Churchill's Band of Brothers

by Damien Lewis

  His thoughts were dragged back to the present by a heavy tread moving along the tracks. It was one o’clock sharp and the Germans were nothing if not punctual. The changing of the guard was underway. Clodhopping boots thumped along from sleeper to sleeper, and then the watchers could hear the grounding of rifle butts, as a few words were exchanged in German. They gave the outgoing sentry a few minutes to get away, before they figured it was time.

  ‘Off you go, Ginger,’ Vaculik whispered. ‘Good luck!’

  On the far side of the track, they knew that Wiehe and his partner would be doing very much the same.

  Loosening his knife in its sheath, Vaculik stole down the embankment. Up ahead his prey was whistling, keeping his back to Vaculik as he stomped his feet to keep warm. Reaching the bottom of the embankment, Vaculik stole into the tunnel entrance, hiding himself where it was darkest. He saw the sentry turn and start to move his way, little suspecting that ‘death was waiting for him under the grim arch’.

  Bang on cue the figure of Jones stepped out behind the man, crying out, ‘Hey, Jerry!’

  By way of response, the guard swung around and raised his rifle, uncertainly. Before he’d brought it to his shoulder, Vaculik was upon him, springing like a cat, his left hand snaking around the man’s mouth to silence him, his right driving the dagger downwards at his neck, right to the hilt, just as they’d been taught during training. As Vaculik held him in a vice-like grip, an acrid salty tang filled his nostrils, and moments later he felt the man’s life drifting away. He lowered the body, until the sentry lay in a lifeless bundle at his feet.

  Killing done, Vaculik paused to wipe his bloodied blade on the dead man’s uniform. ‘Sooner him than me,’ he told himself, darkly.

  Figures swarmed onto the unguarded tracks now, explosives in hand. Each rail was fitted with a pair of 3-pound charges, each of which was linked by detonation cord to a fog signal. Each of the fog signals was clamped on top of the rails, so the locomotive’s wheels would crush them, triggering the explosions.

  ‘That’s it,’ remarked Garstin, as he double-checked the charges. ‘The Brens are in position. Let’s go join the others.’

  The ambush had been set to one side of the embankment, where the grass was long and provided perfect cover. All being well, the train loaded with war materiel would come steaming out of the tunnel, trigger the charges and get thrown from the rails pretty much opposite where the Bren guns had been situated. While the Bren light machine gun might have had half the rate of fire of the German’s MG 42 – introduced in 1942 as the replacement for the MG 34 – it was still the most accurate such weapon of the war. It was also foolproof, being capable of withstanding huge mistreatment and misuse. Soldiers swore by the weapon, as did Resistance forces and guerrilla armies alike.

  The twelve raiders settled down in position. Grenades were readied in the grass, close to hand. It was all about timing now. If the train were significantly delayed, and if the sentry shift changed, Vaculik and Wiehe’s bloody handiwork would be discovered, and all would have been for naught. What Garstin and his men were banking upon was archetypal Teutonic efficiency –that despite the Allied air raids that had swept across occupied France, the enemy would stick rigidly to their timetables.

  The minutes ticked by. Edgy figures kept checking watches, or fiddling nervously with grenades, rearranging them in rows, or sliding magazines into and out of weapons. Finally, just the faintest hint of a rumble could be heard far to the south. Was that the train? Surely, it had to be. It was just before 2 a.m., which made it bang on schedule. Fingers curled tighter around triggers. Apart from the Brens, most of the raiders were carrying either Sten guns or the US M1 Carbine, a semi-automatic rifle packing a fifteen-round magazine.

  The faint rumble grew to a throatier roar. Excitement spiked as the rails below started to ping and vibrate with the onrushing momentum of the approaching rail wagons, packed full of their heavy cargo. The distinctive chuffing of the locomotive became audible, plus the rattling of the individual carriages. Soon a long plume of black smoke became visible, tracking the locomotive’s progress as it steamed towards the tunnel, the odd burst of cinders sparking the night air a ghostly orange.

