The Most Courageous Raid of WWII Timewatch

It's 17:00 on a cold,

starlit night in December 1942.

Royal Navy submarine, HMS Tuna,

is surfacing from the dark

waters of the Atlantic,

two and a half miles from the coast

of German-occupied France.

As the main engines stop,

a small group of men,

led by Major Blondie Hasler,

make their final preparations

for one of the most daring

and courageous operations

of the entire Second World War.

With a humble canoe as their weapon,

Operation Frankton is underway.

Within minutes, Hasler's

elite unit is silently paddling

into the heart of enemy territory.

Their mission -

navigate the treacherous waters

of the Bay of Biscay,

enter the most heavily defended

estuary in Europe,

dodge searchlights, machine-gun

posts, armed river patrol craft,

and then...blow up enemy shipping

in Bordeaux harbour.

The odds against them

were overwhelming.

This was a mission from which many

believed they never would return.

And they knew it.

This was a suicide mission

by any other name.

But Blondie Hasler's

Mission Impossible is far more

than just a Boy's Own adventure

of heroism against the odds.

It is a tale of deceit, duplication

and massive Whitehall cock-up.

It is also the story of how

a daring raid on the coast of France

damaged our enemy at a desperate

time for our country,

and taught us vital lessons

in the planning and execution

of the greatest sea invasion

in history - D-day.

Three years into

the Second World War,

Britain's fortunes had taken

a decided turn for the worse.

We'd endured the Blitz...

..the humiliating retreat from

Dunkirk, and were now facing

the threat of starvation

in the Battle of the Atlantic.

Britain was losing the war,

and Churchill knew it.

'We shall go on to the end.

We shall fight in France,

'we shall fight on

the seas and oceans,

'we shall defend our island,

whatever the cost may be.

'We shall fight on the beaches,

we shall fight in the fields

'and in the streets.

'We shall fight in the hills,

we shall never surrender.'

Churchill's rhetoric of

the early war years now seemed

wildly out of date.

The army was in disarray,

the RAF had only just enough planes

to defend the country,

and the navy was at full stretch,

protecting vital Atlantic convoys.

Churchill was on the back foot.

Churchill's options at this time

of the war were savagely limited.

As PM and Minister of Defence,

he, too, was under siege.

After a string of defeats,

there was real pressure,

here in Whitehall and in the country

at large, for him to stand down -

if not as Prime Minister, then

at least as Minister of Defence.

But this was Winston Churchill

and surrendering office

was not an option.

Instead, he decided to

set Europe ablaze

by creating two new secret armies -

The Special Operations Executive

and Combined Operations.

Churchill was always at his most

resourceful when under fire.

Churchill had to find ways of

hitting back at the enemy fast

and Combined Ops and SOE

were two of the tools

that he devised for doing it.

They were set up at about the same

time with parallel missions.

SOE's role was primarily one of

sabotage and subversion inland,

while Combined Operations

brought together the skills

of the Air Force,

Army and the Navy to wreak havoc

along the enemy coastline.

Churchill knew that, in the absence

of the resources for a second front

against the Germans,

pinprick assaults on the enemy

were all that Britain

could manage at this time.

An unlikely model for these raids

came from the Italians,

who had done great damage by using

human torpedoes - called Pigs -

and exploding motor boats.

This was the sort of ingenuity

and inventiveness that

Churchill was after.

On the 19th January, he wrote to

his Chiefs of Staff Committee,

"Please report what

is being done to emulate

"the exploits of the Italians."

Far from the corridors of Whitehall,

one man was already working

on new ideas to fight the enemy.

His name was Blondie Hasler.

Hasler was an extraordinary,

contradictory,

even eccentric spirit.

A loner who lived his life

on his own terms,

yet who believed in the discipline

and convention of service life.

I met Blondie Hasler once.

We shared the same compartment

on a train when I was going back

to join my old unit,

the Special Boat Service, in Poole.

He asked me a series of

what I frankly thought

were pretty intrusive

questions about what I did.

Not having a clue who he was,

I rather rudely refused to answer.

It was only later that I learnt that

I had shared my compartment

with one of the most extraordinary

Special Force commanders

of the Second World War

and, by the way, a personal hero.

