by Tom Keene
I set off running up the long flight of concrete steps which led to the cliff top, 250 feet up. In my eagerness I went too fast. By the time I got to the top I was absolutely done … and my sodden battledress seemed to weight a ton. My legs were leaden, my lungs bursting, I could hear the squeak and squelch of wet boots as the rest of the troop followed us up from the beach.7
Once on the clifftop high above the beach they sent out patrols, established road blocks and searched for enemy to kill. Not a German was found. Although Second Lt Hubert Nicolle, an officer whose pre-war home had been on Guernsey, had landed a few nights before the raid to carry out a stealthy reconnaissance, the Germans appeared to have altered their dispositions in his absence. Reluctantly, and with time for the RV with HMS Scimitar running out, Durnford-Slater ordered his men back to the boats. Down the steep steps they hurried:
I was last down from the cliff top with Peter Young clattering just ahead of me. Near the bottom I accelerated and suddenly realised that my feet had lost the rhythm of the steps. I tripped and tumbled the rest of the way, head over heels. I had been carrying my cocked revolver at the ready. During the fall it went off, seemingly tremendously loud and echoing against the cliffs. This, at last, brought the Germans to life. Almost at once there was a line of tracer machine-gun fire from the top of the cliff on the other side of our cove.8
They reached the beach. Heavy swell and a change of tide meant the men had to swim out to their rescue boats waiting 100 yards out in deep water beyond the growl of surf and pounding waves. Which was when three of his party admitted that, unfortunately, they were non-swimmers. They were left behind to give themselves up. Some of the men stripped off naked for the swim out to the boats. One man – Gunner John McGoldrick of the Royal Artillery – was later reported missing, believed drowned. Durnford-Slater left his battledress blouse on the beach for the Germans. It had his name sewn into the collar.
†††
And so, eventually, they came home.
Operation Ambassador, evidently, provided a learning curve for these new raiders that was almost vertical. Although much was learned – about boat suitability, personnel selection, the need for good small boat navigation and, above all, proper beach reconnaissance – nothing could disguise the fact that Ambassador was another disappointment, another fiasco. Churchill himself recognised it as such: ‘Let there be no more silly fiascos like those perpetrated at Boulogne and Guernsey,’ he said. ‘The idea of working all these coasts up against us by pinprick raids is one strictly to be avoided.’9 Churchill had a point. Lord Lovat, one of the war’s outstanding commando leaders, wrote:
The sailors got a reprimand and Churchill ordered an immediate reorganisation. There would be no more slackly planned, uncoordinated efforts mounted by a collection of amateurs – naval or army – against targets of insignificant importance. With a hostile War Office, limited resources, our poor track record and the disapproval of every Army Command, it required courage to reinforce the concept of a corps elite.10
So far, despite all his frustration and impatience, March-Phillipps appeared to have missed very little. Yet already, thanks to the fiascos of Operations Collar and Ambassador, the very commando concept was already under fire and in question. It was Churchill, once again, who waded to the rescue. On 25 August he wrote to Anthony Eden, Secretary of State for War:
I hear that the whole position of our commandos is being questioned. They have been told ‘no more recruiting’ and that their future is in the melting pot. I thought therefore I might write to let you know how strongly I feel that the Germans have been right, both in the last war and in this, in the use they have made of storm troops … The defeat of France was accomplished by an incredibly small number of highly equipped elite, while the dull mass of the German army came on behind … There will certainly be many opportunities for minor operations, all of which will depend on surprise landings of lightly equipped, nimble forces accustomed to work like packs of hounds instead of being moved about in the ponderous manner which is appropriate to the regular formations … For every reason therefore we must develop the storm troop or commando idea. I have asked for five thousand parachutists, and we must also have at least ten thousand of these small ‘bands of brothers’ who will be capable of lightning action.11
March-Phillipps got his commando interview. He appeared before the Commanding Officer of newly formed No 7 Commando, Lt Col D.S. Lister, M.C., formerly of The Buffs, at the Cricket Pavilion, Hounslow Barracks, and on 16 July 1940 was duly selected as ‘B’ Troop Commander. He was then told he could select his own section leaders from the thirty other officers who had volunteered from within Southern Command. His first choice was a subaltern from the Royal Tank Corps, John Colbeck, who had served with him in France at Advance Headquarters. Appleyard had served there too, albeit in the rear, and knew and liked Colbeck; and, though now serving with Headquarters II Corps at Aldershot, he had kept in close touch with the gunner captain who had jumped into his foxhole in Dunkirk. Now he too wanted to join the same unit:
