at the gate when we sneaked into the camp.’
‘You came here on crutches?’ General Ritchie gazed at Stirling in disbelief, then smiled a little and leaned back in his chair. ‘You have five minutes, Lieutenant. Take that chair and rest your legs. Then you’d better start talking.’
Relieved, Stirling withdrew his memorandum from the inside pocket of his tunic, handed it to Greaves, then gratefully sank into the soft chair facing the desk while Greaves handed the memo to the DCGS. Ritchie read it carefully, taking rather longer than five minutes, then spread it carefully on the desk and looked up again.
‘Interesting.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It could work, but I’m not at all sure that the C-in-C would welcome such an unorthodox approach. A sniff of guerrilla operations there, Stirling, and General Wavell doesn’t approve of that business.’
‘That may be true, sir, but rumour has it that he’s under considerable pressure from Churchill to stop the relentless advance of Rommel.’
‘Those rumours are based on fact. Nevertheless, he may not thank me for this kind of proposal. A lot of risk involved, yes?’
‘It’s a safe bet for you, sir,’ Stirling said cleverly. ‘If things go wrong, the casualties will be few in number. If successful, they could change the course of the war in the desert and bring credit to all of us.’
Ritchie thought about it, then nodded in agreement. ‘All right, Lieutenant, I’ll bring the subject up with the C-in-C. If he’s interested I’ll show him your memorandum. You should hear from me within a matter of days. In the meantime, no more nonsense from you – such as this break-in. I’ll get a sentry to escort both you men out. Next time get a pass.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Stirling and Greaves said at once, with big, dopey grins.
The general picked up his phone and called for a guard. Five minutes later a triumphant Stirling and Greaves were being escorted out of MEHQ. As they passed through the main gates, the guard who had pursued them stepped out, grinning broadly, to hand Stirling his crutches.
‘Well done, sir,’ the guard said with a grin.
Stirling smiled back at him, put the crutches under his armpits, and waited patiently beside Greaves while the latter hailed a passing taxi.
‘Now we can only wait,’ Stirling said, ‘so let’s have a good time.’
Three days later, when Greaves and Stirling were beginning to feel more exhausted from having a good time than they ever had on an operation, Stirling received a call from the DCGS’s office, inviting him back to see General Ritchie.
While Stirling was at that meeting, Greaves enjoyed a long lunch with his attractive nurse, Frances, whom he had been wining, dining and bedding for the past two days and nights in his hotel. In fact, she had just left his room when Stirling turned up, flushed with excitement.
‘The meeting wasn’t just with General Ritchie,’ he told Greaves. ‘The C-in-C, General Auchinleck, was also there. So was the Chief of the General Staff.’
Greaves gave a low whistle of appreciation. ‘So, what transpired?’
‘Permission granted,’ Stirling said, ‘on the following conditions. I’ve just been promoted to captain. Five officers and sixty other ranks will be recruited. For the time being, we’ll recruit only from former Layforce men. We’ll train the men ourselves and prepare them for raids against five airfields Jerry is using as bases for his latest Me 109F fighters. Auchinleck felt that five-man teams are too awkward, so teams of four instead of five will be the operational basis of the raiding parties. Our parent body will be a non-existent Special Air Service Brigade, or L Detachment…’
‘Why “L”?’ Greaves interrupted.
Stirling’s grin was mischievous. ‘L for Learner. Anyway, that’s what we’re calling it: L Detachment, SAS Brigade. To Axis agents and others it should suggest that there are more than sixty-six parachutists in Egypt. Meanwhile, we can get on with the real business. Now let’s go and find some men.’
Jubilant, they embarked on a search of Cairo to find the men who would be the bedrock of L Detachment.
The first officer, Lieutenant William ‘Bill’ Bollington, they found immediately, in the bar of Shepheard’s Hotel, where Bollington was staying. A Gordon Highlander whose father and grandfather had been senior NCOs, he was instantly excited by the idea of a new raiding team and agreed to join them.
‘I strongly recommend Sergeant Ralph Lorrimer,’ he told them. ‘Dorset Regiment, but now with the LRDG. Apart from being a hell of an NCO in his own right, and an expert on the desert, he’d probably be your ticket to the LRDG. He’s also, incidentally, unbeatable with the Browning 12-gauge autoloader. A good man in a tight spot.’
