All language subtitles for SAS.Rogue.Heroes.S01E02.Episode.2.1080p.HMAX.WEB-DL.DD5.1.H.264-SMURF[eztv.re]

Tobruk is under
24 hour bombardment.

The map on the wall keeps being
redrawn and men are dying.

I share your impatience
with the conduct of the war.

And I intend to do
something about it.

Right now beauty
is not a currency I value.

Apologies, that sounded like an attempt
to be charming, didn't it?

I've decided to form
a parachute regiment.

You've decided?

I've decided you are
the right kind of men.

The others are all insane,
in jail or like me in despair.

Where's Mayne?

He's going to Burma
to fight the Japanese.

- Heard you want to come as well?
- Why not?

- We're not at war with Japan yet.
- If Paddy's going we will be quite soon.

We parachute units of selected men
into the interior

and then attack Rommel's
supply line from the desert.

- No one parachutes in the desert.
- We know.

I was hoping Mayne would join us
but we can do it without him.

What should we call ourselves?

We do not stand down any more.
That should be the name of our unit.

The men who refuse
to stand down.

Based on a true story,

the events depicted
which seem most unbelievable

are mostly true.

CAIRO
JUNE 1941

Hello?

Hello?

Oh.

You must be the French person.

Are you Colonel
Dudley Wrangel Clarke?

At your service.

And this is the Cairo Headquarters of
British Secret Intelligence Middle East.

Fun, isn't it?

If we don't get there soon,
we're gonna lose him.

Yes, bring them through.

Nurse, this one's fading fast.
Get him checked by the doctor.

- Whoops.
- Excuse me.

Dr Gamal,
here's the list of patients.

So that's 15 from Tobruk.

Twenty from Sidi Barrani
and one from God knows.

This is the one from God knows.

Shit.
Get him through.

I imagine you're a little
surprised I am who I am.

This office is what it is and...

I do what I do
in the way that I do it.

Nothing surprises me in Cairo, except
your Chanel dress. Where did you get it?

Eh. Paris.

You're so beautiful.
Wish I was French.

I'm not French.
I'm Algerian.

And how is this your war?

Trying to save
Africa from the Nazis.

Close your eyes and imagine it.

If you're spying for the French,
I know your boss.

He's a drunk
and a heroin addict.

I'm able to negotiate
my way around his idiocy.

Good.

In that case

when it comes to Anglo-French
intelligence operations in Cairo,

why don't you and I just
keep it between ourselves?

I'd like that.

And may I suggest we
start with something...

rather wonderful.

- Oh, shit.
- Is that a medical term?

You can hear me?

Do you feel any pain?

No.

What about now?

What do you feel?

Regret.

If I die in this way, it would mean
my life was a one act comedy,

with not even an interval
for gin and tonic.

Prepare him for surgery now.
Now. Move, move.

You see, war is about deception because
deception is a war against reality

and reality
is the enemy of the soldier,

particularly the heroic soldier
who must live a life of heroic fiction.

And the fruit
of deception is victory.

Death to the truth.

And all its bastard offspring
including fear and caution.

Colonel Clarke, you seem to have
invented an entire British regiment.

Yes, from thin air.

I used actors
for the photos of soldiers.

Planes are made
out of wood and glue.

On aerial reconnaissance
they seem terribly real.

I made six copies of that folder
for indiscreet distribution.

I took one to the Gauche Club
last night in my briefcase

where I ran into the attaché
at the Spanish embassy

as of course I knew I would.

I accidentally left my briefcase
under his table for him to find

so that by tomorrow morning, Berlin
will be in receipt of fresh intelligence

that the British have a brand new
parachute regiment in East Libya

preparing to drop
troops behind their lines.

The Italians will send
troops back in response,

then our glorious leader,
Commander-in-Chief Middle East,

General Auchinleck will act,
sending three British divisions

to attack the right flank which
will be almost defenceless.

Et voilà!

A battle won by wood,
glue and my own genius.

