Original subtitles

Dearest Mother.

I write to you with a heavy, heavy heart

to tell you that I will not be able to attend Dad's funeral.

I applied to my superior officers in Cairo

to grant me compassionate leave.

For reasons they didn't care to explain

this permission was denied to me.

As I am sure you can imagine, Ma

this unexplained refusal

left me in a poor frame of mind...

and has led me to become somewhat aggrieved.

Fuckers!

Apologies, ladies and gentlemen

but GHQ Cairo has got my fuckin' goat.

Calm down.

Hold it there.

♪ Rip it up! ♪

♪ Like Clockwork Orange ♪

♪ Bit of 20 on one ♪

♪ Breaking heads ♪

♪ Don't sound ♪

♪ Like much fun ♪

♪ Is that your only way of getting ♪

♪ Of getting kicks ♪

♪ You know ♪

♪ You can't fix ♪

♪ Do you think you're tough because you rip it up ♪

♪ Gotta rip you up ♪

♪ Gotta rip it up ♪

♪ Gotta rip it up ♪

♪ Gotta rip it up ♪

♪ I've had enough of my ♪

♪ Violence ♪

♪ Rip it up, rip it up ♪

♪ Gotta rip it up ♪

♪ Gotta rip it up ♪

♪ Gotta rip it up ♪

This is for my da.

My poor fucking da.

Enough!

Let him go.

You've got a visitor.

♪ If they wanted a man ♪

♪ To encourage the van ♪

♪ Or harass the foe from the rear

♪ To take a redoubt ♪

♪ They'd always send out ♪

♪ Abdul Abulbul Amir... ♪

Please don't bother to salute.

I won't.

Ha...

Leave us. - Yes, sir.

Who... the fuck...

are you?

I'm Lieutenant Colonel Bill Stirling

David Stirling's older brother.

Cigarette?

David sends his warmest regards

from Gavi prisoner-of-war camp in Northern Italy.

You can stand at ease.

I am at ease.

Why don't we sit down, eh?

Major Mayne, I've come here to ask you

to help me stop GHQ from disbanding your regiment

and sending all of your men back to their parent units

which they are planning to do in the next two days

if we don't do something to stop them.

The nature of the war has changed.

They're looking for an excuse to stand you down

and at the moment, you are that excuse.

You don't look like him.

I'm more patient. Less rash.

More thoughtful... less impulsive.

You will think that I'm soft and then, snap.

Snap?

Oh!

Oh, I'd fucking love to see snap.

And I would quite like for us to talk as two soldiers.

Two adults. Not two reputations.

As far as I'm aware, you don't have a reputation.

Because for the past two years

I've been working for British Military intelligence.

Our very existence is secret.

So we're not allowed the luxury of reputations.

Now, do you want to save the SAS or not?

Y'know, when your brother came in these places

I listened to him, because he earned my respect.

Earned.

Like when you're a kid and your da asks you to chop wood.

I heard what happened regarding your father's-

And you chop the wood, you chop the whole fucking tree.

When I learned they refused you compassionate...

And your da hands you a shilling and says...

I blew my top.

"You earned that, Paddy, my boy.

My son. My sweet son.

You earned that for your efforts."

Whereas you, as far as I am aware

have chopped no trees, picked up no axe

fed no fuckin' fires, done nothing to earn my respect.

You blew your top?

Is that what you just said?

Is that how you spake?

You blew your top?

Well, fuckin' believe you me, I blew my top as well.

I blew the top off fuckin' Cairo.

And in doing so, you made some of your critics very, very happy.

Oh, fuck.

I've got so much rum and raki inside of me

turning into blood and vinegar...

I need to either shit

or throw up, my body can't decide which.

I need a bucket in here!

I've already secured your release.

You can use the lavatory on the way back to your unit.

If the SAS still exists.

Obviously there are no doors, so...

if you want to watch me do whatever the fuck it is I'm about to do...

be my fucking guest.

Something for you to read

and then wipe your arse with.

This memorandum contains two paragraphs.

