by Damien Lewis
Books by
DAMIEN LEWIS
Churchill’s Shadow Raiders
Churchill’s Hellraisers
Churchill’s Band of Brothers
CHURCHILL’S BAND OF
WWII’s Most Daring D-Day Mission and the Hunt to Take Down Hitler’s Fugitive War Criminals
CITADEL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
CITADEL PRESS BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 Omega Ventures Maps © Bill Swainson
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Quercus,
an Hachette UK company.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders. However, the publishers will be glad to rectify in future editions any inadvertent omissions brought to their attention.
CITADEL PRESS and the Citadel logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-8065-4136-5
Electronic edition:
ISBN-13: 978-0-8065-4138-9 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 0-8065-4138-5 (e-book)
PICTURE CREDITS
1, 6, 16 – Imperial War Museum/Public Domain: 2 – Public Domain: 3, 28, 34 – Mayne family
private collection: 4, 5, 8, 10, 11, 18, 20 – Dumfries Museum: 7 – Paradata/Airborne Assault Museum:
9 – National Army Museum/Public Domain: 12, 22, 26 – Sean Garstin: 13 – © Collection Adrien
et Antoinette Wiehe, Source – Lieutenant John H. Wiehe (1916–1965) – Album Illustré – STREAK
DESIGNS Ltd & CORÉTRA Ltd (2016): 14 – Alamy: 15, 25 – German Federal Archive/Public
Domain: 17, 19 – USAAF Archives/Public Domain: 21, 27 – Air Commando/Serge Vaculik: 23 – Getty
Images: 24 – Bundesarchiv, Bild 101III-Alber-096-11/Alber, Kurt/CC-BY-SA 3.0: 29, 36, 37 – National
Archives: 30, 38 – Courtesy of the family of Eric ‘Bill’ Barkworth: 31, 33, 39 – Phil Rhodes:
32 – Simon Kinder: 35, 40 – Chris Drakes: 41 – James Irvine
For Captain Patrick Garstin, MC and the men
of the SABU-70 patrol – those who made it home again
and those who did not.
And for all those drawn into the Nacht und Nebel –
the night and fog.
The hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men.
Henry David Thoreau
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
Author’s Note
There are sadly few survivors from the Second World War operations depicted in these pages. Throughout the period of researching and writing this book I have sought to be in contact with as many as possible, plus surviving family members of those who have passed away. If there are further witnesses to the stories told here who are inclined to come forward, please do get in touch, as I will endeavour to include further recollections of the operations portrayed in this book in future editions.
The time spent by Allied servicemen and women as Special Service volunteers was often traumatic and wreathed in layers of secrecy, and many chose to take their stories to their graves. Memories tend to differ and apparently none more so than those concerning operations behind enemy lines. The written accounts that do exist tend to differ in their detail and timescale, and locations and chronologies are sometimes contradictory. Nevertheless, I have endeavoured to provide an accurate sense of place, timescale and narrative to the story as depicted in these pages.
Where various accounts of a mission appear to be particularly confused, the methodology I have used to reconstruct where, when and how events took place is the ‘most likely’ scenario. If two or more testimonies or sources point to a particular time or place or sequence of events, I have opted to use that account as most likely.
The above notwithstanding, any mistakes herein are entirely of my own making, and I would be happy to correct any in future editions. Likewise, while I have attempted to locate the copyright holders of the photos, sketches and other images and material used in this book, this has not always been straightforward or easy. Again, I would be happy to correct any mistakes in future editions.
Some of those individuals who took part in Operation Toby 3 may also have been part of the previous SABU-70 mission, at Dourdan and Étampes. In spite of exhaustive researches, I have been unable to verify the exact make-up of SAS Captain Garstin’s stick – his patrol – during that first mission, other than those names that I have mentioned in the text. If any reader is able to shed clarity on this point, please do get in touch.
Curiously, I can find no official report or war diary entry dealing with SABU-70’s first mission. Not all small-scale raids were documented, of course, and most if not all of the men on that mission were subsequently captured or killed or forced to go on the run. There are several first-hand accounts of the mission, including ones written by Vaculik, Wiehe and Jones, the key survivors. Those accounts corroborate each other on many levels. Still, I would be keen to learn more about SABU-70’s first mission.
Chapter 1
Barely a week after the D-Day landings the shadowed form of the Short Stirling heavy bomber clawed into the unseasonable June skies, getting airborne under cover of darkness. Hunched over the controls in the dimly lit cockpit of this often underrated yet peculiarly graceful warplane was the pilot for tonight, Flight Sergeant Sutherland, a man who would go on to win a Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) before the year was out, during the ill-fated airborne missions over Arnhem, on Operation Market Garden.
