by Damien Lewis
Only when he reached the craggy, towering expanse of Gran Sasso d’Italia – the highest mountain in the Apennines, with an elevation of 9,554 feet – did Almonds take a proper break. He was now some eighty miles south of his point of departure. Here, he finally ‘took time off’ from his escape and evasion, not to rest as one might have expected, but to explore what he found to be a uniquely beautiful mountain. Almonds had always been enamoured by the natural world and years later, when asked about his time in the SAS, it was his experiences of the physical landscape, not the many daring raids, that he would most often come to mind.
He had felt an enormous affinity with the North African desert, wishing he could have stayed there for a year or more, for he could ‘see a lot in the desert’. Almonds noticed far more than simply ‘sand and so on’, being alert to the rich history of the Sahara, revealed in the shells and fossils that lay hidden among the sand grains and gravel. He was convinced there was ‘an awful lot to be learned there’, about both the region’s past and its present.
Almonds’ thoughtful, contemplative nature had helped earn him his nickname in the SAS – ‘Gentleman Jim’. He would explain away this unusual moniker in typical, self-deprecating tones, it being all about the fact that he didn’t swear or smoke and was ‘a quiet person’. Anyone who ever faced uncertainty or was unsure of a situation would tend to seek out Almonds for a chat and some guidance. ‘I had a lot of people come and talk to me,’ he remarked.
But there was another side to Almonds, who was quite clear about the fact that in war, ‘I still had to do my job.’ In the SAS, that meant undertaking fearsome missions, often deep behind the lines and at enormous personal risk. In truth, Almonds’ ‘gentlemanly’ exterior masked an iron-willed self-discipline and control, which rendered him calm, unflappable and deadly when under fire. It was her father’s wont to run to the sound of the guns, Almonds’ daughter, Lorna Almonds-Windmill, would point out, something most clearly evidenced by the very raid that had ended in his capture.
Stirling described it as ‘the most important and least successful operation’ they had ever attempted – a mass raid on ‘harbour installations and shipping at Benghazi’. That raid – codenamed, with typical chutzpah, Operation Bigamy – was supposed to take place on the same night as the SAS/SIG raid on Tobruk, over two hundred miles to the east (where Lieutenant Thomas Langton and his crew evaded capture and began their epic bid for freedom). Operation Bigamy was designed to sow confusion among the ranks of the enemy, distracting them from the main strike at Tobruk. But crucially, it was a mission not designed by the raiders themselves, but by Middle East Headquarters.
The plan was for Stirling to lead a convoy carrying two hundred men into Benghazi, on a raid designed to wreck its harbour facilities. Almonds – greatly trusted by Stirling – was tasked with his own special responsibility. Once inside the city he and his two accomplices would drive their American-made pick-up truck, loaded to the gunnels with explosives, directly to the main port. There they would hijack a tugboat and use it to tow a larger ship to the entrance of the port, using limpet mines to sink it. With the harbour thus blocked, enemy ships would be unable to exit, leaving them sitting ducks for the raiders.
Almonds feared the Benghazi raid was too ambitious in scope and scale for it to be successful, or for the SAS to maintain the all-important element of surprise. He was proved right. As Stirling’s force approached Benghazi, they became delayed, for the trucks – laden with weapons and ammo – had trouble crossing the desert. They were supposed to attack under cover of darkness but, with dawn fast approaching, Stirling ordered Almonds’ vehicle to the front of the column, as he had the furthest to travel, making for the harbour mouth. Together with Almonds were two gunners – an Irish Guardsman called Fletcher and a Scotsman, McGinn.
With Almonds now in the vanguard, the lead vehicles advanced, ‘whereupon they were met with intense fire at close quarters from concealed MG [machine gun], Breda guns, Mortars and rifles’, the official report on Operation Bigamy recorded. The enemy were waiting in well-prepared ambush positions. The lead vehicles ‘immediately countered with heavy fire,’ the report continued, ‘but it remained impossible to locate the exact position of the enemy posts, for they had covered their weapons with blankets, which eliminated the flashes produced when they fired and rendered them almost invisible’. By now, Almonds’ vehicle, which was packed full of explosives, was well inside the enemy’s defences. To make matters worse, it was under heavy fire, with no space to turn back due to the narrow road.
