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

by Damien Lewis

  As the canoes crept closer to the shore, the tension rippled back and forth across his patrol. The lead canoe nudged into the soft mud at the lakeside, and Lassen leapt out to drag it further ashore. To left and right shadowy figures were doing likewise. Boats hastily made fast, each man grabbed his weapon. Lassen mustered them in the cover of a ditch.

  So far so good: at least they’d made landfall without being detected. Lassen started the advance, creeping through the stillness with Fred Green, a passable Italian-speaker at his side. Fred was to yell out the cover story if they were challenged. They’d made about 500 yards when a cry rang out through the darkness.

  ‘Chi va la?’ – Who goes there?

  ‘Pescatori sulla nostra strada di casa!’ Green yelled back.

  This was the agreed response – fishermen on our way home. It was the best they could think of, but with Comacchio boasting only barely edible eels for the catching, it was a decidedly thin cover story. Green had to repeat it several times before whoever was manning the forward guard post seemed to understand. There were some yells in German back down the road towards the town, after which the voice cried out in Italian again.

  ‘Veni qui!’ – Come here.

  Green had no option but to step forward onto the road. The instant he did so a long tongue of flame stabbed out of the night, as a machine-gun nest positioned behind the guard post opened fire. Green and Lassen dived for the only possible cover – the slope leading into the water to the nearest side of the road.

  What sounded like a fearsome Maschinengewehr 42 ‘Spandau’ poured down a torrent of bullets, which ricocheted horribly off the road. The MG42 could fire twice the rate of rounds of any equivalent Allied machine gun. So rapid was the rate of fire the human ear couldn’t distinguish between each bullet, the distinctive continuous brrrrr of the weapon lending it the nickname ‘Hitler’s buzz saw’.

  To Lassen and Green’s rear agonized cries rent the darkness, revealing that some at least of the ‘buzz saw’s’ rounds had found their target. Unbeknown to them, veteran raider Fred Crouch had just been killed. His dark premonitions of his own death had proved well-founded.

  Lassen knew it was time for decisive action or they were finished – pinned down and unable either to advance or retreat. It was so dark that a man lying prone on the ground could barely be seen. He crawled forward, reached for a pair of grenades, and threw first one and then another at the bunker in which the Spandau was positioned. The moment the second grenade exploded he rushed forward and sprayed the position with fire, killing the machine-gunners at close quarters.

  Four enemy lay dead at his feet, but the volume of fire just kept growing. Further up the road were two more MG42 bunkers, with a third set to one side. Each was placed slightly higher than the one in front, so they could put down fire in unison. The road was being raked by storms of lead, 7.62mm rounds snapping and buzzing all around like demented hornets. The only way to avoid getting hit was to keep down by the water, but that didn’t offer much of a route to advance.

  With the bunkers firing in unison, it meant that six Spandaus were in action against Lassen’s patrol. It was murder out in the open. But that didn’t stop the Danish Viking. Lassen rose again. Sprinting ahead, somehow he reached the next bunker without getting hit. Again, he hurled grenades in through the gun-slit. There was a punching blast, fire and smoke billowing out of the narrow opening, followed by the strangled screams of the dying and wounded inside.

  Two more fearsome Spandau machine guns had just been put out of action, and for a brief moment the guns on that road leading into Comacchio town fell silent.

  Lassen’s voice rose above the quiet, yelling to his men. ‘Forward! Forward, you bastards!’

  Shadowy figures rushed up to join him. Two men were dragged out of that last bunker injured but alive. Both were Russians who’d been press-ganged into the German army. They were sent back to the boats as prisoners, under guard. But as Lassen led his men forward, so the darkness to their front erupted into blinding points of burning light.

  Flares burst in the sky, their intense illumination throwing the road into harsh light and shadow. The moment the raiders were pinned under their glare, the firing recommenced from up ahead, another of Lassen’s fellows being blown off his feet in a hail of bullets. Wounded men fell to the roadside, from where those who were able continued to fire into the machine-gun nests that had them so horribly pinned down.