You can have that. Make copies.
Leave it where it can be read.

The Spanish and the Portuguese
diplomats are the fast tracks to Berlin.

I, too, have an idea for an operation.

Which I also think
is rather wonderful.

But the difference is,
my soldiers are real.

Did you find anything out?

Yeah, apparently it was
a complete disaster.

Stirling's parachute tore in half.

Did he die?

They say it's touch and go.

See the problem with Stirling
is that he is a dreamer.

So are you, Paddy.

He is from that class of men...

who do things imagining they are writing
it down in their autobiography.

Until their biography reaches
an unexpected full stop.

If he dies, I will attend his funeral,

because, for some reason,
he actually liked me.

What on earth are you doing,
jumping out of aeroplanes?

Even as a boy you were always
idiotically optimistic

about the effects of gravity.

I'm told by the doctor
not to express pity.

They said pity suggests hopelessness
which encourages despair.

Rigorous concern
is preferred so...

I will be rigorous in my concern.

How are you?

My mother looked up my condition
in a medical dictionary.

She tells me only one in five
people with a spine contusion

ever walk again but, I am
always, always in the minority.

She believes I will be
one of the one in five.

She also tells me of grouse.

I've been working on the idea,
your idea,

my idea now because I've added some
whistles and bells. Yes, take a look.

This is totally illegible.

My eyes hurt so I've been writing
with my eyes closed

but you see I'm hoping to persuade
my eyes and my legs, my...

fucking legs.

Persuade my legs that
they are required.

I'm making a case
to my toes, my shins

and my insolent knees
that they are needed.

- Needed for what?
- Ideas are coming quickly.

Even this feather
is confirmation.

Falling from between
the pages like fate. Come.

You see, on my family estate
they shoot grouse.

But they only shoot them
when they are in the air.

Grouse.

We will be a regiment
of fucking poachers,

shooting grouse,
in their roost, in the dark.

Shooting them on the ground,
not like gentlemen, not at all.

You know Stirling,
you might consider it prudent

to ask them
what medication they've given you

because you're not making
any sense at all.

The grouse are German
and Italian aeroplanes.

We won't wait
for them to take off.

We will shoot them on the ground.
Lewes, think about it!

There's no point thinking about it
'cause it's all academic.

Even if we could get to the airstrips,

there's no bomb small enough
to carry miles across the desert.

And we'd need dozens.

You can figure that out and I'll persuade
Paddy Mayne to join us.

News from GHQ is that our
little experiment is over.

Our unit has been stood down
with immediate effect.

Paddy Mayne is going to Burma
and I'm going back to Tobruk.

And I imagine you are being
sent home to Scotland.

No. No one does things
with me or to me.

I will get better.

Then, Lewes, you and I
and Paddy Mayne,

we will go poaching.

I have some very
important intelligence

from a long range desert group.

But I'm afraid it's all the way...

over here.

- You're a bastard.
- I know.

I received word from
General de Gaulle last night

and he gave me permission to speak
to you about a certain matter.

- Here we go.
- Careful.

These men are not actors.

They're all French paratroopers who
escaped France ahead of the Nazis.

General de Gaulle urgently wants these
men to join up with a British unit.

Why are you telling me?
I do jokes and tricks.

The British are losing the war
and need all the help they can get.

You are the most effective
covert operative in Africa.

You make things happen.

Textbook recruitment technique.

Batter me into submission with flattery.
I love it, do continue.

British high command listens to you.

Suggest an operation that requires
French speaking soldiers.

Creative formulation is my area.
Don't tread on my toes.

I'm the one who invents
regiments around here.

I will tread on your
toes when we dance.

We're dancing, are we?

Phase two after flattery
is usually seduction.

But that may not work with you.

I do love to dance.

So we have a deal.

I will help you with
your fictional regiment

if you help me with my real one.

Vive la France.

God Save the King.

Well done.

Now let's do it all again.

Shall we?

11 COMMANDO CAMP
HELIOPOLIS, CAIRO

Lieutenant Mayne.

