Original subtitles

We will be a regiment shooting grouse in their roost in the dark.

Riley, Almonds. Remember the parachutes?

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

I'm not asking for anything other than permission...

And 60 men. Men I will choose according to my own criteria.

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

I just love killing fascists, sir.

This regiment isn't all Paddys, is it?

If you decide to join them, I will join the SAS too.

They've been sent to a place called Kabrit.

Two hundred miles behind the German and Italian lines.

- What are the chances of survival? - Ten percent?

This is SAS base camp.

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

God help us.

Based on a true story,

the events depicted which seem most unbelievable

are mostly true.

3 MONTHS LATER

BAGUSH AIRSTRIP 16TH NOVEMBER 1941

Paddy,

play the mad man.

He is the mad man.

Hey, do you postmen have a problem with a wee bit of wind?

Oh Paddy, shut up.

I'd fly one of these fucking things myself.

Sure it's just a truck with a lot of ambition.

Okay, that's enough.

Don't you get fucking smart with me you shit.

Step aside.

Gentlemen.

I understand your concerns regarding the weather.

This isn't weather.

This is the whole desert risen up into the air.

General Auchinleck will move his 8th Army

against Rommel's front line in order to relieve Tobruk.

- If Tobruk falls... - Tobruk will not fall!

Cairo and the Suez Canal are next.

Malta and the Mediterranean topple like dominoes.

It ends... with Rommel rolling his Panzers

up the Mall towards Buckingham Palace.

His planes must not attack our troops.

The SAS have trained for months to blow them up on the ground.

We will not be stood down. Many lives depend on us.

It's God's work.

We have one shot at this. Do you understand?

Your job is to deliver us and turn back!

We will make our own way home.

The wind is 30 knots. 15 knots is considered unsafe.

- War is fucking unsafe. - Enough, enough.

Besides, Captain Stirling outranks you.

You will have to sleep with your own conscience

if Auchinleck's advance is stopped by air superiority,

and Tobruk falls to the enemy.

Get your men boarded.

Good man.

- Was that too much? - I think it went rather well.

Mad bastard.

ROGUE HEROES

Letters for home in the bag.

- Time is now! - Chalk three ready?

- Sir! - Off we pop.

Go on lads.

Chalk two!

Chalk one.

Dear Mother...

If I don't return and there is a body to burn,

spread my ashes among the heather

and let the grouse laugh at my fate

because now it is I and my comrades

who are the grouse, flying onto the guns.

And below us, the enemy are even now loading up and taking aim.

My dearest Mirren...

You know I love you.

And I know I could make you so happy that you wouldn't want to die

in case heaven wasn't as good.

Just say yes. You'll marry me when I'm a proper captain

and I won't ask you to put it in the papers because I might die tonight,

and then people would say, "Ha, Ha,"

or they would say, "Poor dear," and both are horrid.

And if all this is a lovely dream of mine,

well, it has been lovely dreaming it.

The potential for greatness of these men is huge.

I just hope these other officers can see that.

Or they'll be getting added to the long list of silver spoon-fed idiots...

This new outfit I got mixed up in is pretty curious.

During our brief period of training, the men have lived on rum and lime...

My dear sister,

I'm having a very jolly time with this new unit.

I sincerely hope I get a chance to show the officers what I can do with a rifle.

It's a fine crowd of lads, love. So you're not to worry.

You just get all the happiness out of life that you can.

Anything that brings you happiness kid.

Fuck this.

I have been reunited with an old friend from the Ulster Rifles.

He's a Protestant, Paddy Mayne,

though he drinks like a Catholic.

We're able to talk about home to each other.

He's the same man I knew in Ireland,

but lately I am changed by him.

There's a fellow here I knew in Ulster, Eion McGonigal.

He's from the other side, but we don't talk religion.

If I sit up barking and howling at night as I sometimes do,

he takes me for a walk and throws a stick for me.

When I find myself become a devil,

he reminds me that underneath I am a poet.

Sir, pilot wants a word with you.

Nothing to worry about lads.

Just a bit of fun, eh.

We're two minutes from the drop.