The first states that now the military campaign

against the Axis powers is moving from Africa to Europe

ill-disciplined, "rogue" brigades like the SAS...

There are no...

brigades like the SAS.

Rogue brigades operating behind enemy lines

will become redundant and will be a liability.

Oh, fuck.

The second paragraph states that the commanding officer of the SAS

Robert Blair "Paddy" Mayne

is experiencing difficulties with command.

This is what I heard in a bar in GHQ from someone with influence.

Paddy Mayne is an Irishman

of poor temperament

unused to command, unhappy with authority

unable to change.

And without doubt, last night's events will be used as proof.

And might I just add

my experience working in military intelligence

makes me think they refused you leave to attend your father's funeral

purely to make you react in the way that you did.

Thus proving their point.

You played into their hands, Paddy.

Take a look in the mirror.

You know, don't you?

That military intelligence is a contradiction in terms?

Look in the mirror, Paddy...

Mirrors are for those who do not know themselves.

You could be looking at the commanding officer

of a new unit.

A repurposed tool.

A unit that will become the pointed tip of the arrow of invasion.

You should write that stuff down.

I'd wipe my arse with that, too.

The next stage of this war is invasion.

Taking territory inch by fucking inch.

And some poor bastards have to be the first on the beach

the first across the river, the first through the door

taking the worst of it, the fury.

The wall of fire.

I've suggested to GHQ that those poor bastards who go first

could be you.

You, Paddy Mayne, could be the first Allied commander

to set foot in Nazi-occupied Europe.

The very first.

But I need to convince GHQ

that the Irishman can change.

The Irishman can obey orders.

My brother was the midwife of this regiment.

I refuse to be its coroner.

Agree to be redefined as a flying commando unit

at the sharp end of invasion

and the SAS will survive.

This is the BBC.

And now, here is the...

the RAF attacked German cities, setting off a series of...

♪ That's the best end, where the night clubs thrive ♪

♪ Down into a dive you go ♪

- Red. - Bien sur, Madame.

What?

It seemed disrespectful to use an umbrella in such beautiful weather.

I love the rain.

What, always? Or ever since...

Ever since.

On my third day of walking across the desert

I dreamed about rain.

I could feel it on my face and I licked it from my lips.

I will never again waste a drop.

Thank you.

The wagon is bumpy and uncomfortable and incredibly boring

where you remember everything and there's nothing worth remembering.

But I am still on it.

Shall we? - Mm-hm.

Something new.

And something old.

Some lies...

Uncomfortable truths.

Oh, and here's a new idea of mine that I thought you might find amusing.

A request from General de Gaulle.

A suggestion.

More complaints.

And an invitation.

Ooh.

A cocktail party at the Ritz.

I thought you could be my partner.

"Presented by the Portuguese Friends of America."

Mm.

That means there will be bourbon and swing music.

On the evening of the 9th of July.

Is that date problematic for you?

Uh, no, no, not at all.

I'd be delighted to join.

Ahem.

If you're resorting to me as a partner, you must still be alone in London.

And will be until David returns.

I assume he writes to you every day.

When he first found out that I survived, he wrote every day.

Now he's concentrating, finding ways to escape.

But I see his brother William has been busy.

You know, if I didn't know you were such a consummate professional

I'd swear you only skim those briefing pages

to find references to the SAS.

Except this document refers to the SRS.

Bill Stirling is the Stirling who did not fall from the tree

and land on his head.

He's changed the name of the regiment. - Mm-hm.

And given them a new and even more effective way of committing suicide.

The Special Raiding Squadron.

Paddy Mayne swallowed the concept, of course

because deep in his soul, Paddy's still a little boy

in the headmaster's office

and those Scottish toffs scare him to death.

"First on the beach."

David will be very jealous.

Well, if David has any sense at all, he'll be mightily relieved

he's safely tucked away in an Italian prisoner-of-war camp.

The European campaign is going to make Africa look like a fucking tea party.

So Paddy Mayne had better be whipping that unruly mob of his into shape.

