All language subtitles for SAS.Rogue.Heroes.S01E03.WEBRip.x264-ION10

We will be a regiment shooting
grouse in their roost in the dark.

Riley, Almonds.
Remember the parachutes?

Stirling wants to know
if we'll do it again.

I'm not asking for anything
other than permission...

And 60 men. Men I will choose
according to my own criteria.

Why do you want to fight
in the desert, Dave?

I just love killing
fascists, sir.

This regiment isn't
all Paddys, is it?

If you decide to join them,
I will join the SAS too.

They've been sent to
a place called Kabrit.

Two hundred miles behind the
German and Italian lines.

- What are the chances of survival?
- Ten percent?

This is SAS base camp.

Stopping the advance of fascism
across Africa is now down to us.

God help us.

Based on a true story,

the events depicted which
seem most unbelievable

are mostly true.

3 MONTHS LATER

BAGUSH AIRSTRIP
16TH NOVEMBER 1941

Paddy,

play the mad man.

He is the mad man.

Hey, do you postmen have a
problem with a wee bit of wind?

Oh Paddy, shut up.

I'd fly one of these
fucking things myself.

Sure it's just a truck
with a lot of ambition.

Okay, that's enough.

Don't you get fucking
smart with me you shit.

Step aside.

Gentlemen...

I understand your concerns
regarding the weather.

This isn't weather.

This is the whole desert
risen up into the air.

General Auchinleck
will move his 8th Army

against Rommel's front line
in order to relieve Tobruk.

- If Tobruk falls...
- Tobruk will not fall!

Cairo and the Suez
Canal are next.

Malta and the Mediterranean
topple like dominoes.

It ends... with Rommel
rolling his Panzers

up the Mall towards
Buckingham Palace.

His planes must not
attack our troops.

The SAS have trained for months
to blow them up on the ground.

We will not be stood down.
Many lives depend on us.

It's God's work.

We have one shot at
this. Do you understand?

Your job is to deliver
us and turn back!

We will make our own way home.

The wind is 30 knots. 15
knots is considered unsafe.

- War is fucking unsafe.
- Enough, enough.

Besides, Captain
Stirling outranks you.

You will have to sleep
with your own conscience

if Auchinleck's advance is
stopped by air superiority,

and Tobruk falls to the enemy.

Get your men boarded.

Good man.

- Was that too much?
- I think it went rather well.

Mad bastard.

ROGUE HEROES

Letters for home in the bag.

- Time is now!
- Chalk three ready?

- Sir!
- Off we pop.

Go on lads.

Chalk two!

Chalk one.

Dear Mother...

If I don't return and
there is a body to burn,

spread my ashes
among the heather

and let the grouse
laugh at my fate

because now it is
I and my comrades

who are the grouse,
flying onto the guns.

And below us, the enemy are even
now loading up and taking aim.

My dearest Mirren...

You know I love you.

And I know I could make you so
happy that you wouldn't want to die

in case heaven wasn't as good.

Just say yes. You'll marry
me when I'm a proper captain

and I won't ask youto put it in the
papers because I might die tonight,

and then people
would say, "Ha, Ha,"

or they would say, "Poor
dear," and both are horrid.

And if all this is a
lovely dream of mine,

well, it has been
lovely dreaming it.

The potential for greatness
of these men is huge.

I just hope these other
officers can see that.

Or they'll be getting added to the
long list of silver spoon-fed idiots...

This new outfit I got mixed
up in is pretty curious.

During our brief period of training,
the men have lived on rum and lime...

My dear sister,

I'm having a very jolly
time with this new unit.

I sincerely hope I get a chance to show
the officers what I can do with a rifle.

It's a fine crowd of lads,
love. So you're not to worry.

You just get all the happiness
out of life that you can.

Anything that brings
you happiness kid.

Fuck this.

I have been reunited with an old
friend from the Ulster Rifles.

He's a Protestant, Paddy Mayne,

though he drinks
like a Catholic.

We're able to talk about
home to each other.

He's the same man
I knew in Ireland,

but lately I am changed by him.

There's a fellow here I knew
in Ulster, Eion McGonigal.

He's from the other side,
but we don't talk religion.

If I sit up barking and howling
at night as I sometimes do,

he takes me for a walk
and throws a stick for me.