But Captain Stirling, if you do go out in this, it will be suicide.

Suicide, Captain Stirling! Nothing more!

There's no shame in turning back on a night like this.

Think of your men.

The gentleman aboard have been appraised of their circumstances

and have made their decisions.

Proceed with your descent.

The mad bastards are gonna jump.

- Are we ready, chaps? - Yes sir!

It's a 10 mile stroll to the airstrips.

We'll bomb their planes while they sleep

and rendezvous with Paddy and Jock's boys for a rum breakfast. Yes?

Yes!

Bloody hell, Mitch am, you're looking pale, are you tempted?

- No, sir. - No?

Right, listen up.

No dicking about.

Yes sir!

Stand up!

Hook up!

Stand up!

Hook up!

Action station.

Check your lines.

Go!

Go! Go! Go!

I Detachment!

I Detachment!

Almonds?

Yates?

Mitch am?

I Detachment?

Yates? Mitch am?

Sir!

Sir!

I was... I was dragged over the cliff.

Can you stand?

No. I cannot stand sir.

I heard my spine snap.

Like a fucking gunshot.

Do you want some water?

I cannot stand this pain.

- I'm sorry. - Mitch am, no!

Fuck!

May the Lord have mercy on your soul.

And on mine.

Well, Father

you said war could be unpleasant!

I found explosives and machine guns.

- Then fortune is with us. - Let's move.

Move where, sir?

To the airfields.

There are only eight of us, sir.

So it'll be harder for them to see us from the air. Come on.

- Form up. - Fuck off.

What's wrong with your arm?

It's broken, sir.

Then

you are lucky,

in the SAS,

you don't have to salute.

Now,

before we proceed, we need to ascertain where the airfields are.

And to do that, we need to ascertain where we are.

Riley. I believe you retained your compass.

All I can say for sure is that the airfields are on the coast.

- And that we are south of them. - Good.

So we head north.

There are only eight of us, sir.

If you make that observation again

there will only be seven of us.

I would head north, even if I were alone.

- Right. - We got work to do!

"Do you think there's a far border town, somewhere at the desert's edge,"

"the last of the lands we know."

"Some gaunt eventual limit of our light,".

"In which I'll find you waiting,

"and we'll go together, hand in hand again, out there,".

"Into the waste we know not,"

"into the night?"

- Who? - Thanks.

McGonigal, sir.

Okay.

Okay.

- He landed hard, got dragged. - Yes, I understand.

Did you manage to locate any of the weapons?

Got only one machine gun and six grenades.

No explosives or detonators.

They will all be buried in the sand on account of the wind.

All right, we'll use the grenades.

You what?

We will head north, that fucking way, up there,

and we will reach the coast and we will find their airfields.

Paddy, we won't destroy a single fucking thing with what we've got, lad.

Paddy... We were gonna head south.

Sir, there are dark clouds. It's going to rain.

We need to move to a higher ground before we get washed away.

Right.

This was a fuck up, yeah? A grand old fuck up it was.

Now if we wipe ourselves out,

it will be the only thing that we ever did, Paddy.

And they'll say that all that we ever did was fuck up.

- GHQ will laugh at us, yeah. - So...

Your conclusion... is that we should stand down?

- Is that it? - Paddy, I didn't mean it...

Your conclusion, corporal, is that we should stand down?

- Sir, I don't mean... - Is that it?

- After what they've done to him! - Wasn't them that killed him.

It was the wind and the fall, and our decision. A decision we all made.

Sorry, sir.

Paddy, we need to be alive to go again.

Sir, shall we move out?

- Sir? - Paddy, we can't leave without you.

It's fine. Go.

I'll catch you up.

Go.

Well, gather your belongings. Let's fuck off.

Come on, Cooper, get up from there.

Give me your hand.

Do we even know where we're going, sir?

Of course!

Jock!

- There's water in the compass. - Also in the Lewes bombs.

They're drenched, completely useless.

The bombs in our packs are called Lewes Bombs

because Lewes is my name and I fucking invented them.

- I will decide when they are useless. - Oh, fuck!

- Get that man out of the water! - Get him out for god's sake!

