Churchill's Secret Warriors: The Explosive True Story of the Special Forces Desperadoes of WWII (21 page)

But right now, as the armada set sail for Turkish waters, partying couldn’t be further from the soldiers’ minds. There was work to be done.

*

The shores of the Gulf of Cos offered the raiders some 200 miles of dark, pine-forested coastline, overhanging shadowed inlets and narrows screened from passing boats by islands. Such a bay might at first glance appear to be empty, but upon closer inspection it would reveal a squat, ugly schooner riding at anchor, with a host of inflatables and folbots tied up alongside.

A distance away lay a fleet of Motor Launches, plus a flotilla of distinctive caiques. Here and there were other assorted craft, from which some of the raiders were busy fishing for their supper. In the stern of the fat schooner – the
Tewfik
– squatted a distinctive, semi-naked figure, Lassen, a scruffy little dog at his side. The Dane was whittling away at a length of wood,
fashioning a bow with which to hunt wild boar in the forest, Pipo glued to his every move.

Down below in the dark interior of the ship sat Sutherland, pipe clamped between teeth, transcribing the raiders’ first operational orders. To the front of the ship, Sergeant Jenkins – he who had only recently conjured up that fine Christmas feast – was busy, busy, busy. He was trying to stop one raider from pinching a tin of sausage meat, accusing another of doing the same, while attempting to get his Greek cooks to refrain from preparing octopus for supper –
again
.

‘No octopus.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘Not octopus. Not again.
Please
.’

On the hatch beside him Donald Grant, a bespectacled American war reporter, reclined in a deckchair. He was busy compiling an article for
Look
, a now defunct American glossy news magazine. For a moment Grant put his writing pad down, picked up a recently acquired Luger pistol, and polished it proudly. Grant had been into action alongside these men on their previous Dodecanese raids, and he was an instant convert to the way these piratical raiders did things. Luger cleaned, Grant turned back to his writing.

Grant’s welcome into the raiding force had been an unusual one, particularly for a news reporter. Sutherland had asked a group of his officers if they were willing to take a young American newsman with them. ‘Well, will he fight?’ one demanded. Grant, overhearing the challenge, blurted out, angrily: ‘Of course I’ll fight!’

The next query had come direct from Lassen. ‘Do you know how to carry a pack and a gun?’ Grant confirmed that he did. He was quite happy to carry a weapon as well as a pencil into battle. Lassen had handed Grant a German Luger pistol. ‘Right, you’re in,’ he told the reporter.

Lassen liked Americans. He was himself part-American by birth – Lassen’s mother was an aristocratic Danish-American – though he never once revealed it to Porter Jarrell, or any other of his fellow raiders. Somehow, Lassen managed to be both an intensely private person, and one who could inspire deep loyalty in others – those who were willing to follow him behind enemy lines on death-defying missions, American newsreporters included.

By the time Raider Force Headquarters in Cairo had realized that the SBS had embedded a journalist within their number, it was too late to do anything about Donald Grant. The high-ups at Raider Force HQ were enraged, but the proverbial chicken
had long flown the coop. Grant had already filed the first of his sensational news reports.

That German officer had been targeted by Lassen, for he commanded a Gestapo unit that terrorized Greek captives using a great black dog that ripped their throats out. Lassen
made sure that the dog was hunted down and killed, along with its Gestapo handlers.

Lassen had first been dubbed the ‘Robin Hood Commando’ back in his Anderson Manor days, when he’d stalked the Dorset fields and hedgerows complete with bow-and-arrow. Now, thanks to Grant’s reporting, that epithet had been immortalized in print and for the entire raiding force, the toughest unit of which – the Irish Patrol – the 23-year-old Dane now commanded.

The
Tewfik
bristled with all kinds of weaponry, a good proportion of which was German. To Grant’s right and further forward on the schooner’s deck, O’Reilly – Lassen’s de facto bodyguard – was cleaning a German sniper rifle that had been liberated during the recent battles around Symi. For a moment he contemplated zeroing it onto a target ashore, before reminding himself that loosing off shots against the Turkish shoreline – even practice ones – probably wasn’t the wisest of moves, especially since the raiders didn’t officially exist in Turkish waters.

Far aft of Grant a figure dressed in a distinctive peaked German forage cap bent over his task, silently working away, his mind totally focused on what he was doing. Despite his German dress, he
was
one of the British raiders – a foremost explosives expert, no less – and he was busy making up the charges for the mission that he’d just been warned by Sutherland was in the offing.

