01x02 - Episode 2

[bunniefuu]

Tobruk is under 24-hour b*mb.

The map on the wall keeps
being redrawn and men are dying.

I share your impatience
with the conduct of the w*r,

and I intend to do something
about it.

Right now, beauty is not
a currency I value.

Apologies, that sounded like an
attempt to be charming, didn't it?

I've decided to form a
Parachute Regiment. You've decided?

I've decided you are the right kind
of men.

The others are all insane, in jail,
or, like me, in despair.

Where's Mayne? He's going to Burma
to fight the Japanese.

Heard you want to come as well.
Why not?

We're not at w*r with Japan yet.

If Paddy's going,
we will be quite soon.

We parachute units of selected men
into the interior

and then att*ck Rommel's
supply line from the desert.

No-one parachutes in the desert.
We know.

I was hoping Mayne would join us,
but we can do it without him.

What should we call ourselves?

We do not stand down any more.

That should be
the name of our unit -

the men who refuse to stand down.

HE YELLS

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HUBBUB

SHE KNOCKS ON DOOR

Hello?

Hello?

Oh!

You must be the French person.

Ahem! Are you Colonel
Dudley Wrangel Clarke?

Mm. At your service.

And this is the, er...Cairo
headquarters

of British Secret Intelligence
Middle East.

Ahem!

Fun, isn't it?

If we don't get there soon,
we're going to lose him.

BELL CLANGS

FAINT CHATTER

MAN GROANS

PATIENT COUGHS

FAINT CHATTER

Nurse? This one's bleeding fast.
Get him checked by the doctor.

Excuse me! Whoops!

Dr Gamal, here's the list
of patients.

So that's 15 from Tobruk,

20 from Ubari and one from
God-knows.

This is the one from God-knows.

Shit! Get him through!

Clear the way!

I imagine you're a little surprised
I am who I am,

this office is what it is, and...

I do what I do in the way
that I do it.

Nothing surprises me in Cairo,

except your Chanel dress.

Where did you get it?

Oh, Paris.

You're so beautiful.

Oh, I wish I was French.

I'm not French, I'm Algerian.

And how is this your w*r?

Trying to save Africa
from the n*zi.

Close your eyes and imagine it.

If you're spying for the French,
I know your boss.

He's a drunk and a heroin addict.

I'm able to negotiate my way
around his idiocy.

Oh, good.

In that case, when it comes to
Anglo-French intelligence operations
in Cairo...

..why don't you and I just keep it
between ourselves?

I'd like that.

And may I suggest we start
with something...rather wonderful?

Oh, shit!

Is that a medical term?

You can hear me?

Do you feel any pain?

What about now?

What do you feel?

Regret.

If I die in this way, it would mean
my life was a one-act comedy

with not even an interval
for gin and tonic.

Prepare for surgery now! Quickly!
Now! Move, move, move!

You see, w*r is about deception,

because deception is a w*r
against reality,

and reality is the enemy
of the soldier.

Particularly the heroic soldier,

must live a life of heroic fiction.

And the fruit of deception
is victory.

Death to the truth
and all its bastard offspring,

including fear and caution.

Colonel Clarke, you seem
to have invented

an entire British regiment.

Yes, from thin air.

HE CHUCKLES

I used actors for the photos
of soldiers.

The planes are made out of wood
and glue.

On aerial reconnaissance,
they seem terribly real.

I made six copies of that folder
for indiscreet distribution.

Took one to the Gauche club
last night in my briefcase,

where I ran into the attache
at the Spanish Embassy,

as of course, I knew I would.

I accidentally left my briefcase
under his table for him to find,

so that by tomorrow morning,
Berlin will be in receipt of

fresh intelligence that the British
have a brand-new Parachute Regiment

in east Libya preparing to
drop troops behind their lines.

The Italians will send troops
back in response,

then our glorious leader,

Commander-in-chief Middle East
General Auchinleck will act,

sending three British divisions
to att*ck the right flank,

which will be almost defenceless,

et voila!