As Stirling would later learn, the enemy had had forewarning of the attack and had taken all possible steps to prepare for it, evacuating the civilian population, while getting a force of ‘200 German machine gunners’ into prime defensive positions. Whoever was to blame for the mess-up, by the time Stirling and the main SAS force had managed to withdraw, Almonds and his crew were missing, presumed killed in action, for they were ‘last seen vigorously returning enemy fire’.
In fact, Almonds had realised that it was only a matter of time before their heavily laden vehicle exploded. He and his men had leapt from it – McGinn running back down the track after the retreating Stirling, and Almonds and Fletcher diving for cover. Behind them the pick up took a direct hit from an incendiary bullet and burst into flames. Almonds and Fletcher evaded capture for hours, but with the sun rising higher and enemy patrols hunting them everywhere, they had no choice but to give themselves up. Hands raised, they surrendered to a group of Italian soldiers.
Taken to the enemy garrison at Benghazi, they were thrown into shackles, chained in an agonising crouch position, with both wrists attached to one ankle. Simply remaining like that for any extended period of time became torture, but that was nothing compared to the psychological ordeal that was to follow. Almonds and Fletcher were subjected to interrogation by the Italians, and when Almonds refused to divulge any useful information, he was subjected to terrible acts of humiliation, including repeated mock executions, of which he was unable to speak for decades after the war.
The memory of this ordeal in the desert spurred Almonds onwards during his escape through Italy, for he was determined never again to become a captive. After his short excursion around the peak of Gran Sasso d’Italia, he resumed his march southwards. At times he would run steadily, covering around twenty miles a day across rugged terrain. His main challenge was finding enough food to maintain such a level of physical activity, but thankfully his time in the SAS had left him fully prepared to beg, borrow or steal whatever he needed.
Almonds had excelled at this during training, describing how his instructors would set the men a list of things they had to ‘bring in’, such as ‘a lady’s bicycle, a cockerel, a hen, a bit of car or bus’. They were permitted to utilise ‘any means necessary’ to acquire these objects. It was a test of character – to see if they had what it took – and Almonds passed with flying colours. It made for a really ‘exciting type of life’, he recalled, especially as they were able to pilfer at will and without any fear of any repercussions. Few among them would choose to ‘beg or borrow’ when they were ordered to go out and steal.
As he pressed onwards through the Abruzzi Apennines, following the route to Campobasso, a mountainous city lying some 150 miles south of his point of departure, Almonds gathered what sustenance he could in the wild, or would ‘pinch things’ from gardens and vegetable plots. It was not very much, but he was used to marching for miles with nothing but ‘a bottle of water and a bag of raisins’ from his time under the tuition of Jock Lewes and his intensive training methods.
Prior to joining the SAS, Almonds and Lewes had served together in 8 Commando. There, Lewes had recruited Almonds into an elite reconnaissance unit that had undertaken many clandestine missions on the no-man’s-land of the Tobruk perimeter. When Lewes had announced that he was leaving the Commandos to assist in the formation of a new raiding unit, he had invited his best and brightest to go w
ith him, Almonds among them. Thinking of Lewes, Almonds wondered how many more of his SAS comrades had been killed in action during the year he had spent as a captive. He felt hugely grateful for Lewes’s training, not least because that extremely tough regime had done more to prepare Almonds for a long run on minimal rations than anything else might have done.
Almonds also reflected on the members of the camp escape committee that he had left behind, experiencing a pang of guilt for breaking out without them. Ever since his time in the Coldstream Guards, he had cherished the strong bonds formed between fellow soldiers and prided himself on being a team player. Later, Almonds would sum this up by saying that whatever happened, ‘You shouldn’t let your mates down.’ But in his diary, written during the early days of the SAS, he’d been far more forthright and emotional.