When I find myself
become a devil,

he reminds me that
underneath I am a poet.

Sir, pilot wants
a word with you.

Nothing to worry about lads.

Just a bit of fun, eh.

We're two minutes from the drop.

But Captain Stirling, if you do go
out in this, it will be suicide.

Suicide, Captain
Stirling! Nothing more!

There's no shame in turning
back on a night like this.

Think of your men.

The gentleman aboard have been
appraised of their circumstances

and have made their decisions.

Proceed with your descent

The mad bastards are gonna jump.

- Are we ready, chaps?
- Yes sir!

It's a 10 mile stroll
to the airstrips.

We'll bomb their
planes while they sleep

and rendezvous with Paddy and Jock's
boys for a rum breakfast. Yes?

Yes!

Bloody hell, Mitcham, you're
looking pale, are you tempted?

- No, sir.
- No?

Right, listen up.

No dicking about.

Yes sir!

Stand up!

Hook up!

Stand up!

Hook up!

Action station.

Check your lines.

Go!

Go! Go! Go!

L Detachment!

L Detachment!

Almonds?

Yates?

Mitcham?

L Detachment?

Yates? Mitcham?

Sir!

Sir!

I was... I was dragged
over the cliff.

Can you stand?

No. I cannot stand sir.

I heard my spine snap.

Like a fucking gunshot.

Do you want some water?

I cannot stand this pain.

- I'm sorry.
- Mitcham, no!

Fuck!

May the Lord have
mercy on your soul.

And on mine.

Well, Father...

you said war could
be unpleasant!

I found explosives
and machine guns.

- Then fortune is with us.
- Let's move.

Move where, sir?

To the airfields.

There are only eight of us, sir.

So it'll be harder for them to
see us from the air. Come on.

- Form up.
- Fuck off.

What's wrong with your arm?

It's broken, sir.

Then...

you are lucky,

in the SAS,

you don't have to salute.

Now,

before we proceed, we need to
ascertain where the airfields are.

And to do that, we need
to ascertain where we are.

Riley. I believe you
retained your compass.

All I can say for sure is that
the airfields are on the coast.

- And that we are south of them.
- Good.

So we head north.

There are only eight of us, sir.

If you make that
observation again...

there will only be seven of us.

I would head north,
even if I were alone.

- Right.
- We got work to do!

"Do you think there's a far border
town, somewhere at the desert's edge,

"the last of the lands we know,"

"Some gaunt eventual
limit of our light,

"In which I'll find you waiting,

"and we'll go together, hand
in hand again, out there,

"Into the waste we know not,

"into the night?"

- Who?
- Thanks.

McGonigal, sir.

Okay.

Okay.

- He landed hard, got dragged.
- Yes, I understand.

Did you manage to locate
any of the weapons?

Got only one machine
gun and six grenades.

No explosives or detonators.

They will all be buried in the
sand on account of the wind.

All right, we'll
use the grenades.

You what?

We will head north, that
fucking way, up there...

and we will reach the coast and
we will find their airfields.

Paddy, we won't destroy a single
fucking thing with what we've got, lad.

Paddy... We were
gonna head south.

Sir, there are dark
clouds. It's going to rain.

We need to move to a higher
ground before we get washed away.

Right.

This was a fuck up, yeah?
A grand old fuck up it was.

Now if we wipe ourselves out,

it will be the only thing
that we ever did, Paddy.

And they'll say that all
that we ever did was fuck up.

- GHQ will laugh at us, yeah.
- So...

Your conclusion... is
that we should stand down?

- Is that it?
- Paddy, I didn't mean it...

Your conclusion, corporal,
is that we should stand down?

- Sir, I don't mean...
- Is that it?

- After what they've done to him!
- Wasn't them that killed him.

It was the wind and the fall, and
our decision. A decision we all made.

Sorry, sir.

Paddy, we need to be
alive to go again.

Sir, shall we move out?

- Sir?
- Paddy, we can't leave without you.

It's fine. Go.

I'll catch you up.

Go.

Well, gather your
belongings. Let's fuck off.

Come on, Cooper,
get up from there.

Give me your hand.

Do we even know where
we're going, sir?

Of course!

Jock!

- There's water in the compass.
- Also in the Lewes bombs.

They're drenched,
completely useless.

The bombs in our packs
are called Lewes Bombs

because Lewes is my name
and I fucking invented them.

