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

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.

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...

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!

KEYS JINGLE

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.

RADIO STATIC 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.

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.

BARKING

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.

WITHERS CRIES

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.

CHATTERING

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.

It looks like a...

..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!

Shh!

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.

BARKING

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...

SAS!

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!

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?

PADDY: 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.