Paddy, are you supposed
to be somewhere else?

We're looking for Lieutenant
Robert Blair Mayne.

Probably.

You're in check.

Paddy...

why don't you just make
yourself known to the captain?

I'm hardly known to myself.
Plus the captain gets my goat.

Lieutenant Mayne.

Paddy, think about Burma.

Don't do anything that will jeopardise
our deployment to Burma.

Mayne, I've been looking
all over fucking Cairo for you.

You're meant
to be in a briefing.

But you're too busy playing
chess with your boyfriend.

Get on your fucking feet and get yourself
a shave while you're at it.

I have my friend in check.

In two moves it'll be checkmate.
Now, wait your fucking turn.

Get on your fucking feet,
you lazy Irish fucker.

Look, here I am.

Burma would've been so nice.

I don't advise going in there, sir.

Come on, open the door.

I said I didn't want to see him.

And they said I had to.

And I have grown weary of destroying
the self-confidence of these guards

who take turns
to try and grind me down.

What do you want?

My mother sent it to me.

- Did you ever shoot grouse?
- Pardon me?

- I said did you ever shoot grouse?
- Grouse?

No.

Nah.

No, no, I was never invited
to the grouse shoots in Newtownards.

Just not the right blood line.

Just a yeoman farmer.

They'd have had me as a beater.

But if I'd have been invited
to their piss up, shoot up frenzies,

it'd have been their sunless
faces I'd have been beating in.

Those land owning, gentrified,
boy buggering toffs

would never have countenanced
my presence, so, no.

No, nah, nah.

I've shot at Frenchmen, Germans,

Italians...

But I never shot at birds.

Next question.

But I will use my blood as ink

and this feather
as my quill to write my poetry.

How badly do you
want to get out?

I heard you fucked up,
jumping out of a plane.

I hear that you fucked up
your commanding officer.

Hit him with a piano
is what I heard.

And as a result
you're not going to Burma.

I go to the East
every night in my poetry.

"By the old Moulmein pagoda,

"Eastward to the sea,

"There's a Burma girl a-settin',
And I know she thinks of me..."

I want you to imagine
a British regiment...

"For the wind Is in the palm trees,
And the temples Bells they say..."

without all of the things
that you hate.

- "Come ye back You British soldier..."
- No yes sir, no sir...

- "Come ye back To Mandalay..."
- No pips, no strips for rum and hash.

"On the road to Mandalay
Where the flying fishes play..."

- No bugles, no salutes...
- "And the dawn comes Up like thunder..."

No waiting for the piss
poor orders to dribble down...

through the ranks.

And we would be stood down
and stood down, and stood down.

No, there will be no one
to stand us down.

We will be answerable to no one.

Answerable to no one, Paddy.

And you have permission
for your adventure from GHQ?

Here's the part that
you will love the most.

We will shoot their aeroplanes
when they're parked on the ground.

Now no doubt your father
and your grandfather,

and great grandfather were
from a long line of poachers.

Well now, now they will
give you medals for it.

I asked you a question.

Do you have permission from GHQ?

- No.
- No?

I haven't told them yet.

Then I see very little prospect of there
being any fighting in your wee circus.

Oh, God, there will be fighting.

There will be fighting
but only with the enemy.

If you join us, I would
want your word

that you will not punch
your commanding officer

because your commanding
officer...

It will be me.

Your comrades will be
men like yourself.

Sweepings of public schools,
military prisons, men who do not obey.

Men who need only one order,

go, kill, return, go again.

The alternative,
the only alternative

for you, Paddy Mayne,

is that one day
they're going to hang you.

Why do you want me
in particular?

Because...

you would use your blood
as ink to write history.

That's very poetic.

Are you a poet?

Actually a painter. Failed.

If you decide to join us,

I can get you out of here.

How? You don't even
have a fucking regiment.

No, but I will have,
do you know why?

Because...

the fucking landowning, gentrified,
boy buggering toffs

who used to shoot grouse on my
father's Highland estate...