♪ It's just gone noon, half past monsoon ♪

♪ On the banks of the River Nile ♪

♪ Here comes the boat, only half afloat ♪

♪ Oarsman grins a toothless smile ♪

♪ Only just one more to this desolate shore ♪

♪ Last boat along the River Nile ♪

♪ Doesn't seem to care ♪

♪ No more wind in his hair ♪

♪ As he reaches his last half mile ♪

♪ The oar snaps in his hand before he reaches dry land ♪

♪ But the sound doesn't deafen his smile ♪

♪ Just pokes at wet sand with an oar in his hand ♪

♪ Floats off down the River Nile ♪

♪ Floats off down the River Nile... ♪ - Come on!

Ya English fucker!

I will fuck you raw! - Yeah, yeah?

I'll have your fucking giblets!

Look, you Scotch cunt!

I like a row as much as anyone else

but sometimes you need to stop!

Yeah? You're on.

"I surrender!"

Right, right.

We're already late to the briefing.

Paddy Mayne don't give a fuck about late.

Paddy Mayne don't give a fuck about anything.

So long as the job gets done.

Alright. - Alright?

Let's do it.

I asked you very politely, stay in the truck.

Up.

Withers. You're gonna have to get used to not being with me.

Hey. Sit.

Good boy.

OK. Better tell it to you straight before the others get here.

You can't come with me to Europe.

We've been given orders

and we are shipping out.

I found a family that'll take you in.

I have no choice.

It's an official secret, so don't tell anyone.

But we are shipping out tomorrow.

Destination unknown.

It's a big ship at first, but then lots of small boats.

Tiny boats, 12 men each.

No room for a dog.

If you want the truth

I think it's a suicide mission.

Will you stop looking at me like that?

Look, three days from now

I'll probably be lying in a slick of my own blood

somewhere in the Mediterranean.

But if you stay here? Goats, mate.

Plus they'll let you eat all the lizards you can catch.

If it's easier...

I could shoot him for you.

Or I could shoot you.

There'll be dogs in Sicily.

Sicily.

You see, that is why I am unsuited to command.

I cannot keep a secret.

Sit. Sit. Stay.

If you want me to talk to the dog, I talk dog.

No, I have already explained everything to him, sir.

Problem is, I think that he thinks

that he is in charge of us.

Well, pretty soon you'll wish it was him in charge and not me.

I already do.

Are we on time or early?

We're on time. - So where the fuck is everybody?

You know, I actually think that the new intake might be worse than us.

Ah, behold.

The sharp tip of the arrow of invasion.

Right, yous, come here to me.

Lads!

For two months now...

I've been marching you round and round Lake Throw Up

and up and down Mount Shite the Bucket.

And for two months

yous have been cursing me

and putting me in your crosshairs

just aching to squeeze the trigger.

Well, in 10 minutes from now, yous are gonna hate me good and proper.

You die in the desert

you get eaten by birds.

You die at sea

and you get eaten by sardines.

And your granny finds your fingernail in a tin

she bought at the co-op.

Well, sardines live in the ocean by Sardinia, Paddy.

This looks a lot like a map of Sicily to me, lad.

It looks like a...

like a pig's head.

That is exactly right.

Capo Murro di Porco.

"Cape of the Pig Snout."

They're sending us to get chewed up by a great big Italian pig.

Looks like it's Sicily for the holidays then.

Who gave you permission to speak?

Ooh!

New intake, listen fucking here.

Any man recruited after December 1942...

keep your fucking mouth shut.

Unless you are addressed directly

by a man with sand under his foreskin

from previous exchanges with hostile forces.

Actually, I haven't got a foreskin, sir.

Now you don't have a pipe.

I told you not to smoke that camel shite around me.

Angel...

Coo-coo-coo-coo!

Coo-coo-coo!

I swear to God, this eegit is out his head on something.

Permission to eat...

a biscuit?

Whoever is giving him whatever it is he's taking

fucking stop.

All this talk of fucking pigs and sardines, it's making me hungry.

Mad fucker.

Why don't you send him back to whichever fucking Scotch swamp

- you got him from? Eh? - Ooh!

Because... Because!

Our next mission is utter fucking madness.

