All language subtitles for [BBC One HD] SAS Rogue Heroes (2022) S01E01 1080p.DD5.1.H.264.AVC-EngSubs ---SeizoensStart---_Subtitles03

My truck is running low on fuel,

so the rest must be the same.

Permission to bring up the fuel
trucks?

Tobruk is in 120 miles.

We need to refuel.

Yes...

..I know.

Right. So you should give the order
to bring up.

Oh, please tell me that we brought
petrol trucks with us

on this convoy.

As a matter of fact, we didn't.

I've been watching my own fuel gauge
moving inexorably toward empty,

and I worked out that what it must
be, you see,

is that the convoy has been fuelled
with just enough petrol

for a journey of 500km.

Right.

But the journey from Cairo to Tobruk

is 500 miles, old boy.

Indeed.

There are Frenchmen, you see,

in the Transport Department.

Frenchman. Right.

That'll be it.

So, we will not reach Tobruk

and the siege of Tobruk
will not be relieved

and the bombs and the shells
will continue to fall

and hundreds more men will die?

Yes.

Stirling, I don't care who your
father was,

you are supposed to address me
as "sir".

Uh-huh.

Piss off.

Agh!

There will be another
fuck-up by GHQ tomorrow!

Ah, yes.

Whisky!

I won!

I won, I won,
on a horse called Smokey.

Girls didn't make it tonight
because of the rain.

Ah.

Ah, invited to feel regret,

he felt no regret.

I like you.

You know why?

Because if I tell you a joke,
you pretend that it's funny.

So here goes, "Why did the chicken
not reach the end of the road?"

Because...

..it was a chicken who had
volunteered for the Commandos,

the British Commando Regiment.

So the order came down from GHQ

for the chicken to set off
down the road.

The fucking road.

And so the chicken packed
up his equipment,

wanked off his reckless urges,
prayed to God, got in his vehicle,

set off down the road,
and then they're ahead,

right ahead,

at exactly 120 miles...

..outside of Tobruk

was the punch line of this very,
very funny joke.

What's punch line?

Oh, it's a British military secret.

So we are stood down...

..again.

So the chicken stays in Cairo,
it goes to the races,

it rains
and the girls didn't make it.

And you know something?

You hate this place.

I hate this peace.

War, my friend...

..is where you find it.

A bottle and two glasses.

Ah, pog.

Eh, pog,

any of you pogs ever leave
fucking Cairo?

Any of you Brits even seen
an Italian yet?

Ah, Australians.

I love Australia.

Wildlife and fauna

designed by a lunatic.

Fuck you.

# Let me mind the house of dust
Where my sojourn shall be long

# In the nation that is not
Nothing stands that stood before;

# There revenges are forgot
And the hater hates no more;

# And naked to the hangman's noose
The morning clocks will ring. #

How's your colleague?

I hope I did no permanent damage.

Irish fucker.

Fucker
first and foremost,

Irish is a contributing factor,
perhaps.

But in other times I am
a friend to the friendless.

Your colleague was being unpleasant
to a smaller man,

it got my goat.

Well, we are about to be
unpleasant to you.

You won't be using military
policeman as a punchbag any more.

You're a mental case.

No-one will be surprised to find
you dangling in the morning.

# And beyond
the gallows clack. #

Well, if you want me to walk on air,

it means you're going to have to
find naked neck first.

Cos I'm used to
uneven battles, boys.

So...

..begin your search.

Desert storms,

dysentery,

sand in your arse,

sand in your eyes,

sand in your lungs,

sand in your kidneys,

sand in your foreskin,

all will be forgotten.

Take it.

Now,

let's take a drink of rum.

Drink.
Do not think.

Do not be yourself tonight.

Remember this...

When we are among them,

your mother is not watching.

Let's move.

10 seconds...

..then mad...

..wild.

You even seen action?

Repeatedly stood down,
I'm afraid.

Well, we've seen action.

Oh, I'm sensing resentment.

You fucking asshole.

And I understand it.

When one has faced danger,

oh, it takes a long time
to lose the animal rage.

He talks like a fucking typewriter.

The rain always does this to people.
Why don't you leave him alone, huh?

Yeah?

We lost two good men.

Theft.

Well, I'm afraid theft is something
I cannot tolerate.

But...

..if we are going to engage,

first,
let me give you a small warning.

I am a particular kind of soldier,

a commander. I trained with other
men like myself,

some live only to fight
and kill the enemy,

others are careless of uniforms

and will fight anyone at all.