‘Where will we find him?’
Lieutenant Bollington grinned and pointed down through his room window, in the direction of the Sharia il Berka. ‘Down there. He practically lives in Tiger Lil’s place. I think he keeps a room there.’
‘Very good,’ Stirling said. He and Greaves left the hotel and walked across to the notorious street of brothels. Tiger Lil’s was a gloomy, echoing barn of a place where the men queued up at the doors of the rooms, often peeping through keyholes to see how the first man was getting on and shouting words of encouragement: ‘Come on! Get on with it! We’re all waiting out here!’ Tiger Lil, the immense, good-natured madam, who was sitting behind the cash desk by the front door, told them the number of Lorrimer’s room. As they climbed the stairs, they came across many young girls, no more than eight or nine, who were running in and out of the rooms with towels, cleaning rags and bottles of Condy’s disinfectant.
When Stirling and Greaves reached the room which was, according to Tiger Lil, rented permanently by Lorrimer, Greaves hammered on the door with his fist and a gravelly male voice bid him enter. Doing so, he and Stirling found Sergeant Lorrimer, wearing his shirt and trousers, though bare-footed, stretched out on his bed, propped up slightly with pillows, reading the latest edition of The Strand.
Surprised to see two officers in his room, he slid his feet down to the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. He was of medium height, but broad-chested and muscular, with a handsome, world-weary face and a fearless, blue-eyed gaze.
‘Yes, sirs?’ he asked, clearly puzzled by their presence in his room.
Stirling introduced himself and Greaves, then explained why they had come. As soon as he had finished, Lorrimer agreed to join up.
‘Can you get us the cooperation of the LRDG?’ Stirling asked.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Excellent. Please get in touch with them immediately, then contact me here.’ He scribbled his brother’s private phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to Lorrimer. ‘That’s where I’m staying while I’m in Cairo. Get in touch when you’ve fixed up a meeting with the LRDG. If it can’t be arranged immediately, fix it up for later.’ He was leaving the room with Greaves when the latter, unable to contain his curiosity, turned back and asked Lorrimer: ‘Do you rent this room on a full-time basis, Sergeant?’
Lorrimer nodded. ‘Only during my leave periods,’ he said. ‘I’m a married man with three kids and a healthy sexual appetite. This room’s cheaper than anything else I could hire and the girls are conveniently located. What more could a man want?’
‘You’re a man of initiative,’ Greaves replied. ‘I think we made the right choice. See you soon, Sergeant.’
Their next stop was the MP barracks at Bab el Hadid, where one of Greaves’s favourite men, Captain Patrick ‘Paddy’ Callaghan, No 3 Commando, was languishing in one of the cells, pending a court martial for knocking out his commanding officer. Formerly an Irish rugby international and accomplished boxer, Callaghan was normally an amiable, courteous man, but unfortunately he had a violent temper. Indeed, before actually striking his commanding officer, Callaghan had run him out of the officers’ mess at the point of a bayonet. He was, nevertheless, an exceptional soldier who had already been mentioned in dispatches for his bravery in action.
When Stirling and Greaves proposed that he avoid his pending court martial by joining their new unit, he said, ‘Why not? I’m going out of my mind with boredom here. Count me in, gentlemen.’
The rest of the main group had to be searched out across the length and breadth of Cairo, in nightclubs such as Groppi’s, the Blue Nile and the Sweet Melody Cabaret where soldiers, sailors and airmen, drunk on the deadly Zebeeb, groped the ‘cherry brandy bints’; in the Union Jack pension with its egg ’n’ chips and Greek proprietor; in the numerous bars and brothels of the Berka; in the healthier Springbok Recreational Club at Helwan; in the surprisingly sedate Cairo Club, which was a services club reserved for sergeants and warrant officers; and in the Anglo-Egyptian Union, an officers’ club located outside the city.
