MTM: the Italian Navy’s Explosive Motorboat I



The true pioneers of manned EMBs, as distinct from remote-controlled craft, were the men of the Royal Italian Navy. Some accounts of Italian operations suggest that the country’s interest in EMBs also began with a World War I craft, the Grillo (“Cricket”). In fact, the Grillo was called a barchino saltatore (“jumping boat”) and, as a weapon, fell somewhere between a conventional motor torpedo boat and the Maiale (“Pig”) manned torpedo. Designed by the Italian Navy’s Instructor-General Pruneri, it was a four-man, 8 ton (8.13 tonne), 52.5ft (16m) long craft, powered by two 10hp electric motors giving a maximum 4kt (4.6mph, 7.4kmh), and armed with two 17.7in (450mm) torpedoes in dropping gear aft. Caterpillar tracks ran around both sides of the hull in a layout similar to that of the early tanks, and with this aid it was hoped that the four examples built might clamber over the net-and-boom defences of Pola harbour to torpedo Austrian warships. An attempt was made on the night of 13 May 1918, when a Grillo commanded by LtCdr Antonio Pellegrini was sighted and fired upon by the Austrian battleship Radetzky while negotiating the defences. After scuttling their craft, the Italian raiders were taken prisoner.

The Tenth Light Flotilla

Between the wars, the Italian Navy continued to display interest in small-boat warfare and, in 1936, formed the unit which was to become famous as the Decima Flottiglia MAS (10th Light Flotilla) specifically for operations of this type. At about the same time, General Duke Amadeo of Aosta of the Italian Air Force and his brother, Admiral Duke Aimone of Spoleto, conceived the project of mounting small explosive boats between the floats of obsolescent Savoia-Marchetti S.55 flying-boats. The boats were to be released at close range for mass attacks on enemy naval bases immediately after the beginning of hostilities. The prototype, a flimsy wood-and-canvas craft with a small, bow-mounted, impact-fuzed explosive charge, was designed by the engineer Guido Cattaneo and by Cdr Mario Giorgini. The project was thereafter allowed to languish until the appointment to the command of the Italian Navy’s light forces, in 1938, of Cdr Paolo Aloisi. While the training of personnel continued under Aloisi’s direction, Cattaneo and the Baglietto yard at Varazze worked to produce an ingenious and effective EMB that was available for use by the time of Italy’s entry into the war on 10 June 1940.

The basic EMB employed by the 10th Light Flotilla during World War II was the MTM (Motoscafi da Turismo modificati, “modified tourist motorboat”); these were commonly known as barchini esplosivi (“explosive boats”) or simply barchini. (An authoritative Italian source refers to the MTMs as “E-boats”: I have avoided this usage in order not to confuse the MTM with the German MTB to which this name is most often applied.)

The one-man, 17ft (5.2m) MTM displaced 1.5 tons (1.52 tonnes) and was powered by an Alfa Romeo 2500 internal combustion engine of 95bhp. It had a maximum speed of 34kt (39.1mph, 62.9kmh) and an action radius of some 60nm (69 miles, 111km) at high speed or a total endurance of some five hours. Its propeller and rudder were mounted as a single outboard unit which could be lifted by the pilot in order to cross defensive netting. It was armed with a 660lb (300kg) bow-mounted explosive charge.

Having reached an attacking position, the MTM’s pilot, who wore a frogman’s suit and was housed in a partly shielded cockpit at the stern, set his boat on a collision course, locked the rudder, increased to maximum speed and then, when less than 100yds (90m) from his target, tripped a lever that freed the wooden back-rest of his cockpit, before himself taking to the water. In the few seconds between his ditching and the MTM’s impact with the target, the pilot scrambled on to his wooden life-raft in order to escape the shock-wave caused by the explosion of the boat’s warhead.

When the unmanned boat struck the target, small impact-fuzed charges set centrally around its hull broke the MTM apart. When its fore-part had sunk to a depth pre-set according to the estimated draught of the target ship, hydrostatic pressure triggered the main charge. In theory, therefore, the MTM was not a suicide weapon. Nevertheless, such a complex detonation system was obviously liable to malfunction and for this reason, as well as to ensure that his boat actually struck its target, the MTM pilot was often tempted to set his fuze to explode on impact and to stay with his craft until it was too late to save himself. As the brief account of MTM operations given below shows, pilots were on occasion asked, or ordered, to sacrifice themselves in order to ensure success.

MTMs were generally carried to their operational areas aboard warships specially equipped for such duties with deck clamps for transport and electrically-powered hoists for launching. When thus equipped, the 970-ton (986 tonne) Sella-class destroyers Francesco Crispi and Quintino Sella proved capable in trials of launching six MTM apiece within 35 seconds.

A smaller version of the MTM, the MTR, was designed to be carried to its attack zone in a metal cylinder (the same cylinder designed to house the Pig manned torpedo) on the hull of a submarine. Also operated by the 10th Light Flotilla were the MTSM (Motoscafi da Turismo, Siluranti, Modificati, “tourist motorboat, torpedo, modified”) and its later development the SMA (Silurante, Modificato, Allargato, “torpedo, modified, enlarged boat”). These were not EMBs but small MTBs, somewhat resembling the British CMBs of World War I, and they do not fall within the scope of this book.

In view of the remarks made elsewhere in this book concerning Japanese criteria for selecting personnel for suicidal duties, it is worth noting a major aspect of Italian selection procedure. At the Training Centre for Sea Pioneers, San Leopoldo, Livorno, established in September 1940 to train crews for assault craft duties, the emotional stability and general moral character of the volunteers was considered to be even more important than their physical aptitude for such work.

Soon after Italy’s entry into the war, command of what by now had become the 10th Light Flotilla was assumed by Commander Vittorio Moccagatta. The Flotilla’s “surface division”, responsible for EMB operations, was headed by LtCdr Giorgio Giobbe. The Pigs were soon in action; the operational debut of the MTM explosive boats was, however, delayed to await a suitable target. A favourable opportunity came early in 1941, with the increasing buildup of Allied shipping off Greece and, particularly, in the anchorage of Crete.

Date: 26 March 1941

Place: Suda Bay, Crete

Attack by: MTM boats of the Italian 10th Light Flotilla

Target: Allied warships and transports at anchor

During early 1941, close aerial surveillance was maintained on Suda Bay, the Allied fleet anchorage in northwest Crete; while at Parteni Bay on the Dodecanese island of Leros the 10th Light Flotilla waited to sortie. Twice, in January and again in February, the Francesco Crispi and Quintino Sella sailed with MTMs aboard – and twice the mission was aborted because air reconnaissance reported a lack of suitable targets. Nevertheless, in spite of British air raids that inflicted casualties on the unit, the Flotilla’s morale remained high. On 25 March, the two destroyers lay at Astypalaia Island in the Dodecanese, with MTMs aboard. Weather conditions were good – sea calm and moon dark – and reconnaissance reported a large cruiser, two destroyers and at least 12 transports in Suda Bay. Immediately after an air raid that caused slight damage to Crispi, a sortie was ordered. Each destroyer carried three MTMs, the boat unit being commanded by Lt Luigi Faggioni.

The MTMs were launched some 9nm (10.3 miles, 17km) off the entrance to Suda Bay at 2330 on 25 March. Sailing in formation, the small craft reached the mouth of the 6 mile (10km) long Bay before 0100 on 26 March and moved into the narrow inlet leading to the anchorage. Barring their way were three buoy-and-net booms, covered by artillery batteries ashore and periodically swept by searchlights. By 0445 the shallow-draught boats had successfully negotiated all three barriers undetected. Gathering his force together, Lt Faggioni ordered them to stop engines and await the light of dawn before making their attacks. They lay so close to the Allied ships that the sounds of reveille aboard could be clearly heard at 0500, when, under minimum power, the MTMs of SubLt Angelo Cabrini and CPO Tullio Tedeschi moved to within about 300yds (275m) of the major objective, the 8,250-ton (8382-tonne) cruiser HMS York.

At 0530, as the light rapidly improved, Cabrini and Tedeschi opened their throttles and headed at maximum speed, side by side, towards York. The attack went according to the book: ditching some 90yds (82m) short of the target, both pilots were safe aboard their life-rafts when their boats struck the 575ft (175m) long cruiser. With a gaping wound in her side, York began to list almost immediately, while gunners aboard and ashore opened up at the invisible “low-flying aircraft” which were presumed to be attacking. (Lt Faggioni, taken from the water and made prisoner, was immediately asked what had happened to his aircraft.)

Meanwhile, CPO Lino Beccati had scored a crippling hit on the Norwegian tanker Pericles (8,324 tons, 8457 tonnes), while the MTMs of Master Gunner Alessio De Vito and Sergeant Gunner Emilio Barberi narrowly missed other transports. Lt Faggioni himself had held back, intending to make a run on York if necessary: seeing the cruiser hard hit, he picked a nearby warship (thought to be the cruiser HMS Coventry) as his target, but missed. All the Italian pilots survived to be taken prisoner. York was towed inshore and settled on the bottom, where German aerial bombing soon rendered her a constructive total loss. (Italian sources claim that no further damage was inflicted by German aircraft, and that British demolition charges completed the work the 10th Light Flotilla had begun.) Pericles broke in two and sank when an effort was made to tow her to Alexandria for repair.

MTM: the Italian Navy’s Explosive Motorboat II



Date: 26 July 1941

Place: Grand Harbour, Valletta, Malta

Attack by: Italian MTM boats and Maiali torpedoes

Target: Allied warships and transports at anchor

The MTM pilots who had made the hazardous and successful attack at Suda Bay had all survived, but the last major operation in which MTMs were deployed (their role subsequently being taken over by the small, torpedo-armed MTSM and SMA boats mentioned above) proved to be a true suicide mission – both in execution and, it may be suspected, in planning. At Suda Bay, the frail explosive boats had been pitted against an unprepared enemy and improvised defences at a location that had been thoroughly reconnoitred. This was not the case with the newly-chosen target: after MTMs had been launched to make seaborne reconnaissance of such Allied anchorages as Porto Edda (Sarandë) in southern Albania, and Corfu, the choice fell on the Allies’ Mediterranean bastion – Malta. In spite of its formidable defences and the lack of intelligence concerning them, Grand Harbour at Valletta was designated the target.

It must have been obvious at the planning stage that self-sacrifice would be unavoidable if the attackers were to penetrate the anchorage and that, even if the penetration were made, there would be little chance of survival for the crews of small boats under concentrated fire in the narrow, crowded harbour. This was certainly realized by Maggiore Genio Navale (Major, naval rank) Teseo Tesei, co-inventor of the Pig, who maintained that the attack should be made simply as a demonstration of Italian gallantry and determination, as an inspiration to “our sons and Italy’s future generations”. Tesei, who had already been told that his exploits in Pigs had overstrained his heart and that he faced death if he did not retire from operations, wrote a farewell letter shortly before the Malta mission in which he stated his intention of “winning the highest of all honours, that of giving my life for the King and the honour of the Flag.” Tesei’s determination was matched by that of Cdr Moccagatta and, faced with such enthusiasm, Admirals de Courten and Campioni of the Naval Chiefs of Staff gave somewhat grudging approval to the mission. It will be noted that, as in Japan, the employment of suicidal weapons and tactics was, at first, more enthusiastically advocated by junior officers than by their superiors; ie, by the men who would be intimately concerned with the operation of such weapons.

After a further series of seaborne reconnaissances, it was decided to mount the attack on Malta on the night of 27–28 June. Late on 27 June, a small task force of MTMs towed by MTBs sailed from Augusta, eastern Sicily, where training had been underway since April. Foul weather forced a return to base. Two nights later, Moccagatta’s force tried again: this time, engine failure on two MTMs resulted in a further postponement – until the corresponding dark of the moon in July. Profiting from experience, Moccagatta now changed the composition of his task force: instead of being towed to the operational area the MTMs would be carried aboard the fast sloop Diana (1,764 tons, 1792 tonnes; originally built as Mussolini’s official yacht) and would be led into the attack by an MTSM and, at the insistence of Major Tesei, by two Pigs. The human torpedoes would, in fact, spearhead the attack: one would blow a hole in the net defences of Grand Harbour; the other would make a diversionary raid on the Royal Navy’s submarine base at Marsa-Muscetto, in the western arm of Valletta harbour. An air raid was timed to coincide with the surface attack and was expected fully to occupy the harbour batteries.

Moccagatta’s force sailed from Augusta at sunset on 25 July. Aboard Diana (LtCdr Mario Di Muro) were nine MTMs; an MTSM, in which LtCdr Giobbe would direct the attack; and a small, electric- powered (and therefore silent-running) motorboat which would carry the two Pigs to their launching point. The Pigs were carried from Augusta on the 20-ton (20.3 tonne) motor torpedo boats MAS 451 (SubLt Giorgio Sciolette) and MAS 452 (Lt G. Batta Parodi). The Pig crews were Major Tesei with CPO Alcide Pedretti and Lt Franco Costa with Sgt Luigi Barla. Thus, the commander of 10th Light Flotilla (Moccagatta, aboard MAS 452) and all his principal officers intended to play an active part in the desperate enterprise; even the Flotilla’s chief medical officer, Captain Surgeon Bruno Falcomatà volunteered as a member of MAS 452’s crew. Although the mission had not been planned to take advantage of the fact, Valletta now offered an excellent selection of targets, for the transports of the hard-fought “Substance” convoy had entered Grand Harbour on 24 July.

Gallant Failure at Valletta

Nine MTMs were launched from Diana some 20nm (23 miles, 37km) off Malta at some time before midnight on 25 July. One sank immediately. The remaining eight, with the electric launch carrying the Pigs, headed inshore, escorted by the MTSM and the two MTBs. By 0300 on 26 July, the electric launch was within 1,100yds (1000m) of the entrance to Grand Harbour, at which point the Pigs were to launch. Engine failure on the Pig of Costa and Barla delayed the launching time by at least one hour (en route to their target, Marsa-Muscetto, the engine failed again and, unable to complete their mission, the two men were later taken prisoner). Tesei and Pedretti had the vital task of destroying the steel-plate-and-mesh anti-torpedo net, suspended from a two-span bridge, that guarded the narrow passage leading into Grand Harbour below Fort St Elmo. In spite of the delay in launching, Tesei made it clear that he intended to destroy the net at the appointed time (0430) – even if, as seemed likely, this entailed the self-destruction of himself and Pedretti. Meanwhile, Giobbe told the MTM pilots that if, following up Tesei, they found the barrier still intact, the leaders must sacrifice themselves in order to ensure that at least one boat penetrated the harbour and reached Allied shipping.