There are mercifully few of us,

but in war, we are allowed to be the
beasts that we are.

We are taught to kill silently,

and it becomes instinctive,

almost like swallowing.

And the cursed thing is,
once learned,

you can't unlearn it.

Do you understand?

You shake hands with a man
and you can't help

but glance at his throat.

Every part of his body is an
invitation to be eagerly accepted

as a dog accepts a bone.

Eyes are for thumbs to push...

..into the brain.

Mouths can be torn open,

necks are a gift.

God's ultimate mistake.

Ah-oh!

Spoons, tea towels,

cups of tea...
They are all weapons.

Everything you touch...

..is a weapon. You are a weapon.

If our gentlemen generals
have the sense to unleash us...

..can you even imagine?

Ordinary men...

..when they encounter us, are...

..understandably reluctant
to make our acquaintance,

but if you really do insist.

Not my stop, boys.

Not my fucking stop.

Not today.

Well...

We're just here for the girls.

My winnings.

Buy yourselves a drink,

raise a toast...

..to fallen comrades.

Instead of spending a fucking year
in Scotland climbing mountains,

sleeping in ditches and strangling
cattle,

I should have just memorised that
speech,

because it works every time.

Get me a whisky, old boy.

To whisky.

Good morning, Sir.

Sir.

Sir. Morning, Sir.

Someone fix that fucking thing.

Sir.

Oh!

Doesn't this fucking squeaking
drive you insane?

Fix the fucking thing.

Sir. Morning, Sir.

One, two, three, hut!

Morning, Sir.

There's a bit of a thing.

Drinks, etc.
Nibbles and whatnot, tonight...

..at the, eh...

At the what?

At the embassy.

A sort of farewell thing for
someone,

some old boy going home.

A chance for everyone to...

A chance for everyone to
formulate a plan

for our next assault on Tobruk?

What?

A chance for everyone to say
goodbye and good luck to him,

whoever he is,

and you'll be there, Stirling.

Tobruk is under 24 hour bombardment.

Second attempt to relieve
Tobruk is being discussed.

Actually, it'll be a third attempt.

Indeed.

The fans don't work.

I can't fucking salute any more.

The map on the wall keeps
being redrawn...

..and men are dying.

Stirling, what would it take
to make you call me sir?

It would take respect.

Stirling, you are not
the soldier your father was,

and you never will be.

You're the kind of drunken,
insubordinate malcontent

he would have despised.
You will come to the party.

You will arrive sober and on time.

Or you, my friend,
will be on a charge.

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,

for ever and ever. Amen.

Last night, we dispatched
50 enemy soldiers

and destroyed
one key gun emplacement.

We had only one casualty.

Matthews died in the night.

Did you sleep well?

I was exhausted with the work
we did, sir, but...

..satisfied with our achievement.

Slept on my boots.

I always sleep well, sir.

We have spent 112 days
defending this place...

..amidst the rats and the scorpions
and the flies.

We must continue to show fortitude.

Command are sending another convoy
to relieve us.

Our beloved friends at GHQ
might this time remember

to fill the armoured cars
with enough petrol in the tanks

to reach the destination.

They can be quite forgetful.

In the meantime, tonight,
I will be taking a flight to Cairo

on urgent business.

If THQ can't relieve us,
I'm formulating a plan

that might just get us
out of this mess.

Move out the way!

Move!

Move those fucking camels!

Get out the way!

Sir. Permission to steal donated
food rations from the Australians?

Permission granted.

So what is it we're looking for,
sir?

I got a message from
one of the dockworkers

who I bribed with hashish.

I asked him...

..to keep an eye out

in the swirling chaos of equipment
and supplies for parachutes.

And lo...

..a set of parachutes have appeared.

And...who do they belong to, sir?

This is the British Army.

No-one owns anything.
No-one knows anything.

Nothing is certain.
Nothing is as it seems.

And whatever the fuck you have
in your hands belongs to you.

And what use do you have
for parachutes, sir?

I'm going to jump out of aeroplanes
with them.

And do you know parachutes, sir?
Do you...?

"Do you know parachutes?"

I know you strap them to your back,
you jump...

..the thing becomes enormous.

And you land safe.

Catch the damn thing before
it blows into the sea, Almonds.

Put it back in.

How, sir?
How the hell should I know?

I think it's meant to be
a very precise procedure.

Then be precise.