From these and other places Stirling and Greaves, sometimes together, other times separately, trawled the rest of the men they personally knew, respected and wanted. These included Captain ‘Jock’ Lewes, Welsh Guards, former Layforce member, and the man who had made the first experimental static-line parachute jumps with Stirling. A superbly fit ex-Oxford rowing blue with a low boredom threshold, Lewes had already proven himself to be a superb exponent of night-time raids behind enemy lines in the Tobruk area. He also had a talent for devising training programmes and techniques, which Stirling intended putting to good use.
Finally, Stirling called for general volunteers, inviting them to a meeting in a tent in Geneifa, outside Cairo. Among those who came forward were Sergeants Bob Tappman, Pat Riley and Ernie Bond; Corporals Jim Almonds, ‘Benny’ Bennett, Jack ‘Taff’ Clayton and Reg Seekings; and Privates Neil Moffatt, Frank ‘Frankie’ Turner and Jimmy ‘Jimbo’ Ashman.
A few days later these men and more were gathered together at the chosen base camp at Kabrit, in the Suez Canal zone, to begin their special, brutal training.
They were called the ‘Originals’.

3 (#u45d3129f-2531-5d6a-9e97-79e589d4b4b5)
Located by the Great Bitter Lake, about 95 miles east of Cairo, and south of Aden, Kabrit was a desolate piece of flatland, fully exposed to the scorching sun, plagued by swarms of fat, black flies, and consisting of no more than three mouldering tents for the men, a command tent with a rickety card-table and stool, and one badly battered three-ton lorry.
‘Bloody hell!’ Corporal Jack ‘Taff’ Clayton said as soon as he had jumped down off the back of the three-tonner and was standing in a cloud of dust with the others. ‘There’s nothing here, lads!’
‘Not a damned thing,’ Private Frank ‘Frankie’ Turner agreed, swatting the buzzing flies from his sweating face. ‘No more than a piss-hole.’
The men were already wearing clothing more suitable to the desert: khaki shirt and shorts, regular Army boots with rolled-down socks, and a soft peaked cap instead of a helmet. Each man also had a Fairburn-Sykes commando knife and Browning 9mm handgun strapped to his waist.
‘Damned flies!’ Private Neil Moffatt complained.
‘Bloody hot!’ Corporal Jimmy ‘Jimbo’ Ashman exclaimed.
‘All right, you men!’ Sergeant Lorrimer bawled, his legs like tree-trunks in his floppy shorts, his hands on his broad hips. ‘Stop moaning and groaning. Go and put your kit in those tents, then come back out here.’
‘Yes, Sarge!’ they all chimed.
Picking their kit off the desert floor, they crossed to the three tents and wandered around them in disbelief.
‘These tents are in tatters,’ Neil observed mournfully, wiping the sweat from his face and neck with a piece of cloth that could have come from one of the tattered tents.
‘They’re also too small,’ Frankie Turner put in. ‘Might as well sleep out in the open for all the good these’ll do us.’
‘More holes than a fancy Eyetie cheese,’ Jimbo said, spitting on the ground between his feet. ‘And how the hell we’re all supposed to squeeze in there, I can’t imagine. I think this calls for a talk with our soft-voiced friend, Sergeant Lorrimer.’
‘Right,’ Taff said. ‘Let’s pitch our gear temporarily in a tent, then we’ll go and sort this out.’ He ducked low to enter one of the tents and was immediately followed in by some of the others. The tents had been raised over the desert floor; there were no beds or groundsheets. ‘Fucking beautiful!’ Taff exclaimed. ‘We’re supposed to lie on the bloody sand and get eaten alive. Not me, mate.’ Dropping his kit on the ground, he ducked low again and left the tent. The others did the same and gathered outside, where Lorrimer had indicated.
Lorrimer was over by the three-tonner, deep in conversation with Captains Stirling and Callaghan and Lieutenant Greaves. While the men waited for him to come over they had a ‘smoko’, which helped to keep the flies at bay.
‘I can tell we’re all going to be driven mad here,’ Jimbo said, ‘by these bloody flies and mosquitoes.’
‘Creepy-crawlies as well,’ Frankie said darkly.
‘Snakes, scorpions, spiders, ticks, midges,’ Neil said mournfully. ‘You name it, we’ve got it here all right. We’ll be eaten alive.’
