by Shaun Clarke
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
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, mattr
esses, 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
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.
