Churchill's Hellraisers. Damien Lewis
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round smaller fry, they always got there in the end.’
By September 1943 Farran was in action again, this time in Italy, commanding an SAS patrol on daring sabotage missions on the Adriatic coast. Within weeks he’d won a second bar to his MC. ‘The success of the detachment was due to the courage, tenacity and leadership of Capt. FARRAN,’ read the October 1943 citation, ‘ably backed by his men, whom he has trained himself.’ Arguably, there was no one better to be leading the daring and audacious Châtillon raid.
It was mid-morning by the time the combined SAS and Maquis force advanced back into town. Farran’s main priority was to launch some kind of decoy action, so as to draw the enemy away from Captain Hibbert and his force of Maquis, who were moving into the narrow streets on foot. Gathering the redoubtable Jim Mackie, with his jeep as a supporting gun-platform, he led a foot patrol in a thrust east towards the far side of town, hoping to convince the enemy that they were being hit from all sides, as if by the US 3rd Army’s vanguard.
As Hibbert’s force pushed into the western outskirts of Châtillon, they stumbled upon an armoured car with thirty enemy soldiers in support, forming a bicycle patrol. They opened fire, gunning down four of those in the armoured car as they tried to bail out, and hitting the bicycle patrol from both the front and the rear. Savage street fighting ensued and another SAS soldier was hit. Forced to take cover in a large garden, Hibbert and the Maquis fought for their very lives as fierce bursts of gunfire echoed through the bullet-pocked terrain.
Meanwhile, Farran’s force stole ahead through streets that were eerily quiet, apart from the bursts of fire echoing across from Hibbert’s direction. Crouched low, he led his men past a unit of Germans positioned in the cover of some beech trees. He pushed on, crossing a canal, where his small force flitted along the towpath. Farran spotted another unit of German soldiers standing guard at the hospital, but somehow they failed to notice the SAS men.
Finally, having pushed east across two miles of terrain, they reached the road leading north to the city of Troyes. Taking cover in a narrow side street, Farran chanced a peek around the corner of the nearest building. He almost choked at what he saw. Just a few yards away were a pair of German machine-gun posts, flanking the Troyes road and covering the direction from which Farran and his men had come. Dressed in greatcoats, the machine-gun crews had their backs to the SAS party, seemingly oblivious to their presence.
Farran sank back into cover, wondering how best to proceed. From a nearby house one of his men begged some wine, cheese and bread. As they deliberated on their next move, they wolfed down the food and drink. It was approaching midday and they’d been on the go in fierce combat for six hours or more. Farran felt gripped by a leaden fatigue and he sensed that many of his men were likewise shattered. Still, this was an opportunity too good to miss.
On his word, he and his men leaned around the corner and took careful aim, opening fire on the German machine-gunners, raking their unprotected rear. A soldier on a bicycle was hit, tumbling off his machine, but the enemy were swift to respond. As more bodies fell, all hell let loose. The narrow street in which Farran and his men were hiding became a death trap, as fire from the Germans’ MP40 ‘Schmeisser’ sub-machine guns ricocheted off the walls.
Farran could see only one route of escape: to bolt through the front door of the nearest house and dash out the rear, in the hope they could scramble down to the banks of the canal. With rounds cutting around their heads, he led his men in the mad charge through.
They made it safely to the canal bank, reached a lock, scuttled across and darted further eastwards on the tow path, hoping to extricate themselves from enemy clutches. Farran felt confident that Big Jim Mackie would be following their every move, as so often he and his jeep had got them out of seemingly impossible situations.
As he led his men towards the cover of a ridge top hedgerow, one of the enemy’s machine-gunners must have spotted them. Within moments, a long burst of fire from an MG42 ‘Spandau’ was tearing into the terrain to either side. As Farran dived for the sparse cover of the hedge, a second Spandau joined in the turkey shoot. It was hellish, especially as he hadn’t even realised that he and his men were visible to the enemy.
The Spandau had earned a telling nickname among Allied troops – ‘Hitler’s Buzzsaw’, referring to the incredibly high rate of fire of the weapon and the corresponding noise it made. Capable of putting down 1,200 rounds per minute, it had twice the firepower of the British Bren, if not quite the accuracy. In spite of the terrifying effect of being pinned down by two such machine guns, Farran told himself they had to move. If they stayed where they were they were dead, yet still the veteran SAS commander felt frozen.
By this stage of the war many of those serving with the regiment had begun to view Farran as some kind of a lucky genius – the kind of commander who seemed to lead a charmed life, and who could miraculously command his men on an assault of today’s daring and still somehow pull it off. But in truth, Farran feared that after four long years at war and numerous brushes with death, he was getting ‘windy’.
Pinned beneath that hedge, he felt gripped by – frozen by – fear. He had never felt so scared as he did now, or so incapable of leading his own men to safety. He’d been in similar scrapes before, and he’d always managed to get him and his fellows out alive. He felt paralysed by fearful inaction, and above everything he hoped that his men hadn’t sensed how he was feeling.
Over the years Farran had proved himself blessed with the most vital of attributes for an SAS commander: the instinctive ability to assess the level of danger posed by any battlefield situation, and to deliver an instant and optimum response. His spirited leadership inspired a deep loyalty in his men, not to mention the resistance fighters with whom they often operated.
But right at this moment, Farran had led his followers into what was seemingly a death trap. For every moment they remained pinned down beneath that bullet-blasted hedge, he sensed the enemy closing in for the kill. Finally, he forced himself to move. Keeping to his belly and with bursts of fire kicking up dirt on every side, he led his men in a desperate crawl, sticking to the sparse cover of the deepest furrows that lay beyond the hedgerow. As he steeled himself to press on, he realised that he had never felt so tired or dispirited. In the long years of operations stretching from the North African deserts to the shores of Italy, and from the Greek Islands to the Aegean Sea, he had rarely felt so close to being finished.
If they didn’t get out of the machine-gunner’s line of fire they were done for, but he couldn’t get himself to move any faster. Behind him, Sergeant Roberts, another of his C Squadron veterans, was hit in the leg. Despite the wound, the man seemed to belly-crawl ahead faster than Farran, as he dragged himself along a bloody furrow. They reached a small patch of dead ground, beyond which they would need to move back into the enemy’s line of fire.
Farran tried to go to the aid of his wounded sergeant, but he was so utterly exhausted that he could barely help himself. Momentarily lifting his head from the dirt, he sensed the grunt of a distant engine. He fancied it had the distinctive sound of an SAS jeep. Could it be the cavalry riding to the rescue? Had Big Jim Mackie found where they had gone to ground? If so, Farran would need to dig deep for one last burst of energy, to lead a dash for Mackie’s vehicle.
He and his men might die in the process, but they were surely dead if they remained where they were.
Chapter 3
If anything, Mike Lees’ descent through the Italian mountains had been even more hair-raising than the snow-bound ascent. Sometime after cresting the high pass two-feet deep in wind-driven drifts, they had linked up with a reception party from the neighbouring band of partisans. They’d brought with them a battered truck, one recently captured off the enemy. It looked close to derelict, but at least it offered the promise of mobility and shelter.
Frozen stiff, Lees and his party had clambered aboard, looking forward to arriving in the partisan village in a degree of comfort and style. Instead, the onwards journey had turned into the wildest ride any of the men had ever known. Apparently, a German garrison based beyond Pigna – the partisan village to which they were heading – had learned that their force was on the move. The enemy had fanned out in