Battle won by wood, glue...and
my own genius.

You can have that.

Make copies,
leave it where it can be read.

The Spanish and the Portuguese
diplomats are the fast-tracks
to Berlin.

I, too, have an idea
for an operation,

which I also think
is rather wonderful. Hmm?

But the difference is,
my soldiers are real.

DISTANT CHATTER

Do you find anything out?

Apparently, it was a complete
disaster.

Stirling's parachute torn now.

Did he die?

They say it's touch-and-go.

See, the problem with Stirling
is that he is a dreamer.

So are you, Paddy.

Oh, he is from that class of men
who do things

imagining they are writing it down
in their autobiography,

until their biography reaches
an unexpected full stop.

If he dies, I will attend
his funeral.

Because...for some reason,

he actually liked me.

HE GRUNTS

Huh!

Oh!

HE LAUGHS

AIRCRAFT PASSES OVERHEAD

What on earth are you doing
jumping out of airplanes?

Even as a boy, you were always
idiotically optimistic

about the effects of gravity.

I'm told by the doctor
not to express pity.

They said pity
suggests hopelessness,

which encourages despair.

Ah. Rigorous concern is preferred,

so I will be rigorous in my concern.
How are you?

My mother looked up my condition
in a medical dictionary.

She tells me only one in five people
with a spine contusion
ever walk again.

But I'm always, always
in the minority.

She believes I will be
one of the one in five.

She also tells me of grouse.

I've been working on the idea. Hmm.
Your idea.

My idea now, because I've added
some whistles and bells.

Yes, take a look.

This is totally illegible.

Oh. Well, my eyes hurt,

so I've been writing
with my eyes closed.

But, you see, I'm hoping to persuade
my eyes

and my legs, my f*cking legs...

Sh.

..persuade my legs
that they are required.

I'm making a case to my toes,
my shins and my insolent knees

that they are needed!

Needed for what?
Ideas are coming quickly.

Even this feather is confirmation!

Falling from between the pages
like fate. Come.

You see, on my family estate,
they sh**t grouse,

BUT they only sh**t them
when they are in the air.

Grouse? We would be a regiment
of f*cking poachers

sh**ting grouse in their roost
in the dark.

sh**ting them on the ground.

Not like gentlemen, not at all.

You know, you might consider it
prudent to ask them what medication

they're giving you, because
you're not making any sense at all.

Ah!
STIRLING CHUCKLES

The grouse are German
and Italian aeroplanes.

We won't wait for them to take off,
we will sh**t them on the ground.

Think about it!
There's no point thinking about it
cos it's all academic.

Even if we could get to
the airstrips, there's no b*mb
small enough

to carry miles across the desert,
and we'd need dozens.

You can figure that out and I'll
persuade Paddy Mayne to join us.

The news from GHQ is that
our little experiment is over.

Our unit has been stood down
with immediate effect.

Paddy Mayne is going to Burma
and I'm going back to Tobruk.

And I imagine you are being sent
home to Scotland.

No. No-one does things with me,
or to me.

I will get better.

Then, Lewes,
you and I and Paddy Mayne...

..we WILL go poaching.

UPBEAT JAZZ RECITAL

I have some very important
intelligence

from a long-range desert group.

But I'm afraid it's all the way...

..over here.

You're a bastard. I know.

I received word
from General de Gaulle last night,

and he gave me permission to speak
to you about a certain matter.

There we go. Careful!

HE STRAINS

These men are not actors.

They're all French paratroopers who
escaped France ahead of the n*zi.

General de Gaulle
urgently wants these men

to join up with a British unit.

Why are you telling me?
I do jokes and tricks.

The British are losing the w*r
and need all the help they can get.

You are the most effective
covert operative in Africa.

You make things happen.

HE STRAINS

Textbook recruitment technique.

Batten into submission
with flattery.

I love it. Do continue.

APPLAUSE AND CHEERING

British High Command listens to you.