But by the time the Pigs were on the way, the harbour defence force was on the alert. Diana’s arrival and departure had been logged by surface radar and, because the diversionary raids by Italian aircraft were sporadic and ill-timed, the small boats’ engines had been heard. Even so, the Pig crewed by Tesei and Pedretti was able to reach the St Elmo bridge where, at 0425, true to his word, Tesei detonated the warhead of his torpedo immediately, sacrificing himself and Pedretti – but failing to breach the net. To seaward, hearing the explosion, Giobbe ordered the MTMs in to the attack.

In the first light of dawn, the MTMs hurled themselves at the still-intact barrier. In the leading boat, SubLt Roberto Frassetto flung himself clear just before the impact: his MTM struck the netting but failed to detonate. Following him, SubLt Aristide Carabelli remained at the helm until the last, perishing in a massive explosion that seriously wounded the swimming Frassetto, breached the netting – and brought down one of the bridge spans, rendering the boat channel impassable. As SubLt Carlo Bosio led in the remaining boats, their path was illuminated by searchlights, and 6-pounder batteries, Bofors AA guns and machine guns opened up from the shore. Caught in the blocked channel under a savage crossfire, the MTMs were soon sunk; Bosio was killed and the surviving pilots, all wounded, were captured.

As the light improved, some 30 Hawker Hurricanes joined the battle and, although opposed by 10 Macchi C.200 Saetta fighters (which succeeded in shooting down one Hurricane, but lost three of their number) located and attacked the two MTBs and the two smaller motorboats which had been standing by to take off any surviving MTM and Pig crewmen. MAS 451, raked by cannon fire from the Hurricanes, blew up and sank, killing four of her 13-strong crew. The electric launch was also sunk, and aboard MAS 452, Moccagatta, Giobbe, Falcomatà, Parodi and four other men were killed by gunfire. Abandoning MAS 452, 11 survivors succeeded in reaching Diana. Fifteen men had been killed, among them the senior officers of the 10th Light Flotilla, and 18 captured in the gallant but ineffective action.

Abortive Missions with MTR boats

Thereafter, the MTMs played little part in the 10th Light Flotilla’s activities. However, the explosive boat concept was adopted by the German Navy and Cdr J. Valerio Borghese (who succeeded Moccagatta in command), remaining faithful to the Axis cause even after Italy’s surrender, passed on his experience to German volunteers.

Before Italy’s collapse, however, two abortive missions were launched with the smaller MTR explosive boats. In mid-1943, following the Allied invasion of Sicily, it was planned to attack shipping in Syracuse harbour with MTRs. The submarine Ambra (LtCdr Renato Ferrini), carrying three MTRs in the deck cylinders originally designed for the transportation of Pigs, stood off Syracuse on the night of 25 July 1943. But the activities of German U-boats had put the harbour defences on full alert: picked up on the radars of patrolling aircraft, Ambra was bombed, depthcharged, and forced to retire with heavy damage, including the crushing of the MTRs’ cylinders.

A similar mission was planned for 2 October 1943, when the submarine Murena (Cdr Longanesi), equipped with four transportation cylinders, was to launch four MTRs on the Spanish side of Algeciras Bay. The boats were to make their way along the neutral shore and, at 1100 hours, carry out a suicidal daylight attack on merchant shipping at Gibraltar. In the resultant confusion, it was hoped, a Pig launched from the secret base aboard the Olterra would penetrate the military harbour and attack the largest warship in sight. The operation was forestalled by Italy’s surrender on 8 September 1943.

SAS at Sidi Hanesih

In Cairo Colonel David Stirling, SAS CO, was busy appropriating more trucks and jeeps (20 of the latter in total), as well as rations, rum, equipment and men, one of whom was Mike Sadler.

Sadler was a 22-year-old Englishman with a benign face and a keen brain. Having emigrated to what was then Rhodesia in the late 1930s to farm, Sadler had wound up in the LRDG in 1941, navigating L Detachment to several airfields during their early raids. ‘Stirling got the jeeps first but hadn’t the means to navigate them, that’s when he talent spotted me, if that’s the word,’ recalled Sadler, who though not over-awed by the ‘Phantom Major’ was nonetheless impressed. ‘Stirling had a very good social manner and he also had a compelling personality. He was a terribly quiet chap and didn’t raise his voice [and] could talk you into anything, but he didn’t have to do much talking. He managed to make one feel you were the only person who could possibly do it … but I also slightly felt he was thinking of something else at the same time … always thinking of improvements to make.’

In Cairo in mid-July Stirling addressed the problem of the strengthened airfield defences. The spur-of-the-moment raid at Bagoush had revealed the potential of driving straight on to the dromes but the method needed refining. As Stirling put his mind to the problem, he received from MEHQ ‘Operation Instruction No. 99’, which stated: ‘The order of priorities is Tank Workshops, tanks, aircraft, water, petrol. You will use your own judgement in assessing the value and reliability of information, importance of target assessed in terms of numbers of tanks, aircraft, etc. and possibilities of successful attack.’

Stirling replied to the Instruction with a memo entitled ‘New tactics’, in which he outlined how L Detachment intended to surmount the improved enemy airfield defences:

A ‘mass [jeep] attack’ would nullify the value of sentries on individual aircraft (the enemy’s normal custom) and would necessitate perimeter defence, which past experience has shown to be comparatively easy to penetrate by ‘stealth’. Thus the alternative employment of two methods of attack – either by a small party on foot reaching its objective without being observed, or by a ‘mass’ attack in vehicles – should leave the enemy hesitating between the two methods of defence. A combination of perimeter defence with sentries on individual aircraft would be most uneconomical in men … the psychological effect of successful attacks should increase the enemy’s nervousness about the defence of his extended lines of communication.

Stirling wasted no time in putting his new tactics to the test. Having returned to the desert hideout on 23 July (much to the relief of Steven Hastings and the others who had begun to think they’d been abandoned), Stirling briefed his men on an impending attack against Sidi Haneish, an airfield approximately 30 miles east-south-east of Mersa Matruh. Describing how they would drive on to the airfield in two columns with a distance of ten yards between vehicles and an interval often yards between columns, Stirling explained that he would direct the attack from his jeep positioned between the heads of the two columns. Once the men had grasped the plan, Stirling ordered a dress rehearsal on the evening of 25 July. ‘The rehearsal was one of the more bizarre moments of the war for me,’ recalled Johnny Cooper, ‘firing thousands of rounds deep behind enemy lines in preparation for a raid the following night.’

The next day the men counted down the hours before the departure for the 70-mile journey north to Sidi Haneish. ‘I think everyone felt a little bit of fear, but it was more eager anticipation,’ remembered Cooper. ‘No one liked hanging around and we had a desire to get on with it. We checked and rechecked our guns, the jeeps, and loaded the drums in the right order: one tracer, one armour-piercing and one incendiary.’

Mike Sadler wouldn’t be participating in the raid itself; his job was to navigate the raiders to the airfield and then wait at its south-east corner as a RV point in case any jeep was disabled and its occupants forced to flee on foot. ‘When you went on an operation, it wasn’t the raid itself you worried about it was how the hell we were going to get away afterwards because the Germans were like bees in chasing us,’ he reflected.

Sadler navigated them the 70 miles north in only four hours. It was a moonlit night and except for six punctures and a LRDG truck hitting a mine, the approach to the target was uneventful. A mile from the airfield, Stirling halted the column and issued a last set of instructions. ‘Gun discipline was vital,’ Storie remembered as the gist of Stirling’s final briefing. ‘We had to keep in a strict formation, two abreast, firing outwards the whole time.’

The force then moved cautiously forward at four to five miles an hour, one or two jeeps dipping in and out of unoccupied rifle pits, before they formed into two columns. On a green Verey light fired from Stirling, the attack began.

Some subsequent accounts state that the jeeps roared through the thin perimeter defences and moved down the airfield at around 20mph, but Jellicoe’s operational report is contradictory. He wrote: ‘The firing of Verey lights and of tracer and incendiary ammunition having disclosed the approximate positions of the aircraft, the column was directed to the centre of the dispersal area and shot the planes up one by one, the pace, while shooting was going on, being reduced to one or two miles an hour. In this way about thirty were destroyed, though only eighteen actually burst into flames. Fire was also directed at the guards as they ran for cover.'”

Watching from his vantage point on the south-eastern corner of the airfield was Mike Sadler. ‘I had a ringside view of the tracer hitting and the aircraft going up,’ he recalled. ‘The whole thing was very impressive.’

It took a few minutes for the airfield’s defenders to gather their wits but as the two columns doubled back they came under attack from a 20mm gun and small-arms fire. Stirling’s jeep was damaged but not disabled, but a bullet killed John Robson, a 21-year-old rear gunner in Sandy Scratchley’s jeep. They departed the airfield and split up, some vehicles heading south and others south-west, all in a hurry to find cover before dawn broke in an hour and a half. Most did but a detachment of French jeeps were caught in the open by a patrol of German Junker 87s and the much admired officer Andre Zirnheld was killed.

Nonetheless, the raid had been every bit as successful as Stirling envisaged, a satisfying way with which to bring July to a close. In the month that they’d been operating self-sufficiently from their remote desert base, L Detachment destroyed a minimum of 86 enemy aircraft and between 36 and 45 motorised vehicles. It was a surprise to some of the men that the Germans didn’t form a similar unit to try and counter L Detachment’s achievements. ‘The Afrika Korps had been trained in a different type of warfare,’ reflected Jimmy Storie.’They had been trained in European warfare … they lacked the skill but also the transport so we went places they never went.’ In Mike Sadler’s estimation the answers could be found in the soldiers’ blood.’ It’s in the national character,’ he said. ‘If you look down the ages Britain has had these type of soldiers so to some extent it might be a cultural thing.’

Bristol Bombay

Although the twin-engine Bristol Bombay was designed as a troop transport carrier in 1931, the economic conditions of the Great Depression delayed production until early 1939. While only 51 were produced, the Bristol Bombay, which was capable of carrying up to 24 troops or a payload of 7,200 lb, saw significant action for the Royal Air Force (RAF) during the first half of the war, ferrying troops and supplies across the English Channel in 1940, evacuating British forces from Crete in 1941, and dropping paratroopers behind enemy lines in North Africa.

Members of L Detachment board a Bristol Bombay transport aircraft prior to a practice jump as part of their parachute training at Kabrit. Those who successful completed their jumps were permitted to wear the SAS wings on the shoulder. (IWM E 6406)

The late 1930s marked the beginning of the end for the biplane in RAF service. Fighter and bomber designs migrated towards the latest monoplane configurations, and soon transport aircraft manufacturers began to follow suit.

Bristol’s Bombay was built to Air Ministry Specification C. 26/31, which called for a monoplane bomber-transport aircraft to replace Vickers Valentia biplanes primarily in service in the Middle East and India. The requirement demanded an aircraft that could carry 24 troops or an equivalent load of cargo, while carrying bombs and defensive guns for use as a bomber if required.

Whitworth’s A. W. 23 and the Handley Page HP. 52 (the latter eventually becoming the Harrow) were the Bombay’s rivals in the competition. The prototype Bristol Type 130 (K3583) performed its maiden flight on June 23, 1935 and appeared at the Hendon Air Pageant later that year. It would be named Bombay in April 1937.

It was not Bristol’s first attempt at a monoplane transport; the 1927 Bristol Bagshot had suffered from a lack of wing rigidity and the project was cancelled before it entered production. Therefore, the Bombay was subject to extensive research, and benefited from a strengthened multispar wing of steel strip construction.

Apart from the wing, the Bombay was of conventional format with a fixed tailwheel undercarriage. Its crew of three sat in an enclosed cockpit and the radio operator could double as nose gunner if needed. Eight 250lb (113kg) bombs could be carried on racks under the fuselage.

Although the prototype was powered by 750hp (560 kW) Bristol Pegasus III radial engines, driving two-bladed propellers, production variants had 1,010hp (753kW) Pegasus XXIIs with three-bladed Rotol variable-pitch propellers.

An order for 80 airframes was placed (although the final 30 were subsequently cancelled) but as Bristol’s Filton factory was busy building the more urgent Blenheim bomber, production aircraft were built by Short & Harland of Belfast.


The first production Bombay flew in March 1939, and the type entered service with 216 Squadron at Heliopolis in Egypt in November that year. Initially the aircraft served alongside Vickers Valentia biplanes and the unit did not become an exclusive Bombay operator until as late as September 1941.

The squadron retired its final example in May 1943 when Douglas Dakotas assumed their role in Egypt. Throughout that period some 30 Bombays flew with 216 Squadron and, in addition to flying cargo and passengers, the type served as a night bomber along the African coast. During some missions, the standard underslung bombload was supplemented by improvised bombs thrown out of the cargo door by hand.

Bombays also participated in the evacuation of Crete and later rescued more than 2,000 wounded during the Sicily campaign in 1943. The aircraft also made the first aerial paradrop in the Middle East (at Tmimi, Libya) in November 1941 – the `passengers’ that day were members of the fledgling Special Air Service on their first official operation in the Middle East.

Bombays were also involved in the support of allied aircraft behind enemy lines and dropped troops in both Syria and Egypt. Other aircraft were allocated to 117 Squadron at Khartoum between April and November 1941 whereas, nearer to home, Bombays flew much needed supplies across the Channel to France in support of the British Expeditionary Force in May 1940.

The following month, French pilot Jean-Francois Demozay liberated an abandoned Bombay to ferry himself and 15 troops from France to England. He would then join the RAF and achieve ace status.

Although the type was to all extents and purposes obsolete by the time it entered service, the final three examples (L5827, L5831 and L5842) operated in North Africa until August 1944.