- I will decide when they are useless.
- Oh, fuck!

- Get that man out of the water!
- Get him out for god's sake!

- Come on, come on, man.
- Come on, you're all right.

Unless you want us all to
drown, we must turn back!

You know, I once
swam the Thames.

At Tower Bridge.

Just as Julius Caesar
swam the Tiber.

- Breasted it.
- Jock

Look.

The water turned the
desert into quicksand.

We can't walk across
quicksand, let alone swim it.

I am not suggesting, Riley,
that I am Julius Caesar.

But like Caesar, my first attempt
at conquest has been thwarted.

Caesar withdrew and came back.

That is what we will do. We
will go, but we will come back!

Yes.

With certainty.

Come on, you heard
the man! Move!

I can hear singing.

Now you sing the second verse

in order to reassure them
that we are not Germans.

In Kabrit, we officers
resolved a desert procedure.

If you see a fire in the
night, you sing the first verse

and the people at the fire sing the
second verse, because if we were...

Germans, we wouldn't
know the words.

Any of you lads know
the second verse?

No.

No.

Well...

if you don't sing it in
the next... 30 seconds,

then the procedure
is to open fire.

If Paddy's out there,
it'll be five seconds.

God, how amusing this all is.

Come on.

You all right sir.

Except the gang is not...

all here, is it?

No.

The gang is not all here.

A brew, lads.

How's everyone then?

There's some...

tea, Paddy.

Come on.

There we are.

Paddy.

Looks like our
passengers have arrived.

- I thought there were 55 of them.
- Don't worry.

You'll still be paid if
you drive home empty.

Long Range Desert Group!

Identify yourselves.

Good man.

We are

L Detachment,

First Special Air
Service Brigade.

What's left of us.

Maybe it's your attitude.

Maybe it's the way you walk. But
you are walking on a tightrope.

This is a big desert.

But there is no room
in it for realists,

or pragmatists,

or believers in common sense.

Last night was the first...

uncertain step...

on the long walk to glory.

There is no other narrative.

That's it, old boy, come on.

What happened?

We experienced some weather.

Ah, yes.

Are you in charge here?

The desert's in charge here.
Maybe you've learned that, sir.

What news of Tobruk? We've
been away from radio.

Come on.

Get a nice bath.

Drink a beer, or two, or three.

And then we'll
talk about Tobruk.

Come on.

Another fuck up?

Another fuck up.

But anyway,

we run the rickshaws into town.

How many more can we expect?

Ah, well,

the weather we experienced
was very bad, so...

Yes.

Perhaps not many.

Right.

And, uh,

how long do you want to wait?

Oh, you know...

forever.

No, I don't like waiting around.

I have a poker game
in Cairo on Thursdays.

We have some cattle to round up.

- Let's go, boys. Come on.
- On your feet.

- Come on.
- Feet!

Sir.

Big leap, boys!

How the hell are you going to
find them in this vastness?

In the desert, everything
can be predicted.

You were dropped in the North
quad, number 12, then rain came.

Rising flood sends your
boys up to high ground,

the platypus ridge
which runs south,

so they walk south
until the ridge splits.

Fuck off back there!

Come on.

Then they reach the
Bang Bang Oasis.

Which even the Brits can see
on account of the vegetation.

Come on.

Then they follow the dried up river
bed south, until they arrive...

right about...

now.

About there.

Looks like I will
make my poker game.

I only count
eight... of our men.

22 survivors out of...

55.

Not a shot fired except a damn good
soldier firing into his own brain.

Not a plane destroyed, not a
fucking detonator detonated.

What will GHQ do?

Do about what?

Nothing happened. Our mission was
never authorised so no one will know.

There are a few at GHQ that do
know, and they will laugh, but...

mostly they will be too
busy losing the war to care.

And we will be stood down
when we get back to Cairo.

Yes.

If we go back.

They say...

"The boys from the
Long Range Desert Group

"can find a pencil in 1000
square miles of desert,

"just so long as
it casts a shadow.

"They can find a downed pilot
in an area the size of England

"in the middle of the
night in a sandstorm."

So?

So.

I wonder...

if they can find the SAS
a place of sanctuary?

Hello!

What are you doing here?

I come here to relax.

I thought it was time for us to update
each other on some recent events.