So we will require the services of madmen.

Thank you, boss.

And on that note, I would love to go home

by the way, Sergeant Happy Face.

I'll put you on the boat myself, mate.

Oh, great. You be the captain, huh?

Yeah, I'll be your fucking captain.

You're like a wee kettle. - You what?

Boiling wi' anger.

Close your mouth!

I don't need to see the biscuits in it. - Ah!

How about you shut up? - Aye? Come on, then!

Shh.

Handful of kids, you two.

One minute from now

a lieutenant colonel is gonna walk into this tent

and brief you about tomorrow.

Which might well be your last day on earth.

The nature of our role in this war has changed.

And I have agreed to that change.

That sign up there?

"Fuck off, SAS..."

Could have been written by General Montgomery himself.

It was actually catering.

Aye, well, the sentiment from on high is the same.

In Roman times

they would send in wild dogs to attack the enemy line

before they sent in any human soldiers.

But, these days, it would be considered cruel

to use dogs.

So they are going to use us.

I said we would be OK with that

since the task we have been given

is the liberation of Europe from the Nazis.

The man in the shiny wee boots will give you the details.

I will give you the words of William Blake.

"Had I three lives

I'd die in such a cause

and rise with ghosts over the well-fought field.

Prepare.

Prepare.

"Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky."

Listen, boys.

The inexorable, unstoppable approach

to the new way of war.

Sit up!

Come to attention!

What did he say?

Something about wanting attention.

At ease, men.

Cor blimey.

Always trust the judgement of a dog.

What did you say?

Nothing.

It was my dog, saying hello to you.

Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Colonel William Stirling.

The less famous brother to the brother we made famous.

At least please have the dog removed, Paddy.

Do you want all the dogs in here removed, sir?

Because there are 35 of us.

Well, just...

quieten him down then, yes?

Woof, woof!

What the hell is that?

The catering staff

who have been dealing with our reasonable demands for drink

and our varying opinions on how you cook a goat

left it there for us, by way of a fond farewell.

The feeling is mutual. I left a Lewes bomb in their oven.

When it warms up, they'll be blown to hell.

That was a joke, yes?

Johnny doesn't make jokes

but he does blow things up.

Right.

I'm Lieutenant Colonel Bill Stirling.

Look, a fucking rat.

Mind yourself, Bob.

Better than a goat...

Vermin like the German, eh, lads?

Sorry, sir. - Mm. Good shot.

Do carry on.

My name is Bill Stirling

and I'm the new liaison between this unit and GHQ.

First of all, let me just say...

I am not my brother.

And I am not your commanding officer.

No. Put your hand down.

No, no, no. Let him speak.

I like your boots, Bill.

These fuckers here, these Englishmen

are strangers to polishing brushes.

But I am guessing you're Scottish, huh?

By your boots.

Aye?

Mm.

I'm not your commanding officer

but I do intend to be honest with you.

My brother told me you appreciate honesty.

So, tomorrow, you deploy here

the southeastern tip of Sicily.

And according to a confidential GHQ report which I'm sharing with you

against their orders

the assault on the Italian defenses

will result in a casualty rate which we estimate will be around 50%.

Is that 50% dead or dead and wounded?

Dead.

I'm

being honest with you, because

my brother told me you appreciate honesty...

Aye, you've said that.

My brother told me that...

My brother likes tractors

but I get on with my own life as myself.

My men would like to get a drink in before they die.

Why don't you give us a briefing?

We don't dilly dally.

Just ask your brother.

Very well.

Men of the newly formed Special Raiding Squadron...

SAS! Now and always!

Whatever your title...

this is what your future holds.

On the morning of 10th of July

the largest amphibious assault force ever assembled

will gather for the start of the liberation of Europe.

3,000 ships carrying 160,000 soldiers

will deploy the British 8th Army under General Montgomery

and the US 7th Army under General Patton.

Aboard the Ulster Monarch

you'll be ahead of the main fleet, leading the way.

Now, before the main force deploys

you will carry out the initial assault on the coastal defenses.