It's just an operation that requires
French-speaking soldiers.

Ah, creative formulation is my area.
Don't tread on my toes.

I'm the one who invents regiments
around here.

I will tread on your toes
when we dance.

Oh, we're dancing, are we?

Phase two - after flattery
is usually seduction.

But that may not work with you.

I do love to dance.

So, we have a deal?

I will help you with
your fictional regiment

if you help me with my real one.

Vive la France.

God save the King.

Well done.

Now, let's do it all again.

Shall we?
SHE CHUCKLES

HE PLAYS "FUR ELISE"

Lieutenant Mayne!

Paddy, are you supposed to be
somewhere else?

Looking for Lieutenant Robert Mayne!
Probably.

You're in check.

Paddy?

Why don't you just make yourself
known to the captain?

I'm hardly known to myself.

Plus, the captain gets my goat.

Lieutenant Mayne!

Paddy? Think about Burma.

Don't do anything that will
jeopardise our deployment to Burma.

Hey! I've been looking all over
f*cking Cairo for you!

You're meant to be in a briefing!

But you're too busy playing chess
with your boyfriend.

Get on your f*cking feet, and get
yourself a shave while you're at it!

PADDY SCOFFS

I have my friend in check.

In two moves, it'll be checkmate.

Now, wait your f*cking turn.

Get on your f*cking feet,
you lazy Irish f*ck...! Argh!

CAPTAIN GROANS

LOW CHATTER

CAPTAIN YELLS

PIANO KEYS CLONK

Burma would have been so nice.

FAINT GROANING

HE GRUNTS

I don't advise going in there, sir.

Oh, come on, open the door.

Oh!

KEYS JANGLE AND LOCK CLICKS

Well...

I said I didn't want to see him...

..and they said I had to.

I have grown weary of destroying
the self-confidence of these guards

who take turns to try
and grind me down.

What do you want?

My mother sent it to me.

Did you ever sh**t grouse?
Pardon me?

I said, did you ever sh**t grouse?

Grouse?

PADDY EXHALES DEEPLY

No.

Nah.

No, no, I was never invited to
the grouse sh**t.

Just not the right bloodline.

Just a yeoman farmer. Hmm.

They'd have had me as a beta,

but if I'd have been invited
to their piss-up, sh**t-up frenzies

with their sunless faces,
I'd have been beaten in.

Hmm!

Then those landowning, gentrified,
boy-buggering toffs

would never have countenanced
my presence, oh, no.

No, nah, nah.

PADDY INHALES SHARPLY

I sh*t at Frenchmen...

..Germans, Italians...

..but I never sh*t at birds.

DISTANT SHOUT

Next question?

Oh, but I...I will use my blood
as ink,

and this feather as my quill
to write my poetry.

How badly do you want to get out?

I heard you f*cked up
jumping out of a plane.

I hear that you f*cked up
your commanding officer.

h*t him with a piano,
is what I heard.

And as a result,
you're not going to Burma.

Ah, I go to the east every night
in my poetry.

By the old Moulmein Pagoda...

..eastward to the sea,

there's a Burma girl a-sitting,

and I know she thinks of me.

I want you to imagine...

For the wind is in the palm trees...

Without of the things that you hate.

Come ye back...
No, "Yes, sir, no, sir.

Come ye back to Mandalay.
No pips, strips for rum and hash.

On the road to Mandalay,
where the flying fishes play...

No bugles, no salute

no waiting for the piss-poor orders
to dribble down...

Across the bay. ..through the ranks.

And we would be stood down
and stood down and stood down.

There will be no-one
to standeth down.

We will be answerable to no-one.

Answerable to no-one, Paddy.

And you have permission
for your adventure from GHQ?

Here's the part
that you will love the most.

We will sh**t their aeroplanes
while they're parked on the ground.

PADDY BREATHES DEEPLY

Now, no doubt your father
and your grandfather

and great-grandfather were
from a long line of poachers.

Well, now...now they will give you
medals for it.

I asked you a question.