‘Dust,’ Taff said, flicking ash from his cigarette and watching it fall to the desert floor, on all its hidden horrors. ‘Sandstorms…Burning hot days, freezing nights…I feel ill already.’
‘What are those two bastards talking about?’ Frankie asked, gazing at Lorrimer and Stirling.
‘We’re about to find out,’ Jimbo said, ‘and I’m not sure I want to know.’
Eventually Stirling climbed up onto the back of the three-tonner and Lorrimer bawled that the men were to gather around. This they all did, most still smoking and puffing clouds of smoke.
‘Sorry, lads, about the state of this place,’ Stirling said, waving his right hand to indicate the tents behind the men, ‘but I’m sure we can do something to improve on it.’
‘With what?’ Jimbo called out.
‘Shut your mouth, soldier, and let the boss speak!’ Lorrimer bawled.
‘Boss?’ Taff whispered to Frankie. ‘Did he use the word “boss”?’
‘SILENCE!’ Lorrimer roared.
‘I appreciate your frustration, lads,’ Stirling continued, ‘but all is not lost. Indeed, I’m led to believe that there’s a splendid Allied camp about fifteen miles south of here, where the New Zealanders, in particular, live rather well.’
‘Is that some kind of message?’ Neil asked.
Stirling’s manner was deadpan. ‘Without being too specific, let me merely remind you that your first priority is to complete the construction of this base camp by whatever means are at your disposal. I’ll be returning to Cairo immediately to collect more vehicles from the Royal Corps of Transport and weapons from the armoury at Geneifa. When I get back here I expect to find things greatly improved. How you do it is not my concern; nor will I be here to witness it. I can only add the information that the Kiwis will be away from their base on manœuvres most of tonight and their tents will therefore be empty. That’s all. Class dismissed.’
Taking the hint, a dozen of the men drove in the battered three-tonner that same evening to the large, fenced compound fifteen miles away, stretched out across a dusty plain above the Mediterranean and being used by British, Australian and Indian troops, as well as the Kiwis.
Deciding that the only thing to do was bluff it, Jimbo drove boldly through the main gate as if they belonged there. ‘New Zealand Division!’ Taff yelled as the lorry passed the bored Indian guard. Receiving no more than a nod of permission from the guard, Jimbo continued driving, passing row upon row of tents, tanks, other armoured vehicles and the many trucks of first the British, then the Indian lines, until arriving at the New Zealand area. There he switched off the headlights and the rest of the men piled out, letting their eyes adjust to the darkness, then using torches to locate what they needed in the tents temporarily vacated by the Kiwis.
It took them quite a while, but it was well worth the effort, for they managed to pile the three-tonner high with lamps, tables, chairs, steel lockers, washbasins, mirrors, cooking utensils, proper camp beds, mattresses, sheets, towels, portable showers and latrines, tents large and small, camouflage netting, and even crates of beer and spirits.
‘Come on, lads!’ Taff whispered when they had been busily thieving for an hour. ‘Let’s take this lot back to base. Then we’ll return for some more.’
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve,’ Jimbo said, grinning.
‘Piece of piss,’ Taff replied.
They made three runs in all, boldly driving in and out of the camp, waving cheerily at the Indian guard and passing the British and Indian lines as if they belonged there. Eventually, even the daring Taff checked his watch, noted that it was almost dawn, and became a bit nervous.
‘Let’s pack it in and get out of here,’ he told them. ‘It’ll soon be first light and the Kiwis will probably return then. We can’t afford to get caught now.’
‘Right,’ Frankie agreed. ‘Let’s get going.’
They were hurrying out of the last, largest tent, obviously used as a mess tent, when the musically inclined Jimbo stopped, stared lovingly at a dust-covered item in one corner, near a long trestle table, and said, ‘Oh, God, look at that beauty!’
‘What?’ Neil asked, perplexed.
‘I want her. I need her!’
The rest stared at Jimbo as if he was mad. ‘Are you kidding?’ Frankie asked eventually. ‘That’s a bloody piano!’
Jimbo ran his fingers lovingly over the keyboard without making any sound. ‘A real darlin’, lads. Going to waste here. It could cheer things up a bit in our mess – when we get a mess going. What about it?’