Almonds had been stood down for Operation Squatter, the SAS’s first ever mission, because his infant son was critically ill back in England. Forced to remain behind, he had fretted as the wind howled and the heavens opened. Less than half of those who had set out would return, and as Almonds waited for them, he lamented bitterly that he had to remain in the ‘safety of the camp’. Regarding those brave souls despatched on Operation Squatter, he noted that films and books ‘of daring and adventure fall short of the real thing’. For him at that moment, reality really did trump fiction ‘for sheer, cold calculating courage’.
Occasionally on his sojourn through the Apennines, Almonds encountered locals hunting and foraging, as he was. Having first taken care to ensure they were unarmed, he would stop and talk with them, for he had little fear of meeting any Italian Fascists in these parts. Mostly, the rural folk were staunchly for the Allies. More often than not it was the locals who were initially fearful of him – a tall, dark, powerfully built stranger, lean, wiry and wild-looking after the long days spent pounding mountain tracks and pathways.
Almonds would first assure them he meant no harm – for, as Stirling declared in a document defining the very essence of the SAS, ‘toughness should be reserved entirely for the enemy.’ He would strike up a conversation in his rudimentary but workable Italian. Invariably, the locals would offer to share their food, be it only a handful of berries, a portion of charcoal-roasted lamb or a freshly caught trout from a tumbling steam. In the mountains of central Italy, no one, it seemed, had been fond of the Italian Fascist regime.
The contadini – the Italian countryfolk of these highlands – were invariably dirt-poor, and led an existence largely isolated from the lowland communities, one bereft of basic healthcare and education. Yet almost without exception they would prove themselves to be warm-hearted and generous towards escaping Allied POWs. Time and again they risked life and home, offering escapees shelter and sustenance and often clothing and footwear that was in precious short supply. Many a British POW would owe the contadini his life, and Almonds would be no exception.
Hunting, scavenging and accepting such help as he was offered, Almonds covered hundreds of miles on foot – though far less as the crow flies – before approaching the small town of Civitella Casanova, a historic settlement of pre-Roman origin perched high in the Abruzzo region. Curious as to his surroundings and no doubt feeling encouraged by the warm reception he had received so far, Almonds decided to enter the town. He passed beneath an ancient and gnarled stone archway, only to spy trouble. Parked on the roadside up ahead was a German truck, with grey-uniformed figures busy loading provisions aboard. He figured that if he turned around and backtracked, it would draw immediate attention. The German soldiers had already clocked this lone male of military age who had sauntered into town.
Adopting the slightly stooped posture that had served him so well during his Porto San Giorgio reconnaissance, Almonds strolled ahead, while the enemy soldiers eyed him with suspicion. Surely it was only a matter of seconds before one threw out a challenge. The German troops were bound to ask for papers, which Almonds didn’t possess, and then the game would be well and truly up. Projecting an aura of unruffled calm – which he certainly didn’t feel – Almonds chose instead to duck into the doorway of the nearest building and hastened further inside.
Heading down the front passage of an ancient-looking but beautiful home, he heard the clink of cutlery on earthenware plates up ahead, plus the murmur of pleasant conversation. Tensing himself for whatever was coming – the cry of alarm from behind, or the cry of terror from the front – Almonds opened the door, which led into a bright, airy kitchen. An Italian family were gathered around the table enjoying a meal of freshly made pasta.
The family stared at him with speechless shock, but it was the woman’s expression – the mother of the home? – that most struck Almonds. Her face had turned pale and a hand had gone involuntarily to her mouth: she was about to scream. Smiling in the most unthreatening manner he could manage, Almonds raised a finger to his lips.
‘Shhh,’ he whispered. ‘Shhh . . . Inglesi.’
Somehow, miraculously, it seemed to do the trick. The woman of the house sat there, wide-eyed, hand still at her mouth, but no sound left her lips. Behind her Almonds spied an open window. With a nod of thanks to the awestruck Italian family, he darted for it, dived through and came to his feet in a secluded garden lying on the far side.