  The locomotive was swallowed into the tunnel entrance, the noise changing dramatically as it tore onwards, a few seconds later bursting out into full view. Almost instantly, there was a sharp crack and a blinding flash as the charges went off, and the locomotive seemed to be thrown into the air as the blasted rails disintegrated and buckled before it. Still the head of the train was driven onwards, ploughing up the embankment with a deafening shriek of tortured metal and gushing steam, as clouds of rocks and shattered sleepers were thrown in all directions.

  Finally the engine ran out of momentum and toppled over onto one side, after which the carriages behind it buckled and telescoped into each other, in a deafening cacophony of ripping, tearing, crashing mayhem. As the entire length of the train came to a twisted halt, a petrol tanker to the rear of the locomotive burst asunder, showering the wreckage with fuel. There was a momentary silence, before the cries of the wounded and the roars of alarm cut the air, German soldiers trying to leap for safety.

  ‘Open fire! Grenades!’ Garstin yelled.

  Swathes of Bren fire tore into the wreckage, followed by a volley of grenades. Almost instantaneously the first lick of hungry flame erupted, as the blasts ignited the spilt fuel. Within seconds the train was burning ferociously, trapped figures being incinerated in the flames and ‘shrieking like all the devils in hell’. Here and there groups of enemy soldiers tried to muster some form of resistance, but the Brens tore into them, scything them down. A second and a third petrol tanker detonated now, as from end to end the train was engulfed in fiery ruin.

  Waves of heat pulsed over the embankment, being so strong as to singe the saboteurs’ eyebrows. Where the raging fire was at its most intense, it ignited the loads of ammunition the train was carrying, small arms rounds flying off in all directions, lacing the sky with smoky trails like some kind of demented firework display. The whistle of exploding rounds was so deafening that the figures on the embankment found themselves ducking instinctively, as bullets ripped and snarled through the air all around.

  But a different sound also became audible now. Bursts of aimed fire stabbed out from the nearest patch of woodland. Whether it was from enemy soldiers who had managed to evacuate the train, or the local guard force, no one could be certain, but either way the enemy were fighting back.

  ‘They’re getting a line on us!’ warned Jones, as bullets tore into the embankment.

  By way of answer, he lobbed one of the few remaining grenades in the direction of the enemy fire. The explosion was followed by a sudden shriek of agony. Then, grabbing one of the Brens and firing from the hip, he raked the woodland with short, aimed bursts. It was clear that the balance of the battle was shifting now. There were twelve SAS raiders, and the train would have been carrying many more soldiers than that, not to mention the force of guards stationed nearby. It was time to split.

  ‘Get out now!’ Garstin yelled an order. ‘Every man for himself!’

  Figures broke cover, dashing down the rail tracks, leaving the burning wreckage and fiery confusion behind them. At the rear of the raiders, Jones stood resolute, Bren at the hip, ripping out bursts of suppressing fire. If any of the enemy were minded to give chase, he was determined to frustrate them. When finally the raiders paused to take stock, all had got away. Only Jones appeared injured, for one arm was stained with blood. Fortunately the bullet had only nicked him, but he’d been lucky.

  Indeed, they’d all had been very fortunate to have Jones in their party, a long-experienced SAS man and a born warrior. As Vaculik readily admitted, it was ‘thanks to him that we all got away’.

  But only so far. From the maps, Captain Garstin had identified a wide swathe of woodland as the point where they would go to ground, but it was many hours’ march away. It was 2.30 a.m. by now, the train ambush having t
aken no more than ten minutes to execute, though it had felt like a lifetime. They had three hours maximum before it started to get light, and many miles on foot to cover. And shortly there would be forty-five further blasts, as the ammo dumps blew sky high.

  ‘Get a move on, lads!’ Garstin exhorted. ‘Those dumps are due to blow in an hour and a half.’ By rights, every German soldier and his dog would be out searching for them by then.

  They would need to set a relentless pace, if they were to evade the hunters.

  Chapter 7

  Relieved of the weight of the charges they’d been carrying, the raiders’ packs were mercifully lightened, and they pressed on at a good pace, while behind them the heavens blazed a fiery orange. Every now and again an angry stab of flame erupted skywards, as fire spread further through the wreckage of the train, detonating a fuel tank or a cargo of explosives, each blast rolling across the heavens like a peal of ghoulish thunder.