Your office was locked.

Recent events?

General De Gaulle needs
to be kept informed

of British strategies
in North Africa.

- French 75.
- Yes, madam.

Tell me, what is the General's
main concern at the moment?

Fuck you.

Where are they?

Do you mean where are "they"?

Or where is "he"?

- Do you want to have dinner?
- No. Just tell me where they are.

No one is saying anything.
For Cairo, that is unusual.

Well, truth is, no one
knows where they are.

Any survivors should have
reported back two weeks ago.

We've had no
communications of any sort.

What happened to them?

Well, before you begin to
imagine some heroic combat,

it's almost certain that
if they are all dead,

they weren't killed by the
Germans or the Italians.

They were killed by the desert.
The wind, the sand, the thorns.

Oh, and by the reckless decision
taken by our friend and his comrades

coz they couldn't
stand to lose face.

They decided to take off
and make a parachute drop,

at night in the middle
of a fucking sandstorm.

What is it about Stirling
that you dislike so much?

I invented the SAS.

And he had no right to destroy
it on its first mission.

And if it's not destroyed,

it's now a laughing stock among the
few people who even know it exists.

In terms of percentage, I'm afraid the
chances of Stirling being still alive

are just this side of zero.

I thought you knew the rules
of engagement in time of war?

Fucking is fine. Feeling is not.

Now, then.

This, my friends, is Jalo.

Literally, unquestionably, undeniably
the middle of fucking nowhere.

If "Fucking Nowhere" had a
capital city, this would be it.

And... and this would be the main
street of Fucking Nowhere City.

And the Lord Mayor
would be fucking no one,

presiding over fuck all,

in a place where there was
no one around to give a fuck.

Which is exactly what you asked
for, Captain Stirling, am I right?

We could carry on driving,

but I'd say this place is as good as
any other part of nowhere we might find.

How far to the German airfields?

Sirte is 350 miles northwest.

The allied front line?

If you drove east, the first
allied position you'd come to

is a New Zealand reserve troop,
80 miles across open desert.

But the Kiwi fighting men have been
sent north, so the camp's empty.

If you need any help,
there isn't any.

New Zealand camp
is empty, you say?

A few wounded, a few guards.

And a few... empty
trucks, one might imagine.

And maybe some guns they left
behind, maybe some ammunition.

Would there be a piano?

A fucking piano?

The capital city of Fucking Nowhere
will do us just fine, but first...

We need to do a
spot of shopping.

Come on, you dishy bastard.

- Thieving bastard.
- It were me.

If I'd known you were going to rob the
place, I wouldn't have brought you, sir.

Call me David. Not sir.

Phillip, sentry duty.

- On the tower. One hour.
- Yes, sir.

If you can, perhaps,

you might bury the explosive canisters
to keep them out of direct heat.

Where can I put the piano?

- Do you play the piano, Paddy?
- No.

Eoin was trying to teach
me. I want to carry on.

- Put it in the mess hall.
- There isn't a mess hall.

So build one.

- Seekings.
- Yes, boss.

Now, last night was rather a success,
so we have something to celebrate.

What did you steal
by way of drinks?

Brought you 45 gallons
of New Zealand rum, sir.

Good boy, right. So by the time that
we're unpacked, it'll be cocktail hour.

And then when we've had our
cocktails and the sun is set,

I think we should go
for a bit of a jolly.

Over there.

Ammunitions will be signed
in by Lieutenant Fraser,

unless he has a
problem with that.

- No, sir. This way.
- Good.

Refuel your vehicles,
Mr. Sadler. We go tonight.

Get the tents up. Let's
not be too creative.

Call me Mike.

Targets will be
given on the coast.

Ten Lewes bombs for
each man. At the ready.

Have your ten minute fuses,
and your 30 minute fuses.

Do not use your bombs until you
can smell the Messerschmitt.

SAS motorised
mission number one.

- Move out, you fucking virgins.
- Come on, Bob.

We are ten miles outside of
Sirte airstrip, directly north.

I'm going to pick three men, take
them there, and do what damage I can.

Lewes, you will take
your men to Mersa Brega.

Your target is fuel
trucks and supply trucks.

Paddy, you will take your
men to Tamet airstrip.

Your target is Italian Caproni
fighter bombers and Messerschmitts.

- Bill Fraser? Where are you?
- I'm here.