Come dusk the scene livened up noticeably. Those who had been spearing fish or bartering with the local Turkish villagers returned to the mother ship, loudly demanding food. The
signallers were badgered for news from headquarters. Was there an update on the plans for the forthcoming raid? Were other targets being lined up for attack?

As the night darkened, Sutherland pulled Lassen to one side. His orders were complete. The first target of the new Dodecanese raiding campaign had been set.

It would be the island of Halki, and Lassen and his Irish Patrol were to lead it.

It was 31 January 1944 when Motor Launch 1083 whisked the Irish Patrol out of Turkish waters and into those of the enemy. Halki lay some fifty miles to the west of their secret base, and the fast craft made short work of the journey. Braced in the wheelhouse against the biting January wind, Lassen scented the chill air and the fighting that was to come. He was hoping for some German ships to sink in Halki harbour.

Beside him, his dog Pipo – the Lion of Leros – seemed equally ready for battle. Pipo would become a constant feature of Lassen’s operations, the four-legged raider being carried on the most arduous treks, and lifted up the worst cliffs and inclines. Pipo had a disgusting habit of peeing on the men’s clothing, and even inside their sleeping bags. It didn’t exactly win the dog many friends, but Lassen wouldn’t hear a word said against him.

Intelligence from Halki suggested that all was not well on the island. The resistance was strong, the anti-German sentiment unyielding, but as a consequence the enemy had cracked down on the locals mercilessly. Malnutrition among the islanders was reportedly reaching crisis proportions, and so – along with all the raiders’ weaponry – Lassen had made sure that the Motor Launch was loaded to the gunwales with food supplies. Sacks of
flour, bags of macaroni, tins of bully beef and sausage meat and all sorts of other staples were heaped around the boat.

In the face of mass-killing, starvation and economic collapse, the Greek islanders were in greater need than ever. Somehow, Lassen managed to combine extraordinary courage and physical endurance with an innate feel for people’s suffering, and an undying empathy for the underdog.

Jellicoe himself would write of Lassen that he had ‘a quality which overshadows even his outstanding physical and moral courage … that was his sympathy for those who were less fortunate than himself and the love he inspired in them … Wherever he went one felt this deep sympathy for the unfortunate, and the affection which these people he had befriended or helped felt for him was quite extraordinary.’

*

Under cover of darkness the food supplies were ferried in to a remote and uninhabited stretch of Halki’s shoreline. But the wind proved strong that night, the rocky shore steep, treacherous and uninviting, and the repeated journeys in a small boat loaded high with stores and provisions were exhausting.

No matter; once the supplies were landed Lassen led a team consisting of Sean O’Reilly – his Irish bodyguard – plus Greek Sacred Squadron officer Lieutenant Katsikis, as they headed for the mayor’s house. Unsurprisingly all were asleep at the mayor’s residence, the vine-covered outer courtyard locked shut for the night. The three men vaulted over the wall, but the mayor’s wife woke up and started screaming, presuming the shadowy figures to be the harbingers of more suffering and trouble.

Lieutenant Katsikis called to her reassuringly in Greek. They were strangers bringing important information, he explained. A voice was heard to utter: ‘I am sure that is Lassen and his men.’ It was the mayor. Peering out of an upstairs window he’d recognized the blond hair of the Dane whose fame was spreading far and wide across the Dodecanese.

The mayor’s wife threw open the door. Lassen explained where the food stores were stashed, and told the mayor to gather his villagers, after which he could distribute the supplies to those most in need. Then he asked about the enemy presence on the island, and their disposition. The mayor told Lassen that there were some half-a-dozen Italians garrisoning Halki, and gave directions to their billet.

‘Do you want them taken prisoner, or killed?’ Lassen asked.

‘Oh, they are not such bad men,’ the mayor replied. ‘Taken prisoner is probably for the best.’

‘All right, let’s go and grab the bastards!’ Lassen exclaimed.

Lassen led the way through the dark and twisting streets of Halki town, which is hardly larger than the average Greek fishing village. They found the barracks building, stole around to the rear and hammered on the back door. The Italians finally woke up and Lieutenant Katsikis spoke to them, claiming to be a local villager with vital information to give them on partisan activity.

The Italians remained suspicious and refused to open the door. They kept telling Lieutenant Katsikis to come back when it was daylight. Lassen finally lost patience. Cautioning O’Reilly not to open fire, he ordered the big Irishman to kick the door
in. No sooner had O’Reilly’s boot crashed through the doorframe, than Lassen himself loosed off a volley of bullets above the Italians’ heads.