Even today, the memory makes me

shiver with embarrassment.

In the early 1940s, Hasler had

a radical new and surprising idea.

It involved the use of canoes

to take the fight directly

to the enemy.

He proposed this to the Admiralty.

But they turned him down.

Now, with Churchill's demand for new

initiatives, Hasler's plans

were suddenly of interest,

especially to the newly appointed

head of Combined Operations -

Commander Louis Mountbatten.

Mountbatten ordered Hasler to come

and see him as soon as possible.

The humble canoe was about to be

turned into a weapon of war.

When Blondie Hasler entered

the HQ of Combined Operations,

here in Whitehall, he was introduced

to Louis Mountbatten.

Mountbatten told him,

"We've brought you here

"because you seem to know

a lot about small boats

"and have some very interesting

ideas about how to use them.

"So, are you keen to take

a shot at this job?"

"Very keen, sir," said Hasler.

"Good. I am sure you'll

fit in very well."

For Blondie Hasler,

the story started right here.

In March 1942,

Hasler was put in charge

of a new elite unit.

Their cover name was the Royal

Marines Boom Patrol Detachment.

What Hasler asked for were men

who were intelligent, nimble,

of good physique, able to swim,

free of strong family ties,

eager to engage the enemy.

But most important of all,

they had to be indifferent

to their personal safety.

When Hasler interviewed the men

for his new unit, he asked

them all this question -

"Why did you volunteer

for hazardous service?"

"To avenge my brother, sir,"

said Bill Sparks.

His brother had just been

killed on active service in Crete.

Hasler then made

a chilling prediction.

"You do you realise,

that if you join my unit,

"your chances of a long

life are very remote."

What do you say to that?

Just accept it and that's it.

That saying stuck...I don't know if

he said it to all of them,

but that stuck in my mind

and I never forgot it.

"Do you realise that your

expectations of a long life

"are very remote?"

So, you knew you were

going in to danger.

But...you're 20 - you don't care.

One, two, three.

The truth was,

at this stage of the war,

those who volunteered for hazardous

service with Hasler were,

as he later said, "Just a good cross

section of average young fellows.

"We had to do the best with

what was offered to us."

As a leader, Hasler always

inspired his men by example,

never asking any of them

to do something he hadn't

first done himself.

The day after their arrival,

Hasler's team began in earnest,

with their commander throwing them -

literally - in at the deep end, by

sending them out to sea in canoes.

The results were

predictably disastrous.

All of them capsized

and had to drag themselves

and their canoes back to the beach.

He told them, "Do it again".

And then again. And again.

Until they could do it.

You knew he was good at his job.

You had faith in him.

I would have gone anywhere with

him - I would, no worry at all.

I wouldn't have given it

a second thought.

If he asked me to do anything,

I would have done it.

Unknown to Hasler and his team,

his unit would soon be providing

a solution to a major

strategic challenge

that was preoccupying

the Chiefs of Staff in Whitehall.

In May, Churchill received

a memo from his newly appointed

Minister for Economic Warfare,

Lord Selborne.

The memo highlighted how convoys

of German cargo ships

were increasingly outrunning

British warships whose job it was

to intercept them at sea.

These so-called blockade runners

travelled between the Far East

and Europe, carrying supplies,

including rubber, molybdenum,

tin and tungsten - all vital

for the German war machine.

A successful blockade

increasingly depended

not just on attacking them at sea,

but also hitting them

in their ports,

especially the port of Bordeaux.

70 miles from the Atlantic coast,

Bordeaux sits at the end of Europe's

largest estuary, Gironde.

In 1942, it harboured

not only the blockade runners

but also German and Italian U-boats,

crucial for German victory

in the Battle of the Atlantic.

Not surprisingly, the estuary

was formidably defended,

by around 10,000 German troops.

In effect, Bordeaux was

one huge military camp

and provided an ideal base

for the blockade runners.

So, the question was, HOW could

Bordeaux harbour be attacked?

The Admiralty was asked, but they

said the port was far too far up

a heavily defended estuary

for any chance of success.

The RAF agreed - bombing would

simply not be accurate enough,

and cause unacceptable

civilian casualties.

And a military operation would need

both ships and 50,000 men -

far more than Britain could find

at this time in the war.

