Churchill's Secret Warriors_The Explosive True Story of the Special Forces Desperadoes of WWII

by Damien Lewis

  There was only one unit he could think of with the experience, the skills, the bravery and the sheer gall to undertake such a mission – one that would entail working under the very noses of the enemy in impossible terrain and with absolutely zero cover. This was a job for Anders Lassen and his Irish Patrol.

  *

  The mission to take Comacchio was codenamed Operation Roast. The challenges in Operation Roast – both for Lassen’s men and those of 9 Commando – were legion. On the night of the assault 1,000 heavily armed men would need to cross many miles of lake undetected. Only the southern fringes of the water lay in Allied hands. The western, northern and eastern shorelines were held by the enemy. Few if any of the channels across the lake had been charted, even in the memory of the locals.

  In the centre of the lake lay a handful of ‘islands’ – uncertain mounds of earth rising barely above the waters, and thickly wooded. One or two ancient buildings lay on the islands, but these had long fallen into disrepair and ruin. The islands were believed to be held by the enemy, but no one on the Allied side knew for certain.

  Across such terrain watched by the enemy from all sides Brigadier Tod’s Commandos would have to go, with neither sight nor sound of their progress being detected. Lake Comacchio would offer zero cover. If unusual movement or abnormal sounds were detected from the water, the enemy scouts would fire flares, illuminating the desolate expanse of stagnant lake for miles around.

  If the men of 9 Commando, or Lassen’s Irish Patrol, were so caught, they would be annihilated.

  Clearly, if any engine noise were detected on the lake it would attract a barrage of murderous fire from the enemy. Thus, Lassen and his men – plus the Commando force to follow – would have to cross such terrain in Goatley boats, canoes and on floats, using only silent, human means of propulsion – the paddle. When empty, a Goatley has a draft of about one inch. When loaded with ten heavily armed commandos its draft is approaching two feet – the average depth of Comacchio.

  It was absolutely vital to the mission’s success that Lassen and his men explore and map Comacchio’s deep channels – those that might exist – and somehow mark such passages across the deathly shallows.

  *

  At the end of March 1945 Lassen’s force moved up to the nearby city of Ravenna, bringing with them their folbots, Goatleys and ‘Jellicoe’ Inflatable Intruders – their rubber assault craft. Lassen immediately made himself busy, zipping about in a jeep to get a sense of the terrain they would be operating over. Briefing followed briefing, as senior officers queued up to give their input into this vital first stage of the planned Allied breakthrough.

  Lassen was used to operating more or less in isolation from senior officers, and unburdened by the chain of command. At Ravenna, things were very different. Where Operation Roast was concerned, everyone and their dog seemed to want to put their proverbial oar in, and it wasn’t much to the Dane’s liking.

  At one briefing, and in the midst of a long speech by a colonel, Lassen rose abruptly to his feet. ‘I go now,’ he announced.

  With that he turned and left the room. Lassen’s legendary reputation, not to mention the sheer force of his persona, meant that no one thought to try to stop him.

  In the last days of March the Danish major broke away from this suffocating environment, and got down to business. He busied himself on the lake with his men. The days were spent sleeping and updating the intelligence files, the nights out on the water. On one occasion Lassen pushed as far north as Comacchio town itself. There, as in Venice, many of the ‘streets’ consisted of waterways, and it was possible to paddle right into the centre of the town.

  As a result of such night-time sorties, the large map in Brigadier Tod’s headquarters became full of coloured pins, each noting a particular feature of the lake, a navigable channel or an enemy position. The full picture on Lake Comacchio was slowly being pieced together, but there were few among Lassen’s men who liked what they saw. The lake was nigh on impossible to operate on covertly, and even the veterans of the Irish Patrol felt a growing sense of unease.

  If he could help it, Lassen never went on a mission without the unshakeable O’Reilly. He believed it a bad omen if he were forced to sally forth without the Guardsman at his side. But out on Comacchio’s haunted waters even O’Reilly felt a cold, clawing sense of dread. Fred Crouch was another old hand who was daunted by the mission that lay before them. He confided to one of his fellows that he’d had a vision of his own death out on the cursed lake, his body sinking into the dark and fetid waters.