Until then I had not heard anything about this at all, and then I heard March-Phillipps discussing it and knew it was the thing for me. I know him very well and after he knew I wanted to volunteer he accepted me as the other subaltern immediately. The proposal went up to Colonel Lister together with my ‘on paper’ qualifications and March-Phillipps’ strong recommendation. Col. Lister accepted it and approached the War Office, they communicated with Brig. Gale of this HQ who apparently ‘did his stuff by me’ and yesterday the War Office wired that I was appointed! This all happened in about twenty-four hours and now I am only waiting for the official written confirmation to come through – perhaps in a day or two – a relief to come to take over my job here, and then we can start interviewing the volunteers and pick our men.12
Appleyard’s appointment was confirmed on 21 July 1940. He was in.
The truth was that, in Second Lt Geoffrey Appleyard, RASC, Colonel Lister had something of a catch. Not only had Appleyard acquitted himself with calm, dependable courage during the chaos of the Dunkirk evacuation, but those ‘on paper’ qualifications he mentioned hid other formidable talents. He had been Head of Boats at Caius College Cambridge, where he had taken a First in Engineering. He was a skiing Blue at Cambridge, had won the Slalom Race for Cambridge against Oxford on his twenty-first birthday in 1937 and was an international downhill competitor at the highest level. He had won outright – and in a blinding snowstorm – the ‘Roberts of Kandahar’, the oldest and best known British downhill ski race. Also, as British team captain in 1938 he tied with the Norwegian champion – on his own ground at Myrdal on the west coast of Norway – for first place in the downhill, during which he descended 2,000 feet in 1 minute 33.1 seconds at speeds often in excess of 60mph to lead Britain to overall victory and himself to become the Anglo-Norwegian Champion, 1938. Unsurprisingly, he also held the Ski Club of Great Britain’s gold badge for downhill ski-racing.
Born into a wealthy family that owned a prosperous engineering company in Leeds, Appleyard had, from a carefree childhood, enjoyed a life of unconscious privilege. It had not spoilt him. Fair-skinned, dark-haired and good looking with a strong physique toned by days of skiing and competitive rowing, from an early age he had loved the outdoors and, amidst boisterous high spirits, had been a keen and serious ornithologist with an interest in ‘ringing’ migrant birds. He even had a special British Museum reporting name – Whippletree – which he shared with three friends. He also appears to have had that happy knack of making friends wherever he went, a trait detected with insight by early teachers: ‘A boy of very attractive character who causes a great deal of trouble by thoughtless high spirits,’ observed Donald Gray, Headmaster of Bootham school, York, in March 1932. ‘He takes punishment in the right spirit but generally contrives to do it again, very soon. Good manners, healthy and friendly.’ Added Housemaster Leslie Gilbert that same year: ‘I admire his absolute straightforwardness; it seems to be the pattern on w
hich he builds his life. It is difficult to praise enough his sincere, friendly attitude in all things, even in his occasional outbreaks of harmless disorder.’ One day, everyone knew, Appleyard minor would inherit his father’s business and responsibilities. Engineering was where his future lay. He spent the summer of 1938 in overalls on the shop floor, working in his father’s motor repair depot, learning the job from the bottom up, skinning knuckles, getting grease and engine oil under his fingernails. Reading a copy of the speech he made at that first Appleyard Christmas annual staff dinner, it is difficult to find fault with his teachers’ early judgement:
Facing all of you tonight, some of whom have been with us for ten or fifteen years, I feel that it is rather out of place for me to be getting upon my feet at all – even for only two minutes. You see, I have always been told that children should be seen and not heard and, as I’ve only been working since September, I’m really only an infant three months old … First of all I want to say how tremendously proud I am to have at last joined this organisation, and to feel that I am taking some part – even though it’s still a very small part indeed – in the running of it. Of course, I’m far from being a mechanic yet. In fact, I’m still the chap that passes the tools to the man that passes the tools to the man that’s actually doing the job. However, there is some talk of me getting a rise soon, and then I’ll be the chap that actually passes the tools to the man that’s doing the job.