How to hit the blockade runners

became known as

the Bordeaux problem.

With conventional solutions

ruled out,

Churchill and his Chiefs of Staff

began to think the unthinkable.

With so much at stake, could perhaps

thinking small be the answer?

On the 21st September 1942,

Blondie Hasler was ordered back to

the Combined Operations London HQ.

Here he was given the file

on the Bordeaux problem -

now re-christened

Operation Frankton.

Overnight, he drew up a plan

to use his canoes to blow up

the blockade runners lying

alongside the quays of Bordeaux.

Within weeks, Hasler's plan was

approved by Louis Mountbatten,

but with one big exception -

Mountbatten said Hasler couldn't go.

He was just too valuable

Mountbatten asked Hasler, "Why do

YOU want to lead the raid yourself?"

Hasler replied, "As we both know,

this is a very important mission

"and we have to field

our best team.

"My unit has been training

on small boats for months,

"but I have been

doing it all my life.

"It's only natural that I'm

better at it than they are."

Mountbatten smiled.

"All right. Against my better

judgment, I am going to let you go."

Hasler now finalised his force.

12 men. Six canoes.

Each canoe named after...a fish.

In Catfish was Blondie Hasler

and the 20-year-old Bill Sparks,

a cobbler and a cockney,

known as Ned.

In Cuttlefish,

Lieutenant Jack Mackinnon,

a clerk from Oban in Scotland

and James Conway,

a milkman from Stockport.

He was known as Jim.

In Coalfish, 20-year-old

Robert Ewart from Glasgow.

Bobby had worked

in the textile industry

and was devoted

to his sweetheart, Heather.

With Bobby, Sergeant Samuel Wallace.

Sam was a Dublin-born

ex-builder's merchant.

Conger was crewed by Corporal

George Sheard, known as Jan,

and David Moffatt,

a former boy scout from Belfast.

In Crayfish, there was ex-butcher

Corporal Albert Laver - Bert -

and Bill Mills, who had worked

in a sports shop in Kettering.

Cachalot was commanded

by Bill Ellery who, at 27,

was one of the oldest,

and a married father of two.

His number two was a Brummie - Eric

Fisher - a printer before the war.

As in the game of cricket,

Hasler had a spare man -

an ex-grocer called Norman Colley.

I went as spare man just in case

anyone got injured.

But I had a job to do -

to help launch the canoes,

get them all ready -

put all the equipment inside them

and help to launch them.

So, I had a good job there,

doing that. Quite a job.

On the 30th November,

Hasler's men travelled to Scotland

to board

Royal Navy Submarine HMS Tuna.

With the exception of Hasler,

none of them knew that

this was no exercise.

Once under way, Hasler told his men

they were now on Operations.

I haven't been able

to tell you before.

We have actually

started an operation.

We're going to be doing the kind of

job you've been practising for

these past four months.

I've chosen you chaps

because I feel confident...

Their target was not, as they had

all imagined, the Tirpitz in Norway.

It was the enemy

blockade runners in Bordeaux.

There were smiles all round.

Getting back from France would be

much easier than from Norway.

The sea would be warmer, too.

So far, so good.

For the Special Forces Commander,

this is the crucial moment.

He has to convince his men that this

is a job that MUST be done.

He has to reassure them

that his plan will work.

And he has, above all, to inspire

them with the belief they can do it.

We are positioned here.

Hasler drew them a map

of the Gironde estuary.

He plotted their course

from the point where the submarine

would drop them off.

They would use the tides, paddle

by night, and lie up during the day.

This is where we shall spend our

first night. On either side...

Next, he described

the German defences.

The coast was patrolled by two armed

trawlers, six minesweepers

and perhaps 24 torpedo

and armed river patrol craft.

There were batteries

of heavy and medium guns

on both the sides of the estuary,

a radar station at its mouth,

maritime patrol aircraft,

searchlight batteries

and machine-gun posts.

If - and it was a big if - they were

lucky enough to evade all these,

then, on the fourth night,

they would converge separately

on Bordeaux and plant limpet mines

on the blockade runners.

At this point, Hasler stopped.

"Any questions?" he asked.

It was Sergeant Sam Wallace who

asked what everyone wanted to know.

