Churchill's Secret Warriors: The Explosive True Story of the Special Forces Desperadoes of WWII

by Damien Lewis

  Jellicoe himself would write of Lassen that he had ‘a quality which overshadows even his outstanding physical and moral courage … that was his sympathy for those who were less fortunate than himself and the love he inspired in them … Wherever he went one felt this deep sympathy for the unfortunate, and the affection which these people he had befriended or helped felt for him was quite extraordinary.’

  *

  Under cover of darkness the food supplies were ferried in to a remote and uninhabited stretch of Halki’s shoreline. But the wind proved strong that night, the rocky shore steep, treacherous and uninviting, and the repeated journeys in a small boat loaded high with stores and provisions were exhausting.

  No matter; once the supplies were landed Lassen led a team consisting of Sean O’Reilly – his Irish bodyguard – plus Greek Sacred Squadron officer Lieutenant Katsikis, as they headed for the mayor’s house. Unsurprisingly all were asleep at the mayor’s residence, the vine-covered outer courtyard locked shut for the night. The three men vaulted over the wall, but the mayor’s wife woke up and started screaming, presuming the shadowy figures to be the harbingers of more suffering and trouble.

  Lieutenant Katsikis called to her reassuringly in Greek. They were strangers bringing important information, he explained. A voice was heard to utter: ‘I am sure that is Lassen and his men.’ It was the mayor. Peering out of an upstairs window he’d recognized the blond hair of the Dane whose fame was spreading far and wide across the Dodecanese.

  The mayor’s wife threw open the door. Lassen explained where the food stores were stashed, and told the mayor to gather his villagers, after which he could distribute the supplies to those most in need. Then he asked about the enemy presence on the island, and their disposition. The mayor told Lassen that there were some half-a-dozen Italians garrisoning Halki, and gave directions to their billet.

  ‘Do you want them taken prisoner, or killed?’ Lassen asked.

  ‘Oh, they are not such bad men,’ the mayor replied. ‘Taken prisoner is probably for the best.’

  ‘All right, let’s go and grab the bastards!’ Lassen exclaimed.

  Lassen led the way through the dark and twisting streets of Halki town, which is hardly larger than the average Greek fishing village. They found the barracks building, stole around to the rear and hammered on the back door. The Italians finally woke up and Lieutenant Katsikis spoke to them, claiming to be a local villager with vital information to give them on partisan activity.

  The Italians remained suspicious and refused to open the door. They kept telling Lieutenant Katsikis to come back when it was daylight. Lassen finally lost patience. Cautioning O’Reilly not to open fire, he ordered the big Irishman to kick the door in. No sooner had O’Reilly’s boot crashed through the doorframe, than Lassen himself loosed off a volley of bullets above the Italians’ heads.

  There were six of them, and they immediately surrendered. The raiders searched their premises, seizing six rifles, two Beretta MAB 38 machine guns, plus a wireless receiver. Frustrated at not being able to find any money they could use to fund their campaign, Lassen spotted a safe. He crouched before it, trying to work out how best to get it open. He was in the midst of doing so when an intriguing sound drifted up from the bay below: it was the throaty chug-chug-chug of a motorboat pulling into harbour.

  Lassen’s eyes gleamed. ‘Sounds like a ship. And not a local fishing-boat, either.’

  Lassen, O’Reilly and Katsikis grabbed one of the Italians and the four men dashed down to the harbour, only to discover a large German E Boat – a patrol launch – pulling into shore. By its marking they could tell that it hailed from the headquarters garrison on Rhodes, so it was very likely one of General von Kleemann’s resupply boats.

  Lassen, O’Reilly and Katsikis took cover, hiding around a convenient corner, the Dane shoving the muzzle of his pistol into the nape of their Italian prisoner’s neck.

  ‘Call to your German friends,’ he told him. ‘Invite them ashore for a nice drink.’

  The Italian did as ordered, and the yelled reply from the boat indicated that the Germans were partial to coming ashore for a snifter or two of Ouzo.

  Lassen eyed O’Reilly and Katsikis excitedly. ‘Are you ready?’