You can almost hear the ripple of laughter, of quiet approval of Mister Appleyard’s eldest son from that warm room of seasoned, Yorkshire mechanics sitting there with their beer, their wives in their Christmas frocks surrounded by the glitter of Christmas lights and decorations, the growing fears of a war in Europe momentarily thrust aside:
I also want to tell you how proud I am to be getting to know all of you. I want to know each one of you in this business individually, and whether I am working under you or with you, or whether you are working for me, I want to know each one of you as a friend.
To a different, more cynical age, his words may appear touchingly naive, even callow. They were not so, then, to him. A few months later, in uniform, he would receive a dressing down from a senior officer who found him, stripped to the waist, down in the earth with his men, helping them dig trenches on Salisbury Plain. He received a severe reprimand for being improperly dressed and for Conduct Unbecoming An Officer. Second Lt Appleyard would have shrugged. He was simply doing what he always did, mucking in. A war and a single gold pip on each shoulder shouldn’t change that.
With his formal appointment as one of March-Phillipps’ two section commanders in ‘B’ Troop, No 7 Commando, came a second gold pip on those shoulders and promotion to Lieutenant. To Geoffrey, or ‘Apple’ as he had come to be called, the new job offered a blast of fresh air. His enthusiasm was infectious:
Of course, it’s absolutely terrific – it’s the grandest job in the army that one could possibly get, and is a job that, if properly carried out, can be of enormous value. Just think of operating under direct orders from the C-in-C! No red tabs, no paperwork, none of all the things that are so cramping and infuriating and disheartening that there are in the army. Just pure operations, the success of which depends principally on oneself and the men one has oneself picked to do the job with you. It’s terrific! It’s revolutionary, and one can hardly imagine it ever happening in this Old Army of ours, but I am convinced that the Commandos can be of very real value in ensuring ultimate victory in this war.
He was right: it did all depend, ultimately, upon the men they chose. He, Colbeck and March-Phillipps, their new Officer Commanding, toured the battalions and units of 18 Division choosing the very best from the 200 men who had volunteered. ‘[It] was hard work but great fun. After asking endless questions of candidates all day long at one point I caught M-P asking a fellow “Can you marry? Are you swim?!!”’ Each section had twenty-three men:
The whole strength of the Troop is 50 men. Thus I shall be in command of 23 picked men – all volunteers … Everything depends on the men we choose … it is rather frightening, this selection of the men. This thing can either be a flop or a colossal success, and so much depends on the men. They must be utterly reliable, steady and intelligent. But with the right men what a wonderful fellowship we can have in the unit – just picture it – a command of 23 of my own picked men. I can know every man personally, the sort of job he can do, his good points and his weak ones. On parade and on a job there must be rigid discipline. Off parade there will be a great fellowship. At all times there must be absolute trust and confidence … Well, don’t you agree with me now that it’s a real job? I can’t imagine a better.13
By early August No 7 Commando, with its Headquarters now based at Felixstowe, boasted 17 officers and 249 other ranks. Not everyone, however, went through the standard medical and interview selection procedure. One of the SSRF’s future stalwarts, Jan Nasmyth, was recruited that summer whilst March-Phillipps was on horseback:
Gus was out riding with a girl on a beautiful summer evening in peaceful English countryside. It’s very hard to describe, but Gus seemed to live an almost inspired life at times when he reached some sort of balance within himself. I always remember him on that horse. He seemed part of the evening, part of everything and perfect in a way that you often don’t see perfection in a lifetime. I said that I had only one eye and asked if that mattered. He said: ‘Do you ride a horse – and can you judge a distance from a fence when you are going to jump it?’ I said that I thought so and he said: ‘That’s all right, then. You’ll do.’ Much to Jan’s surprise, he was in. Noting that, his new commanding officer learned down from the horse and, twinkling with glee, whispered: ‘I have absolute powers.’14