Sutherland and his crew were on no bombing mission this 13 June night. The first four-engine ‘heavy’ to see service with the RAF, the Stirling had been deemed largely obsolete by 1942, as the Avro Lancaster came into service. But this iconic warplane had gone on to acquire a second lease of life, as the foremost aircraft delivering SAS raiding parties, plus agents of the SOE –the Special Operations Executive, more commonly known as Churchill’s Ministry for Ungentlemanly Warfare – deep into enemy-occupied lands.
Tonight’s was a hybrid mission born of those two outfits: it was very much an SAS undertaking, but one orchestrated by the SOE, who had arranged both the drop-zone and the reception party that should be waiting on the ground.
As a lone aircraft flying low at night across hundreds of miles of hostile airspace to an – at best – uncertain rendezvous, the Stirling had proven a remarkably tough and reliable workhorse, one able to take considerable punishment. Despite her size and weight, the aircraft had also shown herself t
o be surprisingly nimble and manoeuvrable when forced to shake off the Luftwaffe night-fighters, or evade the enemy’s deadly radar-directed searchlights and flak. Considering the Stirling’s sheer dimensions – at just short of 70 feet from nose to tail, she was a good 16 feet longer than the Lancaster, and stood higher off the ground – this was no mean achievement for such an imposing warplane.
As with all aircrew of 190 Squadron – one of the few RAF units dedicated to special forces operations – Sutherland and his fellows knew precious little about tonight’s mission or the brave men they were flying into war. Codenamed ‘SABU-70’ – SABU being this unit’s radio call-sign, and very likely an abbreviation for the SAS catchphrase ‘Safe All Business As Usual’ – this was the first ‘stick’ (patrol) of several that would follow. With each, the aircrew would know only the bare bones of the operation: timings, destination and the criteria upon which to determine if the drop should go ahead or not.
Aircrew logbooks generally recorded scant details for such ‘Sunflower’ flights, as the RAF codenamed these top-secret missions. Pilots were deliberately kept in the dark, for obvious reasons. If a Stirling were to be shot down and its crew captured, the enemy had ways of forcing even the toughest to talk. Any knowledge aircrew might possess of an SAS patrol’s intentions could prove fatal, and what a man didn’t know he couldn’t tell. On the rare occasions when pilots such as Sutherland did learn more – a mission objective; the specific target details – it meant that someone had been talking out of turn. And in the summer of ’44, careless talk really did cost lives.
As the Stirling swooped across the Sussex coastline, powering on towards the cliffs of France, Sutherland took the aircraft down to just a few hundred feet above sea level, the warplane’s elusive silhouette flitting across the ink-black seas. During an English summer sunset can be as late as 9.30 p.m., and normally the light lingers long in the skies. The June ’44 weather had proven storm-lashed and overcast, but it was still well after last light by the time Sutherland got airborne. All being well, his human cargo would be plunging into the war-torn skies in the early hours of the morrow – 14 June 1944.
There was little doubt that they would jump – every man jack of them, and no matter what the conditions might be like over the drop-zone. While they might know precious little about tonight’s mission, Sutherland and his men had few illusions as to the calibre of those riding in the Stirling’s hold. One glance at their distinctive berets, mysterious winged-dagger cap badges and the medal flashes many wore on their uniforms testified to the single-minded determination and courage – not to mention the long years at war – of the SAS raiding party.
All the 190 Squadron aircrews shared that same appreciation. ‘These special troops are the most decorated men I have ever seen,’ one pilot would remark, ‘especially the officers – quite a number have the DSO and bar. There is quite a collection of “vets” in the mess these days.’
The Stirling powered onwards through the darkness, speeding SABU-70’s commander, Captain Patrick Bannister Garstin, MC, and the eleven men under his command to war, the sonorous thunder of the warplane’s four Bristol Hercules powerplants reverberating through the hold, providing a steady soundtrack to the coming mission. The fact that there were four engines – capable of propelling the aircraft through the skies at some 270 mph –was, of course, a distinct bonus: it meant they could afford to lose one at least to enemy action, and the Stirling should still remain airworthy. Compared to what had gone before, that was a real blessing.
Prior to the Stirling making an appearance, such missions had mostly been flown by the twin-engine Armstrong Whitworth Whitley, a medium bomber more affectionately known as ‘the Flying Barn Door’. Compared to the Whitley, the Stirling was almost luxurious. There were seats ranged in rows down either side, offering space for twenty-plus paratroopers – more than enough for Garstin and his men. By contrast, in the Whitley they’d been forced to squat on the icy metal of the fuselage, legs concertinaed against the far side. Fitted with seats, weapons racks and stowage bays for packs and personal gear, the Stirling felt positively made for airborne operations.
But the very best thing was the Stirling’s exit point, known to all as ‘the trap’. In the Whitley, the dorsal (ventral) gun turret had been replaced by a narrow steel tube not dissimilar to a dustbin. Through that horribly constricting orifice each parachutist had had to drop vertically, arms tight by his sides, risking smashing his forehead against the far side – known fatalistically as the ‘Whitley kiss’ or ‘ringing the bell’. By contrast, the Stirling’s trap – which resembled a large bathtub sunk into the floor where the bomb-bay used to be – was a positively cavernous aperture through which to jump.