Excuse me, sir. How are we getting

home?

That is regrettable.

Hasler's answer must have

chilled them to the bone.

"The submarine can't come back,"

he said. "It's just too

dangerous for them.

"We are going to have to

split into pairs and escape

"through occupied France and over

the Pyrenees into neutral Spain."

There were gasps...

but no complaints.

Everybody trusted Blondie.

Nevertheless, it must have been

dawning on them all

that this would be

a one-way journey.

You've just got to make your own way

through France, Spain to Gibraltar -

there was no other way.

That's why it was a suicide mission.

We couldn't speak French

and we'd no idea where it was.

That night, Hasler's men

bedded down as best they could

in what little space

was left on the metal deck

of Tuna's forward

torpedo compartment.

The lucky ones took possession of a

sack of potatoes, used as a pillow.

Those who couldn't sleep

took the opportunity to write

farewell letters

to their loved ones.

Bobby Ewart - who had

celebrated his 21st birthday

just the day before - wrote to his

16-year-old sweetheart, Heather.

'Dear Heather, I trust it won't be

necessary to have this sent to you,

'but since I don't know the outcome

of this little adventure,

'I thought I'd leave this note.

'During my stay at Southsea,

as you well know,

'you made me realise what

the good things in life are.

'I couldn't help but love you,

Heather, although you were so young.

'I will always love you,

as I know you do me.

'That should get me through this.

'But one never knows

the turn of fate.

'One thing I ask of you, Heather,

is not to take it too hard.

'You have yet your life to live.

'Think of me as a good friend.

'Some lucky fellow will find you

'who has more sense than I had and

who can get you what you deserve.

'You are young for this sort

of thing, but I had to do it,

'so please don't worry

yourself about me.

'I pray that God will spare me

and save you from this misery.

'So, I'll say cheerio

and God be with you.'

'Yours for ever, Bob.

Chin up, sweetheart.'

400 miles away, off the west

coast of France, Bobby Ewart

and his mates waited patiently

for the final call.

They had endured seven days

of dodging enemy ships,

cramped conditions, and terrible,

terrible seasickness.

This, as I recall it, is the very

worst moment of an operation.

The long, heavy, dragging hours

just before it all begins.

Everyone fills this private

space in their own way -

I used to check

and recheck my equipment -

but some will read a last

letter from a loved one,

look at a photograph, think of home,

think of the next pint they have

down at the pub with their mates

when they get back.

Some - even those who don't believe

in God - will say a silent prayer.

Well, after a fashion.

Are they scared? I can't speak

for others, but I used to be.

But what they're all longing for

is the waiting to end,

so they can get on with the job.

At a little before dusk on

the 7th December,

Hasler and his team began their last

checks for the operation ahead.

Hasler confirmed with the sub's

captain that they were

in the right position and the order

was given - launch the canoes.

Hasler's men, faces blackened,

followed their canoes up

on to the casing of the submarine.

Be ready up there.

On the way out, one canoe,

Cachalot, was ripped.

Hasler was called down

from the bridge.

He took one look at the damage

and immediately decided

that Fisher and Ellery could not

take part in the operation.

Despite pleading from both men -

and even tears from Fisher -

Hasler insisted.

Now, Hasler was down to ten men.

Not an ideal start.

Norman Colley was still hoping

there might be a place for him.

I was hoping to go, yes. I was.

I was disappointed I couldn't go.

When Hasler asked if there's anyone

who didn't want to go,

make their minds up there and then,

I was hoping someone would

say, yes, they didn't want to go.

He said it didn't matter if

they didn't want to go -

he didn't hold

anything against them.

But nobody backed out.

That disappointed me.

After a tense 46 minutes,

Hasler's team of ten men

were finally on the water.

It was 20:03 hours

and there was no time to lose.

But, unbeknown to Hasler

and his unit,

as they paddled into danger, there

was another operation underway.

Organised by the Special

Operations Executive, or SOE,

their agents had been given exactly

the same mission as Hasler

and his men - to blow up

the German blockade runners

in Bordeaux harbour.

Known by some as

The Baker Street Irregulars,

and others as The Ministry

of Ungentlemanly Warfare,

SOE was defined by one thing

above all others - secrecy.