  Of course, these twelve men were fugitives now. Deep behind enemy lines and with no armed Resistance band with which to lie low, they felt very much the hunted. There would be no welcoming farmsteads at which to take refuge; no church to provide cloistered sanctuary; no remote manor house at which to go to ground. They were alone and they expected to be ruthlessly sought by an enemy hell-bent on vengeance.

  ‘We were anxious to put as much distance between us and our pursuers – because, of course, we should be pursued . . . before the hunt started up in real earnest,’ remarked Vaculik. Already their sense of elation and triumph was tempered with a dark uncertainty. ‘We moved quickly, a line of silent, shadowy figures.’

  Avoiding all major roads and well-used tracks, they cut across country, fording rivers, executing the kind of forced march that would have made Paddy Mayne proud during their Darvel training. But very quickly they were soaked to the skin, their heavy uniforms weighing them down, their boots squelching dispiritingly. Waves of fatigue washed over the twelve men, but still they forced themselves to go on, and with one aim in mind: to put enough distance between themselves and the fiery mayhem they had wrought that no enemy would be able to trace them.

  ‘Our lives depended on the successful outcome of this flight under the stars,’ Vaculik recalled, ‘. . . and none of us hung back.’

  Typically, some gave vent to their feelings. Paddy Barker and Jones cursed as they marched. After Jones’s heroic stand with the Bren, he’d earned the right to swear like any trooper. Vaculik joined them in the cussing, as a tree-root caught his boot and almost sent him flying. No man wanted to take a fall, for they were doubtful whether they’d have the energy to clamber to their feet again.

  ‘Nearly four o’clock,’ Garstin sent the word down the column of men. ‘Don’t let up now, boys.’

  It was a timely reminder. Moments later a massive blast erupted far to their rear, the ground at their feet reverberating with its force, a huge mushroom cloud of smoke fisting high into the sky, streaked with gouts of fire and flying debris. As the raiders paused to watch the cataclysmic effects of their handiwork, a second and third ammo dump went up, each exploding with an almighty roar, which even at the distance of several miles sounded deafening.

  The horizon to the west seemed awash with angry flame, and the raiders could only imagine what it must have been like to be anywhere near such blasts. No one in the vicinity could have survived such savage devastation. ‘They were my enemies,’ Vaculik remarked, of those figures that he’d spied through the window of the guard hut, ‘but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for them.’ Even in the midst of war, human compassion and kindness somehow endured.

  There was no time to stand and admire their handiwork, or to indulge any fleeting sense of regret. They had 6 miles still to cover before they should reach the woodland and barely an hour of darkness remained. Tireless as ever, Garstin urged them on. They passed a farm, early wisps of smoke curling from the chimney, cows grazing peacefully near at hand. Wistfully, the raiders remembered similar scenes during their training, when Scottish crofters had pressed fresh milk and eggs and butter into their hands. There was no chance of that now.

  They struggled onwards, reaching a ploughed field and tripping over deep furrows. Only willpower kept them going. It was at moments like this that the men fell back on the lessons learned during training, each digging deep to find hidden reserves. Swimming icy Scottish lochs in the depths of winter, followed by a forced march for hours in soaking, freezing clothing, prepared a man for the very worst. So too did the long survival exercises amongst the snows of Ben Nevis, armed with only vitamin tablets, Benzedrine and initiative, all washed down with a mug of tea brewed from melted snow.

  At such moments morale tended to plummet to zero, but over time it forged ‘Commando soldiers capable of withstanding the utmost privations’, Vaculik recalled. Of course, they’d also had to learn all the skills of behind-the-line operations, being taught jiu-jitsu – a Japanese martial art for close-quarter combat – knife work, rapid fire with all kinds of weapons, plus sabotage work, blowing up walls, trees, railway lines and road vehicles. In the Battle Course training, they’d had to conquer a series of seemingly insurmountable obstacles, including high stone walls, fierce mountain streams and ditches filled with the most unspeakable gunk imaginable.