Have them all loaded onto a truck
and sent to the airstrip

for tonight's flight.

Oh, and you will be on that flight
as well, Sergeant.

Along with Riley.

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

The right kind of men for what?

In a world where there are no rules,
no order,

no organised plan,

certain men are identified by war
itself as its natural executors.

Those natural executors
take matters into their own hands.

I've decided to form
a parachute regiment.

You've decided?

Our generals still think
we are fighting the First World War.

They dither and debate
every order, and all this

while the Nazis, whose conviction

cuts through us
like fucking steel blades...

We are chased across
the fucking desert.

Comedy.

Except for the viciousness
of their ideology.

Do you know what they're doing
to the children in Berlin?

The devil sent me
those tins of beef.

God sent me those parachutes.

I'm going to give it a whirl.

I am bringing together men
of a particular calibre,

and you are amongst them.

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

Let's go and win the fucking war.

Hangover?

Justified by inner rage.

What do you need?

A medical reason not to attend
a fucking cocktail party.

And while you're at it,
get me out of drill for a few days.

You can't rationalise drill because
it is meant to make you accept

that the meaningless is important.

Last night there was an officer
looking for you.

He wanted to know if the dysentery
report of two weeks ago was genuine.

They think you are malingering.

It's not me that's fucking
malingering. It's GHQ.

Layer upon layer of fossilised shit.

A freemasonry of mediocrity.

Yeah, they're onto you.

Court martial.

Invented illnesses.

Are you lying?

Of course.

Oh...so what did he actually
ask you about?

I've been in the dark,
so it's all a bit unclear.

He had a message from a Lieutenant
Jack Lewes in Tobruk.

Jock Lewes.

Whatever. My God,
you are through the roof.

Whisky. Bang, bang, bang,
one after the other.

Memories of Scotland.

You know how a bear in a cage

sort of stands there
and sways from side to side?

So what did Jock Lewes say?

Ah, here.

Go to the Empire Club tonight,
meet Paddy Mayne,

and bring him to the Tipperary Club

for a reunion of
the Three Musketeers.

What the fuck does that say?

Just says "parachutes".

The dead arose and appeared to many.

Welcome home.

No.

Were you arrested?

Detained.

Were you identified?

No. I said my name was Mr Hyde,
and I had no papers.

He gave me a ten-shilling fine
for not having identification.

They were going to hang me,
as a matter of fact.

For having no ID?

No, for seeking justice.

What is this soup?

It's the gazelle you shot.

Oh, it's very nice.

Thank you.

Now..

..eventually, of course...

..you are going to
get yourself hung.

They say it is an exquisite death.

Though who the people are
that know that is unrecorded.

You were supposed to be in hospital.

Why did you leave?

Well, I don't so much
have malaria any more

as much as share a bed with it.

My only symptom now is soaking
the sheets every night.

I sweat so much, I'm embarrassed
to have the nurses

come wring them out.

So I went and sweated
in a nightclub instead.

And somebody got my goat.

There's no more to it than that.

Mm.

Last night, someone was here
with a message

from a Lieutenant Jock Lewes
in Tobruk.

Something about parachutes.

You're due at the Empire tonight
to meet a fella called Stirling.

To reunite the Three Musketeers.

Help you tonight, sir?
Not tonight, dear.

No, no, no, no.

I'm afraid not.

I don't know what a red flower
on the table signifies

in the language of Cairo,

but I'm not looking for
a brief accord,

if that's what you're thinking.

"A brief accord"?

You are a poet.

As a matter of fact, I am.

And I'm a journalist.

"I'm a journalist," said the spy.

Of course I am a spy.

In war, we must all repurpose

our professional talents.
Sorry, old chap.

Fuck!

And what is your purpose?

I am an intelligence officer
who reports directly to

the free French government in exile,
General de Gaulle.

From his bar stool
in a pub in Dean Street.

How are you enjoying Cairo,
Paddy Mayne?

How do you know my name?

Lieutenant Mayne, your victory over
the Vichy French at the Litani River

was the first piece of good news
for the French who oppose Hitler

in a long time.

I would like you to give me
an assessment of the morale

of pro-Nazi French soldiers
that you came into contact with

so that I can file a report
to the general.

All the pro-Nazi French soldiers

I personally came into contact with
are dead.

So...

..their morale is pretty poor,
I would say.

My father was a brigadier.

He taught me to ride, shoot,

and kill.

Kill with cutlery if necessary.

Well, if you're in need of cutlery,
I'd go and find another table.