Almonds ran down the green slope until he found a narrow, fast-flowing river at the far end. He waded in – apparently still undetected – and began to head uphill towards its source, making his way out of the town and back into the mountains. He moved as quickly and as stealthily as he could, for if the Germans were to knock at the door of the house to enquire about the tall stranger, and could find nothing but a shocked Italian family, he knew the surrounding area would soon be teeming with troops. Following the signing of the Armistice of Cassibile, and the resulting chaos in the POW camps, hundreds of Allied prisoners had seized the opportunity to escape, and the mountains were said to be thick with their number.
Running wherever the terrain allowed, he climbed ever higher into the hills, feeling safer with every step. But as he followed the river he noticed something curious: dead fish floating belly up in the water. That could only mean one thing: there had to be military activity of some kind up ahead. He pressed onwards, moving more cautiously, taking a route south-west deeper into the mountains. Before long he came to a road. From his vantage point he could see that it lay directly across his path and it was bumper-to-bumper with enemy vehicles. He could only presume it to be a main supply route, ferrying men and war material to reinforce the Germans’ positions south of Rome.
With General Montgomery driving his British and Commonwealth forces north from the toe of Italy, and US General Mark Clark propelling his American troops and armour in a hard charge towards Rome, the Germans feared a swift and devastating pincer movement. Hitler had warned his senior military commanders that Rome must not be allowed to fall. Much of the traffic that Almonds could see was engaged in a rush south to stiffen the German defences and prevent the Allies from seizing the Italian capital.
Almonds watched the road intently. He noticed there was the occasional gap between the long columns of vehicles. He would need to get closer and carefully pick his moment. Crawling his way through the undergrowth, he headed for a ditch adjacent to the road. From there, he was in a fine position to bolt from one side to the other when there was a break in the traffic. He waited, watching a long column of grey-painted trucks thunder past. Mistime this attempt, and he was bound to be spotted by either a soldier in the back of one truck or a driver in the front of the one following.
Finally, what seemed to be the last vehicle in the lengthy column rumbled by. Bang on cue, Almonds pulled himself out of the ditch and hurled himself forwards. Crashing through the thick undergrowth on the far side, suddenly he found himself face to face with a hapless Italian farmer, who had been tending his field of potatoes. The two figures crouched there, staring at each other in amazement, their confusion mounting. Just then, Almonds detected
the sound of another truck approaching. Fearing that he had been spotted on his dash across the road, he dropped to the ground, concealing himself as well as he could between the furrows.
As he hugged the loamy earth, Almonds raised one finger to his lips, giving the universal signal to keep quiet, the farmer eyeing him uncertainly. Then came the most unwelcome sound of all: the growl of the truck’s engine dissipating, as the driver eased off on the accelerator. Worse still, it was followed by the noise of squealing brakes. The truck was coming to a halt no more than a dozen metres away, at almost exactly the spot where Almonds had dived through the hedge.
Seconds later he heard the unmistakable sound of boots crunching on gravel. Barely daring to breathe, he kept one eye on the farmer, who had gone back to hoeing his potatoes, but with a tell-tale desperation to his movements. The man was trying to behave as if the strange figure lying prone in his field wasn’t actually there, but his eyes kept darting nervously to Almonds’ position.
Clearly, both the British escapee and the Italian farmer feared they were for the high jump: Almonds for his escape, and the farmer for not screaming blue murder upon spying the fugitive. Scraps of conversation in guttural German drifted across to them. But then came the sweetest sound of all, which cut through the tension and the fear: the distinctive noise of someone relieving themselves in the bushes.
Relief flooded through Almonds. It seemed that those riding in the truck had not seen anything suspicious. This was simply a rest stop where soldiers could enjoy a brief cigarette or a pee. But for every second that they lingered there, there was always a chance they would spy the farmer and fire a few questions his way. Ten long minutes passed – it felt like a lifetime to Almonds – before the German soldiers finally left the Italian farmer unremarked and unmolested, and climbed back aboard.
