The Exit Club: Book 1: The Originals

by Shaun Clarke

  One day, after Kearney had checked the men’s canteensto ensure that they hadn’t drunk more water than permitted during their latest hike, Red complained that the officers’ canteens were never checked. Kearney instantly handed Red his own canteen, saying, ‘All right, Corporal, finish this off.’ When Red greedily opened the canteen, he found it completely full. ‘You understand, Corporal?’ Kearney said. ‘I completed the whole hike without drinking a drop. And if I can, you can.’

  ‘Right,’ Red responded, shamefaced as he handed back the full canteen. ‘Understood, boss.’

  In another instance, during a particularly draining hike along the edge of an escarpment that overlooked the Mediterranean, in the scorching heat of midday, when Tone complained that he needed a rest, Captain Kearney grabbed him by the shoulders, picked him bodily off the ground, and held him over the edge of the cliff. ‘If you don’t shut your damned trap,’ he said, ‘I’ll drop you into the sea.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Tone responded, sounding choked. ‘Right, boss, I’ll keep my trap shut in the future. For God’s sale, just put me back down, boss. I got the message, loud and clear.’

  ‘Good,’ Kearney said, grinning, then he stepped away from the edge of the cliff and lowered Tone to the ground.

  Tone shut up after that and the other men, rather than resent Captain Kearney, respected him even more.

  If anything, this respect only increased when Kearney and Bellamy personally demonstrated what they required during parachute training. This began during the final weeks of the selection process with the building of a steel framework ten metres high, which the men had to jump off in order to learn the skills of landing without hurting themselves. While reasonably effective in teaching the men how to land properly, the static frames could not be used to simulate the vertical and lateral movement of a proper parachute drop from an aircraft. Kearney pointed this out to Captain Stirling, who contacted the only parachute school then extant, Ringway in England, and begged for assistance. Rudely ignored – since most officers back in England thought he was merely playing games with a bunch of cowboys

  – Stirling went back to Kearney and asked him to devise his own training methods.

  Kearney amazed the men by personally standing on the rear of a Bedford truck, burdened with Bergen rucksack and parachute pack, them jumping off as the vehicle raced across the desert. He broke his fall by rolling in the direction of the receding truck when he hit the ground.

  ‘Rather him than me,’ Tone said as he stood a good distance away, watching Kearney repeatedly jump off the racing Bedford into a cloud of churning sand. ‘He’s going to break his bloody back if he keeps that up.’

  ‘We’re next,’ Marty told him. ‘You can bet your balls on it. If Kearney decides that’s a good way to train us, you can bet we’ll be doing it.’

  This turned out to be true. After personally experimenting with various ways of rolling, Kearney made the rest of the men do the same. The exercise didn’t bother Marty at first, because the trucks were travelling at a relative safe 15 mph; but as the men became more efficient and Kearney gradually upped the speed to 30 mph, Marty realised just how dangerous it was and became much more careful.

  There were many accidents during this phase of the training, including severe sprains and fractured bones, but the jumps from racing trucks continued until it was time for the remaining men to make their first jumps from an aeroplane.

  MEHQ Cairo had finally made a Bristol Bombay bomber transport available for this purpose. Luckily, unlike the Vickers Valentia that had almost killed Captain Stirling during an early jump, the Bombay had a proper overhead suspension for the static-line of the ‘chutes, allowing for the use of a snap-link.

  Feeling that it was necessary for him to make a showing at this point, Captain Stirling personally made the first two jumps with the men. These were successful and the men were relieved. However, during the next flight, when Stirling remained on the ground to check the landing patterns visually, the snap-links of the two lead parachutists twisted, the rings slipped free, the parachute canopies remained in their packs, and Marty, next in line, heard the two men screaming in dread as they plunged to their deaths. Marty was horrified.

  So was Stirling. He cancelled the rest of the planned jumps and gave the men the day off. The jumps were, however, ruthlessly resumed the following morning, with Stirling, determined to set a good example, again being the first out of the aircraft. This time the snaplinks were carefully checked and there were no further casualties.

  Within a matter of weeks, the remaining men were expert, confident paratroopers.

  One major problem remained. As the main purpose of the planned raids was to destroy enemy aircraft and other vehicles on the ground, as well as fuel and ammunition dumps, the men, if using orthodox explosives, would be required to hump heavy loads to their chosen targets. As most explosives were too heavy to carry over such distances and the usual constituents – gelignite, thermite, ammonal– took too long to be ignited or could explode accidentally, carrying them over such distances did not seem practical.

  Faced with this problem, Captain Stirling sought the advice of Lieutenant Jock Lewes, who had been with him when he made his disastrous parachute jump from the Valentia and had since been responsible for many of L Detachment’s major innovations. Lewes, a remarkably inventive man, eventually came up with a blend of plastic explosive (PE) and thermite kneaded together with a lubricant into a bomb the size of a tennis ball. This explosive-inflammable mix gave a charge of about 400 grams.

