Desert Raiders. Shaun Clarke

Stirling opened the first door he saw, which was marked ‘Adjutant-General’. He came face to face with a startled Army major, who demanded to know what the hell he was doing bursting in unannounced. As Stirling was trying to explain who he was and what he wanted, the major, who turned out to be one of his old instructors from Pirbright, where Stirling had done his basic training, recognized him and became even angrier.

      ‘Still acting the bloody fool, are you?’ he climaxed after a lengthy tirade about Stirling’s unorthodox behaviour, past and present. ‘Well, not in this office, you don’t. Get out of here instantly!’

      Greaves backed out first, followed by Stirling, who was, to his amazement, grinning broadly.

      ‘Worst instructor I ever had,’ he said coolly. ‘Come on, Dirk, let’s keep searching.’

      ‘I think we might be pushing our luck,’ Greaves warned him.

      ‘Tosh!’ Stirling barked.

      Wincing occasionally from the pain in his unsupported legs, he led Greaves further along the corridor, brushing past many senior staff officers, looking for the office of the C-in-C.

      ‘That guard’s bound to be trying to find us,’ Greaves said, ‘so if we don’t come across the office of the C-in-C soon, he’ll be on our backs.’

      Stirling stopped at a door marked ‘DCGS’. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, Dirk. Let’s try our luck in here.’ Boldly, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

      Greaves followed him in and closed the door behind him. Though bold in war, Greaves now suffered a racing heart at the thought of facing the Deputy Chief of General Staff without an appointment, let alone a pass into the building. His heart thumped even more when he saw the DCGS, General Neil Ritchie, looking up in surprise from his cluttered desk.

      ‘Who…?’

      ‘Lieutenant Stirling, Scots Guards, sir,’ Stirling interrupted breathlessly. ‘And Lieutenant Greaves, also Scots Guards. Both with 8 Commando and formerly part of Layforce.’

      Before the general could respond or get over his surprise, Stirling apologized for bursting into the office, explained that there had been no time to arrange it and said that he had come on a matter of particular urgency.

      ‘It had better be,’ General Ritchie replied darkly. Then, distracted by Stirling’s ungainly stance, he asked, ‘Why are you standing in such an odd way, Lieutenant?’

      ‘Spot of bother with the legs, sir. Parachute drop. Just got out of the Scottish Military Hospital and had to leave my crutches at the gate when we sneaked into the camp.’

      ‘You came here on crutches?’ General Ritchie gazed at Stirling in disbelief, then smiled a little and leaned back in his chair. ‘You have five minutes, Lieutenant. Take that chair and rest your legs. Then you’d better start talking.’

      Relieved, Stirling withdrew his memorandum from the inside pocket of his tunic, handed it to Greaves, then gratefully sank into the soft chair facing the desk while Greaves handed the memo to the DCGS. Ritchie read it carefully, taking rather longer than five minutes, then spread it carefully on the desk and looked up again.

      ‘Interesting.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’

      ‘It could work, but I’m not at all sure that the C-in-C would welcome such an unorthodox approach. A sniff of guerrilla operations there, Stirling, and General Wavell doesn’t approve of that business.’

      ‘That may be true, sir, but rumour has it that he’s under considerable pressure from Churchill to stop the relentless advance of Rommel.’

      ‘Those rumours are based on fact. Nevertheless, he may not thank me for this kind of proposal. A lot of risk involved, yes?’

      ‘It’s a safe bet for you, sir,’ Stirling said cleverly. ‘If things go wrong, the casualties will be few in number. If successful, they could change the course of the war in the desert and bring credit to all of us.’

      Ritchie thought about it, then nodded in agreement. ‘All right, Lieutenant, I’ll bring the subject up with the C-in-C. If he’s interested I’ll show him your memorandum. You should hear from me within a matter of days. In the meantime, no more nonsense from you – such as this break-in. I’ll get a sentry to escort both you men out. Next time get a pass.’

      ‘Yes, sir!’ Stirling and Greaves said at once, with big, dopey grins.

      The general picked up his phone and called for a guard. Five minutes later a triumphant Stirling and Greaves were being escorted out of MEHQ. As they passed through the main gates, the guard who had pursued them stepped out, grinning broadly, to hand Stirling his crutches.

      ‘Well done, sir,’ the guard said with a grin.

      Stirling smiled back at him, put the crutches under his armpits, and waited patiently beside Greaves while the latter hailed a passing taxi.

      ‘Now we can only wait,’ Stirling said, ‘so let’s have a good time.’

      Three days later, when Greaves and Stirling were beginning to feel more exhausted from having a good time than they ever had on an operation, Stirling received a call from the DCGS’s office, inviting him back to see General Ritchie.

      While Stirling was at that meeting, Greaves enjoyed a long lunch with his attractive nurse, Frances, whom he had been wining, dining and bedding for the past two days and nights in his hotel. In fact, she had just left his room when Stirling turned up, flushed with excitement.

      ‘The meeting wasn’t just with General Ritchie,’ he told Greaves. ‘The C-in-C, General Auchinleck, was also there. So was the Chief of the General Staff.’

      Greaves gave a low whistle of appreciation. ‘So, what transpired?’

      ‘Permission granted,’ Stirling said, ‘on the following conditions. I’ve just been promoted to captain. Five officers and sixty other ranks will be recruited. For the time being, we’ll recruit only from former Layforce men. We’ll train the men ourselves and prepare them for raids against five airfields Jerry is using as bases for his latest Me 109F fighters. Auchinleck felt that five-man teams are too awkward, so teams of four instead of five will be the operational basis of the raiding parties. Our parent body will be a non-existent Special Air Service Brigade, or L Detachment…’

      ‘Why “L”?’ Greaves interrupted.

      Stirling’s grin was mischievous. ‘L for Learner. Anyway, that’s what we’re calling it: L Detachment, SAS Brigade. To Axis agents and others it should suggest that there are more than sixty-six parachutists in Egypt. Meanwhile, we can get on with the real business. Now let’s go and find some men.’

      Jubilant, they embarked on a search of Cairo to find the men who would be the bedrock of L Detachment.

      The first officer, Lieutenant William ‘Bill’ Bollington, they found immediately, in the bar of Shepheard’s Hotel, where Bollington was staying. A Gordon Highlander whose father and grandfather had been senior NCOs, he was instantly excited by the idea of a new raiding team and agreed to join them.

      ‘I strongly recommend Sergeant Ralph Lorrimer,’ he told them. ‘Dorset Regiment, but now with the LRDG. Apart from being a hell of an NCO in his own right, and an expert on the desert, he’d probably be your ticket to the LRDG. He’s also, incidentally, unbeatable with the Browning 12-gauge autoloader. A good man in a tight spot.’

      ‘Where will we find him?’

      Lieutenant Bollington grinned and pointed down through his room window, in the direction of the Sharia il Berka. ‘Down there. He practically lives in Tiger Lil’s place. I think he keeps a room there.’

      ‘Very good,’ Stirling said. He and Greaves left the hotel and walked across to the notorious street of brothels. Tiger Lil’s was a gloomy, echoing barn of a place where the men queued up at the doors of the rooms, often peeping through keyholes to see how