Come on.

I hear during the fuck up

that you repeatedly asked questions
of your commanding officer.

Well, we have decided, in order
to avoid further fuck ups,

that questions are to
be welcomed in the SAS.

You will pick four men
and travel to Agedabia.

If questions are welcome,
sir I've got a question.

Yes.

- Can me and the boys have some rum?
- Oh, absolutely. Seekings, please.

Yes, Seekings, come on.

Right. We rendezvous back
here tomorrow morning.

You and your drivers
wait here for our return.

With all due respect, sir, I'm fucking
sick of being the taxi service.

I can read this desert
better than any man here.

Well, if it's action
that you're after,

go with Paddy Mayne.

We have a second chance.

Let's see what the stars have
in store for us, shall we?

Come on.

Pull up.

TAMET GERMAN / ITALIAN AIRSTRIP

AGEDABIA GERMAN /
ITALIAN AIRSTRIP

MERSA BREGA GERMAN /
ITALIAN SUPPLY DEPOT

SIRTE GERMAN / ITALIAN AIRSTRIP

It's empty.

They've all flown.

Shit.

Prime fuses, ten minutes.

Go.

Riley. Take one man,

go to the right.

I'm gonna take three men,

flank around from the rear.

Back here in eight minutes.

Hit as many trucks as you can.
For God's sake don't be seen.

Go.

Sadler.

This is the famous Lewes bomb.

Never heard of it.

That's because it's
only famous That's us.

Jock Lewes invented it. He
cooked us up a prototype.

Tonight, we're going
to try them out.

- You've never used them before?
- No, but Jock Lewes is very smart.

I'm sure we'll be fine.

Now, these have all been primed and
ready to go off in ten minutes, right?

- From now?
- From now.

So we should fucking
get on with it, Paddy.

- Ten minutes is plenty of time, boys.
- Plenty of time for what?

They're drunk, Paddy. We can plant the
bombs and be gone before they know...

Low hanging fruit.

Ripe apples.

Those drunks are pilots and
engineers when they sober up.

So to fuck with conventions,
Geneva or otherwise.

This is our fucking work, boys. This
is who we are. To kill and be killed.

Any man too just and good and noble
for work like this can stay behind,

polish their bullets,
make a nice wee necklace.

Myself, I am tranquil.

I never go to parties to
which I'm invited anyway.

Go, go, go, go, go, go.

Would you like a light?

- Here you are.
- Are you a German?

No. English, actually.

- English?
- Yes.

English...

Hello.

Fuck.

Good evening.

Shit! Take cover!

Come on.

In three minutes the bombs
go off, including this truck.

Not ideal.

Think they've had
enough now, Paddy.

Paddy, Paddy!

Two minutes to blow
the planes boys. Move.

Fucking move!

Jock, in one minute this
truck's about to get a bit hot.

Not helpful.

Come on.

Paddy? Are we nearly out?

Where's Paddy?

Where on earth is he?

Paddy!

Paddy!

I'm out.

Get down, down!

The bombs work.

- Move.
- Go, go!

Paddy.

Let's get back to those chimps.

Paddy! Where are you, Paddy?

Yes!

Yes, boys.

That's Mersa Brega and
Agedabia blown to hell, sir.

Yes.

And that's Paddy Mayne at Tamet.

And here am I in the dark
and silence in Sirte.

Come on it's not a
competition, sir.

Of course it fucking is.

Come on.

GARDEN CITY, CAIRO BRITISH GHQ.

Sir. Report from intelligence.

Ah, my dear.

At last I have something to
report that's actually true.

Actually fucking true.

Intercepted radio communications

between the German and
Italian air force commands,

says that the night before last, 48
fighter bombers and fighter aircraft

were destroyed while on the
ground at two separate air bases.

Destroyed by men who appeared
apparently from nowhere

and disappeared into the desert.

Also 17 fuel tankers, supply trucks,
ammunition crates, and explosives

were destroyed at Mersa Brega.

Apparently those few who caught
a glimpse of the attackers

said they wore no uniforms
and looked like wild savages.

So he's alive?

The important thing is
that my creation is alive.

I think the mystery of what happened
to L Detachment First SAS Brigade,

may have been solved, sir.

Well, I think that boy
may just have won his bet.

I see.

I see.

Let the games begin.

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