‘Jesus, Jimbo!’
‘We could have a regular Saturday night. Make the beer slip down even smoother. Come on, lads, let’s grab it.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Taff said, exasperated and amused at the same time. ‘Just grab the bloody thing and let’s go. Move it, lads! Now!’
The piano was humped onto the lorry, easily placed there because this last load was light, then the dozen men climbed up to seat themselves around it. Jimbo then drove boldly back through the camp and waved as usual to the Indian guard at the main gate. The latter, seeing the piano, looked suspicious for the first time, but Jimbo was off and gone in a cloud of dust before he could be stopped.
Once back at Kabrit, where the sun was shedding dawn light over the Great Bitter Lake, painting it crimson, the men unloaded their last haul, had a brew-up and cold breakfast to get them through to lunchtime. They then enthusiastically raised the brand-new tents they had stolen, camouflaged them with the netting, filled them with beds, steel lockers, tables and chairs, hung mirrors from the uprights, filled the lockers with their belongings, and placed family photos on their tables and cupboards.
When their sleeping arrangements had been sorted out, they raised the biggest tent, to be used as the mess tent, helped the cook set up his kitchen, carried in the long trestle tables and chairs, stacked the crates of beer and spirits beside a refrigerator run off a portable electric generator, and finally wheeled the piano in.
Jimbo stood back to admire it. ‘Looks beautiful, don’t it?’
‘A real treat,’ Frankie told him. ‘What about a tune?’
‘You mean now?’
‘Why not? Having just nicked it, we’d like to know if you can actually play the fucking thing.’
‘I can play,’ Jimbo said.
When he had expertly given them a Vera Lynn medley, his fingers light on the keys, they all gathered outside to help two former REME men raise the portable showers and thunderboxes. Jimbo had an experimental shit and pronounced the latrines operational. For the rest of the hour leading up to lunchtime, there was a general rush to make use of them.
Later that day Stirling returned from Cairo in a jeep, leading a convoy of other jeeps and lorries for the use of L Detachment. When the vehicles had been parked, the Royal Corps of Transport drivers climbed into a Bedford and were driven back to their own base at Geneifa. Stirling then told his SAS troopers to unload the assortment of large and small weapons he had brought in one of the lorries. These included the brand-new Sten gun, Vickers and Browning heavy machine-guns, the M1 Thompson sub-machine-gun, and the obligatory Bren light machine-gun. These were stacked up in one of the smaller tents, to be used as an armoury under the charge of Corporal Jim Almonds.
By nightfall, when the burning heat was being replaced by freezing cold, the desolate ‘piss-hole’ of Kabrit was a well-equipped operational base and Jimbo was playing the piano in the noisy mess tent.

4 (#u45d3129f-2531-5d6a-9e97-79e589d4b4b5)
Their training began at first light the next day with a more intensive weapons course than any of them had ever undergone before. Assuming that their greatest need would be for a barrage of fire at relatively close range to cover a hasty retreat after acts of sabotage, Sergeant Lorrimer gave only cursory attention to the standard bolt-action rifles and instead concentrated on the new 9mm Sten sub-machine-gun. This was only 762mm long, weighed a mere 3.70kg, was cheap and crude in construction, with a simple metal stock and short barrel, yet could fire 550 rounds per minute from 32-round box magazines and had an effective range of 45 yards.
To cover the same needs, great attention was also given to the M1 Thompson sub-machine-gun, better known as the ‘tommy-gun’ and immortalized by the Hollywood gangster movies of the 1930s and early 40s. A heavier, more accurate and powerful weapon, the tommy-gun had a solid wooden stock and grip, a longer barrel, and could fire 11.43 rounds at the rate of 700 per minute from 30-round box magazines, with an effective range of 60 yards.
Everyone was also retrained in the use of the 0.5-inch Browning heavy machine-gun, which could fire 400–500 rounds per minute from a belt feed, and was effective up to 1600 yards; the beloved Bren gun, the finest light machine-gun in existence, which could fire 520 rounds per minute from 30-round box magazines and was effective up to 650 yards; and finally the lethal Vickers ‘K’ .303-inch machine-gun, actually an aircraft weapon, which fired 500 rounds per minute from 100-round magazines filled with a mixture of tracer, armour-piercing incendiary and ball bullets.