  *

  Out on the lake, Stud Stellin could see just how serious Lassen’s position had become. But with more flares being fired every minute, there was no way he could risk bringing his canoes in to their intended landing point. They’d be doing so under the full glare of the flares, and he and his men would get blown out of the water.

  Stellin tried to get his patrol into land by ascending a high dyke that formed one side of the shore-side road, but almost immediately they came under blistering fire from the hyper-alert German sentries. As probing bursts reached out to menace the forward-most canoes, Stellin made the toughest decision that he had ever been forced to take. He ordered his patrol to turn around and head back the way they had come, making for Casone Caldiro once more.

  *

  Ashore, three of Lassen’s force lay dead, and many more were injured. But at this stage even sounding the retreat would prove disastrous. There was no way to fall back in safety, when facing the withering fire of a pair of MG42s Spandaus. Lassen crawled back to his nearest men and grabbed some spare grenades. He reorganized those still able to fight. He got them into the only cover there was, half-submerged in the water, and he briefed them to put down a barrage of fire once he gave the word.

  That done, he turned back to the battle. He had with him two volunteers – Sean O’Reilly and a Sergeant-Major Stephenson – and together they aimed to take out the last Spandau positions. The three men belly-crawled ahead under a murderous hail of bullets, a slight rise in the road giving them only limited cover from the fire.

  They continued to worm their way forwards, and when they were within range for his exceptional throwing arm, Lassen let fly with grenades – O’Reilly and Stephenson passing over theirs, so the Dane could hurl those as well.

  The last explosion echoed across the flaming waters, and a lonely cry floated out from the darkness: ‘Kamerad! Kamerad!’ – friend. Moments later a torn fragment of ghostly cloth was hung out of the bunker’s opening – the white flag of surrender.

  Lassen told Stephenson and O’Reilly to stay where they were. He rose to a crouch and scuttled forward, moving cautiously as he approached his third enemy machine-gun post of the night. He stopped a few yards short of the white flag, and in German he ordered whoever was alive in there to come out. The only answer that came was a savage burst of machine-gun fire. Even as he fell, Lassen threw his last grenade, lobbing it in through the gun-slit opening.

  The explosion ripped apart the bunker, and the two Spandaus sited inside it finally fell silent. From his position a few dozen yards back, Stephenson had heard that staccato burst of rounds, followed by the answering grenade blast. As the echoes died away, a long, ringing silence fell across that bloodied road, one that seemed to go on and on for ever. And then he heard it – a distinctive cry for help.

  ‘SBS! SBS! Major Lassen wounded!’

  Stephenson dashed forward. He found the Dane lying on his back, wounded. He knelt, and lifted Lassen half-up, getting him braced against his knee.

  ‘Who is it?’ Lassen asked, dazedly.

  ‘Stephenson. Steve. It’s me.’

  ‘I’m wounded, Steve. I’m going to die. Try and get the others out.’

  ‘No, no – we’ll be all right,’ Stephenson tried to counter. ‘Key thing is, can you walk?’

  There was no answer. Stephenson tried to lift Lassen onto his shoulders, but he was a dead weight, and Stephenson found his foot snagged in some loose wire. He cursed. He needed help.

  ‘Sean!’ he cried. ‘Sean! Andy’s injured!’

  It was
then that he realised that O’Reilly too was hurt. The indestructible Irishman – without whom Lassen was barely willing to go into battle – had been shot through the shoulder by that last Spandau burst. Bone and muscle had been torn to pieces, and O’Reilly was losing a great deal of blood. Stephenson tried calling for help a few more times, but to his rear all was darkness and confusion.

  Stephenson knew Lassen couldn’t walk, and he alone couldn’t manage to carry him. He felt around in his side pouch, grabbed a morphine tablet, and fed it into Lassen’s mouth.

  ‘What is it?’ Lassen asked. His voice was weakening.

  ‘It’s morphia. Don’t worry, Andy. You’re going to be okay. We’ll get you back to the boats.’

  Lassen shook his head. ‘It’s no use, Steve. I’m dying. Don’t go any further. Leave me and try to get away with the others.’

  Pretty much the moment he’d uttered those last few words, Anders Lassen lost consciousness. Stephenson felt a presence behind him. Some of the others had made it forward. He tried to get them to help him lift their commander, but one of them restrained him.

