in 1941.
Burdened down with their weapons, they scrambled into Bedford QL four-wheel-drive trucks and were driven to a firing range at the southern end of the camp. There, as the sun climbed in the sky and the summer heat grew ever stronger, they lay in the dirt and took turns at firing their various weapons, simultaneously practising their aim and checking that the weapons worked perfectly and did not jam. After a couple of hours, they stripped and cleaned the weapons, slung them over their shoulders, then clambered back into the trucks and were driven back to their barracks. There they deposited their weapons in the lockers by their beds before returning to the mess hall for lunch.
‘The second-to-last decent meal for a long time,’ Jacko reminded his mates, ‘so tuck in, lads.’
After lunch they were marched to the quartermaster’s store, where they picked up their bergen rucksacks, groundsheets, survival kit, including water bottles, first-aid box, tin mug and plates with eating utensils, and finally their Irvin X-Type parachute. Another hour and a half was spent packing the kit into the rucksacks and checking thoroughly that the chute was in working order, then they strapped the rucksacks, rolled groundsheets and parachute packs neatly to their backs, picked up their weapons and left the barracks like beasts of burden.
‘All right, you ugly mugs,’ Sergeant Lorrimer growled at the men, standing before them with his clenched fists on his broad hips, as bombers rumbled overhead on their way to France, ‘get in a proper line.’
After being lined up and inspected by their respected sergeant, who had an eagle eye and a sharp tongue when it came to error and inefficiency, they were marched to the waiting Bedford trucks, clambered up into them, and were driven out of the base and along country roads to Down Ampney and RAF Station 1090. On the way they passed columns of troop trucks heading away from many other staging areas and bound for various disembarkation points along the coast, where the boats would take them to France to join the Allied forces already there. Above, the cloudy sky was filled with Allied bombers and fighter escorts likewise bound for France. Such sights gave most of the men a surge of excitement that had been missing too long, and eased the bitter disappointment they had been feeling at missing D-Day.
‘Nice to know we’re joining them at last,’ Rich said to his mate Jacko. ‘We’ve been stuck here too long.’
‘Bloody right,’ Jacko replied, waving at the troops heading in the opposite direction in Bedfords. ‘And we’ll be there in no time.’
After passing through the heavily guarded main gates of the RAF station, they were driven straight to the airfield, which was lined with both British and American bombers, as well as the fighters that usually escorted them to Germany. Disembarking from the trucks at the edge of the airfield, near a modified Halifax bomber being prepared for flight and the Willys jeeps waiting to be loaded on to it, they were greeted by Captains Callaghan and Greaves.
‘How goes it, boss?’ Sergeant Lorrimer asked Callaghan.
‘Not too well,’ Greaves replied bluntly. ‘Captain Callaghan and I have wasted most of the day desperately phoning between 1st Airborne Corps and 38 Group RAF at Netheravon and Special Forces Unit, begging for more aircraft for the drop.’
‘Bloody waste of time,’ Callaghan said curtly to Sergeant Lorrimer and the other ranks grouped around him. ‘By the time we’d finished we still had only one Halifax to go with – this one here.’
‘Which means,’ Greaves cut in, ‘that we will, as feared, have to insert the men and jeeps over two or three nights.’
‘Wonderful!’ Lorrimer murmured sardonically. ‘What a bloody waste of time!’
Callaghan nodded wearily, then continued: ‘Since then, we’ve been rushing around trying to finalize routes, supplies and men, and liaise with the units across the water. Everything’s now set for the drop, but the insertion will necessarily be tedious. The most experienced men will therefore go first.’
‘That’s us,’ Jacko said.
‘Lucky us,’ Rich added. ‘We’ll be on the ground with Krauts all around us and we won’t be able to do a sodding thing until the others are dropped. Two or three days of high risk coupled with boredom – a fitting reward for experience.’
‘Stop whining,’ Lorrimer told him. ‘When it’s over you’ll be boasting about it in every pub in the land. You should thank us for this.’
‘Gee, thanks, Sarge!’ Rich replied.
‘All joking aside,’ Callaghan said, ‘this business of not having our own aircraft means we’re practically having to beg for planes that are constantly being allocated elsewhere at the last moment, leaving us strapped. I don’t like being at the mercy of 1st Airborne Corps or 38 Group RAF. Sooner or later, we’ll have to get our own air support – always there when we want it.’
‘I agree,’ Greaves said. ‘But in the meantime we’ll have to live with our single Halifax.’
‘All right, let’s get to it.’
Already well trained for this specific task, the Originals of C Squadron, who would go on the first flight, removed the twin Vickers K guns normally mounted to the front and rear of the modified American Willys jeeps, along with the 0.5-inch Browning heavy machine-guns, and placed them in separate wooden crates. Then, with the aid of short crates and nets operated by REME, the jeeps were placed in their own crates, which had air bags underneath to cushion the impact on landing. When the lids had been nailed down, four parachute packs were attached to each crate. To facilitate the drop, the aircraft’s rear-bay doors had already been removed and a long beam fastened inside, so the men rigged each crated jeep with a complicated arrangement of crash pans and struts, then attached it to the beam to spread the load.
‘Those should slow your darling down a bit,’ Jacko said to the RAF pilot standing beside him, referring to the crated jeeps and weapons.
The pilot, who was chewing gum, nodded. ‘They’ll certainly have an adverse effect on the aircraft’s performance, but apart from making it sluggish to fly, there should be no great problems.’
‘Unless we’re attacked by Kraut fighters.’
‘Hopefully they’ll take care of that,’ the pilot said, pointing at the other RAF men who had already entered the Halifax and were taking their positions behind the two .303-inch Brownings in the nose turret and the four in the tail turret. The remaining two guns in the manual beam positions would be handled in an emergency by one of the other seven crew members. ‘They’ll make up for our sluggishness,’ the pilot added.
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Jacko.
By the time the last of the crates had been fixed to the beam in the rear bay, darkness was falling. Once the rest of the RAF crew had taken up their positions in the aircraft and were checking their instruments, the men of C Squadron were ordered to pick up their kit and board the Halifax through the door in the side. After forming a long line, they filed in one by one and sat side by side in the cramped, gloomy space between the fuselage and the supply crates stowed along the middle of the dimly lit hold. Shortly after, the RAF loadmaster slammed the door shut and the four Rolls-Royce Merlin 1390-hp, liquid-cooled engines roared into life, quickly gained power, and gradually propelled the Halifax along the runway and into the air.
Flying at a speed of just over 685mph, the aircraft was soon over the English Channel, though the SAS men in the windowless hold could not see it. All they could see directly in front of them
