SAS Ghost Patrol: The Ultra-Secret Unit That Posed as Nazi Stormtroopers

by Damien Lewis

Overview

An “amazing” account of Britain’s most audacious act of subterfuge in WWII: an undercover raid of Rommel’s stronghold in Tobruk (The Daily Mirror).

On a scorching September day in 1942, the Special Air Service (SAS), a special forces unit of the British Army, pulled off one of the most daring, top-secret ruses of the Second World War. The plan (sanctioned by Churchill): cover a grueling two thousand miles of the Sahara desert to attack German general Erwin Rommel’s seemingly impregnable port fortress in North Africa from the rear to break free and arm more than thirty thousand Allied POWs. Led by Capt. Herbert Buck and posing as Afrika Korps soldiers complete with German uniforms and weaponry, the crew broke into the enemy stronghold Trojan Horse–style as part of the coordinated attack on Tobruk.
 
“Intensively researched . . . powerfully written,” and culled from the private diaries of the do-or-die maverick heroes, this extraordinary story of the sneak attack on the notorious Desert Fox is more thrilling than any fiction. A bold, outrageous, and rule-shattering mission impossible, SAS Ghost Patrol is “one of the great untold stories of WWII” (Bear Grylls).

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504055574
Publisher:	Open Road Media
Publication date:	11/20/2018
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	352
Sales rank:	186,990
File size:	10 MB

About the Author

Damien Lewis is a bestselling author whose books have been translated into over forty languages worldwide. For decades he worked as a war and conflict reporter for the world’s major broadcasters, reporting from Africa, South America, the Middle and Far East, and winning numerous awards. Lewis’s books include the #1 international bestseller Zero Six Bravo; the World War II classics Hunting the Nazi Bomb, The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, and The Nazi Hunters; and the war dog books The Dog Who Could Fly and A Dog Called Hope. A dozen of his books have been made, or are being made, into movies or television drama series and several have been adapted as plays for the stage. Lewis has raised tens of thousands of dollars for charitable concerns connected to his writings.
 

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

The heat rose in shimmering waves off the sun-blasted desert terrain. A lone figure stumbled through the harsh, boulder-strewn landscape. It seemed impossible that anything could survive here, yet somehow this man had, although to the watchers — alert and tracing his every step through their rifle sights — he was clearly on his last legs.

It was just after dawn on 21 February 1942, and already the air was thick with heat from the rising sun. The war in North Africa was not going well for the Allies. Reeling from a succession of defeats at the hands of Erwin Rommel, the commander of the Afrika Korps, British forces had learned a grudging respect — if not fear — for their adversary.

Indeed, in recent months Rommel and his Afrika Korps had earned an almost mythical status. Their reputation for invincibility went before them, their lightning armoured thrusts striking repeatedly at the flanks of the British and Commonwealth troops, forcing a series of desperate retreats across miles of unforgiving desert, mountain and scrub.

Over the weeks of bitter fighting Rommel had acquired a nickname among the British: the Desert Fox. Wily, quick-thinking and smart, who knew what ruse the German general might attempt next? Which made it all the more worrying that a mysterious figure — seemingly a lone Afrika Korps soldier — was making his way towards Allied lines.

What could he be intending, the watchers wondered? Was this some new and cunning deception by Rommel, one designed to confound the British front-line commanders? Was this something altogether more innocent: an enemy soldier lost in the desert — parched, exhausted and hopelessly disorientated? Or was he perhaps a deserter, somehow intent on delivering to them a choice piece of intelligence?

The first sign of the incoming figure had been a dust cloud on the horizon far to the west of the British positions, as a vehicle traversed the main coastal highway running east towards the Allied stronghold of Tobruk. It had advanced thus far, but then the cloud had dissipated. In due course a stick-thin figure had emerged, mirage-like, from the early-morning haze, trudging along the lonely road that snaked through the rocky hills making up this war-blasted no-man's-land.

Moment by moment the figure drew closer. Finally, a group of British soldiers broke cover, scuttling forward, weapons held at the ready. The enemy soldier was dressed as an officer and maybe this boded well. Perhaps he had made the perilous journey across the lines carrying a crucial piece of intelligence, one that he wished to hand over to Allied commanders, although what his motives might be no one could yet imagine.