Operation Squatter

The force initially consisted of five officers and 60 other ranks. Following extensive training at Kabrit camp, by the River Nile, L Detachment, SAS Brigade undertook its first operation. Operation Squatter was a parachute drop behind the enemy lines in support of Operation Crusader, they would attack airfields at Gazala and Timimi on the night 16/17 November 1941. Unfortunately because of enemy resistance and adverse weather conditions the mission was a disaster, 22 men were killed or captured – one third of the men employed. Allowed another chance they recruited men from the Layforce Commando, which was in the process of disbanding.

Stirling’s plan was to drop his men between these two vast opposing armies and attack the Axis airfields at Gazala and Timimi in eastern Libya at midnight on 17 November. On the day of his birthday Stirling wrote to his mother, telling her that: ‘It is the best possible type of operation and will be far more exciting than dangerous.”‘

That same day, wrote DuVivier in his diary, Stirling revealed the nature of their operation for the first time. ‘The plans and maps were unsealed, explained and studied until each man knew his job by heart. There was a lot of work to be done such as preparing explosives, weapons and rations.’

Stirling hadn’t a full complement of men for the operation. Several soldiers, including Lieutenant Bill Fraser and Private Jock Byrne, were recovering from injuries sustained during parachute training. In total Stirling had at his disposal 54 men, whom he divided into four sections under his overall command. Lewes was to lead numbers one and two sections and Blair Mayne would be in charge sections three and four.

Mayne’s two sections comprised 21 men in total and his second-in-command was Lieutenant Charles Bonington. Their objective was the airfield at Timimi, a coastal strip west of Tobruk which was flat and rocky and pitted with shallow wadis. It was hot during the day and cool at night and apart from esparto grass and acacia scrub there was scant vegetation. The plan was simple: once the two sections had rendezvoused in the desert following the night-time parachute drop on 16 November, they would march to within five miles of the target before lying up during the daylight hours of 17 November. The attack would commence at one minute to midnight on the 17th with Bonington leading three section on to the airfield from the east. Mayne and four section would come in from the south and west, and for 15 minutes they were to plant their bombs on the aircraft without alerting the enemy to their presence. At quarter past midnight the raiders could use their weapons and instantaneous fuses at their discretion.

At dawn on 16 November Stirling and his 54 men left Kabrit for their forward landing ground of Bagoush, approximately 300 miles to the west. Once there they found the R A F had been thoughtful in their welcome. ’The officers’ mess was put at our disposal and we kicked off with a first-rate meal after which there were books, games, wireless and a bottle of beer each, all to keep our minds off the coming event,’ wrote DuVivier in his diary.

He was in Jock Lewes’s 11-man section, along with Jimmy Storie, Johnny Cooper and Pat Riley, and it wasn’t long before they sensed something wasn’t quite right. Stirling and the other officers were unusually tense and all was revealed a little while before the operation was due to commence when they were addressed by their commanding officer. Stirling informed his men that weather reports indicated a fierce storm was brewing over the target area, one that would include winds of 30 knots.

The Brigadier General Staff coordinator, Sandy Galloway, was of the opinion that the mission should be aborted. Dropping by parachute in those wind speeds, and on a moonless night, would be hazardous in the extreme. Stirling was loathe to scrub the mission; after all, when might they get another chance to prove their worth? He asked his men what they thought and unanimously they agreed to press ahead.

At 1830 hours a fleet of trucks arrived at the officers’ mess to transport the men to the five Bristol Bombay aircraft that would fly them to the target area. DuVivier ‘muttered a silent prayer and put myself in God’s hands’ as he climbed aboard.

Du Vivier’s was the third aircraft to take off, behind Stirling’s and Lieutenant Eoin McGonigal’s. Bonington and his nine men were on the fourth plane and Mayne’s section was on the fifth. Each aircraft carried five (or in some cases, six) canisters inside which were two packs containing weapons, spare ammunition, fuses, explosives, blankets and rations.

The men would jump wearing standard issue desert shirts and shorts with skeleton web equipment on their backs containing an entrenching tool. A small haversack was carried by each man inside which was grenades, food (consisting of dates, raisins, cheese, biscuits, sweets and chocolate), a revolver, maps and a compass. Mechanics’ overalls were worn over all of this to ensure none of the equipment was caught in the parachute rigging lines during the drop.

Mayne’s aircraft took-off 40 minutes behind schedule, at 2020 hours instead of 1940 hours, though unlike the other planes they reached the drop zone (DZ) without attracting the unwanted attention of enemy anti-aircraft (AA) batteries. At 2230 hours they jumped with Mayne describing subsequent events in his operational report:

As the section was descending there were flashes on the ground and reports which I then thought was small-arms fire. But on reaching the ground no enemy was found so I concluded that the report had been caused by detonators exploding in packs whose parachutes had failed to open.

The landing was unpleasant. I estimated the wind speed at 20—25 miles per hour, and the ground was studded with thorny bushes.

Two men were injured here. Pet [parachutist] Arnold sprained both ankles and Pet Kendall bruised or damaged his leg.

An extensive search was made for the containers, lasting until 0130 hours 17/11/41, but only four packs and two TSMGs [Thompson sub-machine guns] were located.

I left the two injured men there, instructed them to remain there that night, and in the morning find and bury any containers in the area, and then to make to the RV [rendezvous point] which I estimated at 15 miles away.

It was too late to carry out my original plan of lying west of Timimi as I had only five hours of darkness left, so I decided to lie up on the southern side. I then had eight men, 16 bombs, 14 water bottles and food as originally laid for four men, and four blankets.

Mayne and his men marched for three-and-a-half miles before laying up in a wadi. He estimated they’d covered six miles and were approximately five miles from the target. When daylight broke on the 17th, a dawn reconnaissance revealed they were six miles from the airfield, on which were 17 aircraft.

Back in the wadi, Mayne informed his men of the plan: they would move forward to attack the target at 2050 hours with each man carrying two bombs. He and Sergeant Edward McDonald would carry the Thompson sub-machine guns. Until then they would lie up in the wadi. But as Mayne noted later in his report the weather intervened:

At 1730 hours it commenced to rain heavily. After about half an hour the wadi became a river, and as the men were lying concealed in the middle of bushes it took them some time getting to higher ground. It kept on raining and we were unable to find shelter. An hour later I tried two of the time pencils and they did not work. Even if we had been able to keep them dry, it would not, in my opinion, have been practicable to have used them, as during the half-hour delay on the plane the rain would have rendered them useless. I tried the instantaneous fuses and they did not work either.

Mayne postponed the attack and he and his men endured a miserable night in the wadi. The rain eased the next morning, 18 November, but the sky was grey and the temperature cool; realising that the fuses wouldn’t dry, Mayne aborted the mission and headed south. Though bitterly disappointed that he hadn’t been able to attack the enemy, the Irishman was nonetheless pleased with the way his men had conducted themselves in arduous circumstances: ‘The whole section,’ he wrote, ‘behaved extremely well and although lacerated and bruised in varying degrees by their landing, and wet and numb with cold, remained cheerful.’

Mayne led his men to the RV, a point near the Rotondo Segnali on a desert track called theTrig-al-Abd 34 miles inland from both Gazala and Timimi airfields, at dawn on 20 November. Waiting for them were members of the Long Range Desert Group (LRDG), who a few hours earlier had taken custody of Jock Lewes’s stick. They welcomed members of Mayne’s section with bully beef and mugs of tea and the men swapped horror stories.’It was extraordinary really that our entire stick landed without injury because the wind when you jumped was ferocious and of course you couldn’t see the ground coming up,’ recalled Johnny Cooper.’I hit the desert with quite a bump and was then dragged along by the wind at quite a speed. When I came to rest I staggered rather groggily to my feet, feeling sure I would find a few broken bones but to my astonishment I seemed to [have] nothing worse than the wind momentarily knocked out of me. There was a sudden rush of relief but then of course, I looked around me and realised I was all alone and, well, God knows where.’

Lewes and his men had jumped in a well-organised stick, the Welshman dropping first with each successive man instructed to bury his parachute upon landing and wait where he was. Lewes intended to move back along the compass bearing of the aircraft, collecting No. 2 jumper, then No. 3 and so on, what he called ‘rolling up the stick’. But the wind had dragged Jeff DuVivier for 150 yards until finally he snagged on a thorn bush, allowing him a chance to take stock of the situation.’When I finally freed myself, I was bruised and bleeding and there was a sharp pain in my right leg,’ he wrote in his diary.’When I saw the rocky ground I’d travelled over, I thanked my lucky stars that I was alive.’

Eventually DuVivier found the rest of the stick and joined his comrades in searching for the containers. ‘We couldn’t find most of the containers with our equipment so Jock Lewes gathered us round and said that we’d still try and carry out the attack if we can find the target,’ said Cooper.

They marched through the night and laid up at 0930 hours the next morning. Sergeant Pat Riley was sent forward to reconnoitre the area and returned to tell Lewes that there was no sign of the Gazala airfield and in his opinion they had been dropped much further south than planned. Nonetheless Lewes decided to continue and at 1400 hours they departed the wadi and headed north for eight miles. But in the late afternoon the weather turned against them once more and the heavens opened, soaking the men and their explosives. ’The lightning was terrific,’recalled DuVivier.’And how it rained! The compass was going round in circles. We were getting nowhere. And we were wallowing up to our knees in water. I remember seeing tortoises swimming about.’

Lewes, with the same grim reluctance as Mayne, informed the men that the operation was aborted and they would head south towards the RV. The hours that followed tested the resolve of all the men, even Lewes who, cold, hungry and exhausted like the rest of his section, temporarily handed command to Riley, the one man who seemed oblivious to the tempest. DuVivier acknowledged Riley’s strength in his diary: ‘I must mention here Pat Riley, an ex-Guardsman and policeman… I shall always be indebted to him for what he did. I’m sure he was for the most part responsible for our return.’

The rain eased and the wind dropped the next morning (18 November) but it was another 36 hours before Lewes and his section made contact with the LRDG . The return of Mayne’s stick took the number of survivors to 19. A few hours later the figure increased by two when David Stirling and Sergeant Bob Tait were brought in by a LRDG patrol. In Tait’s operational report he described how their aircraft was delayed in its approach to Gazala by strong winds and heavy AA fire. When they did eventually jump they ‘all made very bad landings which resulted in various minor injuries. They had considerable difficulty in assembling, and Sergt Cheyne was not seen again.

Sir William Henry Ewart ‘Strafer’ Gott

The haphazard and discursive attempts to find a general qualified to lead the Eighth Army into battle came to an abrupt end that afternoon when news arrived that Gott, who had been appointed to command the Eighth Army, had died in a plane crash. He had hitched a lift from the RAF’s headquarters at Borg el Arab for a few days’ leave in Cairo in a transport plane carrying fourteen wounded soldiers. Fifteen minutes after take-off, on what was a routine flight along a ‘safe’ corridor, the Bristol Bombay, lumbering along at less than 200 mph, was attacked by a small posse of Messerschmitt fighters. Within moments the Bombay was in flames. The pilot managed to make a safe landing (and survived), but most of the wounded were trapped inside, and Gott, who was sitting in a jump seat at the rear of the plane, was incinerated in the burning fuselage. The news of his death shocked and grieved Churchill who, only the day before, in the course of a long drive with the XIII Corps commander, convinced himself, as he wrote to Clemmie, that he was blessed with ‘high ability, charming simple personality, and that he was in no way tired as was alleged’.

Bombays in RAF service

Bombays were produced between March 1939 and June 1940. None had entered service until the war had actually begun – despite its rather antiquated appearance!

Three RAF squadrons operated the type, but only two during 1940:

216 squadron (at Heliopolis, El Khanka and Cairo West in Egypt) from November 1939 to May 1943.

117 squadron (at Khartoum, Sudan) from April to November 1941.

271 squadron was the only home-based Bombay unit, operating eleven examples between May 1940 to February 1944 from Doncaster, Hendon and Errol.

No.15 Sqn of SAAF used Bombays in summer 1942 in Africa.

Some of these aircraft were based at Kufra oasis.

Marine Special Ops Take California

Lancers at La Mesa Artist: Colonel Charles H. Waterhouse, USMCR

1st Lt. Archibald Gillespie, First U.S.M.C. Special Ops Officer

Mexico had achieved independence from Spain in 1821, but during the 12 years prior to 1846, four revolutions took place in the province of California. By the eve of the war with the U.S., California had become an independent republic.

New Mexico, like priceless California, was so far removed from the Mexican capitol that for years Mexican control was very ineffective. Its people had little commerce with Mexico and for a long time St. Louis was their main trading partner. Both provinces were ripe for plucking and President Polk was ready to annex these two plums.

Before the Mexican War began, President Polk already had his eye on conquering California (before he contemplated buying it for 25 million dollars). Texas had accepted admittance as a state of the Union on July 4, 1845, and Polk wanted to expand its boundaries. He especially wanted California for the U.S. if war should break out with Mexico.

On the night of October 30, 1845, Polk held a secret meeting in the White House with Marine First Lieutenant Archibald Gillespie, who Navy Secretary Bancroft regarded as an accomplished and most trustworthy officer. Gillespie had been chosen to deliver the orders for invasion. He carried secret, memorized instructions to Thomas Larkin, the U.S. consul at Monterey, dispatches for Commodore John Sloat on the west coast, and personal letters to Army Lieutenant John Fremont who was “exploring” the far west for the Army’s Topographical Corps.

Sloat’s orders were “once war was declared to occupy ports as your force may permit.” All three men were ordered to use guile, infiltration and subversion to acquire California for the U.S. when the opportunity presented itself. As it turned out, each of the three carried out their orders in various ways.

Pio Pico, the California governor from Los Angeles, was often at odds with Jose Castro, the self-appointed military chief in Monterey. The province was governed so poorly that the Californios actually wanted to be acquired, preferably by the U.S. instead of England or Russia. The Californios considered the U.S. “the happiest and freest nation in the world destined soon to be the most wealthy and powerful.” The Americans in turn were impressed with the scale of the Californios’ industry. Some hacienda livestock totaled 2,000 horses, 15,000 cattle, and 20,000 sheep; albeit, this wealth had been obtained by the slave labor of 11 million Indians. Nonetheless, Pico settled his differences with Castro and set about forming an army to resist the American freebooters.