There were six of them, and they immediately surrendered. The raiders searched their premises, seizing six rifles, two Beretta MAB 38 machine guns, plus a wireless receiver. Frustrated at not being able to find any money they could use to fund their campaign, Lassen spotted a safe. He crouched before it, trying to work out how best to get it open. He was in the midst of doing so when an intriguing sound drifted up from the bay below: it was the throaty chug-chug-chug of a motorboat pulling into harbour.

Lassen’s eyes gleamed. ‘Sounds like a ship. And not a local fishing-boat, either.’

Lassen, O’Reilly and Katsikis grabbed one of the Italians and the four men dashed down to the harbour, only to discover a large German E Boat – a patrol launch – pulling into shore. By its marking they could tell that it hailed from the headquarters garrison on Rhodes, so it was very likely one of General von Kleemann’s resupply boats.

Lassen, O’Reilly and Katsikis took cover, hiding around a convenient corner, the Dane shoving the muzzle of his pistol into the nape of their Italian prisoner’s neck.

‘Call to your German friends,’ he told him. ‘Invite them ashore for a nice drink.’

The Italian did as ordered, and the yelled reply from the boat indicated that the Germans were partial to coming ashore for a snifter or two of Ouzo.

Lassen eyed O’Reilly and Katsikis excitedly. ‘Are you ready?’

Both men nodded, and made ready their weapons. As the boat nestled into the harbourside, Lassen and his men pounced. They dashed around the corner and opened fire. But as O’Reilly tore ahead he stumbled, and his weapon went off, accidentally shooting Lassen in the leg. The stray bullet had caused a nasty flesh wound, and it seemed to drive the Dane into a towering fury.

‘You Irish dog! D’you want to kill me?’ he kept yelling, all the while pouring fire into the German ship.

Lassen hurled grenades. The blasts tore into the patrol boat, shaking it from stem to stern where it lay in the water. The German crew had been taken utterly by surprise. One moment they were savouring the thought of a few glasses of Ouzo; the next, all hell had broken loose. In the pitch blackness and amid all the horror and confusion they must have presumed their attackers were a legion of the enemy, for those still standing promptly surrendered.

Lassen, O’Reilly and Katsikis boarded the German vessel. In spite of the fusillades of fire with which they’d raked her decks, plus damage from the grenades, she seemed largely seaworthy still. Lassen grabbed the ship’s engineer, who’d been wounded by a grazing shot to the back of the head, and he ordered O’Reilly to take the man below decks. They were going to seize the German craft – for then they could use her to properly sneak up on any unsuspecting enemy.

‘Get the engines started,’ Lassen told O’Reilly, ‘and let’s get her underway.’

O’Reilly knew no German, so all he could do was point the wounded engineer at the E Boat’s engine and make appropriate
gestures. The man seemed almost paralysed by terror, and the message just didn’t seem to be getting through.

‘What are you vaiting for down there?’ Lassen roared from above decks. ‘Get the bloody engines started!’

O’Reilly decided the engineer needed a dose of the short sharp shock treatment. He levelled his pistol, fired a couple of shots over the man’s head, and jabbed a finger at the engine again. Finally the German seemed to get it. Minutes later, the reassuring throb of the powerful ship’s engines reverberated through the hull.

Lassen got the Italians and the German crew loaded aboard the ship, the entire lot covered by the raiders’ Tommy Guns. A good number of the Germans were wounded, but that didn’t stop a fight from breaking out between them and the Italians, once the Germans realized that the offer of drinks had been a false one, used to lure them into the shore.

Leaving the former allies to bicker among themselves, Lassen steered the German patrol boat out of the harbour, to where Motor Launch 1083 was waiting – all the while yelling some choice abuse at O’Reilly for having shot him in the leg. Now was perhaps the most dangerous moment of the mission so far. As the German E Boat approached the British Motor Launch, there was every chance that the British vessel might believe she was being attacked and open fire.

Sure enough, the raiders heard cries of alarm echoing across the night water, plus the sharp clatter of steel-on-steel, as the Motor Launch’s guns were made ready.

‘
It’s Lassen!
’ the Dane kept yelling at the British ship. ‘
It’s Lassen!
’

Finally the Motor Launch crew must have heard him, for no one opened fire. All the prisoners were ferried aboard the Motor Launch, whereupon the German patrol boat was slung behind her on a hawser, and they set a course for the Gulf of Cos with their prize in tow.