  Both men nodded, and made ready their weapons. As the boat nestled into the harbourside, Lassen and his men pounced. They dashed around the corner and opened fire. But as O’Reilly tore ahead he stumbled, and his weapon went off, accidentally shooting Lassen in the leg. The stray bullet had caused a nasty flesh wound, and it seemed to drive the Dane into a towering fury.

  ‘You Irish dog! D’you want to kill me?’ he kept yelling, all the while pouring fire into the German ship.

  Lassen hurled grenades. The blasts tore into the patrol boat, shaking it from stem to stern where it lay in the water. The German crew had been taken utterly by surprise. One moment they were savouring the thought of a few glasses of Ouzo; the next, all hell had broken loose. In the pitch blackness and amid all the horror and confusion they must have presumed their attackers were a legion of the enemy, for those still standing promptly surrendered.

  Lassen, O’Reilly and Katsikis boarded the German vessel. In spite of the fusillades of fire with which they’d raked her decks, plus damage from the grenades, she seemed largely seaworthy still. Lassen grabbed the ship’s engineer, who’d been wounded by a grazing shot to the back of the head, and he ordered O’Reilly to take the man below decks. They were going to seize the German craft – for then they could use her to properly sneak up on any unsuspecting enemy.

  ‘Get the engines started,’ Lassen told O’Reilly, ‘and let’s get her underway.’

  O’Reilly knew no German, so all he could do was point the wounded engineer at the E Boat’s engine and make appropriate gestures. The man seemed almost paralysed by terror, and the message just didn’t seem to be getting through.

  ‘What are you vaiting for down there?’ Lassen roared from above decks. ‘Get the bloody engines started!’

  O’Reilly decided the engineer needed a dose of the short sharp shock treatment. He levelled his pistol, fired a couple of shots over the man’s head, and jabbed a finger at the engine again. Finally the German seemed to get it. Minutes later, the reassuring throb of the powerful ship’s engines reverberated through the hull.

  Lassen got the Italians and the German crew loaded aboard the ship, the entire lot covered by the raiders’ Tommy Guns. A good number of the Germans were wounded, but that didn’t stop a fight from breaking out between them and the Italians, once the Germans realized that the offer of drinks had been a false one, used to lure them into the shore.

  Leaving the former allies to bicker among themselves, Lassen steered the German patrol boat out of the harbour, to where Motor Launch 1083 was waiting – all the while yelling some choice abuse at O’Reilly for having shot him in the leg. Now was perhaps the most dangerous moment of the mission so far. As the German E Boat approached the British Motor Launch, there was every chance that the British vessel might believe she was being attacked and open fire.

  Sure enough, the raiders heard cries of alarm echoing across the night water, plus the sharp clatter of steel-on-steel, as the Motor Launch’s guns were made ready.

  ‘It’s Lassen!’ the Dane kept yelling at the British ship. ‘It’s Lassen!’

  Finally the Motor Launch crew must have heard him, for no one opened fire. All the prisoners were ferried aboard the Motor Launch, whereupon the German patrol boat was slung behind her on a hawser, and they set a course for the Gulf of Cos with their prize in tow.

  As they pulled away from Halki, the beach where they had landed the food supplies was alive with villagers. They ceased what they were doing to cheer the raiders’ departure, hurling the odd stick of dynamite into the air in an impromptu firework display to salute Lassen and his Irish Patrol.

  The German E Boat turned out to be packed full of supplies, including the obligatory live pigs. It was a fine first strike for the raider
s’ new Dodecanese campaign. Jellicoe’s men had been ordered to decimate the enemy’s shipping – but it was even better to seize it for their own purposes.

  Not only that, but they’d spirited away an entire Italian garrison and a German ship’s crew, as if they had been stolen by ghosts in the night. Nothing was guaranteed more to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy.

  But one man aboard Motor Launch 1083 was far from happy. Sean O’Reilly sat on the ship’s prow, staring into the dark sea, his face a picture of misery. It was no exaggeration to say that the tough and wizened Irish warrior worshipped the young Danish commander, and to have shot him – even by accident – was mortifying.

  It was only when Lassen wandered forward, mug grasped in hand, that O’Reilly sensed forgiveness might be in the offing. Lassen handed O’Reilly the tin mug, which contained a healthy measure of the ship’s rum.

  ‘Here. Drink this,’ Lassen told him. ‘It’s all right, Sean, it’s all right.’