Traveling in disguise, Gillespie went via Vera Cruz, Mexico City and Mazatlan—where he located Commodore Sloat—and reached Monterey in April, 1846. He delivered his messages to Larkin and then went north until he met Fremont at Klamath Lake in May. Two days later, Polk urged Congress to recognize that “war exists.” It did so, and newly breveted Army Brigadier General Stephen Kearny, an 1812 veteran at Fort Leavenworth, was ordered to “conquer and take possession of California.”

Fremont and Gillespie rode south into California with rugged American settlers wearing buckskin and carrying rifles and long bowie knives. Gillespie, guarded by 12 Delaware Indians, went ahead to San Francisco Bay and there obtained powder, 8,000 percussion caps, and lead for 9,000 bullets from Commander Montgomery. Numbering 700, this group made up the largest foreign contingent in California.

In June, under attack at Sonoma, American settlers proclaimed the California “Bear Flag” Republic. Fremont took charge of the military force of the “one-village” nation and Gillespie became his executive officer in charge of training the “Bear Flag Army” into effective fighters. The Bear Flag was designed by William Todd, whose aunt had recently married a country lawyer named Abraham Lincoln. Fremont, without authority, had started a revolution without knowing war had been declared with Mexico. He then took his forces south to Monterey to start the rebellion there.

Commodore Sloat ordered the sloop-of-war Portsmouth, under Commander Montgomery, to Monterey to protect American lives and property. On July 7, he officially invaded California for the U.S., sending Captain William Mervine, U.S.N., ashore at Monterey with 85 marines and 165 sailors commanded by Marine Captain Ward Marston. They raised the American flag over the customs house and Second Lieutenant William Maddox stayed ashore with a Marine detachment as a garrison—the west coast’s first Marine Corps post. Northern California was now in American hands.

Two days later, the Bear Flag Republic became American and Montgomery, along with Second Lieutenant Henry Watson, landed with 14 Marines to occupy Yerba Buena (San Francisco). San Francisco was already loaded with Americans as the U.S. whaling fleet in the Pacific numbered 650 vessels with 17,000 commercial sailors rotating through their San Francisco base.

Back in New Mexico, Kearny’s force from Fort Leavenworth was on the march, and it was said that “the world is coming with him.” He had 1,458 men, 459 horses, 3,658 draft mules, and 14,904 cattle and oxen. His artillery consisted of twelve 6-pounders and four 12-pound howitzers. He was able to take Santa Fe bloodlessly after the officers of the New Mexican army of 4,000 Mexicans and Indians under Manuel Pico decided to give up without a fight. The senoritas were frightened of the rough-looking American occupiers but Kearny threw a big “kick-up” dance until dawn, and the local ladies recovered their composure. Kearny then set out for California with 300 dragoons, who were heavy cavalry. On the march, they encountered Kit Carson, “the celebrated mountain man,” who was on his way to Washington with an express from Stockton and Fremont announcing that they had taken California. Kearny sent 200 of his dragoons back to New Mexico and persuaded Kit Carson to return with him to California as a guide. They marched on to take control of the Pacific province.

The Californios, nearly all Mexican, didn’t really care who was running the territory as long as their dignity and sensibilities prevailed. However, the superior attitude exhibited by the conquering Americans caused many problems.

When Commodore Stockton took over command from Sloat, he legitimized Fremont and Gillespie and their 160 mounted men as the “California Battalion of Mounted Riflemen.” Stockton issued a proclamation annexing California to the U.S. In retaliation, Castro’s force moved on Los Angeles to join forces with Pico.

Stockton wanted to invade western Mexico, so he ordered Fremont to expand the California Battalion to 300 men to replace the sailors garrisoned along the coast.

The plan now was for Fremont to land in San Diego and march north in a pincer movement, while Stockton would land at San Pedro, 35 miles below Los Angeles, and march south to crush the Californios led by Pico and Castro. Stockton sent the battalion south by ship to San Diego to cut off the Mexicans operating near Los Angeles. It, plus some 80 Marines, raised the American flag at San Diego on July 30. Stockton sent a party including First Lieutenant Jacob Zeilin and his Marine detachment ashore to hold Santa Barbara. The Commodore then seized San Pedro, the port of Los Angeles, with a force of sailors and Marines. He proclaimed the California port part of the U.S. and established a curfew on the residents.

Stockton entered Los Angeles on August 12 with 360 Marines and sailors, and Fremont arrived with a 120 horsemen. Gillespie stayed to hold San Diego with 48 Marines. Before Stockton sailed to Acapulco to join the Army, he named Fremont the Military Governor of California, and Gillespie as Commandant Captain of the Southern District, the center of Mexican influence.

Commandant Gillespie moved to Los Angeles and, without any experience, ruled with an iron hand. He held the Californios in contempt and treated them rudely. He initiated a form of martial law where he outlawed reunions in houses and forbade even two people to walk in the street together. Worse, the Americans were undisciplined and as a result the Californios “could have no respect for his men.”

Anti-American feeling rose and on September 23, 1846, 400 Californios under Captain Jose Flores attacked and put Gillespie’s band under siege. After three days, Gillespie led his men to a stronger position on a hilltop, but there was no water. Finally, on Sept. 30, outnumbered ten to one, he surrendered. The Mexicans permitted him to march out of San Pedro and board ship. He and his men boarded the Vandalia but instead of sailing, they waited for Stockton. Captain Mervine in the Savannah rescued Gillespie and his 225 men.

In San Diego, a detachment of the California Battalion had fled to the whaler Stonington and was besieged for a month. They were all that remained from the “conquest” of southern California. They were rescued by Lieutenant Archer Gray on the arrival of his 200 sailors and Marines.

In San Francisco, 100 Marines and volunteers led by Marine Captain Marston moved on Santa Clara to punish the rebels. The Mexican leader Francisco Sanchez surrendered and both sides ended up signing an armistice.

Stockton struck back. In October, Navy Captain Mervine led ashore 310 sailors and Marines, plus Gillespie and his force, to attempt the recapture of Los Angeles. The Mexicans set forth a scorched earth policy and moved all the foodstuffs into the interior. On Oct. 8, at Rancho Dominquez, the Americans lost after mounting three failed charges. That night, fast-striking Mexican lancers attacked and by the next afternoon the harassed American expedition had climbed back into its ships.

Late in October, Stockton himself arrived, landing sailors and Marines to hold San Pedro, and sent Gillespie down to San Diego with his own men plus 20 Marines. The men were very poorly armed—a third of them carrying only boarding pikes. The guns of the American warships could hold the ports, but the Mexicans drove the garrison of ten Marines out of Santa Barbara.

Then, word arrived that General Stephen Kearney, guided by Kit Carson, had reached California after a grueling march over mountains and through the Colorado desert. Stockton sent Gillespie and 39 volunteers to meet and reinforce Kearny’s troop of 110 men. Later, the Californios said that only the arrival of the Marines had saved Kearny.

The Americans heard that the Californios leader Andris Pico, the Governor’s brother, was at the Indian village of San Pasqual. While the American force outnumbered the Mexicans two to one, Kearny’s men were totally worn out from the grueling march. At San Pasqual, 100 Mexicans attacked them. With wet ammunition on both sides, the Battle of San Pasqual became a melee between Mexican lances and American sabers. Gillespie’s detachment bravely charged but it was a disorganized maneuver due to worn mounts and damp powder.

The Americans got the worst of it. Kearny was lanced twice; Gillespie was thrown from his horse, his saber pinned beneath him. A Californio’s lance thrust from the back struck him above his heart, making “a severe gash open to the lungs.” Another lancer aimed his weapon at Gillespie’s face, cut his upper lip, broke a front tooth, and laid him on his back. Gillespie passed out from loss of blood.

In addition to Kearny’s two lance wounds, 22 Americans were killed and 18 more wounded. Some of the Marines had more than eight spear wounds. It was the bloodiest of the battles for California. The Californios had none killed and 12 wounded, but the Americans had held the field. The American dead were buried under a willow tree and the night howled with wolves attracted by the smell. The wounded were carried Indian-style on travois—two stretcher poles dragged behind a horse. They had no fodder for their animals and were short on water as well. Kearny camped at San Bernardo where the men ate mule meat. Capt. Turner sent for help from San Diego and the Army of the West moved westward. Kit Carson, who the Mexicans called El Lobo, meaning The Wolf, tried to reach San Diego in advance, walking the 30 miles barefoot through cactus.

Stockton sent 215 Marines and sailors under Lt. Gray to escort Kearny’s men to San Diego. The Californios quit tailing the Yankees and melted away.

Then, Stockton set out once again to take Los Angeles by marching 140 miles from San Diego with 600 Marines and sailors.

Mexican Lancers

The Californios’ lancers were not like the European trained lancers who came mostly from the upper class. Instead, they were local hide-hunters who went after wild cattle with lances. They were expert horsemen who could ride all day, and could even unsaddle another horse without getting off their own horse. They became very proficient in handling the 12-foot lance, with entire families taking up the art. And lances were cheaper than powder and ball. They used them with great skill and the Marines noticed they always seemed to aim for their kidneys.

Fremont moved south with the California Battalion and 428 men. Slaughtering 13 beeves daily, the Marines ate ten pounds of meat per day—the most food they ever had. Fremont camped in the Santa Ynez Mountains and reached Santa Barbara, but Stockton and Kearny moved on Los Angeles without waiting for him to arrive. By this time, the Marines’ shoes had given out and they wore canvas rags instead, but they reached the San Gabriel River.

Seven miles from Los Angeles, the enemy under Flores, with 500 men and four artillery, made a stand on the bluffs behind the San Gabriel River. The Californios stampeded a herd of wild horses against the American lines and opened fire as the Americans crossed the river.

With Zeilin’s Marines holding the right flank, the Americans waded the knee-deep river under fire and charged the enemy. The enemy’s front fled, but the Mexican horsemen struck both flanks. The Americans fought, marched, and slept in open squares with their supplies in the center. It was the only way to ward off the lancers. With cannon on each corner of the square spewing grapeshot, the Mexicans were beaten off. That day was the anniversary of the War of 1812’s “Battle of New Orleans.” It became their battle cry, as the sailors on the left and the Marines on the right took the initiative. The Americans charged up the bluffs and it was over in 90 minutes. Only one American was killed, though this was the Marine Corps’ largest battle in California.

The Mexicans made one more stand during this two-day running battle, at La Mesa, three miles from the white walls of Los Angeles, in what today is Vernon. Three times the Mexicans charged, but the artillery cut them down. At last, the Mexicans rode off into the mountains, leaving the road to Los Angeles open. Again, Gillespie was wounded. On January 10, with the band playing, Stockton and Kearny led their men into Los Angeles. Gillespie put up the American flag that he had taken down four months earlier. Fremont now entered Los Angeles with a surprise capitulation signed by the Californios at Rancho Cahuenga north of Los Angeles. Kearny’s secret orders now became apparent—he revealed that he had orders from Washington to subdue the country, and establish a civil government with himself as the leader. In any event, all of California had finally been conquered.

The conquest taught one important lesson: if the U.S. wanted to extend its concept of Manifest Destiny on hostile coasts, it would need amphibious forces to put ashore. California was finally won when the U.S. could land a force strong enough to hold. The conquest of California was due to the mobility of Stockton’s ships and the well-disciplined Marines and seamen of his “gallant sailor army.”


These two photographs, believed to be somewhere in the Balkans in the winter of 1944/45, show some LRDG men loading an aircraft with one of their jeeps prior to their return to Italy.

The LRDG withdrew from Athens at the end of 1944 and returned to their base in Italy. It had been a dispiriting few weeks in the Greek capital, and the Balkans campaign had had its unsavoury moments too. It made the veterans of the North African campaign appreciate the desert and its indigenous people all the more; no politics there, no treachery or deceit from spiteful, small-minded, self-important panjandrums.

Nonetheless, the LRDG wouldn’t have swapped roles with any other army unit. They enjoyed their existence and appreciated their life. ‘Firstly,’ commented David Lloyd Owen, ‘we practically never suffered the horror of a heavy barrage, the menace of a bombing raid or the carnage of the infantry run over by tanks. We did not live with constant gunfire, in touch with an enemy a few hundred yards away.’ But the real beauty of serving in the LRDG, considered Lloyd Owen, was that one was among like-minded fellows, who chaffed at the pettiness of army routine and sought not medals or glory but adventure. Above all, ‘no one depended on us save ourselves. Our failure would reflect on us alone. We could move largely where we wished, and not just in conformity with some wider plan. There was no front line for us, because we were always behind and among the enemy.’ Yet by the very nature of their existence, the LRDG sometimes found themselves confronted with dangers no British infantryman would have encountered.

As the war entered its final year, the LRDG were scattered among the Dalmatian Islands, observing enemy troop and shipping movements from well-situated vantage points. One such patrol was situated on Ist, a sparsely populated island just 3¾ miles square that lay 20 miles west of the city of Zadar on the Croatian coast. Codenamed Kickshaw, the 14-man patrol drawn from both Y1 and Y2 was commanded by Sergeant Anthony ‘Tich’ Cave, one of the very first recruits to Y Patrol exactly four years earlier.

‘Life on Ist was pretty good and light-hearted,’ remembered Corporal Gilbert Jetley. ‘The locals were extremely friendly and their loyalty extended to learning the patriotic song of the Allies.’3 The men of Y Patrol allowed their mischief to get the better of them one day, tricking the locals into learning the words to ‘She’ll be Coming Round the Mountain’ in the belief it was the British national anthem. They all then stood solemnly to attention, the British saluting the Union Flag while the villagers sang the words of the folk song with due reverence.

On the evening of 10 January, most of the patrol were in their billet playing cards. It was 2115 hours and Cave was about to turn in for the night. Suddenly he heard four shots. Thinking it might be the MFV La Palma arriving at the jetty, Cave went outside, but saw no lights in the sea, nor did he notice anything untoward coming from the radio room where he knew Ken Smith, the signaller, and Jock Watson to be. He returned to the billet and went upstairs to bed. Jetley, who was sick in bed with a fever, pieced together subsequent events from the testimony of his comrades. ‘Something disturbed Watson and he went to the front door,’ recounted Jetley. ‘As he opened it, he heard something clank behind it. He saw that it was a large time bomb, which was ticking. There was a booster of extra explosive alongside in a canister.’

