In autumn 1943 SAS Lieutenant Alistair McGregor and his seven men were dropped deep behind enemy lines, on Winston Churchill’s personal orders.
Their mission: to bring back the thousands of escaped Allied prisoners of war hiding out in the Italian mountains.
Britain’s wartime leader was enraged that more hadn’t been done to rescue the 80,000 men held in Italian camps once Italy had surrendered in September 1943.
Tens of thousands had been rounded up by the Germans and shipped north to Nazi Germany.
But more than 30,0000 had escaped into the mountains, and Churchill demanded they be brought home.
McGregor’s and other such SAS patrols were the tip of Churchill’s spear, charged to set up escape lines and to get the men out.
But from the very outset matters had gone horribly wrong for McGregor and his crew.
Veterans of ‘Operation Loco’, the September 1943 mission to liberate an Italian concentration camp using a hijacked train, McGregor and his men were battle hardened and experienced.
Lieutenant Alistair McGregor, who led a unit of seven members of the SAS in occupied Italy
But that hadn’t prevented the aircrew dropping them at the wrong time over the wrong location.
Supposed to deploy into remote mountains under cover of darkness, instead they’d been ordered off the aircraft in broad daylight, and over the city of Chieti, a town heavily garrisoned by the Germans.
As they’d drifted to earth, they could see Germany military trucks and motorcycles setting out to intercept them.
Only by luck and swift reactions had McGregor and his men escaped immediate capture, but from the outset they were hunted remorselessly across the Italian countryside.
Once they’d shaken off their pursuers, McGregor got to work, setting up a deep mountain base from which to operate.
Sending out his men in pairs, they’d began rounding up the hundreds of escaped PoWs, most of whom were in a pitiful state.
It was October 1943, and the Italian winter was starting to bite. Most of the PoWs had been captured in North Africa, and they had only their thin desert uniform to try to ward off the chill.
McGregor used his money – they’d dropped in with rucksacks stuffed with cash – to buy food, boots and warm clothing off the locals, and to hire trusted guides to steer the PoWs to safety.
Once the reports of their exploits became known, McGregor was written up for a Distinguished Service Order (DSO), a high-valour medal second only to the Victoria Cross. Above: The citation. One line was blacked out, suggesting it mentioned the robberies and executions
Notably, his DSO citation is stamped: ‘No publicity is to be given to this citation’
They’d use one escape line heading east, to the Adriatic coast, where further SAS teams were running a fleet of escape boats, to ferry the PoWs back to Allied lines.
Plus they had pioneered a route due south to cross the lines on foot.
But just days into his mission, McGregor hit his second major problem. When their radio was fired up it emitted a few sparks and conked out. It was useless.
They had no means of making contact with headquarters, to call in the food, clothing, cash and weaponry they were going to desperately need.
McGregor’s mission was scheduled to last ten days. But right now they had no means to radio in their own means of extraction.
McGregor decided to make a virtue out of necessity. It they couldn’t call in whatever supplies they needed from their own side, they would steal it off the enemy.
Learning of a Carabinieri barracks nearby that doubled as an armoury, McGregor and his men paid a nighttime visit.
With the sentry held at knifepoint, he was forced to let them into the base, whereupon the rest of the Carabinieri were promptly captured.
A British soldier helping the local villagers with the wine press after the Allied army invasion and liberation of southern Italy and Sicily, November 1943
They begged to be tied up and for McGregor and his men to ‘fire a few shots into the ceiling’, so it would look as if they had put up a fight.
Using a locally-sourced truck, the SAS raiders loaded it with more than 100 assorted weapons and ammo, before locking the Carabinieri in their own barracks and throwing away the key.
After their firepower was sorted, McGregor learned of 200 SS being sent in to hunt down the Allied PoWs.
He decided to strike first and strike hard, hitting those SS convoys along the winding roads that lead through the hills.
Repeatedly, he and his men struck from out of the shadows, tearing apart German staff cars and trucks and leaving scores of dead and injured in their wake.
But each time, the price on McGregor and his men’s heads – the accursed ‘British parachutists’ – was redoubled.
The Nazis had offered rewards for any British PoW who was rounded up by the locals. But the top bounty was for McGregor and his men.
