All language subtitles for SAS.Rogue.Heroes.S02E01.eng

This programme contains very
strong language from the start, some

scenes which some viewers may find
upsetting and some violent scenes

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.

Fuck it!

Apologies, ladies and gentlemen.

But GHQ Cairo has got
my fucking goat.

Calm down.

Hold it there.

MUSIC: Rip It Up
by Adolescents

This is for my da.

My poor fucking da.

Enough! Let it go.

You've got a visitor.

# If they wanted a man

# To encourage the van

# Or harass the foe from the rear

# Or to take a redoubt

# They would always send out

# For Abdul Bulbul Ameer... #

Please don't bother to salute.

I won't.

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, 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?

You 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 funeral...

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

When I learned they refused you
compassionate leave...

..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 fucking fires,

done nothing to earn my respect.

You blew your top?

Is that what you just said?

Is that how you speak?

You "blew your top"?!

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

I blew the top off fucking 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 re-purposed 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 have 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 fire...

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 there's 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.

Oooh...!

A cocktail party at The Ritz.

I thought you could be my partner.

Presented by the
"Portuguese friends of America".

That means there will be bourbon
and swing music.

On the evening of the ninth of July.

Hmm.

Is that date problematic for you?

Er, no. No, not at all.

No, I'd be delighted to join.

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 on
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 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.

MUSIC: Night Boat to Cairo
by Madness

Come on! You English fucker!

I will part your arse... Yeah, yeah?

..and pull out your fucking giblets!

Look, you Scotch cunt, I like a row
as much as anyone else,

but sometimes you need to stop

and have a fucking sit down,
all right?! Yep, you're on.

Is that English for "I surrender"?

Shut the fuck up!

I surrender!

Reg! Reg!
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.

All right. All right? Let's do it.

I asked you very politely
to stay in the truck.

Up.

Withers, you're going to 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 will
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, goat's meat...

..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.

Ah, 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 ten minutes from now,

yous are going to 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.

Yeah, well, sardines live
in the ocean by Sardinia, Paddy.

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

..like a pig's head.

That is exactly right.

Capo Murro Di Porco.

Cape of the pig's 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?

ALL: Ohhhh!

New intake, listen fucking here.

Any men recruited after
December 1942,

keep your fucking mouths 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!

Hey, sweetie! Coo-coo, coo-coo!

I swear to God this eejit
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?

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 a boat myself, mate.

Oh, great, you going to be
the captain, eh?

Yeah, I'll be the fucking captain.

You're like a wee kettle. You what?
Boiling with anger.

Close your mouth! Go on, Reg!

I don't need to see the biscuits
in it. Get in there, Reg! Go on.

How about you shut up?!
Hey, come on then!

Worse than the kids, you two.

One minute from now,

a Lieutenant Colonel is going to
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've 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 judgment of a dog.

What did you say?

Nothing.

It was my dog.

He's 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! Shh.

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 and...

A fucking rat!

Mind yourself, Bob.

Vermin like the German, eh, lads?

Sorry, sir. 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 are
Scottish, huh?

By your boots.

Aye?

Mm.

I am 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 south-eastern tip of Sicily.

And, according to a confidential
GHQ report,

which I'm sharing with you against
their orders,

the assault on the Italian defences

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...

Now and always!

Whatever your title, this is
what your future holds.

On the morning of the tenth 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 Eighth Army
under General Montgomery

and the US Seventh 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 defences.

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 defences 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.

Oh, nice.

Suit.

Oh, forget it.

Paddy.

We go in one hour.

We should get the men ready.

Men, get ready.

Is that all right?

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 onboard.

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 fucking 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 jeopardise 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?

ALL: 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!

Let's go.

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 that you think
I am.

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

Not three. Get over there.
They said two.

That's two lines per boat.
Line up now.

Yes, sir.

What's up? All right, get cracking.
Ready your weapons.

Form up by the nets.