Watson dashed across to the billet and knocked on the door of Tich Cave’s room. In a voice that was calm but edged with excitement, Watson informed Cave upon entering that there was a bomb outside the radio room. Cave ‘at first treated the matter as a jest’. Who would leave a bomb outside the radio room? Watson insisted it wasn’t a joke. Cave, noticing the concern in his face, instructed Watson to return to the house and tell Smith to evacuate the radio room. The pair of them gathered up the radio and hurried outside.

‘At some point Kenneth Smith must have remembered the family who were asleep in the back-room [of the billet],’ recalled Jetley. ‘He put down the [radio] equipment, picked up the bomb and made for a piece of waste ground between the house and the village church. Before he could get there, there was a tremendous explosion.’

‘He put down the [radio] equipment, picked up the bomb and made for a piece of waste ground between the house and the village church. Before he could get there, there was a tremendous explosion.’

Gilbert Jetley

Smith was literally blown to pieces by the power of the bomb, and though one other LRDG man received 37 shrapnel wounds, none of the villagers asleep in the house were hurt. ‘Kenneth Smith‘s valiant deed was not the thoughtless action of the ignorant,’ said Jetley. ‘The whole patrol knew these time bombs and knew that, in addition to being unreliable if touched, many contained mechanisms to explode them immediately if moved. He was therefore a most gallant soldier who gave his life for his comrades and allies.’

Smith’s action in removing the bomb (which had been planted by a party of Ustaše, who had been seen and fired at by some pro-British partisans) earned him a posthumous George Cross, which was presented to his mother by King George VI in 1946. Outside Buckingham Palace she told reporters:

It was just typical of him to do what he did … he was a grand boy and never caused me any trouble. He always wanted to go into the army from a boy, and joined up at the age of 18 for 12 years’ service. He was never happier than when he could get his dad to talk about his experiences in the Great War but his dad said: ‘My boy, when you have been through what I have you won’t be so keen’. But he went all the same.

The LRDG were at a loose end at the start of February 1945. With the Allies unable to break through the Germans’ Gothic Line (a 10-mile deep defensive line that ran across the breadth of northern Italy through the natural barrier of the Apennines) before the winter of 1944–45 descended, the LRDG had no role to fulfil in southern Austria and northern Yugoslavia. It was therefore decided to establish a small Combined Operations HQ at Zara, a town on the Croatian coast, 200 miles north of Dubrovnik. Known as the Land Forces Northern Adriatic, it comprised A Squadron LRDG, the SBS and a unit called the Raiding Support Regiment. Zara possessed a good harbour and what remained of the town impressed one of the Rhodesians, Staff Sergeant Stan Andrews: ‘The town itself was quite large, with a palace, opera house and banks but the whole area had been heavily bombed,’ he recalled. ‘One would have to walk through the rubble of buildings and down streets full of bomb craters.’ But not everything had been destroyed. ‘There were stacks of empty German beer cases around,’ said Andrews. ‘We actually found quite a few full ones, too.’

Reluctantly, David Lloyd Owen had concluded that there was not enough work for both A and B squadrons in the northern Dalmatian Islands, so B Squadron (commanded by Major Stormonth Darling) was withdrawn from the theatre and sent to train in mountain warfare in readiness for operations following the breakout from northern Italy. ‘I chose that Squadron because the other one was committed more deeply, and it would have been difficult to extricate it,’ explained Lloyd Owen. ‘On top of this the Rhodesians knew the Dalmatian coast well and had made many contacts there.’

At this stage of the war, though defeat was inevitable for the Germans, they were still clinging tenaciously to their garrisons on islands such as Pag, Rab, Losinj, Cherso and Krk. Additionally, the Adriatic had been heavily mined, and so the German Navy, sailing at night to avoid Allied air attacks, was able to move freely without fear of molestation from the Royal Navy. During daylight hours the enemy ships were camouflaged ‘so that from the air and the sea, covered by bushes and branches stuck into vast nets, they looked part of the landscape’.

The LRDG was asked to help ‘in the elimination of this sea traffic’, and the first patrol to embark on this task was T1, skippered by Lieutenant Mike Reynolds and comprising ten men. They were landed by the navy on south-east Istria near the mouth of the Arsa Channel (also known as the Arsa Canal, it lies on the east coast of the Istrian peninsula), and were escorted by a partisan to a suitable lying-up area, a clearing that could only be reached by burrowing through deep bush. They erected their two-man Arctic tents and lived in comparative comfort and security, free from detection by sea or air, with their most vexing foe – initially, at any rate – the ‘hairy caterpillars which set up a very nasty rash if they fell on the body’.10

Soon there was a constant flow of messages being radioed from T1 to the base in Zara detailing all the enemy shipping that sailed up and down the Arsa Channel, as well as the boats that were cunningly camouflaged on the coastline. The intelligence kept the RAF busy, and also occupied Reynolds as he strove to note down everything in his diary:

4th March: Hurricanes and bombers get hits on S.S. Italia

5th March: Hurricanes with rockets set fire to tramp and sink 500-ton coaster

6th March: Three Motor Torpedo Boats attack three E-Boats and one tramp. Tramp sunk

7th March: 800-ton vessel damaged and 100-ton lighter sunk by Mustangs and Hurricanes

9th March: 700-ton coaster sunk

10th March: 800-ton vessel sunk. Walked along beach and could see no ships afloat.

13th March: Three [British] Motor Torpedo Boats engaged and damaged ‘F’ and ‘E’ Boats as they entered Arsa Channel. On three occasions the Motor Torpedo Boats drove back enemy vessels trying to leave Arsa.

14th March: Hurricanes sink two E Boats

20th March: Three [British] Motor Torpedo Boats engaged and sunk a schooner

23rd March: Capture spy in our camp and hand him over to the Partisans

26th March: German patrol 100 strong beating bush near our camp. Uncomfortable. Our watchers over jetty nearly captured.

27th March: Germans still trying to find us.

David Lloyd Owen recalled that ‘they were the most thrilling days as each new result was flashed back to us’, and they were exciting, too, for the navy and air force tasked with destroying the targets provided by the LRDG. On one such attack an LRDG signaller, Robbie Robinson, was assigned to a RN motor torpedo boat (MTB) to provide direct communication between Reynolds’ patrol and the naval commander. Departing from Zara at 1400 hours one afternoon, the flotilla of MTBs ‘sheltered amongst the Dalmatian islands off the coast of Istria until dark then moved into Arsa Bay in a V-formation’. On this particular night, no vessels came their way. Disappointed, the vessels returned to their shelter among the islands and spent the day hoping for better luck on the second night. But again no target sailed into view. Their luck changed on the third night, remembered Robinson. ‘No sooner had we stopped with engines idling when a call came,’ he said. The rear MTB had spotted the dome-shaped conning tower of a midget submarine breaking the surface. ‘Immediately Monty [Montgomery, the commander of MTB 1] swung hard to starboard and roared away in a circle behind MTBs 2 and 3, and did as they had done, dropping depth charges on and around where a submarine had just surfaced for a sighting.’

Then, on the far side of the bay, something exploded. Mike Reynolds’ signaller came on the radio, demanding to know from Robinson what was going on. He was speaking in Shona, the native language of Rhodesia, a tactic used by the Rhodesian LRDG so that the Germans couldn’t intercept their wireless communications. Robinson replied in like fashion, reporting that it was a torpedo fired from a submarine that had missed the three MTBs and exploded against the coastline. The MTBs then circled the bay, dropping more depth charges and a short while later ‘debris appeared on the surface’.

While the three MTBs headed back to the security of their base in Zara, for Reynolds and his patrol each day brought more pressure and the possibility they might be found by the Germans. The spy who wandered into their camp was one of several employed by the Germans, and when they failed to deliver the British, the enemy sent in dogs. The last resort was to set fire to stretches of scrubland in the hope of flushing out their prey, but that too failed. All the while the locals supplied the LRDG patrol with eggs, milk and bread, did their laundry, and on one occasion sent a barber in the dead of night to give the men’s hair a trim. Such co-operation was welcomed by Reynolds, but at the same time there was always in the back of his mind the worry that the more locals who knew of their presence, the greater the chances of betrayal.

At the start of April, two members of the LRDG patrol, Alf Page, a 20-year-old Rhodesian, and Len Poole, known as ‘Zulu’, left the camp to carry out a reconnaissance of the Arsa coal jetty from a hilltop. Their position was visible from the LRDG camp, and shortly after first light the following morning Reynolds watched in alarm as a fleet of German trucks arrived at the foot of the hill. Page and Poole had just crawled out of their sleeping bags and were now tucking into a breakfast of bully beef, oatmeal slab and compo tea, blissfully unaware of what their commanding officer could see. Through the dawn mist on top of the hill they watched two women approach, one of whom Poole recognized as Tosca, a ‘young, short, jovial girl of about sixteen’. It was the older woman, whoever, who had a look of panic in her eyes. ‘Tedesci, Tedesci!’ she cried, the word both Poole and Page took to mean ‘German’.

‘We were told that an informer had given our presence away to the Germans who were mounting a hunt to catch us,’ recalled Poole. He and Page had a brief discussion and decided to remain where they were for the moment, ‘until the threat became more defined’. Additionally, it was nearly 0700 hours, and they were scheduled to contact Mike Reynolds on the radio at that hour. Nonetheless, the pair arranged ‘to meet Tosca at a point halfway to a farm house occupied by partisan sympathisers if we were forced to clear out’.

Poole was unable to raise Reynolds on the radio at the appointed hour, another source of concern on a morning when everything appeared to be going wrong. Tosca returned at 0730 hours to warn them that the area ‘was alive with German troops’. The pair decided it would be prudent to pack up and get ready to move at a moment’s notice, and once done they began their observation of the harbour now that the mist around their position had cleared. Page fixed the harbour with his binoculars, and, seeing nothing of interest began scanning the countryside. He started, and then whispered to Poole: ‘I can see three Germans and you won’t need glasses to see them.’ Poole followed the gaze of his comrade, and observed ‘an extended search party coming up one side of our hill with other parties swinging in to complete the circle over the summit of the ridge connecting us to other high ground’.

The pair ‘moved pretty smartly’, running at a crouch out of the view of the approaching enemy and towards the farm halfway down the hillside. Tosca was waiting for them, as insouciant as ever, and she took Page into her care while another young woman, Amelia, beckoned to Poole. ‘[She] led me into a stone barn and across to a corner where I helped her move several stones at the junction of wall and floor,’ he recalled. Underneath was a recess in the floor large enough to fit Poole and a partisan who had climbed in a few minutes earlier. Amelia and her mother and father rearranged the stones and waited for the inevitable arrival of the Germans. From his hiding place, Poole heard the Germans burst into the farmhouse, heard, too, their boots clatter over the cobbles into the stone barn and heard the barks of the officers in charge as they searched the building. ‘What I found amusing was the fact the Germans looking for us took turns taking drinks from the water barrel in the barn,’ said Poole.

By mid-afternoon, Poole deemed it safe enough to emerge from his hiding place and a couple of hours later he was reunited with Alf Page, who told his comrade about his adventure. He had been taken by Tosca to the house of the village mayor, who’d gone into hiding several days earlier. The mayor had built a small room at the bottom of a dry well in his garden, and covered the well with a roof of earth and shrubbery. Page and the mayor spent the day playing cards at the bottom of the well until collected by Tosca. The two LRDG men held a council of war with the partisans and agreed that it was safe to return to their original observation post on the hilltop. It would soon be 1900 hours, the time of the evening radio schedule, and Poole was anxious to have news from Reynolds, having failed to make contact 12 hours earlier. They reached the OP without incident and Poole called up the patrol on his radio. ‘I did so again and again without result and was preparing to close down when a reply came surging through the earphones,’ he recounted. It was a brief message from Reynolds: ‘Come back at once to the patrol and bring the radio. The Germans have been walking all around us and we dare not put up the radio aerial. The hunt parties have moved away.’16

Just as Poole and Page prepared to return to the camp, the wife of one of the partisans appeared on the hilltop with her two children in tow. She also brought some alarming news. German trucks were on their way to conduct another search. It was decided that the partisan, his wife and children would take the two soldiers to their house in another village. ‘I’ll never forget that walk,’ recalled Poole. ‘The four adults walked together through the village streets while the two children, Aurelio (about 12) and his little sister, about nine, skipped and ran laughing and shouting as they darted down side lanes and the road ahead. In their singing they were reporting on whatever other traffic there was about. What a grim game for two young kids.’ They rested briefly in the family’s house, long enough for a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and then the pair moved off alone, skirting the village of Porto Carnizza and finally reaching the main camp by crawling through the thick bush.

The Germans kept hunting the spies in their midst and the LRDG kept sending their reports. On 7 April a 200-ton vessel and 100-foot barge were sunk by RAF Hurricanes, and two days later the aircraft returned and attacked another barge. On 11 April the Germans, by now at the end of their tether, mortared the headland in which, somewhere, the British were concealed. To no effect. Ultimately, what brought the LRDG reconnaissance to an end wasn’t the Germans, but the partisans.

On 13 April Reynolds wrote in his diary: ‘We are tricked by Partisans and placed under arrest.’ The day had started routinely, with the arrival of eight partisans in mid-morning for a spot of ‘elevenses’ and a confab about what the rest of the day held. Without warning, the partisans raised their weapons at the LRDG and Reynolds had no choice but to comply with their instructions to lay down their arms. Fortunately, the partisans didn’t spot the LRDG wireless operator, who had set up his post a little way off from the main camp. Observing events, he had the time to transmit a quick radio message to their HQ describing the partisans’ action.

Alf Page had seen the situation grow tenser in Yugoslavia in the preceding month as the Germans began to withdraw and the various factions in the country began positioning themselves for a power grab. Marshal Josef Tito, head of the communist partisans, knew the strategic value of the Istrian peninsula and he feared that the British might try and secure it for themselves in the final weeks of the war. ‘With the Germans seemingly on the run they were willing to accept only nominal Allied assistance,’ he recalled.

The partisans would issue ‘passes’ giving approval [to the LRDG] to operate in a given area for a set time. Their justification for detaining the LRDG members was that their passes had expired. It was ironic as many times I would go with an MI5 officer to pick up bags of gold which were used to pay the partisans with, there were no issues with passes on these missions.