I'm here to attend a meeting.

Very well. Apologies.
Ah, no, fuck it, no.

Do you know what? I'll go.

Didn't want to be here anyway.

I only came to politely say no.

Would you wait for him
and pass on a message from me?

Wait for who? Just tell him

Paddy Mayne says no because
he has decided to go to Burma

to fight the Japanese instead.

It'll be a very tall man who
will be drunk or will get drunk.

And when you give him my message,
he might get angry,

so you should leave.

Just tell him Paddy Mayne says no.

All right?

I would like to introduce to you
Elena Carnet.

I'm sorry, this table is booked.

You crept up on me.

You'll have to go, I'm afraid.

I have a message for you.

Ooh. A message from who?

Paddy Mayne.

He was here, but he said
he has decided he's going to Burma

to fight the Japanese.

The...

Right.

He said you would be angry.

No, I'm not.

Was he sober?

I think so.

But he was quite odd.
Yes, he is.

Drink, sir? Whisky.

Yes, sir.

He was right.

You are tall.

Who the fuck are you?

I'm the deputy head of French
military intelligence in Cairo.

Oh, so you're the head of French
military intelligence in Cairo?

Because I know your boss...

..and he's always drunk.

Are you new?

To Cairo, yes.

In every other way, I'm not new.

Mmm.

Listen, in other times...

..I would love to stay and make
conversation, but right now beauty

is not a currency I value.

Oh, apologies.

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

It wasn't meant to be.

It wasn't taken as charming at all.

Not even remotely.

Sometimes the French and the British
misunderstand each other.

It's like the difference
between kilometres and miles.

The result can be...unfortunate.

You heard about that.

You will learn that
I tend to hear about everything.

Whisky.

I need a car. Where to, sir?
Tipperary fucking Tea Club.

Lieutenant Stirling.

For the avoidance of doubt,

I share your impatience
with the conduct of the war,

and I intend to do something
about it.

Cheers, lads.

Well?

Did you go and meet him?

I did.

There were red flowers
and French spies.

And?

What did you tell him?

I didn't tell him anything.

I left him a message to say
I'm going to the Far East.

You are?

So whatever it is
he and that mad martinet Lewes,

whatever it is they're planning,

they can do it without me.

Who are they, anyway?

Just men I trained with.

Stirling,
you could dismiss as a drinker.

Gambler.

One of those toffs, you know,
who climbed through the ranks

on the branches
of their family tree.

Lewes, you could say, is a bully
with a bitter little mind.

You could dismiss him, too.

But you don't dismiss them.

No.

No, because when the moment comes,
they are not themselves.

None of the above is who they are.
They are...

They are dead man...

..just awaiting confirmation.

Like me.

But as I say,
I'm going to the Far East.

Ship me somewhere east of Suez,

where the best is like the worst.

The Far Eastern theatre
will be a grand show

when it starts, you know.

Here, do you want to come as well?

I'm putting together a unit.
I can request you if you want.

Yeah.

Fuck it.

Why not?

Thank you very much.

Ah.

Ah!

Where's Mayne?
You were supposed to bring him.

Mayne says he's going to Burma
to fight the Japanese.

They're not at war with Japan yet.

No, but if Paddy's going,
we will be quite soon.

There's tea.
Oh, enjoy it, old man.

It's for you.

No, it's not.

It's not my tea.

I have an idea for you.

A map!

Oh, goodness, this must be serious.

Yes, it's actually a very large map,
which is a nuisance.

Excuse me, gentlemen.

I'd like to use this table
for a demonstration.

How long will you be?
It's a tournament.

We're going to be here all night.

And if you're going to stand
there staring,

we will charge you admission.

Yes. I'm afraid I have a rendezvous
at the Kit-Kat Club later

and I don't have all night,
gentlemen.

I've just got back
from a deep desert patrol

and I am mad as fuck.

What's he doing?

Grenade!

Out! Quickly!

Out of the way!

My men are bored.
They make these little novelties

to brighten their day.

This one's excellent
if you can't get a seat on a train.

You haven't changed, then,
Stirling.

No. You haven't grown up
or anything.

I'm still about 12.

Stink bombs and bike sheds.

Set.

Except now the stink is dead bodies.

Oh, if that's what you're proposing,
yes.

You drew this yourself?

GHQ maps are inaccurate
and outdated.

That's because the Germans keep
advancing while we fold our arms

and say, "Not ideal,
unattractive, gloomy."