- Come on, come on, man. - Come on, you're all right.

Unless you want us all to drown, we must turn back!

You know, I once swam the Thames.

At Tower Bridge.

Just as Julius Caesar swam the Tiber.

- Breasted it. - Jock.

Look.

The water turned the desert into quicksand.

We can't walk across quicksand, let alone swim it.

I am not suggesting, Riley, that I am Julius Caesar.

But like Caesar, my first attempt at conquest has been thwarted.

Caesar withdrew and came back.

That is what we will do. We will go, but we will come back!

Yes.

With certainty.

Come on, you heard the man! Move!

I can hear singing.

Now you sing the second verse

in order to reassure them that we are not Germans.

In Kabrit, we officers resolved a desert procedure.

If you see a fire in the night, you sing the first verse

and the people at the fire sing the second verse, because if we were

Germans, we wouldn't know the words.

Any of you lads know the second verse?

No.

No.

Well

if you don't sing it in the next... 30 seconds,

then the procedure is to open fire.

If Paddy's out there, it'll be five seconds.

God, how amusing this all is.

Come on.

You all right sir.

Except the gang is not

all here, is it?

No.

The gang is not all here.

A brew, lads.

How's everyone then?

There's some

tea, Paddy.

Come on.

There we are.

Paddy.

Looks like our passengers have arrived.

- I thought there were 55 of them. - Don't worry.

You'll still be paid if you drive home empty.

Long Range Desert Group!

Identify yourselves.

Good man.

We are

I Detachment,

First Special Air Service Brigade.

What's left of us.

Maybe it's your attitude.

Maybe it's the way you walk. But you are walking on a tightrope.

This is a big desert.

But there is no room in it for realists,

or pragmatists,

or believers in common sense.

Last night was the first

uncertain step

on the long walk to glory.

There is no other narrative.

That's it, old boy, come on.

What happened?

We experienced some weather.

Ah, yes.

Are you in charge here?

The desert's in charge here. Maybe you've learned that, sir.

What news of Tobruk? We've been away from radio.

Come on.

Get a nice bath.

Drink a beer, or two, or three.

And then we'll talk about Tobruk.

Come on.

Another fuck up?

Another fuck up.

But anyway,

we run the rickshaws into town.

How many more can we expect?

Ah, well,

the weather we experienced was very bad, so...

Yes.

Perhaps not many.

Right.

And, uh,

how long do you want to wait?

Oh, you know

forever.

No, I don't like waiting around.

I have a poker game in Cairo on Thursdays.

We have some cattle to round up.

- Let's go, boys. Come on. - On your feet.

- Come on. - Feet!

Sir.

Big leap, boys!

How the hell are you going to find them in this vastness?

In the desert, everything can be predicted.

You were dropped in the North quad, number 12, then rain came.

Rising flood sends your boys up to high ground,

the platypus ridge which runs south,

so they walk south until the ridge splits.

Fuck off back there!

Come on.

Then they reach the Bang Bang Oasis.

Which even the Brits can see on account of the vegetation.

Come on.

Then they follow the dried up river bed south, until they arrive

right about

now.

About there.

Looks like I will make my poker game.

I only count eight... of our men.

22 survivors out of

55.

Not a shot fired except a damn good soldier firing into his own brain.

Not a plane destroyed, not a fucking detonator detonated.

What will GHQ do?

Do about what?

Nothing happened. Our mission was never authorised so no one will know.

There are a few at GHQ that do know, and they will laugh, but

mostly they will be too busy losing the war to care.

And we will be stood down when we get back to Cairo.

Yes.

If we go back.

They say...

"The boys from the Long Range Desert Group"

"can find a pencil in 1000 square miles of desert,"

"just so long as it casts a shadow."

"They can find a downed pilot in an area the size of England"

"in the middle of the night in a sandstorm."

So?

So.

I wonder

if they can find the SAS a place of sanctuary?

Hello!

What are you doing here?

I come here to relax.

I thought it was time for us to update each other on some recent events.

Your office was locked.

Recent events?

General De Gaulle needs to be kept informed

of British strategies in North Africa.