A furious David Lloyd Owen pursued the matter up the partisans’ chain of command, and on 16 April Reynolds had his radio returned and was told a partisan vessel would take him and his men back to Italy. Reynolds immediately contacted Lloyd Owen and requested he organize their collection, because ‘I would prefer to be picked up by the Navy rather than be shanghaied by these garlic-eating bandits’.

Reynolds was awarded a Military Cross for his role in what had been a very fruitful operation. The citation ran as follows:

At great risk valuable intelligence relating to coastal and other defences was collected, and quick action by Reynolds resulted in at least five medium-sized enemy vessels being bombed and sunk. At the same time he provided the Royal Navy with quick and valuable information about the movement of enemy shipping and the laying of minefields … in this, as in previous operations, Reynolds showed complete disregard for his personal safety in the execution of the tasks entrusted to him. His courage, determination, initiative and leadership were at all times an inspiration to his own and to other patrols.

The treatment of Reynolds resulted in Lloyd Owen’s decision – taken after much discussion with Allied Force Headquarters – to withdraw all LRDG and SBS patrols from Istria. On 21 April he sent a signal from Zara to the LRDG base in Rodi, in which he ‘recommended the withdrawal of everyone except [Stan] Eastwood and [John] Olivey. The latter [was] playing idiot boy with great success and undoubted charm’. In fact Eastwood withdrew with the rest of the British special forces a few days later, leaving only John Olivey and his patrol in Istria, who had been warned to be on their guard against the partisans’ duplicity.

Olivey didn’t have long to wait until the partisans arrived to detain them. He complied with all their demands but insisted the partisans carry not just the LRDG weapons, but also their rucksacks during their hike to the partisan HQ. Once there, Olivey and his patrol were handed back their weapons after the intervention of a political commissar.

Olivey’s patrol continued with their road watch north of Fiume, observing an adversary in its death throes. ‘I remember seeing the retreating Jerries and what a pitiful sight they were too,’ recalled Alf Page, who had joined the patrol. On 3 May the Germans were heading north in droves. Olivey reported ‘head-to-tail as far as the eye could see were horses and carts, the enemy having strong flank guards of infantry and artillery. This went on all day through much snow that fell at intervals.’ On 4 May Olivey considered it safe enough to radio in a resupply by air, and two days later a mouth-watering array of delicacies floated down from the sky on the end of white canopies: tea, sugar, milk, chocolate and several bottles of whisky. ‘We gave the food to the partisans and their thanks was to disarm us and lock us up in a machine shop in a village down the mountain,’ said Alf Page, who recalled that Olivey, denied access to a lavatory by the guard, ‘peed on his candle!’

Olivey was now at his wits’ end, but so, fortunately, was the European war. In the early hours of 7 May at SHAEF (Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force) headquarters in France, General Alfred Jodl, the chief of staff of the German Armed Forces High Command, surrendered unconditionally. The document he signed authorized ‘All forces under German control to cease active operations at 2301 hours Central European Time on May 8, 1945’. On 9 May Olivey and his patrol were brought before the local partisan commander, ‘who released them with many apologies and much wine’.

The treatment of Reynolds resulted in Lloyd Owen’s decision – taken after much discussion with Allied Force Headquarters – to withdraw all LRDG and SBS patrols from Istria. On 21 April he sent a signal from Zara to the LRDG base in Rodi, in which he ‘recommended the withdrawal of everyone except [Stan] Eastwood and [John] Olivey. The latter [was] playing idiot boy with great success and undoubted charm’. In fact Eastwood withdrew with the rest of the British special forces a few days later, leaving only John Olivey and his patrol in Istria, who had been warned to be on their guard against the partisans’ duplicity.

Olivey didn’t have long to wait until the partisans arrived to detain them. He complied with all their demands but insisted the partisans carry not just the LRDG weapons, but also their rucksacks during their hike to the partisan HQ. Once there, Olivey and his patrol were handed back their weapons after the intervention of a political commissar.

Olivey’s patrol continued with their road watch north of Fiume, observing an adversary in its death throes. ‘I remember seeing the retreating Jerries and what a pitiful sight they were too,’ recalled Alf Page, who had joined the patrol. On 3 May the Germans were heading north in droves. Olivey reported ‘head-to-tail as far as the eye could see were horses and carts, the enemy having strong flank guards of infantry and artillery. This went on all day through much snow that fell at intervals.’ On 4 May Olivey considered it safe enough to radio in a resupply by air, and two days later a mouth-watering array of delicacies floated down from the sky on the end of white canopies: tea, sugar, milk, chocolate and several bottles of whisky. ‘We gave the food to the partisans and their thanks was to disarm us and lock us up in a machine shop in a village down the mountain,’ said Alf Page, who recalled that Olivey, denied access to a lavatory by the guard, ‘peed on his candle!’

Olivey was now at his wits’ end, but so, fortunately, was the European war. In the early hours of 7 May at SHAEF (Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force) headquarters in France, General Alfred Jodl, the chief of staff of the German Armed Forces High Command, surrendered unconditionally. The document he signed authorized ‘All forces under German control to cease active operations at 2301 hours Central European Time on May 8, 1945’. On 9 May Olivey and his patrol were brought before the local partisan commander, ‘who released them with many apologies and much wine’.

LRDG in the Balkans

The responsibility for the failure of three of the four patrols dropped into Italy rested largely with Lloyd Owen. Understandably keen to see the unit back in action after the events of November 1943 on Leros, he had thrown caution to the winds in selecting drop zones too close to the enemy front line. He should have remembered the old maxim from the desert days: 500 miles behind enemy lines is safer than 50 miles. When a special forces soldier is 500 miles inside the enemy’s territory his opponent’s guard is down because they assume themselves to be safe, but at 50 miles they’re on alert. In addition, what had been asked of the LRDG patrols in Italy wasn’t what they’d been trained for. They had done a brief parachute training course, but landing in enemy territory with several canisters of weapons and supplies required experience. The brutal truth was the LRDG still had a desert war mentality; operating in vast uninhabited regions where survival more often than not depended on a man’s will, wit and initiative. In Europe, one never knew what lay round the corner and one never knew who one could trust.

As for A Squadron, the Rhodesian Squadron, by the middle of June their role changed from carrying out purely reconnaissance operations on the Dalmatian Islands to combining them with offensive action against enemy targets. Wishing to have the self-sufficiency and independence that the LRDG had enjoyed in North Africa, Lloyd Owen procured the unit’s very own vessel, the motor fishing vessel La Palma, which allowed them to operate without having to rely on the Royal Navy, who might not always be able to meet the LRDG’s requirements. La Palma’s maiden voyage was to the island of Vis in June, her crew of nine taking seven and a half hours to cover the 70 miles. It was the first of many such trips, the aim of which was to either report on enemy shipping so that the RAF or Royal Navy could launch an attack, or so that small raiding parties could harass enemy shipping or installations on lightly held islands.

In the same month, Captain Stan Eastwood and five men, including an interpreter and Albanian guide, landed at Orso Bay on the Albanian coast. A German observation post was believed to be located somewhere on the stretch of coastline, and Eastwood was ‘to liquidate it’ because it was reporting the movements of Allied shipping. They located the target, but it was too much for their party to tackle, comprising ‘a rectangular concrete building of seven rooms with a flat roof camouflaged to look like an ordinary house with a pitched roof, the eastern portion giving the appearance of having fallen in’. On the roof, noted Eastwood, was a square lookout with slits for guns, and one, sometimes two, sentries were also on duty in the tower. Additionally two corners of the buildings were augmented with pillboxes, ‘the gun slits in which would permit their combined fire to cover a 360-degree radius’. If that wasn’t formidable enough, a double apron barbed-wire fence encircled the position at a distance of 40 yards.

Eastwood radioed a report to Force 266 and it was decided to mount a combined operation with three RN Hunt-class destroyers as well as a couple of rapid Italian torpedo boats. David Lloyd Owen delegated command of the land operation to Captain Tony Browne, one of the original New Zealand contingent in the LRDG, who had just wangled his return to the unit after several months away. Then, at the last moment, Lloyd Owen came along for the ride. ‘I had not been on active operations for so long,’ he said, ‘and I was beginning to feel stale and tired. I wanted a breath of fresh air again.’

In all, there were 35 men from the LRDG in the torpedo boats that raced east across the Adriatic from Brindisi. Stan Eastwood signalled them in and when dawn broke at 0415 hours they were safely ashore. ‘We had to get away from the beach and it took us nearly five hours to move a few miles over rough and rocky country to where there was thick cover under some trees,’ recalled Lloyd Owen. He, Eastwood and Browne left the rest of the party among the trees and climbed to a boulder-strewn ridge 1,200 feet above sea level. In the far distance they could see the town of Valona bathed in morning light. Nearer, just 1,000 yards across a scrub-covered ravine, was the target. It was indeed formidably defended, said Lloyd Owen, observing the target, but he was confident all the same that its obliteration wouldn’t pose much of a problem. The plan, he said, was simple: ‘We would move to within seven hundred yards of the target at dusk and then await the blitz of the three destroyers. When these had done their best the final assault would be led by Stan. We were to be in touch with the destroyers by wireless, and had brought a trained gunnery officer with us to control their fire.’

They spent the day under cover, checking their weapons, checking their watches, eating, dozing, thinking. At sundown Eastwood led the assault force into position, while Lloyd Owen and the gunnery officer climbed to a point where they could see the three destroyers. It was a moment of high suspense, one where the LRDG were at the mercy of the Royal Navy’s guns. A few hundred yards of inaccuracy could have deadly consequences. ‘The silence was a little weird, but fascinating at the same time,’ reflected Lloyd Owen, as he stared at the ‘dark and sinister forms on the gentle ripple of water’.

At 2325 hours Lloyd Owen flashed the agreed signal, and the officer confirmed their position and that of the target by radio. Five minutes later, bang on time, a star shell illuminated the coastline, followed a few seconds later by ‘the first ranging shot [which] tore through the air and struck the mountainside a little below the target’. Then the bombardment began and 12-gun salvoes from the three destroyers screamed down on the observation post. The ground shook beneath the LRDG men and great chunks of rock cascaded into the ravine. As for the target, that was obscured in a storm cloud of dust. Eastwood radioed for some more star shells. As they burst overhead, he saw that the observation post ‘needed another dose’. After the second short bombardment, Eastwood and his men moved towards the target in a line abreast. Through the dust they saw 150 yards away four Germans staggering from the post. Eastwood called on them to surrender. They didn’t respond, so they were shot. Three other Germans emerged with their hands above their head and were taken into captivity. Eastwood grabbed one and together they entered the ruins of the observation post. But there was no further resistance, and from the doorway of the house, Eastwood fired three long bursts of tracer into the air and then flashed three times with the torch towards Lloyd Owen’s position. It was the signal for the successful completion of their objective. By 0300 hours, the LRDG were on the beach with ‘three miserable weeping Germans’, and half an hour later a whaler arrived and transported them onto one of the destroyers, HMS Terpsichore.

A change of clothes, a hearty breakfast and then a moment to reflect on the mission. Three prisoners, one casualty (a slight ‘friendly fire’ wound to one of Eastwood‘s party from a naval shell splinter) and the destruction of the observation post. It was hardly a major setback for the Germans, acknowledged Lloyd Owen, but the principal result of the first Allied raid launched from Italy ‘lay in the uneasiness which the enemy was to feel along the whole of their Adriatic coast’. What was more, the Royal Navy had had a good time, the captain of HMS Terpsichore sending Lloyd Owen a letter thanking him ‘for a good evening’s entertainment and for providing the live exhibits in the form of the first Germans many of my sailors have seen’.

There was a minor reorganization in August, with the LRDG being placed under the operational command of the Land Forces Adriatic [LFA] on the 14th of the month. The HQ of the LFA was in Bari, and it was here that missions and raids were planned. ‘The prime task of the LRDG was to provide reconnaissance for the striking forces of all three Services [army, navy, air force],’ wrote Captain Stuart Manning. ‘When the LFA attacked targets, the LRDG had to be prepared to mark landing beaches or dropping zones and provide guides to lying-up places or targets.’

One such target was a railway bridge over a gorge inland from Gruda, a village approximately 20 miles south of the port of Dubrovnik in Croatia. On 19 August, an LRDG patrol of five men, commanded by Captain David Skipworth, left Italy in a motor launch to reconnoitre the area. One of the men was Sergeant Fred Leach, erstwhile of the Scots Guards, and a veteran of the LRDG’s desert days. ‘Having found suitable landing 10 to 15 miles south of Dubrovnik [we] moved off inland to a thick wooded area,’ he remembered. They made contact with a group of partisans who invited them to their camp. ‘The offer was accepted,’ said Leach. ‘Trouble was to understand each other, but they had plenty of food, mostly British, and the site was ideal for the patrol’s purpose.’ The next few days were spent surveying the area, and observing the target. ‘The peace and quiet was uncanny,’ recalled Leach. ‘There was no sign of troops, army trucks or heavy weapons anywhere. The local farmers and others just carried out their work as usual.’

Satisfied that the bridge was a viable target, the LRDG communicated the fact to the LFA HQ in Bari, and on the evening of 27 August a 12-strong raiding party came ashore from a motor launch. Eleven of the men were from the SBS, the twelfth a demolitions expert from the Royal Engineers. They were commanded by Captain Anders Lassen, a fearsome and fearless Danish officer who had three military crosses to his name, and also among their number was Sergeant Dick Holmes, a recipient of the Military Medal for his courage during an SBS raid on Crete the previous year. ‘We were all carrying two rucksacks,’ recalled Holmes. ‘One contained our own kit and the other fifty pounds of plastic explosive.’

The route inland was treacherous, particularly at night, but the SBS were guided to the partisans’ camp by the LRDG. The next day the SBS observed the target in the presence of the LRDG and it was agreed that they would destroy it on the night of 30 August. Reaching the target without obstruction, the raiders attached electric charges to each of the bridge’s abutments while the Royal Engineers’ corporal made a junction box with a primer cord to each charge. Within a few minutes, 500lb of explosive were in place and ready to blow. Once the wiring from the charges to the plunger was in place, the men sheltered behind a large rock 200 feet from the bridge. Holmes was given the job of blowing the bridge. ‘On the count of three I pressed down on the plunger but nothing happened, there was no proper connection,’ remembered Holmes. ‘I tried again but [had] the same result.’