  They’d learned to lie across barbed wire while their comrades tramped over them, as a means to surmount such obstacles, all the while with their instructors unleashing a constant stream of live fire just above their heads. Real mines were detonated in close proximity as the sodden, exhausted trainees dashed past. Such realism came with its costs: the instructors reckoned upon a significant attrition rate – men lost to bullets or shrapnel, or other injuries – but the results were said to justify the means.

  Here, on their desperate race to escape their hunters, the SABU-70 raiders were putting that to the ultimate test. The sun blinked above the eastern horizon, its blaze revealing a pall of black smoke lying thick over the distant battleground. The line of dark trees – sanctuary – was still a good way away, and here and there people were out and about, tending to their fields. Thankfully, no one seemed to pay the column of soldiers much heed, no doubt taking them to be German troops intent on executing their orders.

  Step by step the forest drew closer, but a final obstacle lay in the fugitives’ path: a main road. Every now and again trucks carrying grey-uniformed troops could be seen hurrying along it – doubtless the hunters, never imagining that the hunted might be so close. Having mastered their Battle Course training, they should be able to conquer this final impediment, despite their exhaustion. One last burst of defiance; one final jolt of energy fuelling shattered bodies, and they should be in amongst the trees.

  When finally there was a break in the traffic, Garstin ordered his men to break cover and to dash across. All twelve made it, apparently without being spotted. Having struck deep into the woodland, they flung themselves down on a mossy bank, utterly exhausted. Fortunately, Paddy Barker still had the energy – and foresight – to get a brew going. Shortly, he was able to hand around a mug brimful of tea heavily laced with sugar. It proved hugely invigorating.

  With all feeling a little refreshed, Garstin set a two-hour watch rotation. The plan was to move off again that evening, pushing deeper into the woods and further away from the scene of their sabotage. With no Resistance comrades to hand, and precious little explosives remaining, the SAS captain didn’t doubt that they would need to be pulled out. With the hue and cry up, it was best to disappear as soon as humanly possible. The only issue was how, when and where to get the RAF to land – that was, if the plan remained in place to pull Garstin and his team out in such a daring manner.

  Though rarely used in wartime, the concept of flying in to pluck small teams from out of enemy territory wasn’t quite so groundbreaking as it might at first seem. For three years the SOE had been using the Westland Lysander – a light aircraft with exceptional short take-off and landing capabilities – to ferry in and to collect its agents f
rom remote fields prepared by the Resistance. Named after a mythical Spartan leader of the same name, the Lysander had proven excellent at landing on a sixpence, and at hedge-hopping and steeple-dodging thereafter, to shake off enemy fighter planes.

  Taking that concept a little further, SOE, working hand in hand with the RAF, had set up a special training school where SAS, Commandos and the like could be trained in the ‘selection, preparation and operation of clandestine airstrips’. Before patrols were dispatched into the field, SOE would advise them on the best possible stretch of terrain to be checked out and prepared as a makeshift landing ground.

  From RAF Blakehill Farm – just a short hop from Fairford –233 Squadron were operating the recently introduced Douglas C-47 Dakota (or ‘Skytrain’ in US parlance), a twin-engine transport aircraft perfect for such daredevil operations. Though originally designed and built as a commercial airliner, the C-47 was of rugged construction and its durability was legendary. 233 Squadron had played a key role towing gliders and dropping parachutists, to support the D-Day landings. But they also flew clandestine missions on behalf of SAS and SOE, most usually hopping over to Fairford to pick up their charges, before dropping them on a remote field somewhere in occupied Europe.

  The C-47 had proved rugged, versatile and ideal for putting down on rough and ready airstrips, hewn out of a French or a Norwegian farmer’s field. In one instance, an entire SAS squadron – almost a hundred men-at-arms – would be pulled out of one such strip deep in rural France. But all of that lay some time in the future. If successful, Garstin’s would be one of the first ever units to be extracted in such a way.

  Understandably, he and his men were a little apprehensive of being used as the guinea pigs, especially as the failure of such a pick-up would likely have dire consequences. Lieutenant Wiehe was in charge of SABU-70’s signals, and he’d managed to make contact with the UK, to assess the chances of the pick-up going ahead. The reply he’d received had proven unexpected in the extreme.