- French 75. - Yes, madam.

Tell me, what is the General's main concern at the moment?

Fuck you.

Where are they?

Do you mean where are "they"?

Or where is "he"?

- Do you want to have dinner? - No. Just tell me where they are.

No one is saying anything. For Cairo, that is unusual.

Well, truth is, no one knows where they are.

Any survivors should have reported back two weeks ago.

We've had no communications of any sort.

What happened to them?

Well, before you begin to imagine some heroic combat,

it's almost certain that if they are all dead,

they weren't killed by the Germans or the Italians.

They were killed by the desert. The wind, the sand, the thorns.

Oh, and by the reckless decision taken by our friend and his comrades

coz they couldn't stand to lose face.

They decided to take off and make a parachute drop,

at night in the middle of a fucking sandstorm.

What is it about Stirling that you dislike so much?

I invented the SAS.

And he had no right to destroy it on its first mission.

And if it's not destroyed,

it's now a laughing stock among the few people who even know it exists.

In terms of percentage, I'm afraid the chances of Stirling being still alive

are just this side of zero.

I thought you knew the rules of engagement in time of war?

Fucking is fine. Feeling is not.

Now, then.

This, my friends, is Jalo.

Literally, unquestionably, undeniably the middle of fucking nowhere.

If "Fucking Nowhere" had a capital city, this would be it.

And... and this would be the main street of Fucking Nowhere City.

And the Lord Mayor would be fucking no one,

presiding over fuck all,

in a place where there was no one around to give a fuck.

Which is exactly what you asked for, Captain Stirling, am I right?

We could carry on driving,

but I'd say this place is as good as any other part of nowhere we might find.

How far to the German airfields?

Sirte is 350 miles northwest.

The allied front line?

If you drove east, the first allied position you'd come to

is a New Zealand reserve troop, 80 miles across open desert.

But the Kiwi fighting men have been sent north, so the camp's empty.

If you need any help, there isn't any.

New Zealand camp is empty, you say?

A few wounded, a few guards.

And a few... empty trucks, one might imagine.

And maybe some guns they left behind, maybe some ammunition.

Would there be a piano?

A fucking piano?

The capital city of Fucking Nowhere will do us just fine, but first...

We need to do a spot of shopping.

Come on, you dishy bastard.

- Thieving bastard. - It were me.

If I'd known you were going to rob the place, I wouldn't have brought you, sir.

Call me David. Not sir.

Phillip, sentry duty.

- On the tower. One hour. - Yes, sir.

If you can, perhaps,

you might bury the explosive canisters to keep them out of direct heat.

Where can I put the piano?

- Do you play the piano, Paddy? - No.

Eoin was trying to teach me. I want to carry on.

- Put it in the mess hall. - There isn't a mess hall.

So build one.

- Seekings. - Yes, boss.

Now, last night was rather a success, so we have something to celebrate.

What did you steal by way of drinks?

Brought you 45 gallons of New Zealand rum, sir.

Good boy, right. So by the time that we're unpacked, it'll be cocktail hour.

And then when we've had our cocktails and the sun is set,

I think we should go for a bit of a jolly.

Over there.

Ammunitions will be signed in by Lieutenant Fraser,

unless he has a problem with that.

- No, sir. This way. - Good.

Refuel your vehicles, Mr. Sadler. We go tonight.

Get the tents up. Let's not be too creative.

Call me Mike.

Targets will be given on the coast.

Ten Lewes bombs for each man. At the ready.

Have your ten minute fuses, and your 30 minute fuses.

Do not use your bombs until you can smell the Messerschmitt.

SAS motorised mission number one.

- Move out, you fucking virgins. - Come on, Bob.

We are ten miles outside of Sirte airstrip, directly north.

I'm going to pick three men, take them there, and do what damage I can.

Lewes, you will take your men to Mersa Brega.

Your target is fuel trucks and supply trucks.

Paddy, you will take your men to Ta met airstrip.

Your target is Italian Caproni fighter bombers and Messerschmitts.

- Bill Fraser? Where are you? - I'm here.

Come on.

I hear during the fuck up

that you repeatedly asked questions of your commanding officer.