SOE took very seriously the secret

element of being a secret service.

If you belonged to it, you couldn't

tell ANYBODY you belonged to it.

You couldn't tell your own wife,

you couldn't tell your own children,

you couldn't tell your own mistress!

You couldn't tell anybody

what you were doing.

And that included

Combined Operations.

So, long before Hasler had ever

heard of Operation Frankton,

SOE had already parachuted into

France explosives, a wireless

and their own team of agents,

led by Claude de Baissac.

What this meant,

was that while Hasler

was paddling towards the Gironde,

de Baissac was already in place,

in Bordeaux, in a cafe,

right next to the quayside.

Here, he could see

the blockade runners.

He could judge when they were full

and ready to go.

He could choose his moment of attack

to do maximum damage.

It's highly unlikely that anybody,

however senior, at Combined Ops

was aware that

de Baissac was in Bordeaux

and was actively planning

to attack the same target.

But, I would be very surprised

if SOE didn't know of Hasler's

raid in Bordeaux.

This was a Whitehall cock-up

on a mighty scale.

So, despite almost certainly

knowing about Hasler's mission,

SOE in London did absolutely nothing

to inform Combined Operations

of their own plans. And if they had,

Hasler's men may never have had to

embark on such a dangerous mission.

Out in the Gironde,

for the first two hours,

Hasler's canoes - little more than

dark shadows in a darker sea -

made good progress.

With the flood tide behind them,

they began sweeping down

the coast at increasing speed.

Ahead, they could see

the dark finger of the

Pointe de Grave lighthouse,

marking the entrance to the estuary.

Soon, they would be past

the German defences

and into the protected

waters of the Gironde.

But then, suddenly, Hasler began to

hear an unfamiliar -

and unexpected - sound.

Ahead of them was a tidal overfall.

I have paddled in tidal

overfalls like this.

They are pretty calm today but they

can be absolutely terrifying.

They are caused when two tides

collide over shallow water.

The waves are short, steep,

and come from all directions.

Hasler's men weren't

prepared for this.

Hasler ordered them to paddle in

fast, keep the canoe bows

always into the sea,

and fight through the turbulence

as quickly as possible.

They would all then meet up

on the other side.

Hasler and Sparks paddled

furiously into the maelstrom.

In a few seconds, they were

through and into calmer waters,

followed by Laver and Mills

in Crayfish,

Sheard and Moffatt in Conger

and then MacKinnon and Conway

in Cuttlefish.

But where was Bobby Ewart?

Where was Sam Wallace?

They watched, and they waited,

but Coalfish was nowhere to be seen.

Once, there had been 12 men.

Now, there were eight.

Hoping they would reunite later,

Hasler's team reluctantly moved on.

But before they had gone any

distance, they heard it again!

Another tidal overfall. This time,

even more ferocious than before.

Hasler and Sparks

again went first...

..and waited on the other side,

panting for breath

from the exertion.

Suddenly, a cry and a splash -

Conger had capsized.

Then, Sheard and Moffatt emerged,

clinging onto their canoe, coughing

and spluttering in the icy water.

Hasler realised that, in this bitter

cold, if he didn't act fast,

the whole enterprise

could be doomed.

He told Sheard to hang onto

the back of his boat,

Moffatt onto the back

of MacKinnon's.

They would tow them in

as far as they could.

Then they would have to swim for it

and make their way

back home... alone.

Their speed was now

down to one knot,

because of the drag

of the two men in the water.

Sheard and Moffatt, who had been

in the sea for almost an hour,

were now beginning to suffer

badly from the cold.

Hasler's mission was in jeopardy

and he was forced to make

an agonising decision.

"I am sorry, but we

have to leave you here,"

Hasler told Sheard and Moffatt.

"You must swim for it.

I am terribly sorry."

"God bless you both".

With that, Hasler,

with the others following,

paddled away into the darkness.

There are those who like to see

Blondie Hasler as a

steely-eyed professional,

prepared to sacrifice his men

in a suicide mission for glory.

But his handling of the plight

of his stricken colleagues

tells a totally different story.

By giving Moffatt and Sheard

a chance to survive,

albeit a very slim one, he was

placing his operation in jeopardy,

and breaking his own rules,

which said, in all circumstances,

the mission must come first.