Well, now they're
running the British Army.

Cheerio.

TWO WEEKS LATER

GARDEN CITY
CAIRO, BRITISH GHQ.

Lieutenant Stirling, 8 Commando.

I'm here to see General
Sir Claude Auchinleck.

A lieutenant to see the commander
of the entire North Africa division?

Do you have a pass?

No. I do not but
I do have my class.

If you could get
a message to the General...

Why don't you fuck off?

No. My message actually would be that
my father, General Archibald Stirling,

was always accommodating

when Claude Auchinleck
would drop by unannounced.

Perhaps he might
return the favour.

No pass, no entry.

- Charming.
- And stick your class up your arse.

Stop there.

Right, papers please. Okay.

Where you coming from?

Yep.

Okay.

Wait, wait, wait.

Wait! Stop the truck!

Wait. Stop.
Wait, stop the truck!

- Oh, shit.
- Pass, sir? Thank you, sir.

General Auchinleck wants to know

when this fucking noise
is going to die down.

He's trying to work.

They'll be done by midnight.

Right, a crate of champagne,
that might pacify him. Come on.

A gift for General Auchinleck
from General Ritchie.

- Pass, Sir?
- Take a bottle

He won't be counting. Come on.

Thank you, Sir.

Excuse me. I have a delivery
for General Auchinleck.

Third floor,
other side of security.

Corporal, come and take this for me
would you?

- Yes, sir.
- We're going to the third floor.

What on earth has happened
to your top button? Do it up, corporal.

Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.

There's a lieutenant in
the building without a pass.

Place is going
to the fucking dogs.

- Hello?
- There's a lieutenant who's got in.

A gift for General Auchinleck
from General Ritchie.

And I want to report that
I put this fucking crate down

for one minute
in the gentlemen's lavatory,

already two bottles are stolen.

What is happening
to security in this building?

We'll look into it, sir.

I'm afraid I left my
security pass on my desk.

- I beg your pardon?
- It's okay, sir. We know his face.

Not the point.
Not the fucking point.

Enlisted men should carry their security
pass with them at all times.

What is happening
in this place with top buttons?

Do up your fucking buttons.

It gets quite hot, sir.

Yes, it's Cairo.

But we are British.

Come.

A gift for General
Auchinleck from General Ritchie.

General Auchinleck
is finishing a meeting.

And I am General Ritchie.
Who the hell are you?

- Show me your security pass.
- I'm...

Sir...

Put me through
to the guard commander.

Sir, I know you.

And you know me.

Both you and General Auchinleck used
to shoot on my father's estate.

My father was Archibald Stirling.
I'm Lieutenant David Stirling.

My mother Margaret used
to make her own gin

and do bird impressions.
She was very good at owls.

Hello, sir?

Sorry I misdialled.

Put me through to General Auchinleck
in the war room.

Yes, I remember your face now.

But all the spots have gone.

A raw onion recipe for acne
that my mother invented.

What the hell are you doing
delivering champagne?

I'm not. I am delivering this.

It's an idea.

An idea that might
move the war in our favour.

How did you get past security?

The same way we will get past Rommel's
security and attack his airfields.

Deception and inordinate
amounts of self-belief.

Auch.
Remember Archie Stirling's boy?

Gangly, spotty one who was
forever falling out of trees.

The one who siphoned the petrol
from our cars to make petrol bombs.

Oh, God, yes.

Well, he's in your office.
Says he has an idea.

Your father was
a very popular man.

The general is on his way.

- Do you have three glasses?
- What are we celebrating?

Read on. You'll see.

I can't read
your writing. Tell me.

The Germans' eastward advance
along the North African coast

has swung the war
in their favour.

With respect,

our high command has been no match
for Rommel's brilliance,

his speed, his agility, but...

I believe Rommel
has made a mistake.

Lieutenant Stirling who
couldn't climb a fucking tree

thinks that Rommel
has made a mistake.

He has moved too quickly.

