Original subtitles

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?

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?

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 attache 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.

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.

Mmy 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,

I 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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