‘In’ he might be, but March-Phillipps had a rude awakening in store for his latest recruit with a romantic idea of coastal raiding:
Well, I thought we were going to sort of rush up the beach in France and stay there long enough to grab a bottle of Pernod and come back again and then have sort of three days holiday in London … [But instead] we went marching. Marching, I think is an immensely boring occupation. It’s not like walking, and you march in formation and the number of strides to take per minute is fixed and the people you’re next door to are fixed and it goes on and on and on and on and on and on.15
Their men selected, ‘B’ Troop under Capt. March-Phillipps moved to a large, requisitioned house in Newmarket, east of Cambridge, where the men slept eight to a room. Apple shared with John Colville; March-Phillipps had a room to himself. The place was entirely unfurnished except for tables and benches. There was a bathroom with running water. None of it was hot. The officers ate the same good food as the men, prepared for them by two cooks loaned from the Provost Company. But they were not there to stay indoors. They were there to work outside in all weathers, to get fit and prepare themselves for an as yet undisclosed strategic purpose:
One of our first objects is to get really fit! Think of it – training again! I’ve been longing to do that for months! Cross-country runs, P.T., up early, riding in the mornings (by the way, I’ve been out 6 to 8 a.m. for the last seven mornings now), getting really fit is to be one of the first objects for all. Then map-reading, night patrol and compass work in unknown country by night will all come into the training which is going to be very strenuous. Think of it – a job that is operational instead of purely paper work!
Unit transport consisted of March-Phillipps’ own private motor car – a 30–98 Velox – two motorcycles and a single 30-hundredweight lorry. But they did not use them much. Whenever the unit went anywhere they marched: ‘Our primary object is to get as tough as possible. When we finally move from here to a new location on the coast we shall walk – 60 or 70 miles – in two or three days, bivouacking at night in barns and haylofts and living on our ration allowance.’ Apple took to the life immediately, writing home in early August:
This life is absolutely terrific. There is something about the fellowship and hardship and tou
ghness of it that appeals to me enormously … there is such a tremendous spirit of keenness, smartness and discipline in the Troop, that I know these Commando units are going to mean something … We have got a grand crowd of chaps, keen as mustard, exceptionally fit physically and very alert mentally.
A typical day’s schedule for ‘B’ Troop whilst they were at Newmarket began with reveille at 0630 followed by a 1-mile training run and PT. Breakfast at 0800 was followed by a parade and inspection at 0900 before a two-hour, fast-paced route march interspersed with cross-country work, map reading and compass work, moving through cover and crossing obstacles. Lunch at 1300 was followed by an hour and a half’s break before ninety minutes of swimming, running or exercising. Tea was at 1630 followed by a unit lecture given by March-Phillipps that lasted from 1700 to 1745. Commented Apple:
A fairly full day and hard work, but makes one feel grand, even though a little stiff! Later, of course, there will be weapon training, range practice, cross-country runs, hare and hounds, treasure hunts, mock operations, night operations, etc. The training programme can and will be made more fascinating.
It would not all be hare and hounds, or treasure hunts, and Apple knew it. Increasingly, he was thinking of what must surely lie ahead, of leading the men he had picked, and whom he regarded now so highly, into action, into danger. A little later that same year he wrote home to his family: ‘Don’t pray for my safety or for my speedy return, but pray that I am alive to my responsibilities, courageous in danger and that I have the strength to do my bit of the job to the utmost. Remember – I am responsible for 25 men – I mustn’t let them down.’16