Reconnaissance has identified a mixture of fortified heavy machine gun nests

heavy and light artillery

barbed wire and minefields

manned by two regiments of Italian coastal infantry.

If these defenses are not taken out before dawn

the main attack on the coast of Sicily will be cut to pieces.

This will be the very first mission for the newly formed SRS.

Therefore...

the successful launch of the campaign to liberate Europe

is now in your hands.

Forget it.

Paddy?

We go in one hour.

Should get the men ready.

Men?

Get ready.

Is that alright?

My men...

don't need me to tell them to be ready.

They are always ready.

Now, lads.

Listen up.

I have some rather shite news for you.

One hour ago, 19:15 hours

three squadrons of gliders took off from Tunisia

and are now in the skies above our heads.

They are carrying soldiers

who will land in the interior of the island

cut off communications and supply lines

after we have reached the cliffs

and be ready to halt the inevitable Italian retreat.

However, since American-made gliders

are quite similar to paper aeroplanes

some of them have fallen short

and crashed into the Mediterranean.

Get out, get out!

This will not be a good outcome for those men on board.

As a result of this

as we make our way at speed toward the snout of the Sicilian pig

you will encounter soldiers...

British soldiers, adrift at sea

with very little chance of rescue.

And you will do nothing to help them.

I repeat.

You will do nothing to help those British soldiers

who will pass within a few feet of you.

Instead...

you will leave them to drown.

That is an order.

And in the new order of things

orders will be fuckin' obeyed.

Outstretched hands.

Cries for help.

Cries for Mama.

Cries in the name of God will not slow your landing craft down

because if you do, our mission will be delayed

and it will fail.

You will not jeopardize the success

of the liberation of Europe with acts of mercy.

Any man who disobeys this order

will face court martial and my own wrath.

Is that clear?

I said, is that fucking clear?

Yes, sir!

These are the last moments of your lives

when you won't have images of drowning men

stuck inside your head.

Make the most of these moments.

Yous have an hour.

Right! You heard the man.

We have one hour to get our shit together.

Reg!

OK, this time, I mean it.

You are staying on the ship

and I will return.

And if I don't...

then I was never really that great.

I wish I was the man you think I am.

Stay close to the fat guy in the big white hat.

That's two lines for both! Line up now!

Form up by the nets!

First men, over the sides and into the landing craft.

Don't be slow about it...

Help!

Please!

Please!

Help us!

Help!

Fucking hell.

Stop the boat!

Please!

Paddy, there's lads dying out there.

Please... - ♪ Scots, wha hae ♪

♪ Wi' Wallace... ♪

Help us!

Help!

I don't want to die!

Save us!

Help!

Please!

Help! - Please!

Over here!

Help!

Please!

They're leaving us to drown! - Over here!

I've a baby I've never seen!

Help us!

Help!

Help!

Help! Come back!

Come back! - Help!

We're drowning here! Come back!

♪ Wha for Scotland's king and law ♪

Paddy, we've got room.

No mercy.

Where you going? You bastards!

In the name of God, help!

♪ Tyrants fall in every foe ♪

They're leaving us to drown!

Over here! - Stop!

Come back! Come back!

Help!

Where are you going? - Please!

Where you going?

Save us!

♪ Or die ♪

In the name of God, save us!

Help!

Please! Stop the boat!

Stop the boat!

Stop the boat, please! Don't!

Stop the boat!

Get him down. Get him down.

Stop! Stop the boat!

Help me!

Please!

Paddy, please.

Cut him loose.

Help!

Paddy, give the orders to haul him up.

We have orders.

Please!

Cut him loose.

Or I shoot him.

Don't!

Don't do that, please... - Paddy, wait.

Please. Don't do that.

Don't do that. Please. Don't do that. Please!

Don't do that, please. - I'm sorry, lad.

I'm sorry. - Please! Don't do that!

No!

Please!

They were fuckin' drowning, Paddy.

That's on you now, Paddy.

Please!

Please, come back!

Come back!

20 yards through range of enemy guns, prepare.

Go, go, go, go!

Suppressing fire!

Go, go, go!