Do you have permission from GHQ?

No. No?

I haven't told them yet.
Then I see very little prospect

of there being any fighting
in your wee circus.

Oh, God, there will be fighting.

There will be fighting,
but only with the enemy.

If you join us,
I would want your word

that you will not punch
your commanding officer,

because your commanding officer...

..it will be me.

Your comrades will be men
like yourself.

Sweepings of public schools,
m*llitary prisons.

Men who do NOT obey.

Men who need only one order.

Go. k*ll. Return.

Go again.

The alternative,

the only...alternative

for you, Paddy, mate,

is that one day,
they're going to hang you.

Why do you want me in particular?

HE SIGHS

Because...

..you would use your blood as ink...

..to write history.

Oh, ho, ho, that's very poetic.

KEYS JANGLE
Are you a poet?

Actually, a painter.

Failed.

If you, er...decide to join us...

..I can get you out of here.

How?

You don't even have
a f*cking regiment.

No, but I will have. You know why?

Because...

..the f*cking land-owning,

gentrified, boy-buggering toffs

who used to sh**t grouse
on my father's highland estate...

..well, now they're running
the British Army.

Cheerio.

LOCK CLICKS

FAINT UPBEAT CHATTER

HE STRAINS

Lieutenant Stirling,
Eight, Commander.

I'm here to see
General Sir Claude Auchinleck.

A lieutenant to see the commander
of the entire North Africa division?

Do you have a pass?

No, I do not,
but I do have my class.

If you could get a message
to the general...?

Why don't you f*ck off?

Ah! No, my message, actually,
would be that my father,

General Archibald Stirling,

was always accommodating

when Claude Auchinleck
would drop by unannounced.

Perhaps he might return the favour.

No pass, no entry.

And stick your class up your arse.

Oh.

There!

All right? Papers, please.

OK.

Where you coming from?

INDISTINCT
Yeah.

Wait! Wait! Wait!

WAIT!

Stop the truck!

Wait!

Stop! Wait! Stop the truck!

PANICKED CHATTER

Oh, shit!

Pass, sir? Thank you, sir.

General Auchinleck wants to know
when this f*cking noise
is going to die down.

He's trying to work.

They'll be done by midnight. Right.

Crate of Champagne,
that might pacify him. Come on.

Ah! Thank you.

A gift for General Auchinleck
and General Ritchie. Huh!

Your pass, sir? Take a bottle,
he won't be counting them. Come on.

Thank you, sir.

Er...excuse me? I have a delivery
for General Auchinleck.

Third floor, other side of security.

Corporal, come and take this for me,
would you?

Yes, sir.
I'm going to the third floor.

What on earth has happened to your
top button? Do it up, Corporal.

Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.

Place is going to the f*cking dogs!

INCOMING CALL
Hello?

There's a lieutenant who's got in!

A gift for General Auchinleck
from General Ritchie.

And I want to report that I put
this f*cking crate down

for one minute in
the gentlemen's lavatory.

Already two bottles are stolen.

What is happening to security
in this building?

We'll look into it, sir.

I'm afraid I left my security pass
on my desk.

I beg your pardon?
It's OK, sir, we know his face.

Not the point.
Not the f*cking point!

Enlisted men should carry
their security pass with them
at all times!

What is happening in this place
with top buttons?

Do up your f*cking buttons!

It gets quite hot, sir.

Yes, it's Cairo.

But we are British.

KNOCKING AT DOOR
Come!

Ah. A gift for General Auchinleck
from General Ritchie.

General Auchinleck
is finishing a meeting,

and I am General Ritchie.
Who the hell are you?

Show me your security pass. I'm...

HE CHUCKLES NERVOUSLY
Sir.

WHISPERS: f*ck.

Hello? Put me through to
the guard commander.

Sir, I know you and you know me.

Both you and General Auchinleck used
to sh**t on my father's estate.

My father was Archibald Stirling.

I'm Lieutenant David Stirling.

My mother Margaret used to make
her own gin and do bird impressions.