Well, we have decided, in order to avoid further fuck ups,

that questions are to be welcomed in the SAS.

You will pick four men and travel to Agedabia.

If questions are welcome, sir I've got a question.

Yes.

- Can me and the boys have some rum? - Oh, absolutely. Seekings, please.

Yes, Seekings, come on.

Right. We rendezvous back here tomorrow morning.

You and your drivers wait here for our return.

With all due respect, sir, I'm fucking sick of being the taxi service.

I can read this desert better than any man here.

Well, if it's action that you're after,

go with Paddy Mayne.

We have a second chance.

Let's see what the stars have in store for us, shall we?

Come on.

Pull up.

TAMET GERMAN / ITALIAN AIRSTRIP

AGEDABIA GERMAN / ITALIAN AIRSTRIP

MERSA BREGA GERMAN / ITALIAN SUPPLY DEPOT

SIRTE GERMAN / ITALIAN AIRSTRIP

It's empty.

They've all flown.

Shit.

Prime fuses, ten minutes.

Go.

Riley. Take one man,

go to the right.

I'm gonna take three men,

flank around from the rear.

Back here in eight minutes.

Hit as many trucks as you can. For God's sake don't be seen.

Go.

Sadler.

This is the famous Lewes bomb.

Never heard of it.

That's because it's only famous That's us.

Jock Lewes invented it. He cooked us up a prototype.

Tonight, we're going to try them out.

- You've never used them before? - No, but Jock Lewes is very smart.

I'm sure we'll be fine.

Now, these have all been primed and ready to go off in ten minutes, right?

- From now? - From now.

So we should fucking get on with it, Paddy.

- Ten minutes is plenty of time, boys. - Plenty of time for what?

They're drunk, Paddy. We can plant the bombs and be gone before they know...

Low hanging fruit.

Ripe apples.

Those drunks are pilots and engineers when they sober up.

So to fuck with conventions, Geneva or otherwise.

This is our fucking work, boys. This is who we are. To kill and be killed.

Any man too just and good and noble for work like this can stay behind,

polish their bullets, make a nice wee necklace.

Myself, I am tranquil.

I never go to parties to which I'm invited anyway.

Go, go, go, go, go, go.

Would you like a light?

- Here you are. - Are you a German?

No. English, actually.

- English? - Yes.

English...

Hello.

Fuck.

Good evening.

Shit! Take cover!

Come on.

In three minutes the bombs go off, including this truck.

Not ideal.

Think they've had enough now, Paddy.

Paddy, Paddy!

Two minutes to blow the planes boys. Move.

Fucking move!

Jock, in one minute this truck's about to get a bit hot.

Not helpful.

Come on.

Paddy? Are we nearly out?

Where's Paddy?

Where on earth is he?

Paddy!

Paddy!

I'm out.

Get down, down!

The bombs work.

- Move. - Go, go!

Paddy.

Let's get back to those chimps.

Paddy! Where are you, Paddy?

Yes!

Yes, boys.

That's Mersa Brega and Agedabia blown to hell, sir.

Yes.

And that's Paddy Mayne at Ta met.

And here am I in the dark and silence in Sirte.

Come on it's not a competition, sir.

Of course it fucking is.

Come on.

GARDEN CITY, CAIRO BRITISH GHQ.

Sir. Report from intelligence.

Ah, my dear.

At last I have something to report that's actually true.

Actually fucking true.

Intercepted radio communications

between the German and Italian air force commands,

says that the night before last, 48 fighter bombers and fighter aircraft

were destroyed while on the ground at two separate air bases.

Destroyed by men who appeared apparently from nowhere

and disappeared into the desert.

Also 17 fuel tankers, supply trucks, ammunition crates, and explosives

were destroyed at Mersa Brega.

Apparently those few who caught a glimpse of the attackers

said they wore no uniforms and looked like wild savages.

So he's alive?

The important thing is that my creation is alive.

I think the mystery of what happened to I Detachment First SAS Brigade,

may have been solved, sir.

Well, I think that boy may just have won his bet.

I see.

I see.

Let the games begin.

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