  ‘Placed on the blade of a propellor,’ Kearney explained to the men gathered around him, ‘this device, forthwith to be known as the Lewes bomb, will not only damage the prop but also set alight any petrol or other fuel within range of the blast. In short, it’s perfect for the destruction of grounded aircraft and other vehicles, as well as for attacks on fuel and ammunition dumps. It’s also exceptionally small and light, therefore easy to carry. Last but not least, with the explosive fused in its own right and the incendiary device timed to ignite just afterthe explosion, you won’t find anything quicker or more devastating.’

  ‘I’m not sure what all that means, boss,’ Marty chipped in.

  ‘What it means,’ Kearney replied with a grin, ‘is that the bugger will work.’

  It did. Tested in the presence of Sergeant ‘Limp Dick’ Hardy, the device was highly successful, exploding with an ear-splitting roar and creating a mushroom of billowing sand that took a long time to settle.

  That same evening, just before standing the men down, Captain Stirling made a personal appearance to inform them that they were to prepare for their first operation the following evening. They would be briefed in the morning.

  ‘About time,’ Marty whispered.

  Chapter Six

  Though the unit was not due to move out until 1930 hours, reveille was at first light and led to another frantic day. Once the men had attended to their ablutions, they donned their desert clothing, had a good breakfast, then returned to their tents to spend the rest of the morning packing their Bergen rucksacks with everything they would need for desert survival. When fully packed, the Bergens weighed about 40 kilograms.

  ‘A bleedin’ beast of burden,’ Tone complained. ‘Donkeys have it better than we do. You might as well put us in harness and take a whip to us.’

  ‘You might be grateful to have this,’ Marty said as he finished sorting his kit on the adjacent camp bed in the sweltering tent,‘when we’re back down on the ground.’

  ‘Don’t even remind me about that parachute jump,’ Tone responded. ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough,’ Red said, the tattoos on

  his right arm moving magically as, leaning over his bed,

  he tightened his webbing. ‘You’ll know when your

  parachute doesn’t open and your arse hits the ground

  and travels through it until it reaches Australia. You’ll

  know it then, mate.�
�

  ‘Oh, thanks a lot, Corporal!’

  When the Bergens had been carefully packed and

  repeatedly checked to ensure that they were secure, the

  men went for lunch, which would be their last cooked

  meal for the next few days. Aware of this, they ate as

  much as they could stomach, then returned to their tents to check thoroughly and clean and oil their weapons. These included Sten submachine guns, M1 Thompson submachine guns and Bren light machine guns. Finally, they attended to their belt kit. When they had finished, their webbing was festooned with a variety of box magazines, hand grenades, water bottles with water filters, survival kits and, of course, the brand new Lewes bombs. Strapped to waist belts were the ubiquitous 9mm Browning High Power handgun, a Fairbairn-Sykes

  fighting knife, bayonet, compass and binoculars. ‘I don’t think the parachute’s been made to support

  this lot,’ Tone intoned in a droll manner. ‘I see us

  plummeting straight down like stones and being buried

  six feet deep.’

  ‘There speaks a true optimist,’ Marty said. ‘Now

  will you please belt up, mate?’

  ‘I ambelting up,’ Tone responded, tightening the

  buckle of the heavily burdened belt around his waist. ‘He means keep your bleedin’ trap shut,’ Red said as

  he eased his Bergen rucksack onto his back and adjusted

  the straps. ‘Talk too much about what could go wrong

  and it might actually happen. All that talk could bring

  bad luck. Time for the briefing, anyway,’ he continued,

  picking up the rest of his weapons, ‘so let’s go and hear

  some sensible shit from our skyhigh CO.’

  Realizing that his friends were as tense as he was,

  Marty was glad to hump his rucksack onto his back and

  follow them out of the tent. Though the afternoon was

  still bright, with a huge crimson sun shedding its light

  on the tents and gun emplacements, the hot air was

  gradually cooling and a light breeze was blowing clouds

  of sand over the five Bombay bombers being used as

  transports. Entering the briefing tent and taking one of

  the wooden chairs, surrounded by other troopers, Marty saw that Captain Stirling was already standing by the blackboard, towering over Kearney, Jock Lewes, and

  the glowering Sergeant Bellamy.

  ‘Are we all here?’ Stirling asked when the men had

  settled down.

  Bellamy cast his baleful gaze over the men seated in

  front of him, then nodded affirmatively. ‘Yes, boss.’ ‘Good.’

  Stirling began the briefing by informing them that

  General Auchinleck, the Commander-in-Chief, Middle

  East, was about to mount his first major offensive to

  relieve Tobruk and push Rommel’s seemingly

  invincible Afrika Corps out of Cyrenaica. He then told

  them that to aid this push, L Detachment, divided into

  five separate groups of twelve and travelling to the DZ,

  or drop zone, in five different aircraft, would mount

  attacks against five Axis airfields spread around Gazala

  and Timini. The five groups would be dropped at

  different locations, all far away from the targets. They

  would then hike throughout the night to laying-up

  positions in view of the targets. From the LUPs they

  would observe the targets and assess their individual

  situations. Infiltration of the airfields, the placing of the

  Lewes bombs and detonation would take place in the

  early hours of the morning with the fuses coordinated,

  as far as possible, to detonate under cover of darkness.