Under close guard the stranger was brought into the checkpoint that straddled the road. He was laid in the shade and given some water, which revived him somewhat. As little by little the captive began to recover his composure, several things became obvious to his captors. First, the Afrika Korps officer looked incredibly young to the British soldiers, who themselves were mostly in their late teens or early twenties. Second, there was something distinguished — almost haughty-looking — about his demeanour, with his thick shock of coal-black hair and the calm, level gaze in his dark eyes. He certainly didn't have the subdued air of a captive. Third, and most shocking, when this man of mystery managed to utter his first words he did so in fluent English and with a decidedly upper- crust accent. Whoever this soldier might be, he sounded more like an Oxford don or a BBC broadcaster than any Afrika Korps officer.

Once he'd regained strength enough to relate the basics of his — utterly incredible — story, a force was sent out to fetch the vehicle in which he had been travelling. If he was telling the truth, it contained nine of his fellows who could verify his extraordinary tale. As for the man himself, he was placed in a jeep and rushed to Allied forward headquarters in Tobruk. If he was to be believed, the captive promised a potential bonanza in terms of intelligence.

Upon arrival at Tobruk the prisoner repeated his riveting story. He was given a stiff drink to fortify himself for the journey that lay ahead and put on a vehicle for the long drive to British Middle East headquarters in Cairo, from where the entire North Africa campaign was being orchestrated. Seemingly he didn't just have some choice intelligence to impart to Allied high command; he also had a plan, one born of his unique background, innate intellect, cunning and eccentricity, and informed by his life-or-death experiences over the past few days.

As he was whisked the 500 miles east along the Mediterranean coast towards Cairo, the captive reflected upon the singular nature of the war being fought in North Africa and how it had led him to conceive of his great idea. There was no other theatre of warfare like it.

Egypt, Libya and Tunisia — the battleground over which the Allies and Axis were waging war — were largely alike geographically: huge desert basins and arid mountain ranges with only a thin strip of fertile land running along the Mediterranean coast, where the towns, villages, farms and ports were concentrated. With over 90 per cent of the land being desert or semi-desert, and inhospitable in the extreme, fighting was restricted to this narrow coastal strip and concentrated around the one navigable highway. Inland lay the Sahara — an expanse of fearful wilderness the size of India, consisting of flat sandy plains (serir), rocky plateaus (hammada), deep dry watercourses (wadis), treacherous salt marshes (shott) and massive deathly dune seas (erg).

In the depths of the desert it never rained, and temperatures soared to 55 degrees Celsius in the shade. No army — Allied nor Axis — strayed far into the scorched wastes that lay to the south of the coastal strip. The terrain was barren, flyblown, ridden with exotic diseases, featureless, waterless and hostile to human habitation as nowhere else on earth.

But the 'captive' knew of one or two small bands of fighters who were starting to venture into this wasteland. They were making the desert their own, emerging from it to take the Axis forces by total surprise, after which they would melt back into the wilderness. And the 'captive' had himself just conceived of the most audacious plan to spur the fortunes of these desert warriors.

Upon arrival at Cairo headquarters he proceeded to relate his story in great detail. By his own account he was no Afrika Korps officer. Quite the contrary: he was Captain Herbert Cecil Buck of the 5th Battalion, 1st Punjabi Regiment — a redoubtable infantry unit consisting of Indian troops led by British officers, which had seen some of the fiercest fighting in the battles to repulse Rommel's forces.

Captain Buck hailed from Camberley, in leafy Surrey. The only son of Lieutenant Colonel Cecil Buck, he'd spent much of his early childhood in India, where his father was serving, before going to Oxford to study politics, philosophy and economics. Prior to the outbreak of war he'd joined the British army and been posted to an Indian regiment, only to have his commanding officer lament the twenty-two-year-old's woeful lack of soldierly capabilities. 'Has not developed military qualities and can hardly be described as a potential cavalry officer,' he complained of the young Buck. 'Of average physique and a thinker rather than a doer.'