As they pulled away from Halki, the beach where they had landed the food supplies was alive with villagers. They ceased what they were doing to cheer the raiders’ departure, hurling the odd stick of dynamite into the air in an impromptu firework display to salute Lassen and his Irish Patrol.

The German E Boat turned out to be packed full of supplies, including the obligatory live pigs. It was a fine first strike for the raiders’ new Dodecanese campaign. Jellicoe’s men had been ordered to decimate the enemy’s shipping – but it was even better to seize it for their own purposes.

Not only that, but they’d spirited away an entire Italian garrison and a German ship’s crew, as if they had been stolen by ghosts in the night. Nothing was guaranteed more to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy.

But one man aboard Motor Launch 1083 was far from happy. Sean O’Reilly sat on the ship’s prow, staring into the dark sea, his face a picture of misery. It was no exaggeration to say that the tough and wizened Irish warrior worshipped the young Danish commander, and to have shot him – even by accident – was mortifying.

It was only when Lassen wandered forward, mug grasped in hand, that O’Reilly sensed forgiveness might be in the offing. Lassen handed O’Reilly the tin mug, which contained a healthy measure of the ship’s rum.

‘Here. Drink this,’ Lassen told him. ‘It’s all right, Sean, it’s all right.’

‘But, sir …’ O’Reilly began. ‘Oh, sir … But I
shot you
.’

‘You did,’ Lassen agreed. ‘And you may be a bloody Irish gunslinger, but you are still my best soldier. I forgive you. I apologize for what I said. But Sean,
do not
shoot me again.’

The two men shared a moment of companionable silence, before Lassen wandered back to the ship’s wheelhouse. He needed some advice from the launch’s commander – a Lieutenant Adrian Seligman, a regular on such missions – for Lassen’s leg wound presented him with a serious dilemma.

‘If I report this bullet hole – a mere fleabite by the way – as being caused by enemy action, they will give me a wound stripe or something foul like that,’ Lassen told Seligman. In other words, he’d get a minor decoration for something that didn’t warrant it. ‘But if I say that it was caused by one of my own men, then he may get into trouble … and he is one of my best men. What should I do, Adrian?’

The course of action that the two men set upon was not to report the wound at all. That way, Lassen wouldn’t be burdened by an honour that he didn’t deserve, and O’Reilly wouldn’t face punishment.

Back at their Gulf of Cos hideout, the raiders handed over their Italian and German prisoners for interrogation. Jellicoe had shipped in an Intelligence Sergeant to their Turkish base, a South African ironically named Priestley. There was nothing particularly holy about Priestley’s methods. He insisted on the truth, and invariably he got it. At the head of all his prisoner interrogation summaries were the words: ‘I will say
all I can and all that I know.’ Woe betide any prisoner who didn’t.

After each and every raid, the key commanders were supposed to file an operational report. These were useful documents that other raiders could potentially learn from. But Lassen the man of action detested all such paperwork. His reports – famously – often consisted of no more than five words: ‘Landed. Killed Germans. Fucked off.’

Sutherland and Jellicoe found this hugely frustrating, and they were forever pressing Lassen for more details. Invariably, the Dane’s response was hauntingly enigmatic.

‘It’s done. What else is there to say?’

Lassen’s reticence doubtless reflected how the relentless violence and the bloodletting was having a cumulative effect. There was a darkness seeping into the Danish Viking’s soul. Each raid; each close-quarter battle; each knifing; each grenade hurled into a unsuspecting crowd of soldiers; each time there was enemy blood on his hands – and by now there was a great deal of it – brought Lassen closer to the realization of his true self: that he was a killer almost without rival.

*

As a consequence of Lassen downplaying his injury – to anyone who asked he explained it away as ‘a mere scratch’ – the leg-wound wasn’t treated properly and it became infected. Eventually, it was clear that Lassen would have to be sent away for proper medical treatment. So it was that the Dane was shipped out of Turkish waters to a military hospital in Alexandria, Egypt’s second city, no doubt cursing O’Reilly every step of the way.

Some days later Lassen was rolled out of the operating theatre comatose with anaesthetic, and placed in a ward next to a Lieutenant Cole. A moment later Pipo appeared seemingly from out of nowhere, and leapt onto Lassen’s bed. He sat on his master’s chest staring at his unseeing face, a picture of doggie misery. So amusing was it that none of the nursing staff could find it in themselves to send the dog ‘home’ – not that anyone was particularly sure where Pipo’s home might be.