Most locals abhorred Nazism, were dog tired of the war, and hungered for peace.
General Bernard Montgomery greets men of the British Eighth Army as they march through the streets of Reggio, September 1943
Many remote farms and villages offered McGregor and his men shelter and succour, despite the grave risks the locals faced if unmasked by the enemy.
But then McGregor found out about an entirely different breed of Italian.
He was passed a list of local die-hard fascists. Some were spearheading the search for the PoWs, acting as bounty hunters and reaping rich rewards in the process.
Some were actively trying to lure McGregor and his men into carefully-set traps.
Typically, McGregor decided to hit them first, and in doing so he intended to solve one of his greatest problems – how to clothe, feed and finance the POW-escapee operations.
And so McGregor and his men went in search of their fascist prey.
One of the first was a deeply unsavoury character. Under the cloak of darkness McGregor sent two of his men ahead, posing as escaped POWs.
Yes, the Italian promised, once they’d knocked at his door, he was their man.
An Italian woman has her cigarette lit by a friendly British soldier, October 1943
The very next day he would take them to the ‘British parachutists’ so they could organise their escape.
Meanwhile, they could sleep in safety under his roof for the night.
Feigning the need to use the lavatory, one of McGregor’s men signalled the rest in.
Shortly, there were eight heavily armed men crowded into the Italian’s home. His face had gone white as a sheet.
Under McGregor’s fearsome interrogation, he was forced to admit all. Yes, he had led many Allied PoWs into the hands of the Gestapo.
That basically spelled a death sentence, and especially if those PoWs, had, like most, resorted to wearing civilian clothes to ward off the cold.
British uniform offered a modicum of protection. It should convey PoW status. But if captured dressed as a civilian, the escaped PoWs could be shot as spies.
Having confessed to his crimes, the fascist now offered to lead McGregor and his men to where the Gestapo were based, so they could take their vengeance.
Veterans of ‘Operation Loco’, the September 1943 mission to liberate an Italian concentration camp using a hijacked train, McGregor and his men were battle hardened and experienced. Above: The hijacked train
But McGregor knew very well the location of the Gestapo headquarters. Instead, they ransacked the man’s home for clothing, boots, valuables, money and food, before loading their captive into their vehicle.
They drove to a dark patch of woodland. Then McGgregor alone marched the Italian into the depths of the trees.
There was a short, sharp burst of gunfire, before McGregor returned. That was one fascist bounty hunter who would no longer be selling out PoWs.
Their purloined booty was distributed around the escapees, and more were thus equipped to undertake the 185-mile march through the snowbound mountains, to cross the lines.
Plus, McGregor had money to fund their journeys and pay their guides.
By now, a mission scheduled to last for ten days had morphed into two months.
Having heard nothing back at SAS headquarters, McGregor and his men had been listed as ‘missing, fate unknown.’
Then, HQ received a report of seven British parachutists being found in enemy territory, executed by the roadside.
Italian concentration camp Pisticci, where prisoners were rescued from by the SAS
This, they had concluded, had to be McGregor and his men.
In truth, of course, they were still very much at large. After the first Robin-Hood-style robbery-cum-assassination, McGregor hungered for more.
But to really hit these fascist bounty hunters hard, he needed a fast and reliable set of wheels.
McGregor learned that the King of Italy had hidden two of his precious Lagonda motorcars in the region.
He found out where and paid the King’s chauffeur a visit. In short order he was persuaded to show the SAS lieutenant the vehicles.
But when McGregor pointed to the best one and announced: ‘We’ll take that one,’ the chauffeur practically had a heart attack on the spot.
It was impossible, he remonstrated. He’d promised to keep the King’s cars safe from all harm.
By way of answer, McGregor pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbled upon it: ‘I, Brigadier McGgregor, hereby requisition this vehicle in the name of the King of England. Signed Brigadier McGgregor.’
British commandos seen undergoing training at Achnacarry in Scotland, 1942
‘With that, they took the vehicle, which was large enough to seat all eight of them, plus a massive supply of petrol.
Several nights running they mounted up the King’s car, sped through nigh-dark villages garrisoned by the German enemy, screeched to a stop at a Fascist bigwig’s home, and took their prey captive.