  He put a hand on Stephenson’s shoulder. ‘Steve, the major’s dead. He’s dead. He’s gone.’

  Stephenson and the others carried Lassen’s bloodied form some way down the causeway, until they again came under devastating bursts of fire. They decided they had no option but to abandon him. Lassen had ordered Stephenson to get out and save whoever he could, and in order to do so they had to leave his body behind.

  *

  It was shortly after three o’clock that morning – 9 April 1945 – when the first of Lassen’s patrol made it back to Casone Caldiro. Four of those who had set out were dead: Corporal Ted Roberts, Fusilier Wally Hughes, Fred Crouch and Major Anders Lassen. Many more were missing. Of the wounded, Sean O’Reilly was in the worst shape. He’d stuck with his commander to the last, and it had very nearly cost him his life.

  Many of the old dependables – Porter Jarrell, Dick Holmes, Jack Nicholson, Sammy Trafford – had survived, but few would ever fully recover from losing Lassen. They were in shock. No one was able to sleep. They sat around talking about the incredible courage of their commander, who had fought on even after he was mortally wounded.

  None of them could believe that he was truly gone. When Stud Stellin learned what had happened he refused to countenance that it could be true. The fact that he had failed to get his force ashore made Stellin even more inconsolable.

  *

  Anders Lassen died a few months short of his twenty-fifth birthday, less than a month before the end of the war in Europe. Operation Roast was the last mission to be undertaken by the SBS in the Second World War. Once across Comacchio and through the Argenta Gap the British Eighth Army thundered north, reaching Venice by late April. General Clark’s Fifth Army made similar spectacular progress in the west.

  On 28 April a high-ranking German officer arrived at Field Marshal Alexander’s headquarters, to discuss terms for surrender. On 8 May 1945 the war in Europe was declared over. For his part in Operation Roast, Lassen’s final action, he was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross. He is the only member of Britain’s SAS ever to have won that award.

  The VC citation states:

  In Italy, on the night of 8th–9th April, 1945, Major Lassen was ordered to take out a patrol … to raid the north shore of Lake Comacchio.

  His tasks were to cause as many casualties and as much confusion as possible, to give the impression of a major landing, and to capture prisoners. No previous reconnaissance was possible, and the party found itself on a narrow road flanked on both sides by water.

  Preceded by two scouts, Major Lassen led his men along the road towards the town. They were challenged after approximately 500 yards from a position on the side of the road. An attempt to allay suspicion by answering that they were fishermen returning home failed, for when moving forward again to overpower the sentry, machine-gun fire started from the position, and also from two blockhouses to the rear.

  Major Lassen himself then attacked with grenades, and annihilated the first position, containing four Germans and two machine-guns. Ignoring the hail of bullets sweeping the road from three enemy positions, an additional one having come into action from 300 yards down the road, he raced forward to engage the second position under covering fire from the remainder of the force. Throwing in more grenades he silenced this position which was then overrun by his patrol. Two enemies were killed, two captured and two more machine guns silenced.

  By this time the force had suffered casualties and its firepower was very considerably reduced. Still under a heavy cone of fire Major Lassen rallied and reorganized his force and brought his fire to bear on the third position. Moving forward himself he flung in more grenades which produced a cry of ‘Kamerad’. He then went forward to within three or four yards of the position to order the enemy outside, and to take their surrender.

  Whilst shouting to them to come out he was hit by a burst of Spandau fire from the left of the position and he fell mortally wounded, but even while falling he flung a grenade, wounding some of the occupants and enabling his patrol to dash in and capture this final position.

  Major Lassen refused to be evacuated as he said it would impede the withdrawal and endanger further lives, and as ammunition was nearly exhausted the force had to withdraw.

  By his magnificent leadership and complete disregard for his personal safety, Major Lassen had, in the face of overwhelming superiority, achieved his objects. Three positions were wiped out, accounting for six machine guns, killing eight and wounding others of the enemy and two prisoners were taken. The high sense of devotion to duty and the esteem in which he was held by the men he led, added to his own magnificent courage, enabled Major Lassen to carry out all the tasks he had been given with complete success.