Do you know any general that doesn't
speak like a nursery nurse?

The Germans have advanced 800 miles
in six weeks.

Everywhere it's Rommel this
and Rommel that.

But in my opinion,
he's made a mistake.

He's moved too fast.

Look at this supply line.

Hmm. It's around 300 miles too long.

So far, we have been attacking
the German convoys from the sea.

That is why we are always expected.

Right. And you have a better idea?

Yes.

A doctor stoned on laughing gas
said something about parachutes.

Instead of attacking from the sea,

we should be attacking

from the sea of sand.

We parachute units of selected men
into the interior

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

A disciplined group of men.
Ah, discipline.

You see, I myself would consult
quickly with Johnnie Walker

before each engagement.

How would that be
with your idea of discipline?

Is that important to you?
It's an indicative example.

I once had this idea
in a sweaty dream one night

that all regimental discipline
is horseshit.

Each man should be a chess piece
that can move in any direction.

His idiosyncrasies
are his own business.

The most important thing is courage.

The most important thing is wit,
in every sense of that word.

Anything expected fails.
Never be where you are meant to be.

Actually, the first thing
we would need to do is prove

that the principle
of a parachute drop is sound.

No-one has ever parachuted
in the desert before.

Whatever.

When a vulture spreads its wings
out there, it goes up, not down.

Hmm.

So someone would need to try it.

Yes.

Just us.

You and I.

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

We prove it can be done,

and we prove to each other
that we are committed.

No-one to stand us down.

No-one to stand us down.

What should we call ourselves?

So you're in?

Stirling. Are you in?

You steal the parachutes.

I will steal an aeroplane.

There's just no way.
There is no...

Ah, Lieutenant. This man claims

he has authority to commandeer
my plane.

At ease. He has permission.

I've already explained
this is war work

and we have a licence
to behave badly.

I'm a fucking postman, you know.

I deliver military mail.

I want to know what's going on.

I want to know who you are
and the name of your unit.

Ooh, did you think of a name?
No, not yet.

If you're even considering using
my plane to make a parachute drop,

you're not going anywhere
in this weather, you know.

Forecast has this blowing over
in one hour.

No-one parachutes in the desert.

We know.

And your parachutes have
static lines. They have what?

They have static lines.

Look - these lines have to be
clipped to a steel cable

attached fore and aft.

My plane is a De Havilland.

It doesn't have a cable. Mmm.

Well, we'll use the seats.

Yes, we'll tie the parachute cables
to the seats.

The legs of the passenger seat.

How much actual parachute training
have you had?

We spent three weeks
jumping from scaffolding

and moving vehicles.
And rolling forwards and sideways.

And the door opens to the wind?

Almonds, take the door off.
Yes, sir.

But by the time this weather
blows over, it will be dark.

So how will you find your way back
if it's dark?

..Lewes?

The stars. The stars. Yes.

Sir, with this storm and the failing
light, why don't we think again?

Lewes, it sounds like your sergeant
is suggesting that we stand down.

We do not fucking stand down
any more.

That should be the name of our unit.

The men who refused to stand down.

I believe, on the grounds of hazard,
I could refuse to take you.

If you don't want to fly...

..I flew a crop for him once.

I'll fly that thing myself.

Good God, he's American.

Even so, he's OK.

You're all fucking mad.

At last! He gets it.

I need a piss.

Chop-chop.

Yes, sir.

Good luck, sir.

Ah! Here, Stirling.

Now head back to the airstrip!

60 seconds until we go.

What do you think about just before?

I think about the voice inside of
my head that says, "So what?"

"So fucking what?"

Did you have a fall, sir?

Yes, Father, I did.

Am I dead? Not quite.

In between, I think.

Remember when you said
you could climb the old oak tree

with one arm tied behind your back?

You always imagined you could do
things you couldn't do -

climb higher than
your natural limit.

One would have hoped you might have
grown out of it by now.

I can't...

I can't move my legs, Dad.

I can't feel my legs.

I can't see anything below my waist.

Many a time I have been half in love
with easeful Death.

Call'd him soft names
in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air
my quiet breath;

Now more than ever
seems it rich to die.

No, no, no.

It was always your favourite poem.

Always in the back of your mind.

Half in love with easeful Death.

I have things to do.

I will not be pushed.

I will not...

..so I will not be stood down.

Not even by God.

You hear me, God?

You hear me, Father?

I will win this fucking war.

I will not be stood down.