With two men crouched on the Lagonda’s running boards, they were able to leap off and assault the building before the occupants had a chance to escape.
In each, they robbed their enemies blind, before loading them into the Lagonda and driving them off to face a bloody end.
During one such assignation, at Collecorvino village, they executed their quarry in the local cemetery.
But in the darkness and the rush, one of McGregor’s men dropped a magazine of ammo.
The next day the Collecorvino police chief returned it to McGregor, with his congratulations on a job well done.
The locals were sick to death with the vile actions of such local fascists.
Soldiers from the 78th Division pictured in Italy enjoying tea and cakes served by a Salvation Army van, November 28, 1943
Using their maverick tactics – stealing from the wealthy fascists to fund the escape lines – McGregor and his men sent thousands of PoWs south to safety.
Amazingly, although they were hunted remorselessly, McGregor would manage to keep all of his petrol out of the enemy’s clutches.
The last of his men to return was Trooper George Arnold, who had spent six months behind the lines engaged in PoW rescue work.
Along the way they had also blown up fuel dumps, ambushed a dozen enemy convoys, robbed the enemy’s weapons stores, and of course, assassinated several deeply unsavoury fascists.
By the time of McGregor and Arnold’s return, all of the patrol had been given up for dead.
Once the reports of their exploits became known, McGregor was written up for a Distinguished Service Order (DSO), a high-valour medal second only to the Victoria Cross.
It was his overall commander, Bill Stirling – brother to SAS founder David Stirling – who put McGregor forward for the decoration.
Tellingly, as well as lauding his other heroics, part of what McGregor was praised for was his night visits to those key fascists who were hunting down the Allied POWs.
Two sappers of the British engineers, do a bit of pick and shovel work on the road to Rome, November 1943
The citation reads: ‘By requisitioning one of the Italian Royal cars he was able on several occasions to enter German-occupied villages and towns by night and to drive to the homes of notorious fascists who were helping the Germans round up escaped prisoners.’
The next line – which presumably details the robberies and assassinations – is blacked out.
It goes on to praise McGregor’s ‘leadership, coolness and initiative,’ by which he managed to operate deep behind the lines, ‘during the whole of which time he had the enemy guessing as to his whereabouts and the strength of his force.’
McGregor had deliberately spread rumours that ‘hundreds’ of British parachutists were operating in the mountains.
Notably, his DSO citation is stamped: ‘No publicity is to be given to this citation.’
Trooper Arnold was also awarded a Military Medal, the citation for which stressed how he was, ‘active behind enemy lines for six months’.
‘During this time he was largely responsible for the successful return of a considerable numbers of British ex-POWs, and continually showed fine offensive spirit.’
McGregor and his men’s extraordinary actions are marked by a remarkable sense of self-possessed, independent Robin-Hood-style spirit.
Devoid of all radio contact or means to seek support, they were determined to find a way or make one.
They were also willing to apply the ultimate sanction – assassination – should their target warrant it.
In essence, they had appointed themselves judge, jury and executioners.
With the stakes such as they were one can fully appreciate why.
By taking out those key individuals, McGregor and his men saved countless Allied PoWs from torture and death at the hands of the Gestapo and relieved the local Italians of the fascist bigwigs’ predatory presence.
But fast track eighty years hence, and we must wonder how such actions would be received in the Britain of today?
Sadly, the answer appears to lie in the present-day prosecutions of members of our elite armed forces – chiefly the SAS – for actions that took place decades ago, in Northern Ireland.
Under the Northern Ireland Troubles Bill, presently making its way through parliament, members of the SAS face legal action for operations carried out during the Troubles – actions when they were operating under strict rules of engagement and under direct orders from the chain of command.
Nine four-star generals have already spoken out, stressing the degree of damage this is doing to the morale of the Armed Forces in general, and especially to our military elite.
In an unprecedented move, the SAS Regimental Association has threatened legal action should the bill proceed.
Had McGregor and his men been acting amidst such a hostile environment, no doubt rather than receive high valour medals they would have faced trial for their heroic actions in Italy in the winter of 1943-44.
One can only be thankful that McGregor, and the wider SAS, were operating under very different circumstances during the Second World War.
Damien Lewis’s new book, SAS The Great Train Raid, is published by Quercus.