She was very good at owls.

Hello? Sir? Sorry I misdialled.

Put me through to General Auchinleck
in the w*r room.

Putting you through now, sir. Yes.

I remember your face now.

But all the spots have gone.

A raw onion recipe for acne
that my mother invented.

What the hell are you doing
delivering Champagne?

I'm not.

I am delivering this.

It's an idea.

An idea that might move the w*r
in our favour.

How did you get past security?

The same way we will get
past Rommel's security
and att*ck his airfields.

Deception and inordinate amounts
of self-belief.

Auch, do you remember
Archie Stirling's boy?

Um... Gangly, spotty one who was
forever falling out of trees.

The one who siphoned the petrol
from our cars to make petrol b*mb.

Oh, my God, yes.

Well, he's in your office. What?!
Says he has an idea.

POP!

Your father was a very popular man.
The General is on his way.

Do you have three glasses?
What are we celebrating?

Read on. You'll see.

I can't read your writing. Tell me.
Oh!

The Germans' eastward advance
along the North African coast

has swung the w*r in their favour.

With respect, our high command
has been no match

for Rommel's brilliance,
his speed, his agility.

But...I believe Rommel
has made a mistake.

Lieutenant Stirling,
who couldn't climb a f*cking tree,

thinks that Rommel
has made a mistake.

He has moved too quickly.

His supply line is 500 miles' long,

his fuel dumps and airstrips
are strung out along the coast

with miles of empty desert
between them.

I have a way of attacking Rommel's
airbases and neutralising them

in advance of
the Allied counterattack,

which I'm sure the two of you
are planning even as we speak.

You don't salute
when a general enters a room?

In my detachment, there would be
a respectful disregard

for form and ritual.

How the f*ck did he get in here?

I'm not asking for anything
other than permission.

And 60 men.

Men I would choose
according to my own criteria.

You're trying to emulate your father
and become a w*r hero.

No, sir,
I'm trying to emulate my mother,

who, as, you know, always gets her
own way by being famously insane.

And by the way, the petrol b*mb
were my sister's idea.

She felt sorry for the grouse
and wanted to alert them.

I know Winston Churchill is raving
down that telephone line at you

to do something to slow down
Rommel's advance.

The Germans must not be allowed
to reach Cairo.

With 60 good men,
we can cut Rommel's supply line

like cutting a desert snake
in two with a shovel.

I am a long sh*t,
a sh*t in the dark, but...

..at least I am a sh*t.

You have your father's handwriting.

Sit.

We have no vehicles or equipment
or w*apon to spare

for some wild experiment.

We would steal everything we need,
sir. Steal? From where?

We would steal w*apon and equipment
from the Allied troops first,

and then from the Germans
and the Italians.

We would set up our base
behind the enemy lines.

We would report to no-one
and require nothing.

And as a gentleman,

I will wager with you both £100
that within six months,

we will destroy more enemy airplanes
on the ground

than the RAF will destroy
in the air.

By a factor of three.

Huh!

Now, wouldn't that be something
to celebrate!

So a mysterious new Parachute
Regiment appears from nowhere

operating out of east Libya.

Stirling, do you have a name
for your outfit?

No, I don't. Hmm.

Well, oddly enough...we do.

DOOR CREAKS OPEN AND BANGS SHUT

Lieutenant Stirling, welcome.

Welcome to my sanctuary.

I hold my midday meetings here
because it's cool.

And because it's so beautiful.

And because, since my whole
profession is to tell lies,

I've chosen here as the one place
in the world

where I tell only the truth.

Ah.

You should know, whoever you are,

that I have no interest in espionage
in any of its forms.

Nor do I have any idea
why GHQ have instructed me

to have a meeting
with a f*cking spy!

Just tell me what the meeting
is about.

It's not really a meeting.

It's a baptism.

And here is the newborn.

Who crosses himself at the door
and swigs whisky at the altar.

Ah.

You see, I've researched you,
Stirling.