His supply line
is 500 miles long.

His fuel dumps and airstrips
are strung out along the coast

with miles of empty
desert between them.

I have a way of attacking
Rommel's airbases

and neutralising them in advance
of the allied counterattack

which I'm sure the two of you
are planning even as we speak.

You don't salute when
a general enters a room?

In my detachment there will be a
respectful disregard for form and ritual.

How the fuck did he get in here?

I'm not asking for anything
other than permission and 60 men.

Men I will choose
according to my own criteria.

You're trying to emulate your
father and become a war hero.

No, sir, I'm trying to emulate
my mother who, as you know,

always gets her own way
by being famously insane.

And by the way the petrol bombs
were my sister's idea.

She felt sorry for the grouse
and wanted to alert them.

I know that Winston Churchill is
raving down that telephone line at you

to do something
to slow down Rommel's advance.

The Germans must not
be allowed to reach Cairo.

With 60 good men, we can cut
Rommel's supply line

like cutting a desert snake
in two with a shovel.

I am a long-shot,
a shot in the dark, but...

at least I am a shot.

You have your
father's handwriting.

Sit.

We have no vehicles or equipment
or weapons to spare

for some wild experiment.

We would steal
everything we need, sir.

Steal from where?

We would steal weapons and equipment
from the allied troops, first.

And then from the Germans
and the Italians.

We would set up our base
behind enemy lines.

We would report to no one
and require nothing.

And as a gentleman...

I will wager with you both
£100 that within six months,

we will destroy more enemy
airplanes on the ground

than the RAF
will destroy in the air.

By a factor of three.

Now wouldn't that
be something to celebrate?

So, a mysterious new parachute
regiment appears from nowhere,

operating out of East Libya?

Stirling, do you
have a name for your outfit?

No, I don't.

Well, oddly enough...

we do.

Lieutenant Stirling, welcome.
Welcome to my sanctuary.

I hold my midday meetings
here because it's cool.

And because it's so beautiful.

And because since my whole
profession is to tell lies,

I've chosen here as the one place
in the world where I tell only the truth.

You should know,
whoever you are,

that I have no interest
in espionage in any of its forms

nor do I have any idea why
GHQ have instructed me

to have a meeting
with a fucking spy.

- Just tell me what the meeting is about.
- It's not really a meeting.

It's a baptism.

And here is the new born.

He crosses himself at the door
and swigs whisky at the altar.

You see,
I've researched you, Stirling.

What is this?

This is the uniform
of my very latest creation.

The SAS.

Right. Who are the SAS?

You are the SAS.

Let me check if
I've got the right size.

Yes.

Look at the badge
of your new regiment.

Look at the pips, Stirling.

You're to be the leader
of a brand new detachment

and as you can see, you've already
been promoted, rank of captain.

What the fuck
are you talking about?

The SAS is a ghost
regiment that I created.

And I've spent six months convincing the
Germans and the Italians that it's real.

And then you come along, offering
to turn my ghosts into flesh and blood.

Lots of blood.

Fun, isn't it?

Or is it fate?

It's all part of a game, you see.

I've already told you that in this place
I only speak the truth,

so I'll tell you the truth.

GHQ has no great faith in your
idea for a rogue regiment.

But, it would help enormously
with their deception

if a few real soldiers wearing
uniforms like that could be captured.

Or shot dead in the desert.

So, I'm able to tell you the truth
because I've researched you

and I know that even though
I'm making you aware

that your unit will be a counter
in a game of deception,

you'll do it anyway.

'Cause you yourself
are a work of fiction,

trying to write yourself into the
history books, just like your father.

And probably your grandfather
before him.

And on and on,

all the way back to the warrior chieftains
of the great clan Stirling.

Captain Stirling,

agreeing to take on
the name and the trappings

of the fictional regiment known
as the SAS

is the only way
that you're going to get GHQ

to give you permission
to start recruiting.

You have 24 hours
to make up your mind.

I don't need 24 hours.