The Royal Engineer cleaned the plunger, unscrewing the terminals and polishing and replacing the wires, but that had no effect. Lassen looked at his watch. Dawn soon. He swore at the plunger, and at the sapper, but, ignoring the insults, the Royal Engineer scrambled down to the bridge to put Plan B into place. Running a safety fuse from the detonator back to the rock, he reached into his pocket for a box of matches. They watched the fizzing fuse for a few moments, then prudently crouched down behind the rock. ‘Lassen was starting to get impatient again,’ explained Holmes. ‘He wanted to go down and have a look for himself. Then suddenly the whole lot goes up and great chunks of masonry begin raining down on us. One bloody big piece flew past over our heads. It’s amazing no one got killed.’

Leaving behind a thick pall of yellow dust, the British raiders hurried high into the mountains until they reached the sanctuary of the partisan HQ. There was a delicious hot stew waiting for them when they arrived, and once that had been polished off the men lay down to rest. But at first light the next morning their slumber was shattered by a breathless sentry, who ran into the camp to warn that a large force of Germans and Ustaše were close at hand. The Ustaše were the fascist Croat force, whose reputation for brutality surpassed that of the Nazis.

In the grey dawn light, Holmes saw between 50 and 75 Germans and Ustaše advancing up the mountain towards their hideout, the officer in charge blowing a whistle and exhorting his men to move quicker. Lassen ordered his men to take up defensive positions along the rim of a hollow. ‘He decided to engage the approaching enemy troops, to the disgust of the rest of us,’ said Holmes. ‘I believe he was anxious to impress the partisans … we had done what we had been asked to do. Nothing would be gained by staying to fight.’

The partisans, however, had no intention of staging a last stand. They took off up the mountainside and Lassen, realizing they were hopelessly outnumbered, ordered the SBS and LRDG to withdraw. Fred Leach was shot in the arm as he pulled back, and consequently was ‘not a lot of use’. He, Captain Skipworth, the Royal Engineer and a partisan were captured, fortunately by the Germans and not the Ustaše.

The British prisoners were driven to Mostar, north of Dubrovnik, and there they were separated. ‘I was then taken to a room for questioning,’ recalled Leach. Waiting for him were three officers from the SS. ‘Having heard more than enough of the reputation of the SS I confess to being very unhappy indeed. However, these three turned out to be officers and gentlemen.’ It appeared to Leach that the trio knew the war was lost and were anxious to curry favour with any Allied soldier they encountered. Above all, they were relieved to be in Yugoslavia and not Russia.

‘Having heard more than enough of the reputation of the SS I confess to being very unhappy indeed. However, these three turned out to be officers and gentlemen.’

Ron Crossfield

The LRDG continued to operate in Albania throughout September, with the ubiquitous Stan Eastwood blowing up roads, attacking vehicles and generally making a nuisance of himself at every opportunity. Despite his success, however, and that of other Rhodesian patrols, relations between the LRDG and the partisans were deteriorating. ‘Albania had been a very successful phase of LRDG operations, but that had been due more to their own initiative and exertion than to so-called cooperation of the partisans,’ commented Stuart Manning, the Southern Rhodesia observer. ‘Throughout the local commanders, themselves willing to cooperate and be generally helpful, were everlastingly ruled by orders from above, which, as had been the case in Yugoslavia territory, they carried out blindly.’

By now it was evident to all – not just the three SS officers who questioned Sergeant Leach – that the Third Reich was crumbling. Squeezed on two fronts, Germany began recalling its troops from the Balkans to defend its border from the Soviet troops advancing westwards, who had already captured the Ploieşti airfields, entered Bucharest and made the first push into Yugoslavia. As German soldiers streamed north from Greece, through Albania and Yugoslavia, Winston Churchill demanded his chiefs of staff act quickly to ensure British troops reached Greece before the Soviets. The problem faced by Britain was a lack of resources; with so many soldiers fighting their way up Italy or across France, there simply were not enough troops in the Mediterranean theatre to meet Churchill’s insistence that a force of 5,000 march on Athens. Instead, an amalgamation of units was raised under the moniker Foxforce. Commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Ronnie Tod of No. 9 Commando, Foxforce comprised the LRDG, SBS, Commandos, Greek Sacred Squadron and the Raiding Support Regiment. Tod was answerable to the 2nd Special Service Brigade, which came under overall control of Brigadier Davy’s Land Forces Adriatic.

On 15 September Foxforce occupied the island of Kythira, six miles south of the Peloponnese, the large peninsula in southern Greece. The island was a good place from which to launch operations on the Greek mainland and the British established a naval base on the south of the island. From here the SBS and LRDG began reconnoitring the islands in the Bay of Athens, eradicating the last pockets of resistance, before, on 24 September, it was deemed the Peloponnese was sufficiently clear of the enemy to land a 450-strong force – codenamed ‘Bucket Force’ – at Araxos airfield in a fleet of Dakotas.

loyd Owen was asked to provide an LRDG patrol to act as Bucket Force’s ears and eyes as they advanced east from Araxos, so he called on John Olivey and his Rhodesian Z1 Patrol. Olivey’s 11 jeeps arrived in Greece by landing craft on 26 September, roaring ashore in their jeeps at Katakolon, 40 miles south of Araxos. The patrol soon became bogged down, however, Olivey noting as they drove north that ‘the roads [are] very bad after the recent rain’. Four of the jeeps in the patrol pulled trailers, on each of which was 1,000lb of equipment for Bucket Force, and within a day of landing Olivey began to doubt that all the vehicles would stand the ordeal if the condition of the roads did not improve.

On 30 September Olivey’s patrol arrived at Bucket Force’s Forward HQ, a few miles west of Patras. L Squadron of the SBS were positioned on the high ground overlooking the port, and their commander, Major Ian Patterson, was endeavouring to persuade the garrison of 900 Germans and 1,600 Greeks from a collaborationist security battalion to surrender. During the night of 3/4 October word reached Bucket Force HQ that the Germans had started withdrawing from Patras. At first light a patrol of the SBS, travelling in the LRDG jeeps, raced into the port and discovered that all but a German rearguard had indeed sailed out of Patras, heading east up the Gulf of Corinth towards the Corinth Canal.

The SBS and the LRDG now set off in pursuit of the Germans. In a convoy of jeeps they roared along the headland overlooking the gulf, a captured 75mm German field gun hitched to the back of one of the jeeps. ‘Chased the enemy who were withdrawing by boat,’ wrote Olivey in his log, ‘firing with .5 Browning and 75 mm gun, from positions on the Corinth Road.’

They reached Corinth on 7 October, exchanged desultory fire with the Germans on the other side of the canal and then accepted the surrender of another battalion of Greek collaborators. From Corinth Olivey received instructions to push on to the town of Megara, several miles to the north-east over a mountain road, but to leave two jeeps’ worth of men in Corinth to help in the clearance of German mines. Olivey’s Z1 Patrol reached Megara on 9 October and at dawn the next day assisted an SBS unit to ‘blow the escape road that the enemy were using’. With that done, they set about preparing a landing strip for the arrival of the 4th Independent Parachute Brigade led by Colonel George Jellicoe. They dropped into Megara on 12 October, a day when the wind was particularly stiff. ‘We were rushed to Megara airfield to help by driving alongside the paratroopers on the ground with open chutes, swinging left or right to collapse the chutes, to enable them to get to their feet,’ recalled Tommy Haddon, a Rhodesian trooper in Z1 Patrol. ‘Even so, many parachutes were not collapsing and men were swept onto the rocks along the coast running alongside the airfield.’

The next day, 13 October, Z1 Patrol was among the first Allied troops to enter the Greek capital. ‘We proceeded over the Corinth Canal to Athens in convoys,’ recalled Haddon, ‘all the way being greeted by singing and joyful Greeks, shouting words of welcome.’ Once in Athens, Haddon and Z1 checked into the Grand National Hotel, though it wasn’t for long. They were soon billeted in less salubrious surrounds – the old Ford factory on the main road to Piraeus.

Foxforce was now subsumed into ‘Pompforce’, a 1,000-strong amalgamation of the LRDG, SBS, 4th Independent Parachute Battalion, a unit from the RAF Regiment and a battery of 75mm guns. Commanded by Jellicoe, ‘Pompforce’ drove north towards Larissa, driving past the detritus of a large-scale German retreat. Glimpses of the Germans were rare, and what resistance was encountered was quickly crushed, as at Kozani and Florina.

John Olivey’s patrol ‘proceeded south of Florina and harassed the withdrawing enemy and proceeded to the flat country … firing at a range of 2,000 yards, at the enemy force withdrawing up the Florina–Havrokhoma Road. Florina was occupied/captured at 1600 hours.’ Hours after the capture of Florina, Jellicoe received a signal ‘instructing us not to go into Yugoslavia or Albania, presumably as a result of a pact with the Russians’.

At the end of October Lloyd Owen withdrew most of the LRDG patrols from Albania, leaving behind Eastwood ‘chasing the enemy where he could’. Much of his work was calling up air strikes on retreating Germans, such as the convoy moving south to reinforce the town of Tirana. Having first blown a bridge with his patrol, Eastwood radioed the RAF, who attacked the convoy as it waited for the bridge to be repaired. The convoy of ‘1,500 men, a few tanks, guns, MT and horse-drawn vehicles’ was all but wiped out. Tirana subsequently fell to the partisans on 17 November, and a fortnight later Eastwood’s patrol finally withdrew after four months of superlative work that only a unit with the LRDG’s unique skills could have accomplished. Eastwood had been awarded a Military Cross for leading the raid on the observation post in Orso Bay, and his sergeant, Andy Bennett, was decorated for his work in Albania, the citation for his Military Medal describing his role during a battle with 200 Germans on the Elbasan-Tirana road:

In a battle lasting some hours he showed magnificent courage under extremely heavy fire. He refused to leave his position only a few hundred yards from the road and thus enabled the combined force to compel the enemy to withdraw, leaving behind eighty dead and much valuable equipment. During the whole of these operations Bennett displayed great gallantry under fire.

Back in Greece, the Germans had been chased out of the country by November and on the 12th of the month the LRDG, together with the SBS, returned south to Athens for what they imagined would be some well-earned rest and recuperation. Greece, its islands and its people, were hugely popular with both units, and in the preceding 15 months a strong bond had developed between the British special forces and the Greeks. It was a bond forged in war, unbreakable, or so the British assumed.

But it was quickly apparent in Athens that the indolent days of the past had evaporated. The antagonism was palpable between the government of ‘National Unity’, who were pro-monarchy, and EAM, the predominantly communist National Liberation Front, whose military wing was ELAS, the Greek People’s Liberation Army. At first it was assumed that the trouble could be easily contained by the Greek authorities, and so Major Stormonth Darling led B Squadron (who had also been in Greece) back to Italy on the same day that John Olivey’s Z1 Patrol arrived back in Athens, the men relishing the ten days’ leave they had been promised.

On 13 November leave was cancelled because of ‘trouble, which was expected from ELAS’, and six days later the LRDG were placed under the command of 23rd Armoured Brigade. A short while later they moved their base to Osiphoglion Orphanage, on the main road to Athens, but they rarely ventured out, their presence more symbolic than practical. Tommy Haddon ‘witnessed many sordid events, as one does in a civil war’, and it was Captain Stuart Manning’s job to condense an unpleasant few weeks into a report on Z1 Patrol’s stay in Athens.

They were in Athens when the trouble with ELAS started and their jeep patrols rescued police from posts under fire and raided an ELAS headquarters to capture petrol and arms. Several of the party were wounded and had to be evacuated. A Greek National Guard was then being hurriedly formed, and the Rhodesians and their colleagues helped to train them while assisting in maintaining order in Athens and the neighbourhood.

In December ELAS began to consider the British fair game. On the 11th an LRDG truck taking sick men to the 97 General Hospital was ambushed. No one was killed, but one of the LRDG men in the cab was hit in the shoulder. ELAS claimed later it was a case of mistaken identity, they’d thought it was a pro-Royalist vehicle, but later on the same day John Olivey and his driver, Artie Botha, drove into Athens to stock up on supplies. As they turned up a quiet side street, a machine gun opened up from a window above. Botha was shot in the head and Olivey hit as he dragged his wounded driver to cover. The pair were rushed to the 97 General Hospital but Botha died on the operating table. Olivey was evacuated to Italy by air, and doubtless as he left behind Greece the irony wasn’t lost on him that he had come through four years of fighting the Germans and Italians with barely a scratch, only to be shot by people who were supposed to be on the same side.

Litani River

Australians bridging the Litani River near Merjayun.

9–10 June 1941

Having covered four daring raids from the air, it is time to turn attention to the Commandos, which had been formed during 1940 after the Fall of France. Because Britain had no special forces at the time, the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, had proposed the formation of a new organization, made up of volunteers, to carry out offensive action against the enemy. Churchill gave the organization the name Commandos, taken from his days as a war reporter in the Boer War when he had witnessed for himself the significant losses inflicted on the British Army by the Boer’s irregular forces, known as ‘commandos’. Although the vision had initially been for the British Commandos to carry out offensive action against the enemy’s extended and quite vulnerable coastline in north-west Europe, it is to the Middle East, and a campaign that is rarely given any historical recognition, that we go first to look at an early and very daring commando raid, and it would be the first time that commandos would attack a heavily defended position.

The Allied invasion of Vichy French-controlled Syria and Lebanon, called Operation Exporter, commenced in June 1941. The fact that little was known of the campaign during the war can be put down to there being little, if any, coverage given to the campaign back home. Politicians believed that any public knowledge of Allies fighting against French forces would probably have a negative effect in those countries involved. Even after the war, the campaign has remained largely unknown, but the action involving the men of 11 (Scottish) Commando at the Litani River was as fierce as anything the commandos had encountered at that stage of the war.

For several months the leader of the Free French, General Charles de Gaulle, had been pressing for an invasion of Vichy French Syria, but British forces were stretched across the Mediterranean and North Africa. Then, in May 1941, an agreement was signed between Vichy France and Germany, allowing the Nazis access to military facilities in Syria.