  Even their veteran commander’s actions were starting to be a source of worry to the men. Lassen had always been a risk-taker, but here at Comacchio he seemed to be actively courting danger. During his night visit to Comacchio town he had only narrowly escaped capture.

  On another foray he’d paddled his canoe close enough to the enemy sentry positions to eavesdrop on their conversations. He hadn’t done so with any intelligence-gathering aim in mind. He’d done so almost to bait the enemy. He’d proceeded to smoke a cigarette as the German voices had drifted across to him, and when one of his fellow raiders had asked what on earth he thought he was doing, Lassen had practically bitten the man’s head off.

  The wholly unnecessary risks that he was taking horrified many in his patrol. Porter Jarrell, Jack Nicholson, Sean O’Reilly, Martin Solomon, Dick Holmes, Stud Stellin, Sammy Trafford – none of Lassen’s hardcore of operators had ever seen him like this before.

  It was almost as if he was actively seeking for that dreadful death wish to be fulfilled.

  *

  At dusk of 3 April 1945 Lassen’s force moved out to ‘occupy’ the lake. They climbed into their Army trucks for the drive to the shore, where their boats were pulled up in the cover of some bushes. They loaded the canoes with everything they needed for the coming days – weapons, ammunition, radios and batteries, water and food.

  That done, the men brewed tea on the lakeside and waited until it was completely dark. There were thirty two-man canoes lined up ready to take to Comacchio’s unwelcoming waters. It was one of the largest missions that Lassen had ever commanded, and it was by far the most daunting.

  Finally, the major gave the orders for the men to follow his lead. Amid the sucking slurp of gumboots struggling through the mud, the canoes were carried down to the water. One by one the craft were hauled out into the muddy quagmire, until each was swallowed in the darkness. There followed a long push through the shallows, until there was enough depth to let each pair of men climb into their canoe.

  Their intended destination tonight was the island of Casone Agosta, some six miles out on the lake. The crossing took most of the night. Repeatedly, the raiders had to climb out of their heavily laden craft and manhandle them over slick, stinking mud-banks. Stud Stellin managed to overturn his craft completely, getting soaked in the process and losing much of his kit and part of the radio set.

  When the raiders finally reached Casone Agosta it proved to be totally devoid of any cover. The only option was to pull the craft ashore and camouflage them with cut bracken. That done, the exhausted men had to dig crude foxholes and sheet them over with camouflage netting. By sunrise, the sixty men and their canoes on Casone Agosta had apparently disappeared.

  All that day Lassen, O’Reilly, Stud Stellin and the others lay still and silent in their holes. Swarms of mosquitoes feasted on their blood, but few could afford to swipe them away. The nearest German position was four hundreds yards away. Before the heat of the day rose to unbearable levels the men tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep.

  Around mid-morning Stud Stellin awoke to find a large-framed figure sitting bolt upright, still wrapped in his camo-netting.

  ‘Get down!’ Stellin hissed. ‘Get down, or I’ll bloody shoot.’

  It was only then that he realized the sitting figure looked very much like Major Lassen.

  A few minutes later Lassen crawled over to Stud’s foxhole. ‘Good morning, Captain Stellin,’ he smi
led. ‘Will you give me the pleasure in having breakfast with me? Unfortunately, I can only offer you minced bacon.’

  In spite of himself Stellin had to smile. ‘Was that you sitting up like a big idiot just now?’

  Lassen laughed that it was, and Stellin couldn’t help but join in the dark humour. No matter what way they looked at it, the situation they found themselves in was so horribly exposed and indefensible, it was absolutely absurd.

  All that day the men remained trapped in their shallow holes, eating, sleeping and defecating where they lay. Only come nightfall were they able to crawl out and stretch and ease cramped limbs. Then the canoes were uncovered, eased into the water, and the second stage of their infiltration began. Their objective now was the largest island, Casone Caldiro, lying towards the northern end of the lake.