If Captain Buck's story was to be believed, he had just proved his former commanding officer very, very wrong.

On 1 February — twenty days previously — Buck had been commanding B and D Companies of the 1st Punjabis, who were dug in around the highway at Derna, a coastal settlement west of Tobruk. Buck also had with him an artillery troop equipped with 25-pounder field howitzers and another with anti-tank guns. A gifted linguist, he spoke numerous Indian languages and was loved by the men of his command.

Buck's orders were to hold the line for twenty-four hours against Rommel's armour, buying the main body of the 4th Indian Division time to retreat to new defensive positions. Despite suffering heavy casualties as Rommel threw waves of tanks and motorized infantry against them, the 1st Punjabis did as they were asked and held firm.

Then at last light on 2 February Buck and his men spied a column of British armour approaching their positions. In the fast-moving battles favoured by Rommel, and with Allied forces falling back on all sides, Buck presumed this was the remnant of a retreating British unit. Radio communications were hit-and-miss at the best of times, and amid the confusion of battle it was little wonder that no one had called through a warning.

In the half-light, by the time Buck and his men realized their mistake it was too late: the uniforms worn by those riding in the — captured — British vehicles were those of the Afrika Korps. Fifteen minutes of intense combat followed, but all was lost. Only one platoon, from Buck's B Company, managed to escape; the rest were captured, wounded or killed.

Buck himself was injured in the fighting and taken prisoner. But he quickly reasoned that what was sauce for the goose was surely sauce for the gander. If the Germans could make like Allied troops to bluff their way through the British lines, surely he could do the same in an effort to escape? Over the next seventy-two hours he watched, eagle-eyed for an opening, warning his men to be ready to rise up and make their getaway.

By acting more seriously injured than he actually was, Buck managed to avoid being included in the first shipment of captives trucked to the POW cages, at Tripoli, 600 miles further away from Allied lines. On the evening of 5 February he teamed up with a highly resourceful would-be fellow escapee, Lieutenant John 'Jock' McKee of the Royal Scots. They were being held in a POW camp built by the Italians, who were fighting alongside the Germans in the battle for North Africa.

As darkness fell, Buck and McKee managed to secure permission to use the wash house. They slipped inside and proceeded to knock out several bricks, opening a hole in the wall that lay adjacent to the camp's perimeter. This consisted of a heavily guarded fence and watchtowers. Buck and McKee timed the sentries' patrols along the perimeter. Immediately after one passed, Buck clambered through the hole in the wall, McKee following. It seemed to take an age, but in the thick darkness they managed to worm their way beneath the wire. They crawled for several minutes, coming upon a road crammed with Italian tanks, but in the night they managed to slip away.

By dawn they were well into the scrub-covered hills, the prelude to the desert proper. McKee had managed to hide a map on his person, which would prove invaluable. Over six days and moving during the hours of darkness, they made their way eastwards, flitting through the hills like ghosts. There were troops everywhere and they were constantly dodging patrols. At one stage they had to dash across an enemy airfield as Allied warplanes rained down bombs, setting the hangars aflame. Here and there they encountered Bedouin tending flocks of sheep. McKee had served in North Africa for several years, and he knew the desert well, speaking basic Arabic. The Bedouin proved friendly, leading the two fugitives to their black-tented camps for rest, food and water.

Finally, they hit a heavily wooded section of the coastal highway. There they lay in hiding, poised to execute the next stage of Buck's audacious plan. They waited until a lone vehicle — a captured Ford truck — came trundling along. Then Buck, clad in clothing scavenged from dead Afrika Korps soldiers — a German waterproof; a leather jerkin; and one of the distinctive Afrika Korps forage caps — stepped forward into the road.

When not in India, Buck had spent much of his childhood being schooled in Germany, and he spoke fluent German. He felt confident that in his attire he would appear like any other Afrika Korps soldier. In his pocket was stuffed a heavy spanner. He flagged down the vehicle. The driver was alone in the cab, which was perfect for what Buck intended.

