The Lost Band of Brothers (41 page)

We continued and were now only a few metres from the shore with the water at ankle height. At that moment all Hell broke loose as 3 separate machine-gun positions simultaneously opened fire. These things could fire about 600 rounds a minute and the sound of incoming fire shattered what had been the peace and stillness of the night. We were too far away to assault any of the positions and our mission was already compromised so we had to bugger off pretty quickly.

We rushed the boat back into the water and jumped in completely forgetting that the damned thing wouldn’t float and it grounded again. We needed to dump our rucksacks, push like mad, jump in and row for our lives back to the waiting MTBs. Quite how we survived is a mystery to me. And that was that, a complete fucking fiasco. We headed back to Tabarka, cold, soaking wet and minus our kit which was now at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea. We arrived back in Tabarka and spent the rest of the night in the shell of what remained of the Hotel Mimosa, a shattered two-storey building. We waited for another three days at which point Major Appleyard cancelled the raid and we headed back to Philippville with our tails between our legs. I mention it just to show that sometimes things just went completely wrong, not just a bit wrong. And I remember thinking – not for the first time – that it would be a miracle if any of us were going to make it through the war.
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But on that raid, at least, not a man had been lost. What had been lost, however, apart from their weapons and all their equipment, was a precious, leather-bound anthology of favourite poetry given to Appleyard by his sister Jenny who had painstakingly hand-inscribed all her brother’s favourite poems. It had been in Appleyard’s rucksack. In a theatre of much killing and bereavement, it was a trivial and inconsequential loss. Nevertheless, Appleyard felt it keenly.

†††

As the allies’ campaign drew to a successful conclusion in North Africa, their generals’ eyes turned towards Italy, that ‘soft underbelly’ of Nazi Europe. Knocking Italy out of the war, reasoned Churchill to a Roosevelt reluctant to commit Allied troops to a southern invasion before the northern invasion of France, ‘would cause a chill of loneliness over the German people and might be the beginning of their doom.’
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Moreover, in Russian eyes, argued Churchill, their British and American allies would at last be seen to be doing
something
: ‘Never forget there are 185 German divisions against the Russians … we are not at present in contact with
any
.’

Standing in the way of a straightforward invasion of the toe of Italy was the German garrison on the stepping stone that was the island of Sicily. And standing in the way of a successful invasion of Sicily, reasoned allied commander General Dwight Eisenhower, were a cluster of small islands – and potential allied airfields – the most significant of which were Pantelleria, the Axis forces’ Gibraltar, and Lampedusa. Pantelleria, 63 miles south-west of Sicily, had been sized up for invasion once before: in 1940 Admiral Roger Keyes,
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hero of Zeebrugge in the First World War and – briefly – Director of Combined Operations in the Second World War, had planned to assault the island, storming ashore, at the age of 69, at the head of British commandos. The idea was vetoed by the Chiefs of Staff.

This time, Pantelleria, with its 12,000-strong Italian garrison, would attract its own bombing offensive. American B-26 Marauders of the 320th Bomb Group would fly more than 1,700 sorties to drop more than 4,000 tons of bombs on the guns, fortifications, radar station and airfield of an island 8½ miles long by 5½ miles wide. It was later estimated by Oxford Professor Sir Solly Zuckerman, Churchill’s expert on the effectiveness of bombing from the air, that the precision daylight bombing of Pantelleria pulverised 53 per cent of effective opposition.
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Unsurprisingly, perhaps, the battered Italian garrison surrendered even as Allied landing craft approached the island. The only British casualty, claimed Churchill afterwards, with a humour that may have been lost on Pantelleria’s Italian casualties, was a soldier bitten by a mule.

A few weeks earlier, on 29 May 1943, and on the same island, Appleyard had been bitten by an Italian.

The aim of Operation
Snapdragon
, as ever, had been to capture a prisoner, recce a possible landing ground and gauge the strength of the Italian garrison through prisoner interrogation, all vital pieces of information that would be fed back to the British commander, General Harold Alexander, by Appleyard personally. A submarine, HMS
Unshaken
, was placed at the raiders’ disposal.