The outcome was the launching of an Allied offensive to prevent the Germans from using Syria and the Lebanon as havens to launch an attack on Egypt. Hostilities commenced on 8 June and, in support of Exporter, 11 Commando was tasked with capturing the Qasmiye Bridge that crossed the Litani River, about 50 miles south of Beirut, in what was then Syria, but is now southern Lebanon. The river flows east–west at that point and crossed the planned Allied line of advance northwards towards Beirut. Capturing the bridge would ease the Australian 7th Division’s advance along the coastal road from Haifa to Beirut, and it would be the first of a series of major actions lasting more than a month.

Commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Dick Pedder, 11 Commando had been drawn largely from Scottish regiments and sent to the Mediterranean in early 1941 as C Battalion of Layforce, a rather ad hoc formation made up of a number of commando units under the overall command of Colonel Robert Laycock. The intention was that Layforce would carry out a campaign of harassment against the enemy in the Mediterranean, but things had not turned out quite as planned, and by the time they arrived in theatre the strategic situation had much changed. A planned raid on the Greek island of Rhodes had to be cancelled, a supposedly daring raid on the Italian-held town of Bardia turned out to be unopposed, and the decision to send commandos to Crete to fight a rearguard action during the evacuation of the island, a role that commandos had not been specifically formed to do, had resulted in heavy losses. None of these early operations had involved Pedder’s men. They had instead been given the task of carrying out garrison duties on Cyprus, a role that had left the men of 11 Commando still looking for an opportunity to make their mark – an opportunity that finally came during Exporter.

The plan was for the commandos to carry out an amphibious assault at dawn, landing from the sea at the mouth of the Litani to coincide with the Australian 21st Infantry Brigade’s attack on the river. The enemy was known to be holding the ground along the line of the Litani River, with a second bridge, situated at Kafr Badda, crossing another river flowing parallel to the Litani about 2 miles to the north. The whole area was known to be heavily defended. In-between the two rivers, and to the east of the coastal road connecting Sidon and Tyre that crossed the two bridges, there were a number of enemy installations, including two main gun batteries and a barracks. Once ashore the commandos were to outflank the enemy and to attack them from the rear. They would then secure both the Qasmiye and Kafr Badda bridges before the enemy had time to destroy them, which would allow the Australian infantry to cross both rivers and advance towards Beirut. As the amphibious assault was planned for 8 June, the commandos left Cyprus four days prior to that, and two days later boarded their landing ship, HMS Glengyle. They then set sail from Port Said with a naval escort.

Pedder had a raiding force of more than 20 officers and 450 men, but he had been given little information regarding where the landing was to take place. A motor gunboat was launched so that the naval beach master and a local guide could carry out a quick reconnaissance of the coastline along the intended landing beaches. They came back reporting a large swell and heavy surf along the coast, particularly in the final few hundred yards of the beaches, which made the likelihood of the flat-bottomed landing craft being able to go ashore without capsizing quite slim. With the commandos laden with their heavy equipment, this would most likely result in several casualties. Furthermore, the forecast was not good, as it was looking unlikely there would be any change to the sea conditions for the next forty-eight hours.

Nonetheless, the decision was made to attempt a landing at dawn the following morning as planned, and during the early hours of 8 June the Glengyle arrived at the dropping-off point about 4 miles off the mouth of the Litani River. The eleven landing craft were lowered and the commandos packed inside with all their equipment and ammunition. The swell was quite severe and there was still a major concern about the conditions. Opinions differed, particularly between Pedder, who argued that the risk was worth taking in order to retain the element of surprise, and the beach master who had carried out the reconnaissance of the coastline. The final decision belonged to the skipper of the Glengyle, Captain Christopher Petrie, who, at that early part of the operation, still retained overall responsibility for whether the assault was launched or not. Reluctantly, Petrie made the decision to abort the mission.

With the commandos back on board and the landing craft raised, the Glengyle headed back to Port Said, arriving back during the afternoon. The commandos now waited anxiously while Pedder was summoned to a quick meeting on board another ship to find out what was to happen next. He soon arrived back on the Glengyle to tell his men the operation was back on and they were to set sail at once. It had been just over an hour since the Glengyle had arrived back in port and, to the disbelief of those on board, she was once again heading out to sea.

The Glengyle reached the dropping-off point during the early hours of 9 June. Fortunately, the swell had subsided enough to make the lowering of the landing craft easier than before. By now the Australian attack was well underway. Unfortunately, however, the earlier decision to abort the mission had been made in full view of the enemy. The motor gunboat carrying out the reconnaissance along the coastline had been spotted and it had become obvious to the enemy what was going on, so by the time the Australian infantry had advanced the defenders had simply blown the Qasmiye Bridge.

The second bridge at Kafr Badda, however, was still intact and so Pedder had to modify his plan. He split his force into three parties: X, Y and Z. The original plan had been to land the parties on both sides of the mouth of the Litani and to seize the Qasmiye Bridge, but because the bridge was no longer the main objective, all three parties would now land to the north of the estuary on separate beaches between the two rivers.

X Party comprised of 2, 3 and 9 Troops, and was to land closest to the Litani to carry out the main assault on the north bank of the river. The men were to be led by Major Geoffrey Keyes, Pedder’s second-in-command and the oldest son of Admiral Sir Roger Keyes, the Director of Combined Operations. Keyes had just celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday and had already been in action in Norway prior to serving in the Middle East. His task now was to destroy an enemy position at Aiteniye and to then seize the enemy fortification on the north bank of the river from its rear. His party were then to hold the area to allow the Australians time to build a pontoon bridge across the river.

Pedder, meanwhile, was to lead Y Party, consisting of 1, 7 and 8 Troops. His party would land just to the north of Keyes’s group and provide support during the main assault by taking a gun battery and capturing the enemy barracks just over a mile inland, after which Pedder’s group would support the main attack in whatever way it could. The third group, Z Party, made up of 4 and 10 Troops, and under the command of Captain George More, would land furthest north, some 2 miles from the Litani River and at the mouth of the second river. More’s task was to capture and hold the bridge at Kafr Badda, and so prevent the enemy from reinforcing the area along the coast road from the north, and to capture an enemy gun battery to the east.

Soon after 3.00 am the lead commandos of X Party boarded four landing craft and headed off towards the shore. It would be another hour before daylight. As before, there had been a lack of information during the briefing and so the landing party had been given little idea of how to find the right landing spot. Although there was a reasonable amount of moonlight, it proved a difficult task.

In the end, X Party landed just before 5.00 am about a mile south of where they should have been and on the wrong side of the river. Fortunately, the landing was unopposed. It was now getting light and Keyes quickly realized they had landed on the south side of the river. With no alternative but to mount a frontal attack against heavily armed troops in a fortified position, Keyes ordered his men to move rapidly across the beach towards the river. At that point the whole beach area came under heavy fire, including mortar and artillery fire, as well as that from heavy machine guns. The fire was coming from the same enemy fortification to the north-east of their position that they should have been attacking from the rear.

During their advance to the river the men of X Party soon became pinned down, particularly from sniper fire from the enemy bank, and suffered a number of casualties. One section led by Captain George Highland, with 21-year-old Lieutenant Eric Garland alongside him, managed to work its way forward on the far right, and out of sight of the main enemy position. But faced with only open and flat ground ahead there was little in the way of protection, and they soon became pinned down by an enemy sniper.

As Keyes surveyed the scene, the casualties started to mount; two of his corporals and a sapper were killed. They could get no further. For the best part of half an hour the commandos remained where they were, but they had now been joined by some Australian infantry supporting the commandos’ attack on the river. Using a combination of crawling and sprinting across the open ground, and using whatever cover he could find, Keyes managed to reach Highland’s advanced position. He arrived to find that Highland and Garland had just teased out the enemy sniper who had kept his small group pinned down for so long; with his position now exposed, the hapless Frenchman was soon cut down by a burst of commando machine-gun fire.

With the sniper taken care of, and with supporting artillery fire now raining down on the enemy, the commandos had an opportunity to cross the river. A small canvas boat was brought up to the river and positioned amongst some rushes as cover. With the help of the Australians, and with Garland and a handful of commandos on board, the men paddled their way across the river, which, at that point, was just 30 yards wide. Although the river was relatively narrow at that point, it was fast flowing and reaching the other side was hard work, but the Australians soon set up a ferry service to take more commandos to the northern side.

Keyes and his men had now been ashore for more than four hours. Meanwhile, the central group, Pedder’s Y Party, consisting of 8 officers and nearly 150 men, had gone ashore in 4 landing craft. They had landed at around 4.30 am just over a mile from the river and had come under fire before they even reached the beach. With the landing craft crews keen to drop off the commandos and withdraw as quickly as possible, many of the latter were left to struggle ashore in water that was chest high. The commandos then ran quickly across the open beach, covering the short distance of just 20 yards or so in record time, before heading inland over the dunes and crossing the coastal road. It was then that they encountered more heavy enemy fire from the higher ground ahead.

Although Y Party had somehow managed to arrive at their positon in reasonably good shape, progress was slow and their radio had been damaged. Pedder had no way of communicating with the other two parties and so he was forced to get his men to break out of their cover and into the open. But, as they pressed on towards the barracks, it was impossible to co-ordinate an attack, and it was not long before the commandos became pinned down once more.

Fortunately, one of Pedder’s officers, Lieutenant Blair ‘Paddy’ Mayne, who was leading 7 Troop and would later become a founding member of the Special Air Service, had managed to join up with elements of 8 Troop. They were soon able to press on and then head south towards the river.

But it was 1 Troop and Pedder’s headquarters who encountered the fiercest opposition. Undaunted, Lieutenant Gerald Bryan led his men on beyond the barracks to one of the guns. He arrived to find the gun unmanned and the crew taking cover nearby. The other guns nearby were manned and were firing on the commandos, but Bryan’s men succeeded in getting the captured gun in action and firing on those emplacements still in the hands of the enemy.

Elsewhere amongst Pedder’s group, the commandos mounted an assault against the barracks but they were met by heavy machine-gun and sniper fire. Casualties soon started to mount as Pedder ordered his men to withdraw towards a gulley for shelter. It was at that point that Dick Pedder was killed. It was a savage blow. Other officers had also become casualties. Captain Bill Farmiloe and Lieutenant Donald Coode had both been killed and the last remaining officer, Gerald Bryan, who had now taken over command of the men, was then wounded; Bryan would, nonetheless, manage to keep the enemy at arm’s length for two hours before he was taken prisoner.

With all his officers gone it was left to Regimental Sergeant Major Lewis Tevendale to regroup and rally the men and head for the river. They managed to reach some cover, but after several hours of continuous fire they were finally overrun; with no other option, the commandos surrendered.

Meanwhile, further to the north, George More’s Z Party also had no way of communicating with the other groups; a landing craft had hit a submerged rock during its approach to the beach and the radio set had been soaked, rendering it nothing short of useless. The other landing craft seem to have been caught on a sandbank and so the commandos had to make their way in chest-high water. They then had to make their way across the beach and open ground under sporadic enemy fire, a distance of several hundred yards, before they were able to find any cover. Although they encountered more enemy fire once they arrived at the coastal road, Z Party managed to mount a frontal attack on the enemy. The Vichy troops were outfought and seemingly had little stomach for a heavy fight. By 6.30 am the commandos had seized the bridge intact.

Having overrun many vacant enemy positions, where the occupants had clearly departed in a hurry, the commandos of Z Party started rounding up prisoners. For most of the day they managed to hold off the enemy, although the flatness of the surrounding terrain made it difficult. They also succeeded in capturing four gun emplacements and a transport pool, as well as take a number of prisoners. It was only when a number of enemy armoured vehicles arrived that More was forced to withdraw his men. Some headed off east in a group led by Lieutenant Tommy Macpherson before going south to reach the Australian lines, while More led others off south, still under heavy enemy fire, to join up with Y Party. However, the latter were soon caught in open ground and, unable to communicate with the commandos further south, suddenly found themselves coming under fire from all directions. Amongst the five men killed was one of the young officers, 21-year-old Lieutenant Geoffrey Parnacott. Three other men were wounded, and with no hope of getting to safety, they surrendered.

Back at the river, the commandos of X Party were busy crossing the Litani. More boats had been made available, but it was now already early afternoon and had taken more than three hours to ferry the men across. As more men reached the far side, the commandos gradually gained a stronger foothold on the northern bank. Led by Highland and Garland they slowly cleared the enemy positions and captured the enemy redoubt, although it came at a cost, with several commandos killed and wounded during the assault on both sides of the river.

Having crossed the river, and now fearing a counter-attack, Keyes consolidated his position. Several prisoners had been captured and sent back across the river using the boats. Throughout the afternoon more and more Australians crossed the river. A pontoon bridge had been built, and by the early evening Keyes was able to hand over command of the fortification to the new arrivals.

The surviving commandos remained at the river overnight before the enemy forces in the area surrendered the following morning. Keyes was then ordered to withdraw at midday and to leave the redoubt to the Australians. One stroke of fortune was that George More and the commandos captured during the fighting the previous day were now released. Their captors from the day before had now become prisoners of the Australians. Keyes then led his men off southwards and by that night they were safely back at Haifa.

The men of 11 Commando returned to Cyprus on 15 June. They had acquitted themselves well and had achieved the objectives of the revised plan; they had crossed the Litani River and held the north bank long enough to allow the Australian Brigade to cross the river and move on towards Beirut. The commandos had landed with only enough ammunition to last for eight hours, but they had ended up having to fight for more than twenty-four. But it had been at a cost. Of the more than 450 men that had left Cyprus just 11 days before, 45 had been killed and a further 85 wounded.

But despite the courage and determination of the commandos, they had been let down even before they set foot on the beaches, particularly by weak intelligence and poor navigation. There is no doubt that casualties would have been far fewer had the commandos been landed in the right place. This was down to the fact that Pedder had been given insufficient information about the coastline and landing beaches before leaving the Glengyle, and X Party’s landing beach had been misidentified during the run-in before daylight. This had left Keyes and his men fighting all morning to get to the place where they should have been from the start.

After the raid, Geoffrey Keyes was given command of 11 Commando and awarded the Military Cross. Also awarded the MC were George More and Gerald Bryan, while Eric Garland received a bar to his MC, which he had won earlier in the war during the retreat to Dunkirk. Amongst the other awards, RSM Tevendale was awarded the DCM.