Fucking Paddy! Let's go! - Get up there!

Go!

To the left!

Go on!

Get your bags off!

In the dark...

and chaos above...

Fucking hell!

The call between us

will be "desert rats"!

The only acceptable response

is "Kill Italians!"

Kill Italians!

Kill Italians! - Kill Italians!

Prepare to move!

Ready!

Move!

Thank you, sir. - Thank you.

Grenade!

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Now for something a little slower-paced.

Introducing "The Nearness of You".

Something important?

Eve, when you made a point of inviting me

to a completely inconsequential cocktail party

taking place on the night of July 9th...

You suspected that I knew something

that no member of the French government was supposed to know.

Your reaction to the date on the invitation confirmed what I suspected.

Without vodka, I'm so much worse at my job.

Where did you get July 9th?

An American ship heading south docked in Lisbon for repairs.

A sailor got drunk.

A date was mentioned.

I have friends in the Portuguese embassy.

My suspicion was that on July 9th, something was planned

which you were not sharing with your French allies.

My dear, in our biweekly meetings in the pub

I'm simply not allowed to tell you everything.

In fact, you don't tell me anything!

My dear.

Just tell me.

Has the invasion of Europe begun?

Here!

Grenade! - Where is it?

Grenade!

Hurry up!

Company!

Move, move, move!

Mad fucker.

Fuckin' bastards!

What you ladies waiting for?

Can I ask for a dance, ma'am?

No. Thank you.

Thanks anyway, ma'am.

You made your call.

You have news.

It's gone midnight.

You can't tell me.

Were it just you and I, trust would not be an issue.

Trust?

Trust requires good faith.

No, trust requires an absence of prejudice.

And I'm afraid when it comes to General De Gaulle

there is no absence of prejudice in Whitehall.

And certainly not with the Americans, who are now calling the shots.

And now the shots are being fired.

Well, you knew it was coming.

You just didn't know where or when.

I tried to tell my superiors

but they insisted that the British and Americans

would never embark on such an operation without our knowledge.

Well, perhaps next time they'll listen to you.

Won't be no next time.

Not for me.

Not with you.

Look, if you're interested...

it is the SRS

who are spearheading the operation

and the news is...

they're hard at work.

Thank you.

Jock! Enough!

Get down!

Hold firm!

On me, lad!

Move together!

Careful, boys.

Italian bastards!

You bastards...

Man down!

Reg!

Reg! - Get down!

Seekings!

Fuck is he doing?

Reg!

Cover him! Cover him!

Covering!

Get down!

Get those men to safety.

Come on, man.

Fucking help! - Go, go, go!

Fucking gi' on.

We left those men to drown

so they're on our conscience!

Killing 'em's none of your fucking business!

Don't shoot!

We surrender!

They think there's more of us than there are.

Aye. Because nobody would be so stupid...

as to attack an entire fuckin' continent

with 35 men.

Hands where we can see 'em!

Fuck Germans.

Welcome, America.

We're not fuckin' American.

Should I shoot 'em for that?

No.

That'll do. Lay down on the ground.

Tutti a terra.

Paddy!

Go!

Grenade!

Clear!

Clear! - Clear!

Fuckin' knew you'd come in handy.

Thank you, boss.

Jock, keep your rifle on them.

No need to pray, sugar pie.

If I wanted you dead, you'd be fuckin' dead already.

Don't move! Stay down!

Are they alive?

Just flesh wounds, Paddy. They'll be alright.

Yous did very fuckin' well.

Including you, new boys.

But remember...

this is just the snout.

It is our job to take the whole fuckin' hog

right the way up to the tail.

Search them, take weapons only.

McDiarmid, you sit on your fuckin' hands.

Take the bunker!

Stand up!

Right, round 'em up, chaps.

Get up. Get up!

Fuckin' move.

Easy.

Come on in, boys.

Come and take all the fuckin' glory.

This is the BBC, London Calling.

Good news.

One of the signals officers in Three Block has a homemade radio.

He just heard.

The invasion of Europe has begun.

The game has started.

And they say your boys of the SAS scored the very first goal.