  The groups would then embark on a forced march

  before first light, back to a preselected RV, to join up

  with the LRDG, which would return them to base. ‘I feel I should warn you,’ Captain Stirling added,

  ‘that there are those in MEHQ Cairo, and even back in

  Whitehall, who believe that what we’re doing out here

  is a compete waste of time. Our mission, therefore, is

  not only to aid the big push, but to prove ourselves as a viable fighting unit. Should we fail to do so, the unit may be disbanded, so let’s make sure we don’t fail.’ He glanced at his wristwatch, then out of the tent at the settingsun. ‘Time to move, gentlemen. I expect to see you out on the airstrip at 1900 hours sharp. Good luck to

  all of you.’

  After leaving the tent, the men were broken up into

  five separate raiding parties, with Marty, Tone and Red

  in the twelve-man group to be led by Paddy Kearney

  and Bulldog Bellamy. Minutes later, as the sun sank

  over the horizon, casting long shadows on the vast plain

  of the desert, they strapped their Irvin X-Type parachute

  packs over their bulging Bergens and boarded one of the

  five Bombay bombers parked along the runway. Believing that the Bombay was already an out-ofdate aircraft, Marty was not thrilled to be aboard. He

  was even less thrilled when he went into the hold and

  saw an enormous long-range fuel tank taking up the

  middle of the plane, down much of its length.

  ‘I’d rather be cremated,’ he remarked, ‘than be

  buried alive like this.’

  ‘The faithful will be resurrected,’ Captain Kearney

  responded. ‘Just say your prayers, Trooper.’

  ‘I would if I could but I can’t. It’s not in my nature,

  boss.’

  ‘Then keep your peace,’ Bulldog told him. Those were the last words of unnecessary

  conversation spoken throughout the flight. When the

  Bombay took off at 1930 hours, the roar of its twin

  engines made casual conversation impossible to the men

  seated in oppressively cramped conditions on the

  fuselage floor above the bomb racks and creaking crates

  of ammunition and supplies.

  Glancing to his right, Marty saw that he was third

  from the door, which meant that he would be jumping

  out directly after Paddy Kearney and Bulldog Bellamy.

  This thought made him nervous, but he also felt a stab

  of excitement even sharper than fear.

  The flight seemed interminable, but took less than

  two hours. Though the Bombay had taken off in a

  windless evening, its engines gradually started

  labouring against stormy weather and its vibrations

  became more pronounced. As it was nearing what

  Marty estimated was the general area of the DZ it

  entered the heart of the storm and shuddered even more

  violently. Marty heard a clap of thunder above the

  labouring engines, then saw bolts of lightning ripping

  through the patches of sky framed by the small

  windows. Finally, when the aircraft was seriously

  bucking and shuddering, being hammered by the storm

  outside, the pounding of anti-aircraft guns was added to

  the bedlam and tracers flickered in eerie green lines past

  the same windows, adding their phosphorescent

  glowing to the lightning-streaked, darkening sky. The noisy vibrations of the struggling Bombay

  worsened as Marty methodically checked his kit and

  prepared himself for the drop. A few minutes later,

  when the Bombay was flying through a dangerous

  combination of thunder, lightning, snapping tracers and

  exploding flak, it rocked violently, shuddered, then

  started descending in a controlled manner.

  Though it was impossi
ble to stand upright without

  holding onto something, Kearney made his way to the

  pilot’s cabin up front and emerged a few seconds later,

  looking grim.

  ‘The plane has been hit,’ he confirmed, shouting

  against the clamour, ‘but it hasn’t been badly damaged, so we’re continuing on to the DZ. Unfortunately, one of the other Bombays, Lieutenant Pearson’s, has taken a worse hit and the pilot’s heading back to base. This

  leaves us short of those twelve men.’

  The melodramatic moans and groans of the troopers

  in the hold were cut short by the RAF despatcher.

  Stepping up to the sliding door where the drop would be

  made, he bawled, ‘Five minutes to zero hour! On your

  feet, please!’

  When the men had done as they were told, the

  despatcher, a sergeant, checked the static lines that were

  fixed to ‘strong points’ in the fuselage and designed to

  jerk the ‘chutes open as each man fell clear of the

  aircraft. A man’s life could depend on them, but in this

  old-fashioned aircraft the fixings looked suspiciously

  fragile.

  ‘If those strong points twist free,’ Marty told Tone,

  ‘the canopies won’t open and you really will get buried

  six feet under. Best say your prayers, mate.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Tone responded.

  They were secretly relieved, however, to observe

  that a sharp tug on each line by the RAF despatcher had

  satisfied him that the new clips would hold firm. He

  then moved to the door and nodded to the waiting

  aircraftsman to open it. Suddenly, cold air came

  rushing, roaring, in.

  With his numbed senses revived by the shock of

  roaring, freezing air, Marty lined up behind Kearney

  and Bulldog Bellamy. Supply packs of weapons and

  explosive, he noted, all tied to parachutes, were stacked

  up in the rear of the fuselage, behind the line of men,

  waiting to be pitched out by the airmen when the last of

  the paratroopers had gone. Other boxes with parachutes