‘Stokey’ Stokes remembered that, just before she surfaced, the ‘silent service’s’ fabled hospitality came to the fore:

We worked a lot with the Navy and when operating on submarines it was the Captain’s tradition, before blokes like us went ashore, to offer us a tot of rum … This seemed completely ridiculous to me, so when my turn came I just smiled and said ‘no thanks’ … it just struck me as bloody crackers to be sitting on a submarine swigging rum just before we tactically disembarked and made our way ashore. One of my best mates, whom I served with for a long time, had a laugh about this and pulled my leg. He said: ‘Don’t worry, Stokey. If you don’t want it, I’ll have yours.’ His name was Ernie Herstell, and he was an ex-Hampshire Policeman; he was a great bloke.
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HMS
Unshaken
blew her tanks and surfaced half a mile off shore. Paddling towards land in two inflatable RAF rescue dinghies on a pitch-dark night with five men in each craft, Appleyard’s dinghy crunched up onto the beach and he led the way to the base of steep cliffs. One of those on the raid was Lt John Cochrane of the Toronto Scottish serving now with 2 SAS:

We had one false start and then began the hardest climb any of us had ever experienced – we pulled ourselves up completely by instinct and every foothold was an insecure one, the rock being volcanic and very porous, crumbling away under our hands and feet. By what seemed to be a miracle, Geoff finally got us safely to the top – covered in scratches – for we had decided to wear shorts so that in an emergency swimming would be easier.

We were nearly discovered as we reached the top of the cliff which was about a hundred feet high at this point. Geoff and the others were crawling away from the edge towards a path that they could dimly see and I was just pulling myself up over the edge when we heard men approaching. We all froze where we were and then to my horror I felt the edge of the cliff on which I was lying begin to crumble.

Just as the patrol came level with Geoffrey, who was lying in the gorse not three feet from their feet, the worst happened. A large stone slipped from beneath me and I waited tensely for the crash as it hit the rocks a hundred feet below me.

The crash came and Apple and the others prepared to let the patrol have it at short range. But the Italians chattering to each other apparently didn’t hear a sound and passed by, little knowing how near to death they had been. We breathed again and prepared to start the work we had been sent to do.
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That work involved grabbing a sentry. The unsubtle way they had decided to do this was to crack a guard over the head with a length of lead pipe and then lower him away over the cliff to the beach. Appleyard was to do the cracking. Upon reflection – and after scaling the 100-foot crumbling cliff – the plan was changed. Now they would merely stifle a guard, take him prisoner whilst he was still conscious and force him to make his own way down the cliff-face. Nearby, so we are told, they actually heard an Italian sentry singing
O Sole Mio
. So be it: he would be their man. Appleyard crept closer, leapt forward to get a stranglehold on the man’s throat and botched it in the dark. The soloist let out a scream of fear. Four men jumped on him and Appleyard tried to stifle his cries by jamming his fist down his throat whilst whispering
Amico
!
Amico
! Whereupon the Italian bit deeply into his wrist. Hearing the scream, now another sentry came running. One of Appleyard’s men, Ernie Herstell, ran forward to intercept him with a rubber truncheon and was shot in the stomach by a burst of fire. ‘When the adrenalin is pumping and there is a split second to react between life and death you need razor-sharp senses,’ wrote ‘Stokey’ Stokes. ‘I’ve had many years to wonder about that night and if I’d taken my tot of rum, instead of Ernie taking both, whether he would have survived.’
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More guards turned out and soon there was a running fight on the top of the cliffs in the darkness. ‘Geoff accounted for at least three with his automatic and Sergeant Leigh got one and possibly two.’ ‘Stokey’ Stokes remembers that fight on the cliff-top too:

For what seemed like an eternity Major Appleyard and I were involved in one of the most violent fire-fights of my war with each one of us fighting a fierce battle, killing a significant number of the enemy. We knew that the operation was compromised and it was really a battle for survival. We had to conduct a fierce fighting withdrawal, leaving Ernie behind on the island.
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The SAS raiders were not there to fight pitched battles. Shouting ‘Every man for himself!’ Major Appleyard turned and disappeared down the cliff. The party scrambled, stumbled and slid back down the steep, crumbling cliff after him down to the shore, pursued by shots the whole way. The prisoner sentry, already knocked senseless, was dropped on the way down and broke his neck on the rocks below. They rifled his pockets for papers and then threw his body into the sea.
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Back into the inflatables and another desperate paddle out towards safety, the Italians firing machine-guns and loosing off Verey lights in all directions. Presently they were out of Verey light range, the shooting slackened off and, once again, not a man had been hit. HMS
Unshaken
was lying out there somewhere, submerged and waiting. Appleyard had arranged with her captain, Lt Jack Whitton, RN, that, if they needed help in a hurry before the agreed time of rendezvous, he would drop two hand-grenades under water. Now he did so and the submarine rose obediently to the surface nearby. The men scrambled on board: ‘We were all so grateful to the Captain of the
Unshaken
for remaining on station when he had every right to fuck off and leave us,’ observed ‘Stokey’ Stokes. ‘He was a very brave man and against orders risked his crew to save us.’
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Their dinghies sliced to ribbons by two burly sailors, HMS
Unshaken
submerged and set course for Malta.
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Only Ernie Herstell had been lost. It is tempting to surmise that, if the enemy had been German, it would have been a different matter entirely. Little had been achieved but, once again, Appleyard and his men had pushed their luck to the limit.

†††

Spring and early summer: the seasons for campaign and invasion. Pantelleria was invaded on 10 June. The invasion of Sicily began almost exactly a month later on the night of 9 July 1943. For Appleyard, however, the intervening weeks had represented a time of rest and recuperation. The strain of constant operations was beginning to tell – and had been noticed by brother officers. When the stand-down came it was not discretionary, but a direct order:

By the way, I expect you will be relieved at the following news: I am to do no more operational work personally for at least six months. The reason is that I have been getting a bit ‘operationally tired’ lately, although I know it sounds rather unreasonable. I have been getting jumpy, which I am afraid is rather absurd but, under fire, it’s a dangerous sign in the leader of a party, even though I am fully able to control myself.

Although I feel a bit low about planning operations, etc., for other people when I am not going myself, I am quite convinced that some of those who have had less operational work in the past year than I have had, can, for the time being, command these small parties in a more vigorous and determined manner than myself at present … But don’t worry – I am quite normal – not on the edge of a nervous breakdown or anything and am actually feeling better every day.

Once again, his thoughts turned towards family and home in Yorkshire, writing on 27 June 1943:

How pleasant my room at home must look after its repainting, etc. Maybe I shall be seeing it again before long – lovely! Did I tell you there is every prospect (say 75 per cent chance) of my returning home about August? I won’t be sorry to come back in a couple of months’ time but I feel there are many more people who deserve a trip home more.

Dearest love. God bless.

Geoffrey
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Despite his compulsory rest from operations, Appleyard’s next trip was not home to the safety of family in northern England but to the tracer-flecked skies of northern Sicily the night after the launch of Operation
Husky
, the allied invasion of Sicily. Operation
Chestnut
was 2 SAS’s first airborne mission, mounted in support of that invasion, and, although he would not drop with his men, it was typical of Appleyard that he wanted to see them safely on their way, just as he had the men of SSRF from the bridge of
The Little Pisser
after injuring his ankle re-embarking during Operation
Dryad
.

Operation
Husky
consisted of a major amphibious assault on the east and south-eastern shores of the island supported by large airborne operations. Two task forces would land on the island – the Eastern Task Force under General Bernard Montgomery, made up of British 8th Army veterans from North Africa supported by Canadian troops, and the Western Task Force under General George Patton, consisting of the US 7th Army. Plagued by typical army on-the-bus, off-the-bus, on-the-bus, cancellations and uncertainties – eighty men were initially to be dropped off by two submarines – Operation
Chestnut
was planned to support that invasion.

‘For whatever reason this plan was changed time and again, right up to the last minute,’ confirmed ‘Stokey’ Stokes:

In the end a number of separate ‘main’ operations were undertaken and the main airborne drop was to be huge. Soldiers get used to people messing around with things and generally adapt to it but this felt different. It was as if it was being made up as we were going along.
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