  ‘But, sir …’ O’Reilly began. ‘Oh, sir … But I shot you.’

  ‘You did,’ Lassen agreed. ‘And you may be a bloody Irish gunslinger, but you are still my best soldier. I forgive you. I apologize for what I said. But Sean, do not shoot me again.’

  The two men shared a moment of companionable silence, before Lassen wandered back to the ship’s wheelhouse. He needed some advice from the launch’s commander – a Lieutenant Adrian Seligman, a regular on such missions – for Lassen’s leg wound presented him with a serious dilemma.

  ‘If I report this bullet hole – a mere fleabite by the way – as being caused by enemy action, they will give me a wound stripe or something foul like that,’ Lassen told Seligman. In other words, he’d get a minor decoration for something that didn’t warrant it. ‘But if I say that it was caused by one of my own men, then he may get into trouble … and he is one of my best men. What should I do, Adrian?’

  The course of action that the two men set upon was not to report the wound at all. That way, Lassen wouldn’t be burdened by an honour that he didn’t deserve, and O’Reilly wouldn’t face punishment.

  Back at their Gulf of Cos hideout, the raiders handed over their Italian and German prisoners for interrogation. Jellicoe had shipped in an Intelligence Sergeant to their Turkish base, a South African ironically named Priestley. There was nothing particularly holy about Priestley’s methods. He insisted on the truth, and invariably he got it. At the head of all his prisoner interrogation summaries were the words: ‘I will say all I can and all that I know.’ Woe betide any prisoner who didn’t.

  After each and every raid, the key commanders were supposed to file an operational report. These were useful documents that other raiders could potentially learn from. But Lassen the man of action detested all such paperwork. His reports – famously – often consisted of no more than five words: ‘Landed. Killed Germans. Fucked off.’

  Sutherland and Jellicoe found this hugely frustrating, and they were forever pressing Lassen for more details. Invariably, the Dane’s response was hauntingly enigmatic.

  ‘It’s done. What else is there to say?’

  Lassen’s reticence doubtless reflected how the relentless violence and the bloodletting was having a cumulative effect. There was a darkness seeping into the Danish Viking’s soul. Each raid; each close-quarter battle; each knifing; each grenade hurled into a unsuspecting crowd of soldiers; each time there was enemy blood on his hands – and by now there was a great deal of it – brought Lassen closer to the realization of his true self: that he was a killer almost without rival.

  *

  As a consequence of Lassen downplaying his injury – to anyone who asked he explained it away as ‘a mere scratch’ – the leg-wound wasn’t treated properly and it became infected. Eventually, it was clear that Lassen would have to be sent away for proper medical treatment. So it was that the Dane was shipped out of Turkish waters to a military hospital in Alexandria, Egypt’s second city, no doubt cursing O’Reilly every step of the way.

  Some days later Lassen was rolled out of the operating theatre comatose with anaesthetic, and placed in a ward next to a Lieutenant Cole. A moment later Pipo appeared seemingly from out of nowhere, and leapt onto Lassen’s bed. He sat on his master’s chest staring at his unseeing face, a picture of doggie misery. So amusing was it that none of the nursing staff could find it in themselves to send the dog ‘home’ – not that anyone was particularly sure where Pipo’s home might be.

  However, the matron soon found out and she made it clear the dog had to go. Fortunately, Lieutenant Cole’s wife lived not far from the hospital. Although he wasn’t himself allowed out, the feisty lieutenant sneaked out the back way with Pipo under his arm, taking the long route home to his house. There he persuaded his wife to keep a close watch on the Lion of Leros, until Lassen was well enough to come fetch him.

  Lassen’s condition proved so serious that he was in hospital for two months. Even after he had recovered, Pipo’s separation from his beloved master wasn’t over. Lassen had taught his dog to do a series of silly and amusing tricks, which proved useful when he wanted to inveigle himself into a pretty girl’s affections. If he were out of an evening, he’d send Pipo over to a promising table, and once the girls were fully engaged he’d wander over and introduce himself.

  Shortly after Lassen was discharged from hospital, the young Lord Jellicoe announced that he was getting married. The bride to be was a beautiful escapee from a Japanese prison camp. She’d ended up in Beirut while trying to make her way back to Britain. There she’d met Jellicoe and in a whirlwind romance the two were married. The wedding celebrations became something of a wild affair, and Lassen ended up losing his false teeth (he’d knocked his two front teeth out a while ago during training).