  It was well after midnight when the canoeists reached their next landfall, a small island lying between the two. Lassen went first, checking for any enemy. The island was found to be unoccupied, and he left Stud Stellin there, complete with a small force tasked to hold the main force’s rear. Lassen also left Stellin with some sappers, whose job it was to check for mines, leaving white tape marking the cleared areas, so the commandos could follow on in some degree of safety.

  Lassen led the main force onwards into the night. Unbeknown to them, a boat carrying four Germans was also out on the water. It happened to be making for the island where Stud Stellin was even now digging in with his patrol. The German boat landed there completely unawares, and Stellin took four prisoners. This was great for intelligence-gathering purposes, but not so good for remaining undetected. When German patrols went missing, others tended to come looking.

  The main island, Casone Caldiro, also proved to be devoid of the enemy. Having checked over a ruined building and assured himself that the entire expanse of land was clear, Lassen ordered his men to dig some proper shelter. If the Germans realized they were here, they’d doubtless shell the island, and there was very little if any natural cover.

  The other main problem – apart from remaining undetected – was water. There was a well located within the ruins, but it proved to have only a few inches of dirty, stagnant liquid in the bottom. Still, Lassen and his men knew they would die unless they had water: they forced themselves to drink the murky dregs. And then they steeled themselves for whatever the next few hours might bring.

  Three further boatloads of Germans were out on the lake. They rowed past the little island where Stud Stellin and his patrol were dug-in. Stellin could tell they were making for Casone Caldiro, the main island. He let them draw well ahead of his position, before he ordered his men to open fire. It might blow their cover, but he felt he had to warn Lassen that a force of enemy was inbound, and this was the only way he could think of doing so.

  Rounds tore across the lake, shattering the tense stillness. Tracer fire lit up the water around the three target boats, as if a swarm of giant, supercharged fireflies were zipping across the lake. In the glare, Lassen and his men spotted the enemy, and Lassen ordered his force to open fire. The Germans were caught in the crossfire from both islands, with absolutely nowhere to take cover or hide.

  This was what the men of the SBS had themselves dreaded: getting seen and targeted out on Comacchio’s open water. Those Germans who tried to bail out got sucked into the mud, and stuck fast. They were gunned down wherever they became immobilized. Those who tried to stick with their flimsy craft were torn to pieces by the raiders’ fire. Just five Germans made it to Lassen’s position alive, and they only managed to do so by hoisting the white flag of surrender.

  Those five turned out to be Brandenburgers – the same elite troops that Lassen and his men had run into during their Aegean campaign, when the Brandenburgers had been drafted in to help General von Kleemann defend his islands. Under questioning, they yielded vital intelligence, but almost of more importance were the supplies of fresh water that they carried. The Germans knew there was none to be had on the islands, and they’d come well prepared. They’d also brought a quantity of Italian wine with them, which proved more than welcome.

  At first light the following morning a boat became visible drifting through the thin grey blanket of mist lying across the dead lake. It was a ghostly apparition. That vessel was barely still afloat and it contained the bloodied corpse of a dead Brandenburger. The bullet-riddled wreck was fetched by canoe, and the German prisoners were made to bury their dead comrade on the shore. They were throwing in the last few shovelfuls of mud, when the first German shells rained down on the island.

  Lassen was gathered around a map with his raiders, in the middle of a planning session. On hearing the howl of incoming artillery rounds, men dived into nearby foxholes or crawled beneath the old table that the ruins contained. Three shells hit the building, before Lassen ordered the German prisoners to dig some deep trenches along the island’s shoreline. Once they were done, Lassen ordered his men to take shelter in those, but wherever they went the German shells seemed to follow.

  The enemy had to have spotters with eyes on the island. As the German gunners zeroed in on the newly-dug trenches, Lassen’s men dashed towards a second, smaller ruin on the far side of the island. But they hadn’t been there long when the barrage crept over to that building, and the men had to find some new cover.