What is this?

This is the uniform
of my very latest creation.

The SAS.

Right. Who are the SAS?

You are the SAS.

Let me check if I've got
the right size.

Yes.

Look at the badge
of your new...regiment.

You're the pips, Stirling.

You're to be the leader of
a brand-new detachment.

And as you can see,
you've already been promoted.

Rank of captain.

What the f*ck...are you
talking about?

The SAS is a ghost regiment
that I created.

And I spent six months convincing
the Germans and the Italians
that it's real.

And then you come along,
offering to turn my ghosts

into flesh and blood.

Lots of blood.

Fun, isn't it?

Or is it fate?

It's all part of a game, you see.

I've already told you that in this
place, I only speak the truth,

so I'll tell you the truth.

GHQ has no great faith in your idea
for a rogue regiment.

But it would help enormously
with their deception

if a few real soldiers
wearing uniforms like that

could be captured,
or sh*t d*ad in the desert.

I'm able to tell you the truth
because I've researched you

and I know that even though
I'm making you aware that your unit

will be a counter in a game
of deception, you'll do it anyway.

Cos you yourself
are a work of fiction.

Trying to write yourself
into the history books,

just like your father,

and probably your grandfather
before him.

And on and on,

all the way back to the warrior
chieftains

of the great clan Stirling.

Captain Stirling, agreeing to take
on the name and the trappings

of the fictional regiment
known as the SAS

is the only way you're going to get
GHQ to give you permission

to start recruiting.

You have 24 hours to make up
your mind.

I don't need 24 hours.

Oh, well, in that case...

..I hereby baptise
this newborn infant L Detachment.

First Brigade,
Special...Air...Service.

Our father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done

on Earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread

and forgive us our trespasses

as we forgive those
who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom,
the power and glory.

For ever and ever. Amen.

LOUD expl*si*n

EXPLOSIONS CONTINUE

HE EXHALES

Gone.

Good. Hmm.

♪ In tropical climes
there are certain times of day... ♪

Telegram from Cairo, sir.

♪ It's one of those rules
that the greatest fools obey

♪ Because the sun is far too sultry

♪ And one must avoid
its ultra-violet ray...♪

WHISTLING AND LOUD expl*si*n

♪ At 12 noon, the natives swoon
and no further work is done

♪ But mad dogs and Englishmen... ♪

For you, sir. Thank you, Bob.

Riley? Almonds?

Boungiorno.

Remember that f*ck-up
with the Parachutes?

Yeah.

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

Aye, yeah. Yeah.

♪ But mad dogs and Englishmen
go out in the midday

♪ Out in the midday
Out in the midday

♪ Out in the midday
Out in the midday

♪ Out in the midday
Out in the midday sun...♪

SHE GREETS WAITER

What the f*ck are you doing here?

I'm a spy,
and it's not that hard to find out

that you like to come here every
evening at five to drink whisky.

Drink, madam? Champagne.
A bottle and two glasses.

One for me and one for the captain.
Yes, ma'am.

Who told you I'm a captain?

We have a mutual friend.

He gave me the news
about your promotion.

If the mutual friend
is Dudley Clarke, you should know

that he is NOT my friend,

and I do not discuss news
of any kind with French spies.

You accepted Clarke's offer.

You have your own unit.

You have permission to recruit men.
That makes you very useful to me.

Excuse me.
Can I get the bill, please?

The whisky, not the champagne.

I hope you brought cash.

You know, I read an article
in a magazine about the fact

that, according to research,

in Cairo right now,
the average length of time

between strangers meeting
and having sex

is down to one hour and 14 minutes.

Sir? That's fine, pop the cork.

Of course, madam.

I estimate it will take us 45
minutes to drink the champagne

and discuss the business
that we have to discuss.

We have nothing to discuss.

The walk to your apartment
would be 20 minutes.

That's one hour and five minutes,

leaving us nine minutes
in your room to complete the dance.

You know, your profession,
your calling,

is very, very harmful to the soul.