First man over the side
and into the landing craft.

Don't be slow about it.

Help!

Help! Help!

Fucking hell!

Stop the boat!

Paddy, there's lads dying out there.
Please.

# Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace
bled... #

I don't want to die!

We can't hold on much longer!

Save us!

Please!

Hey!

Over here!

Please!

Over here!

I've a baby I've never seen!

Help me!

Please!

Help!

Help! Come back!

Come back!

Oh!

Come back!

# Wha for Scotland's king
and law...#

Paddy, we've got room. No mercy.

Don't let go!

Where are you going, you bastard?!

In the name of God, help!

# Tyrants fall in every foe...#

Oh, my God!

Stop!

Come back! Come back!

Where are you going?

Please!

Where are you going?

# Let us do or die! #

In the name of God, save us!

Come back!

Where are you going?

Please, stop the boat!

Stop the boat!

Stop the boat, please don't...

Stop the boat!

Seekings... Don't, don't.

Stop the boat!

Help me!

Please!

Paddy, please.

Cut him loose.

Help me!

When I give the order, don't look
back.

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!

Paddy! Please, don't do that,
please.

Sorry, lad, I'm sorry.

Please, don't do that!

No!

Please!

They were fucking drowning, Paddy.

That's on you, that, Paddy.

Please!

Please, come back!

Come back!

20 yards to range of enemy guns.

Prepare!

Go, go, go, go!

Go, go, go!

Fuck it, Paddy, let's go.

Take the right, on the right. Go!

Hey, McDiarmid! On me!

To the left.

Get closer!

Take your bags off!

In the dark and chaos above

the call between us
will be Desert Rats!

The only acceptable response

is kill Italians!

ALL: Kill Italians!

Kill Italians! Kill Italians.

Prepare to move!

Ready!

Move!

Thank you, sir. Thank you.

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 ninth...

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 somewhat
worse at my job.

But where did you get July ninth?

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 ninth
something was planned

which you were not sharing
with your French allies.

My dear, in our bi-weekly 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?

Yes, come on, move it!

Left flank!

Take out that pillbox!

Cover my back!

Hurry up!

Covering!

Move, move, move!

Jock, get down, man!

Empty!

Aargh!

Mad fucker!

Fucking bastards!

Aargh!

What are you ladies waiting for?!

May 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 tell me.

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

Trust? Trust requires good faith.

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.

Aargh!

Jock, enough! Get down!

Hold fire!

On me, lad!

You got it!

Careful, boys.

You bastards!

Men down!

Reg! Reg!

Get down! Stand fast!

Seekings!

What is he doing?

Cover him! Cover him! Cover him!

Get those men to safety.

Come on, man. Fucking hell!

Go, go, go!

Fucking...!

Aargh!

Mancato.

I'll prossimo colpo pulito.

We left those men to drown!

So they're on our conscience!

Killing them'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 fucking
continent with 35 men.

Fuck Germans!

Welcome, America!

We're not fucking Americans.

Should I shoot them for that?

No.

That'll do. Lay down on the ground.

Tutto a terra.

Paddy!

Go!

Grenade!

Christ!

Clear!

Clear!

Fucking knew you'd come in handy.

Thank you, boss.

Just walk and keep your rifle on
them, lad.

No need to pray, sugar pie.

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

Don't move! Stay down!

Are they alive?

Just flesh wounds, Paddy.

They'll be all right.

Yous did very fucking well.

Including you new boys.

But remember,
this is just the snout.

It is our job to take the whole
fucking hog

right the way up to the tail.

Search them.

Take weapons only.

McDiarmid, you sit on your
fucking hands.

Take the bunker!

Stand up.

Right, round them up, chaps.

Get up! Get up! Fucking move!

Move in, move in.

Kershaw, easy!

SHOUTING

Come on in, boys.

Come and take all the fucking glory.

This is the BBC, London calling.

Good news.

One of the signals officers in three
block has a home-made 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.