  The horrific game of hide-and-seek with the German gunners carried on all morning. One of Lassen’s men was badly wounded, his heel being blasted off and his leg riddled with shrapnel. Another was blown off his feet and thrown in through the doorway of the ruined building. By now, Lassen and his men could only move about by crawling on their bellies, the fire was so accurate and so lethal.

  Mindful of the coming mission, Lassen got his men to paint up some warning signs for the commandos, who would be joining them on Casone Caldiro after nightfall. They read: ‘You can be seen from Comacchio – enemy observation posts nearby.’

  Under cover of darkness the first commando forces started to advance across the lake. They were shipped in using Storm Motor Boats – a plywood-hulled assault craft powered by a 55-horse power outboard engine. The Germans knew the lake was alive with their enemy now, and without using such craft it would be a near impossibility to get the commandos into position in time for the attack.

  With the commandos now holding the islands, Lassen would have liked a further 24 to 48 hours to push out night patrols and to recce the terrain leading up to Comacchio town itself. But he’d been sent unequivocal orders, stressing how crucial it was that the mission proceed with all due haste.

  The attack must repeat must take place tonight as planned whether reconnaissance has taken place or not – stop. Every reasonable risk must repeat must be taken – stop. These military operations are vital to the completion of present plans – stop. Acknowledge receipt …

  Those orders were unequivocal: come what may Operation Roast was going ahead that night.

  Just before setting forth in their canoes, Lassen shared a quiet moment with his close friend, Stud Stellin. Stellin was struck most powerfully by one thing: for the first time ever Lassen chose to speak about what would happen if one of them were killed. It was eerie and unsettling. Stellin, like nearly all the men, had come to view their iconic leader as indestructible; bulletproof; immortal even.

  Yet he was left with the strong impression that Lassen had had a premonition that he was going to be killed.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  It was just after midnight on 8 April 1945, and time for the first parting of ways. While the main commando assault force would head north-east for the spit, Lassen’s men would continue paddling due north, towards Comacchio town. Their mission was to cause as much chaos, destruction and mayhem as they possibly could on the lake’s northern shore, as a cover for the big push against the spit.

  The commandos’ tough Storm Motor Boats were a good deal faster than the paddle-powered canoes. They motored ahead, quickly overhauling the thirty SBS boats. The commandos waved a farewell to the di
stinctive figure of Lassen in the lead canoe, and he was seen to wave a cheery-seeming au revoir. On the surface there wasn’t the slightest sign of the turmoil that the SBS major was feeling inside.

  As a major, there was no need for Lassen to go on this mission. He could have chosen to remain in the rear, in overall command. But he sensed the extreme danger that his men were sailing into, and it wasn’t in his nature to let them face it without him. He also believed it was his duty as a commander to be at the head of his patrol, leading by example.

  Gradually, the raiders’ last landfall, Casone Caldiro, faded into the night behind them. The faint rustle of the breeze ruffled the still waters, reed beds whispering in the impenetrable darkness. It provided just enough sound to mask the dip and drip of the paddles as they flicked through the turbid waters.

  One of the greatest risks now was bioluminescence – the natural light that tiny, single-cell aquatic creatures give off whenever they sense movement or danger. With sixty sets of paddles churning the waters of Lake Comacchio, and thirty prows cutting through its surface, the men would have to row as softly as they could, or they risked prompting the distinctive glowing blue-green light that might be visible to the enemy.

  Slowly, silently, with barely a flicker of fluorescence, the raiders edged towards Comacchio’s northern shoreline.

  Lassen had divided his force into two, with a smaller, separate patrol being commanded by Stud Stellin. Each unit was to hit a different stretch of shoreline on the fringes of Comacchio town, so as to give the impression that a larger force was in action.

  Lassen planned to land his force some 3,000 yards from the town itself, and advance up the road leading into it. The route lay across a raised embankment fringed by deep water on both sides, so there would be precious little cover to mask their advance. Without the benefit of any recces, Lassen had little idea what defences the German might have sited along the road, so they would be fighting all but blind.