  Anders Lassen VC, MC and two bars – the last of the Maid Honour originals – had died as he had lived, in heroic defence of his fellow raiders and taking the fight to the enemy.

  Fittingly, his body was retrieved by Don Francesco Mariani, the priest of Comacchio town, and buried close by where he had fought his final battle, alongside those brother warriors who had fallen with him.

  Epilogue

  The loss of their commanding officer devastated the survivors of Comacchio. All had seen Lassen as fearless and indestructible and as leading a charmed life. Impossible as it might seem he was now dead. He was buried initially in Comacchio, the town whose liberation had been his objective in the action that was to be his last. His remains were later transferred to the British military cemetery at Argenta. They were laid to rest along with some 600 of those from the many nations who fought and died at Argenta and Comacchio so Europe might be freed from Nazi tyranny. A verse in Danish at the foot of his gravestone translates as:

  Fight for all you hold dear.

  Die as if it counts.

  Life is not so hard

  Nor is death.

  The mission to take Comacchio had formed part of an elaborate feint, one designed to convince the enemy that the main push by Allied forces in northern Italy would be along the coast. In truth, the real thrust had concentrated some miles to the west of there, in the Argenta Gap, a strip of land lying between Comacchio’s western shore and the Lombardy marshes. At Argenta, the Allies had secured their much-needed breakthrough, and barely four weeks later the war in Europe was over. Arguably, the sacrifice at Comacchio had not been in vain.

  The posthumous Victoria Cross was presented to Lassen’s parents by King George VI at Buckingham Palace, in December 1945. A second VC was awarded for actions during Operation Roast. Royal Marine Commando Tom Hunter VC was killed while charging down and destroying at least three enemy machine-gun positions. Few British military operations have ever been honoured so highly.

  *

  At the SAS lines in Hereford, there are two statues of the unit’s founding heroes: one is of David Stirling, the other of Anders Lassen, the two men who pioneered what was to become mo
dern Special Forces soldiering. While Lassen served in Jellicoe’s SBS, during the war years it was a part of the SAS Regiment, so the SAS have rightly claimed Lassen as one of their own. Equally, the SBS – now a long-established separate entity from the SAS – also claim the Danish Viking raider as one of their chief forebears.

  Many have described Lassen as a real James Bond character: a hard-drinking, hard-hitting womanizer, for whom there were no holds barred when fighting the enemy. Indeed, Ian Fleming’s Bond is believed to be based in part upon Lassen, with a good dose of Gus March-Phillipps, Geoffrey Appleyard and Graham Hayes thrown in. But the efforts of Lassen and his men had far wider ramifications over and above their obvious heroics. For example, David Sutherland, Lassen’s commanding officer during the Comacchio mission, wrote of him: ‘Anders caused more damage and discomfort to the enemy during five years of war than any other man of his rank and age.’

  A number of other senior Allied commanders wrote about how the small band of men that Lassen helped lead had achieved the extraordinary, in helping to turn the tide of the war – in the Aegean raids, in Santorini, in Salonika, and even in Comacchio. For example, Field Marshal Alexander wrote to Sutherland shortly after Comacchio, saying: ‘The reputation you have made for yourselves in your successful operations in the Mediterranean, then the Aegean Islands and the Adriatic coast will never be surpassed.’ High praise indeed.

  *

  In the aftermath of war a nation hungry for peace saw no role for irregular, piratical raiders: perhaps rightly, the focus of the world turned to building the peace. The SAS were criticized on the following points: ‘not adaptable to all countries’; ‘expense per man is greater than any other formation and is not worthwhile’; ‘any normal battalion could do the same job’.

  The SAS was disbanded immediately after the Second World War, or so the official history goes, the military High Command and their political taskmasters wasting little time in getting rid of the mavericks that had made up their number. Yet less than a decade later the British military was forced to drastically revise its position, and the Special Forces units were reformed – largely in response to the ‘Malaya Emergency’, in which the need for irregular forces became clear. Fortunately, the SF ethos had been kept alive in various guises, and survivors from the original units resurfaced so the elite SAS could be reformed.