  More worryingly, he also lost his dog. By the time Lassen was scheduled to return to the raider’s Turkish pirate base, Pipo still hadn’t been found. He offered O’Reilly seven days’ leave on one condition: he had to spend it looking for Pipo. Having only recently shot Lassen, O’Reilly – who could take or leave Lassen’s dog – felt obliged to accept. Lassen gave him ten pounds to help fund the search, and left him with orders not to return to the Gulf of Cos sans dog.

  For the first four days O’Reilly got drunk. On the fifth he sobered up and realized he was over halfway through his leave and no closer to finding Pipo. The Irishman began to comb the Beirut streets, but in a city even then of some quarter-of-a-million inhabitants he had little luck. On the last day he spied a woman with a dog that resembled Pipo. O’Reilly managed to seize it and smuggle it back to his hotel room. It clearly wasn’t Pipo, but with a bit of boot polish smeared on here and there, the dog acquired a half-decent resemblance to Lassen’s elusive hound.

  Figuring it was better to appear with something rather than nothing, O’Reilly duly presented the dog to Lassen. It took him a while to realize the deception.

  ‘Who do you think you are,’ Lassen exploded, ‘bringing me that dog, when I have given you seven days’ leave?’

  O’Reilly, caught red-handed in his deception, had added insult to the injury of the recent bullet wound. Lassen was adamant: Pipo had to be found. Together with New Zealander Stud Stellin, the Irishman returned to the streets of Beirut and Pipo was miraculously tracked down. Lassen decided to keep both dogs – part of his growing menagerie of animals – although he was discomfited to see the two fight, and the tough little Pipo come off second-best.

  The Lion of Leros had been defeated: Lassen hoped it wasn’t a grim portent of things to come.

  Chapter Twenty

  While Lassen had been away recuperating in hospital, the raids had gathered pace across the Dodecanese. It was a new recruit to Jellicoe’s force, Major Ian Patterson, who had led one of the most daring missions. Major Patterson had been second-in-command of the 11th Parachute Battalion, the unit that had relieved the SBS on Cos, once that island had been seized in the previous campaign. Seeing the SBS in action at close quarters Patterson had express
ed a desire to join them, and Jellicoe had accepted.

  In early March 1944 Patterson got his chance to prove himself in action. Two of General von Kleemann’s motor barges packed full of food, wine and reinforcements were reportedly en route for Cos, via the stopover point of Nisyros. Nisyros is a volcanic island almost exactly circular in shape. It was one of those ‘minor’ islands that General von Kleemann had ordered be garrisoned only temporarily, in rotation.

  Patterson and his force of six men managed to get ashore on Nisyros ahead of the Germans. When the enemy vessels pulled into harbour, Patterson was able to study them from the high ground. Each motor barge was armed with a 20mm cannon, plus machine guns, and there were some two-dozen enemy soldiers and sailors aboard. This was no small, lightly armed force.

  One of Patterson’s men volunteered to dress as a local and go down to the docks to gather intelligence. In this way they learned from the Mother Superior of a local orphanage what the Germans were intending. For whatever reason they were planning to ship all of the Nisyros orphans to Rhodes, and were scheduled to collect them that very day, at three o’clock.

  Patterson went to visit the Mother Superior. She was distraught at the thought of losing all her children. But Patterson sensed here the chance to strike, for the enemy would be dividing their not inconsiderable force.

  ‘Would you be prepared to let me use your orphanage in order to capture the Germans?’ he asked.

  ‘Anything,’ the Mother Superior sobbed. ‘Anything, as long as I can keep my children.’

  ‘Then take them up to the high ground, and stay there until the fighting is over.’

  Patterson collected up the children’s luggage and laid it out in a neat line in front of the orphanage, as if ready for collection. He positioned his men at strategic firing points around the ancient building, and dressed himself up as a ‘friendly’ Italian priest.

  The Germans proved typically punctual. At just before three, a line of men wound their way up the hill. Patterson the bogus priest was there to receive them. He took the Germans down a narrow passage leading into the orphanage’s central refectory, whereupon cries of ‘Hände hoch!’ rang out.