Oh, well, in that case,

I hereby baptise
this new born infant,

L Detachment, 1st Brigade
Special Air Service.

Our father who art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done,

On earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day
Our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses,

As we forgive those
Who trespass against us.

And lead us not Into temptation,

But deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom,
the power and the glory,

Forever and ever. Amen.

Gone.

Good.

Telegram from Cairo, sir.

- Tea for you, sir.
- Thank you, Bob.

Riley, Almonds.

Buongiorno.

Remember that fuck up
with the parachutes?

Yeah.

Stirling wants to know
if we'll do it again.

- Aye, yeah.
- Yeah.

What the fuck
are you doing here?

I'm a spy.
It's not that hard to find out

that you like to come here every evening
at five to drink whisky.

Drink, madam?

Champagne. A bottle
and two glasses.

One for me and
one for the captain.

Yes, ma'am.

Who told you I'm a captain?

We have a mutual friend.

He gave me the news
about your promotion.

If the mutual friend
is Dudley Clarke,

you should know
that he is not my friend

and I do not discuss news
of any kind with French spies.

You accepted Clarke's offer.

You have your own unit.

You have permission to recruit men.
That makes you very useful to me.

Excuse me, can I
get the bill please?

The whisky, not the champagne.

I hope you brought cash.

You know, I read
an article in a magazine

about the fact that
according to research,

in Cairo right now
the average length of time

between strangers meeting
and having sex...

is down to one hour
and 14 minutes.

Sir.

- That's fine, pop the cork.
- Of course, madam.

I estimate it would take us 45 minutes
to drink the champagne

and discuss the business
that we have to discuss.

We have nothing to discuss.

The walk to your apartment
would be 20 minutes.

That's one hour and five minutes.

Leaving us nine minutes
in your room to complete the dance.

You know your profession, your calling
is very, very harmful to the soul.

My father would invite
former spies to the house

and they would just sit there
and stare into the fire.

I always wondered
what they were looking at.

What business?

I have been asked by General de Gaulle
to find a way to get French paratroopers

involved in combat missions
with a British unit.

The soldiers I'm talking
about are men like you.

Like me?

They really want to fight soldiers,
officers.

No, I've already
chosen my officers.

They're a particular sort.
They are men like me.

A particular sort.

This... is a grouse feather.

The grouse is a bird bred
to be shot, born to be killed.

Apparently, according to Clarke,
my new unit is like that.

These soldiers, these Frenchmen
without a country...

They are prepared to die.

I have no need of cosmetic soldiers
recruited to boost one man's ego.

Perhaps we could get this business
done in less than 45 minutes.

One hour and 14 minutes seems like
such an awful waste of precious time.

You have a balcony,
let's drink it there.

You would sleep with me
for France, would you?

When I'm older
and stare into the fire,

I want there to be some things
that I did just for the hell of it.

Mostly I don't like people.

But I like you.

And I am of use to you.

Yes, of course.

It's so very odd
when one meets oneself.

We will sleep together but there
will be no Frenchman in the SAS.

Come on, Paddy!

Go on, Paddy.

Fuck off! Fuck off.

Away from the fucking animal.

Fuck off.
Fuck sake.

Aye.

Aye, they put me
on another charge.

Fighting in a boxing ring.

It's like being charged for murder
in a war. Is it not?

With the second charge,
that'll give you three years.

And you'll be
stripped of your rank.

Stirling got permission
from GHQ to go ahead.

Get the fuck...

And this time, they have a badge
and they have a name.

"1st Special Air Service Brigade."

Sounds like a branch
of the fucking post office.

You are on two charges.

Now if you get three years, this war is
gonna be over by the time you come out

and you'd have
missed all the fun, yeah?

Think about that.

So...

If you decide to join them,

I will join the SAS too.

Also, Stirling wants to know

if there's anyone in here that you've met
in whom you've seen potential.

This is Reg.

Pleasure to meet you.

Another fucking Paddy.

This regiment isn't all
fucking Paddys, is it?