My father would invite
former spies to the house.

And they would just sit there
and stare into the f*re.

I always wondered
what they were looking at.

What business?

I have been asked
by General de Gaulle

to find a way to get
French paratroopers involved

in combat missions
with a British unit.

The soldiers I'm talking about
are men like you. Like me?

They really want to fight -
soldiers, officers...

No, look,
I've already chosen my officers.

They're a particular sort.

They are men like me.

A particular sort?

Mm. This is a grouse feather.

The grouse is a bird
bred to be sh*t

and born to be k*lled.

Apparently, according to Clarke,
my new unit is like that.

These soldiers, these Frenchmen
without a country,

they are prepared to die.

I have no need of cosmetic soldiers
recruited to boost one man's ego.

Perhaps we could get this business
done in less than 45 minutes.

One hour and 14 minutes
seems like such an awful waste

of precious time.

You have a balcony.
Let's drink it there.

You would sleep with me
for France, would you?

When I'm older and stare
into the f*re,

I want there to be some things
that I did just for the hell of it.

Mostly, I don't like people.

But I like you.

And I'm of use to you.

Yes, of course.

It's very odd
when one meets oneself.

We will sleep together, but there
will be no Frenchmen in the SAS.

CROWD SHOUTS

CHEERING

Go on!

Go on!

Get the f*ck off him!
f*ck off, you!

Make way for the f*cking animals.

f*ck off.

f*ck's sake.

HE LAUGHS
Hi.

They put me on another charge
of fighting in a boxing ring.

It's like being charged
for m*rder in a w*r, is it not?

With the second charge,
they'll give you three years...

..and you be stripped of your rank.

Stirling got permission
from GHQ to go ahead.

Get the f*ck...

And this time, I have a badge
and they have a name.

HE LAUGHS SOFTLY

First Special Air Service Brigade.

Sounds like a branch
of the f*cking post office.

You are on two charges.

Now, if you get three years,

this w*r is going to be over
by the time you come out,

and you'll have missed all the fun.

Yeah?

Think about that.

So...

..if you decide to join them,

I will join the SAS too.

Also, Stirling wants to know

if there is anyone in here
that you've met

in whom you've seen potentially.

This is Reg.

Pleasure to meet you.

Another f*cking Paddy.

This regiment isn't
all f*cking Paddies, is it?

For cryin' out loud...

Just don't f*cking annoy him.

Morning, sir.
Highlander Wilson, Gordons.

You have never been put on a charge.
No, sir.

For insubordination or fighting?
No, sir. Never, sir.

Why the hell not?

Next!

All right?

Since we have no aircraft,
we will be simulating

the parachute jump landings.

How are we going to do that?

See, he forgot to roll.

Pathetic!
SNIGGERING

Do not share water.

It's a 20-mile march.

If you don't like it,
return to your unit.

Move!

Next.

Are you here on behalf
of your father, son?

I am 19 years old.

But so far in this w*r,
I've k*lled 21 men.

Instead of judging myself on my age,
I judge myself by that number,

so, in fact, you can call me 21.

I'm looking to increase
that number, and I hear

you might be able to help.

Why do you want to fight
in the desert?

Cos in the desert, it'll be harder
for the enemy to hide from me.

Hide from you?

Yes, sir.

Go and join those men.

Yes, sir.

You must learn to march
on an inch of water.

I have proved this can be done.

Oh, no. Only ten more miles.

Next.

Corporal Dave Kershaw, sir.

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

Just going to k*ll them fascists,
sir.

Got a taste for it
when I was in Spain,

like, you know, loved it.

Pleasure, sir.

I understand you gentlemen
are very good at k*lling people.

You heard right.

Go.

Don't be flapping now, Reg,
don't be bottling it.

Chalky White, sir.

Are you taking the piss?

No, sir. Oh, I think you are.

And that's exactly what I'm after.

Down!

PING!

Oh, f*ck me. Don't be scared, lad.

Go.

Get the f*ck out.