Pulling his best imperious German officer's act, Buck demanded to see the driver's pass and to know where he was heading. As the man fumbled for his papers, Buck raised the spanner in his pocket to appear like a concealed weapon. Menacing the driver with his 'pistol', he ordered him to dismount. 'Get down from the truck. Down! And don't resist, or it'll end badly for you!'

Bang on cue McKee appeared from behind Buck, a scavenged German rifle levelled at the unfortunate driver. Neither man was a cold-blooded killer. Not yet, anyway. 'There was no point in killing him,' McKee would remark of the hapless driver, 'so we tied him up and left him near the road, where we knew he would be discovered in the morning. For miles we travelled in a German gun convoy and nobody noticed us.'

After covering some fifty miles they pulled over to take stock of their fortunes. The priority now was fuel. If British forces had held firm on the day that Buck and his unit were captured, they would be east of Derna, holding the Gazala–Bir Hacheim line, several hundred miles away. During the retreat dozens of tanks, field howitzers and anti-aircraft guns had been lost, but on their new defensive line Buck's parent unit, the 4th Indian Division, had been bolstered by incoming South African, Polish and Free French troops. He and McKee just had to hope that they had held their positions and halted Rommel's advance.

Buck and McKee resolved to make for the Gazala–Bir Hacheim line, for which they would need a full tank of fuel. They opted to head south on a little-used desert track, aiming to reach a petrol dump that they knew of. But in the course of scouting that location they were spotted and came under a barrage of fire. They were forced to abandon the truck and make their getaway using the cover of some thick scrub.

During the week that followed they collected together an assortment of fellow escapees: there were two officers of the Norfolk Yeomanry, five men from the Welch Regiment (motto Better Death than Dishonour), plus an RAF flight sergeant. Together they now numbered ten, and Buck was determined that all should make good their getaway.

On the evening of 20 February he led the group back to the main coastal road, with highwayman business again in mind. They went to ground some 400 yards east of a German army camp, at a point giving a good view of the route in both directions. At the approach of the first vehicle Buck stepped forward, forage cap pulled low and rifle slung over his shoulder. As luck would have it, he'd pulled over a staff car crammed with Afrika Korps officers. He waved it through: it was too risky and the vehicle too small for their purposes. Then a German truck rumbled out of the darkness. This was more like it.

Buck flagged it down. 'Where are you heading, soldier?' he barked. 'And how many are you?'

'Two, sir, and we're headed that way,' answered the driver, indicating the nearby army camp as his destination.

Excellent, Buck told himself: there was no one else in the rear of the vehicle. He stepped back and raised his rifle. 'Hands up! Get your hands in the air!'

Instantly, McKee and one of the other escapees appeared at his shoulder, weapons at the ready. The two German soldiers were forced out and the truck was backed off the road, whereupon the remainder of Buck's ad hoc force climbed aboard. Leaving the two Afrika Korps soldiers trussed up and hidden in the scrub, Buck and McKee clambered into the cab, each now sporting items of uniform taken from the truck's previous occupants. It was around 9 p.m. on 20 February when they set off east on the main road, intent on making good their escape. This time they were in luck: the vehicle was carrying a full tank of fuel.

Nine hours later — having bluffed his way through a series of German checkpoints — Buck had made it back to British lines.

Following his epic breakout Captain Herbert Cecil Buck would be awarded the Military Cross. The citation would read: 'Captain Buck's escape is remarkable as an example of gallant, consistent and ingenious efforts to get away in spite of tremendous odds, supported by some extraordinary quick-thinking ... His powers of leadership in this direction were amply displayed when he led his little band of escapers back so gallantly to British territory.'

Buck was recommended for the decoration by Lieutenant Colonel Dudley Clarke of MI9, a department of the War Office established to facilitate the escape of Allied prisoners. Dudley Clarke ran MI9's Middle East section, heading up the top-secret and mysterious Force A, which sought out escapees deep inside enemy-held territory.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "SAS Ghost Patrol"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Damien Lewis.
Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Map1
• Map2
• Map3
• Author’s Note
• Preface
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• Epilogue
• Acknowledgements
• Bibliography
• Index
• About the Author
• Copyright