For crying out loud.

Just don't fucking annoy him.

Morning, sir.
Commander Wilson, Gordons.

- You have never been put on a charge.
- No, sir.

- For insubordination or fighting?
- No, sir. Never, sir.

Why the hell not?

Next!

Mayne...

Since we have no aircraft, we will be
simulating a parachute jump landing.

How are we gonna do that?

See he forgot to roll.

Pathetic.

Do not share water,
it's a 20 mile march.

If you don't like it,
return to your units.

Seekings, move!

Next!

Are you here on behalf
of your father, son?

I am 19-years-old.

But so far in this war
I've killed 21 men.

Instead of judging
myself on my age,

I judge myself by that number
so in fact you can call me 21.

I am looking to increase that number
and I hear you might be able to help.

Why do you want
to fight in the desert?

Because in the desert it will be harder
for the enemy to hide from me.

- Hide from you?
- Yes, sir.

Go and join those men.

Yes, sir.

You must learn
to march on an inch of water.

I have proved this can be done.

- Funny.
- Only ten more miles.

- Next!
- Corporal Dave Kershaw, sir.

Why do you want to fight
in the desert, Dave?

I just love
killing fascists, sir.

Got a taste for it when
I was in Spain like, you know. Loved it.

Pleasure, sir.

I understand you gentlemen
are very good at killing people.

You heard right.

Go.

Don't be flapping now, Reg.
Don't be bottling it.

- Chalky White, sir.
- Are you taking the piss?

- No, sir.
- I think you are.

And that's exactly
what I'm after.

Down!

- Oh, fuck me.
- Don't be scared, lad.

Go!

Get the fuck off.

- Send that fool back to his unit.
- Next!

Guardsman Rob Willey
of the 8th Commando.

Right. How many women
have you slept with, Rob?

Twelve, sir.

Welcome to the SAS.

Thank you, sir.

Take cover!

Up the fucking rifles, boy.

Finally.

I feel at home.

All right?

We go again?

We go again!

Brace up!

Relax, Sergeant.

All right, relax.

Take these and hand
them out to the men.

Yes, sir.

Gentlemen, what you have before you
is a very important document

which will inform every aspect of your
service with your new regiment.

Page one is a list of the specific
objectives we have been given by GHQ

for the duration
of the forthcoming campaign.

On the second page

you will see a diagram of the chain
of command within our unit

along with protocols
and uniform requirements

which must be strictly obeyed.

And on the third page
you will see a list

of the equipment, supplies and tactical
support we will be given by GHQ

for our actions behind enemy lines.

The SAS...

is a blank page.

And it our job to fill it.

Right, we move out today.

Why don't you think
of a better badge, Jock?

Right, you heard him, lads.
Clear off.

Have they deployed?

They've been sent
to a place called Kabrit.

Two hundred miles behind
the German and Italian lines.

What are the chances
of survival?

My beautiful new
regiment is beyond air cover

in one of the most inhospitable
terrains in the world.

With daytime temperatures
reaching 50 degrees

and very little
in terms of armaments.

No tanks, no armoured cars,
just a truck or two.

But they are very resourceful men.

Just give me the percentage
that they will last beyond Christmas.

Ten percent?

What a curious war this is.

This is us, lads.

Have a piss and a fiddle.

Let's fuck off to Burma.

Is this it?

There's literally nothing here.

Fucking hell.

This...

is SAS base camp.

It's just us now.

We have complete
freedom to operate.

This is what we wanted.

Stopping the advance of fascism
across Africa is now down to us.

God help us.

We won't all survive
but we will triumph.

All but three vehicles
are to return to Cairo.

If any of you wish to stand down
and go back, you're free to go.

If anyone wishes to return,
raise your hand now.

Good.

Well, let's set some fires,
brew some tea.

And drink some bloody rum.

- Come on, unload it over here, boys.
- Right, men, you heard him.

That's right, you heard him.
Come on. Let's go!

You heard the man. Move!

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