This stage of the training was undertaken on a primitive firing range that was really no more than a flat stretch of desert, baked by a fierce sun, often covered in wind-blown dust, forever filled with buzzing flies and whining mosquitoes, and with crudely painted targets raised on wooden stakes at the far end, overlooking the glittering Great Bitter Lake. The firing range was also used for training in the use of 500g and 1kg hand-grenades, including the pineapple-shaped ‘36’ grenade and captured German ‘potato mashers’, which had a screw-on canister at one end, a screw cap at the other and a wooden handle.
‘These Kraut grenades are better than ours,’ Frankie observed, ‘because this nice long wooden handle makes them easier to throw.’
In fact, most of the men, once over their initial nervousness, enjoyed throwing all kind of grenades and watching the great mushrooms of sand, soil and gravel boiling up from the desert floor with a deafening roar. It made them feel powerful.
‘I can’t imagine any fucker surviving that,’ Jimbo said with satisfaction after a particularly good throw that had blown away a whole strip of the escarpment on which they were training.
‘They do survive, Private,’ Lorrimer corrected him. ‘You’d be amazed at what those Krauts can survive, so don’t get too cocky. You throw a grenade, think it’s blown the target to hell, so stand up feeling good…and you get your balls shot off by the Jerries you thought you’d killed. Take nothing for granted, lad.’
‘Thanks for the encouragement, Sarge. I feel really good now.’
‘NEXT!’ Lorrimer bawled.
Training in demolition, which also took place on the firing range, was given by Sergeant Derek Leak, former Royal Engineer sapper and ammunition technician with the Royal Army Ordnance Corps. A watchful, humourless man who had been burnt and scarred by the many accidents of his profession, he demanded their full attention when he taught them about low explosives, such as gunpowder, and high explosives, such as RDX or PETN, requiring initiators or time fuses and firing caps. Lessons were given not only in the handling of such explosives, but in precisely how they should be placed in a variety of circumstances, such as the blowing up of aircraft, bridges, roads or buildings, as well as the setting of booby-traps.
‘I hate this shit,’ Jimbo complained to his mates as he nervously connected a time fuse to a nonelectric firing cap. ‘It gives me the willies.’
‘Yeah,’ Frankie said sardonically, ‘we can see that by the shaking of your hands.’
‘This stuff is dangerous, lads,’ Jimbo reminded them, trying to steady his hands. ‘One mistake and it’ll blow you to hell and back.’
‘It isn’t that bad,’ Taff said, not handling it himself and therefore able to be more objective. ‘It isn’t really as dangerous as people think…if you handle it properly.’
‘Is that so?’ Neil asked morosely. ‘Have you noticed Leak’s face? He’s got more scars than fucking Frankenstein – and they all came from accidental explosions.’
‘And he’s a former sapper,’ Jimbo said. ‘An explosives specialist! So don’t tell me it’s safe.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Jimbo,’ Taff exclaimed, suddenly nervous, ‘keep those bleedin’ hands steady! You almost dropped that bloody stuff then.’
Jimbo managed to insert the fuse into the firing cap, then sat back and smirked. ‘Piece of piss,’ he said. ‘I believe you’re the next to try this, Taff. I just hope you’ve got steady hands.’
As the training continued, with radio, first aid, nocturnal navigation, and enemy vehicle and aircraft recognition added to the growing list of skills to be learned by the men, it became apparent to them all that they were in a combat unit like no other, with no distinction in rank and everyone, including the officers, compelled to meet the same exacting standards.
The informality went beyond that. The word ‘boss’, first used, perhaps accidentally, by Sergeant Lorrimer, gradually replaced ‘sir’ and so-called ‘Chinese parliaments’, in which decisions were agreed between officers and other ranks after informal discussion, became commonplace. This in turn increased the mutual trust between the men and greatly enhanced the feasibility of the four-man patrol. Also, as each of the four men had a specialist skill – driver/mechanic, navigator, explosives and first aid – but all had been cross-trained to do the other men’s jobs if required, this made them uniquely interdependent.

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