As the Stirling thundered across the night-dark waters of the Channel, the interior grew positively chilly, and Captain Garstin and his men drew their distinctive jump-smocks closer, to ward off the icy cold. Somewhere there would be the rum-jar to warm bellies and stiffen spirits. It was Lieutenant John H. Wiehe’s job to remember the all-important rum, and he was usually a stickler for such things. Garstin’s second-in-command, Wiehe had spent four long years at war, during which time he’d soldiered his way across half the world, earning the nickname ‘Lt Rex’ in the process, for few could pronounce his surname properly.
One of two French-speakers on Garstin’s team, Wiehe would have a crucial role on the coming mission. Hailing from Mauritius, the tropical paradise islands set in the midst of the Indian Ocean, Wiehe’s family had Danish heritage – hence the surname – plus French and British colonial roots, leaving him fluent in both languages. When his Danish forebears had journeyed to Mauritius to set up home, they’d established vast sugarcane plantations, building up a considerable family fortune and founding the Labourdonnais estate, the centrepiece of which was a beautiful, colonnaded colonial-style mansion.
Mauritius had been a British colony since 1810, and come war’s outbreak, Wiehe – not yet twenty-four years of age – had answered Churchill’s call to arms, sailing via South Africa, arriving in Egypt on 7 January 1941, whereupon he’d signed up with the Royal Engineers and trained in the hazardous duties of bomb disposal. His war journal would record his tumultuous North African experiences: while ‘bullets, bombs and shells cause death . . . or mutilate bodies . . . it doesn’t take as much to mutilate minds.’
From there, via an extraordinarily tortuous route, Wiehe had made it into the SAS, and he could have wished for no better commander than Captain Pat Garstin to lead him and the others into war. Around 6 feet 2 in height, athletic of build, with sweptback, somewhat unruly dark brown hair, Garstin had a rare intensity to his coal-black gaze and striking good looks. He also had a singularly impressive combat record, plus he was possessed of more reasons than most to hunger to take the fight to the enemy.
Born in Bombay in July 1919, Garstin hailed from a long-lived military and ecclesiastical tradition. The family was descended from ‘the ancient house of Garston . . . Lords of the Manor of Walton in the 13th Century’, Walton then being a parish in the northeast of England. After emigrating to Ireland, the Garstins settled in County Meath, to the north of Dublin, though Patrick Garstin’s father, Richard Hart Garstin, was born in Randalstown, in County Antrim. Having joined the Royal Indian Marines, Richard Hart Garstin fought in the First World War, before serving in the Royal Indian Navy during the inter-war years, during which time his son, Patrick, was born.
Richard Garstin had already won a Croix de Guerre – a French decoration for acts of heroism – in the First World War, and the entire Garstin family had been heavily involved from the earliest months of the Second. While Patrick Garstin had earned his Military Cross in spring 1940, serving with the British Expeditionary Force in Belgium, he also had two younger brothers serving in the military, and his father would go on to be awarded the CBE in August 1941, for his role in a top-secret naval operation.
That mission, Operation Countenance, was the joint Anglo-Russian seizure of Iran. A senior nava
l officer commanding the seaborne side of Countenance, Richard Garstin had led the assault from the waters of the Persian Gulf, striking in a swift and surprise attack. Iran was taken within days, securing her precious oilfields from Nazi Germany’s predations. But a year later, Richard Garstin was lost to enemy action in horrifying circumstances.
It was October 1942, and while serving as the Vice Commodore of Ocean Convoys he had been sailing from West Africa to Britain aboard the SS Stentor, a merchant ship carrying a cargo of palm oil. For seven days and seven nights the forty-strong convoy was stalked by German U-boats. When U509 unleashed her torpedoes on the lead vessel, the Stentor, one struck on the starboard side, the massive explosion throwing up the palm oil in a horrific, fiery conflagration, rendering the entire ship and surrounding water a mass of boiling flame.
Those who could dived into the sea to save themselves. The lucky ones were hauled onto one of the escorts, the Royal Navy corvette HMS Woodruff. But amongst the 200-odd survivors –many of whom were terribly burned – Vice Commodore Garstin was nowhere to be found. Badly injured in the blast, he had gone down with the ship, as did both the Stentor’s captain and the ship’s surgeon, William Chisholm. Chisholm had remained at Garstin’s side to the very last, tending to his wounds, even at the risk of his own life. He would be awarded the Albert Medal posthumously.
Having lost his father so tragically, Captain Patrick Garstin was even more determined to play his part in the war. He was twenty-four years of age in the summer of 1944, and his and his wife’s first child, named Patrick after his father, would very likely have his first birthday while his father was away on operations. Regardless, Captain Garstin was heading deep into enemy-occupied France with fiery havoc and mayhem in mind.