Send that fool back to his unit.

Guardsman Rob Willy
of the 8 Commando. Right.

How many women have you slept
with, Rob?

12, sir.

Welcome to the SAS.

Thank you, sir.

Take cover!

CHEERING

Up the f*cking r*fles, boy.

HE GRUNTS
f*ck.

Finally I feel at home.

All right?

We're going in.

We're going in!
We're going back!

Brace up!

Relax, Sergeant.

All right, relax.

Take these and hand them
out to the men. Yes, sir.

Gentlemen, what you have before you
is a very important document

which will inform every aspect
of your service

with your new regiment.

Page one is a list of the specific
objectives we have been given by GHQ

for the duration
of the forthcoming campaign.

On the second page, you will see
a diagram of the chain of command

within our unit, along with
protocols and uniform requirements,

which must be strictly obeyed.

And on the third page, you will see
a list of the equipment, supplies,

tactical support we will be given
by GHQ for our actions

behind enemy lines.

The SAS...

..is a blank page.

And it is our job to fill it.

Right.

We move out today.

Why didn't you send
for a better badge, John?

Pack it in, lads. Clear out.

♪ Living easy, lovin' free

♪ Season ticket on a one way ride

♪ Askin' nothin'

♪ Leave me be

♪ Takin' everythin' in my stride

♪ Don't need reason
Don't need rhyme

♪ Ain't nothin' that I'd rather do

♪ Goin' down, party time

♪ My friends are gonna be there
too, yeah

♪ I'm on the highway to hell

♪ On the highway to hell

♪ Highway to hell

♪ I'm on the... ♪

Have they deployed?

They've been sent
to a place called Kabrit,

200 miles behind the German
and Italian lines.

♪ No stop signs, speed limit

♪ Nobody's gonna slow me down

♪ Like a wheel, gonna spin it

♪ Nobody's... ♪

What are the chances of survival?

♪ Hey, Satan, payin' my dues... ♪

My beautiful new regiment
is beyond air cover

in one of the most inhospitable
terrains in the world,

with daytime temperatures
reaching 50 degrees

and very little
in terms of armaments -

no t*nk, no armoured cars,

just a truck or two.

But they are very resourceful men.

♪ I'm on the highway to hell

♪ Highway to hell... ♪

Just give me a percentage that
they will last beyond Christmas.

10%?

What a curious w*r this is.

♪ I'm on the highway to hell

♪ Highway to hell

♪ I'm on the highway to hell... ♪

That's good, lads.

HE SHOUTS

♪ I'm on the highway to hell

♪ I'm on the highway to hell

♪ And I'm goin' down

♪ All the way! ♪

Let's f*ck off to Burma.

♪ On the highway to hell. ♪

Is this it?

There's literally nothing here.

f*ck' hell.

This is SAS base camp.

It's just us now.

We have complete freedom
to operate.

This is what we wanted.

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

God help us.

We won't all survive,
but we will triumph.

All but three vehicles
are to return to Cairo.

If any of you wish to stand down
and go back, you're free to go.

If anyone wishes to return,
raise your hand now.

Good.

Well, let's set some fires,

brew some tea, hmm?

And drink some bloody rum!

Come on. All over here.

All right, you heard him.

That's right, you heard him,
come on!

Let's go! You heard the man, move!

♪ Don't you like the way I move
when you see me?

♪ Don't you like
the things that I say?

♪ Don't you like the way
I seem to enjoy it

♪ When you shout things,
but I don't care?

♪ Something's happening
And it's happening right now

♪ But you're too blind to see it

♪ Something's happening
And it's happening right now

♪ Ain't got time to waste

♪ I said something better change

♪ I said something better change

♪ I said something better change

♪ I said something better change

♪ Don't you like the way I dance?
Does it bug you?

♪ Don't you like
the cut of my clothes?

♪ Don't you like the way I seem
to enjoy it?

♪ Stick my fingers
right up your nose

♪ Something's happening
And it's happening right now. ♪