Days later, 60 miles up the coast,

the frozen body of David Moffatt

was found, washed-up on a beach.

George Sheard was never seen again.

Once, there had been 12 men.

Now, there were six.

With his force now reduced

to half its original size,

Hasler had to

put the past behind him,

and concentrate on what lay ahead,

or all would be lost.

They were now out of the open sea.

They split up and, their bodies bent

over the front of their cockpits,

slipped, one by one,

past the heavily guarded mouth

of the great estuary.

Their nerves taut with anticipation,

their spines braced for the fury of

shots which would follow discovery.

There were no shouts, no shots.

But on the other side,

no Cuttlefish, either.

Again, they waited and they watched.

MacKinnon and Conway, too,

had now disappeared.

We now know they were later

captured and executed.

Once, there had been 12.

Now, there were only four.

One can only imagine what Hasler

must have felt at this point,

having lost two thirds

of his force in just ten hours.

But he pressed on.

Desperate to find somewhere

to land before dawn,

he chose a small inlet called

Le Pointe aux Oiseaux.

It looked suitable,

and, in many ways, it was.

But - and there's always

a but in this story -

what Hasler didn't know

was that he had landed

right in the middle of one of the

key concentrations of German troops

in the whole Medoc peninsula.

But it wasn't the Germans who found

Hasler, and his now exhausted men.

It was a group of French fisherman.

They pointed Hasler to

a nearby spit of land

where, they said, he and his men

would be safer.

The canoes were dragged

up into cover

and the fisherman helped

erase their tracks.

Later on that day,

they returned to give Hasler

and his team some bread,

chocolate, pate and a half-empty

bottle of wine.

These local French fisherman were

not French Resistance,

they were just fishermen.

Yet they agreed,

without hesitation, to help,

knowing that that could lead them

to the firing squad

and put their families

at risk of deportation.

Afterwards, they swore amongst

themselves never to tell anyone

of what they had seen and they kept

that promise till the war was over.

With some food inside them,

Hasler's men could rest awhile

before the next stage

of their mission began.

A little before 23:00,

the Marines pulled the camouflage

nets off Catfish and Crayfish

and hauled them across

more than half a mile of mud

to the water's edge.

At 23:30 hours, just over 24 hours

after they had set off,

Hasler and the three

remaining marines

launched their canoes once again

into the flooding tide and set off

for the other side of the estuary.

The weather was calm and clear,

with a slight haze

hanging over the water.

They made good progress.

On this second night, they covered

25 miles in just six hours.

Wallace and Ewart, lost in

the tide race that first night,

were not so lucky.

They had already been captured.

Stumbling ashore exhausted,

they had knocked at the wrong door.

Instead of French patriots, they

blundered into a German platoon.

They were sent for interrogation,

ending up here,

in the Place de Tourny, in Bordeaux,

in the hands of the Gestapo.

As commandos, they were subject

to Hitler's infamous

and illegal Commando Order

which stated that all those

captured on raids were to be

immediately executed.

Although young Bobby Ewart

said nothing,

the Germans gleaned significant

information from the equipment

found in their canoe and from the

interrogation of Sergeant Wallace.

On 9th December 1942,

German Supreme Headquarters

in Berlin knew almost everything.

They knew that they had

been landed by submarine,

they knew that they

were from Combined Operations,

and they knew that their mission was

to travel up the Gironde Estuary

and attach limpet mines

to German ships in Bordeaux.

But what they didn't know and what

Sergeant Wallace didn't tell them,

was that he and Ewart were not the

only participants in the raid.

Hasler and his men were

out there, somewhere,

armed, dangerous, determined

to press home their attack.

The Germans were convinced

they were dealing with an operation

which was over,

instead of one which was

still in progress.

It was this conviction which let

Hasler and his men through.

The Germans should have flooded the

river with searchlights and patrols,

but they didn't.

Hasler and his team were able

to continue undetected,

paddling closer and closer

to their targets.

But, by now, Hasler's men,

too, were feeling the effects.

Cold, wet, cramped, stiff, exposed,

sleepless, they lived every second

with the fear of imminent discovery,

capture and death.

Hasler had lost two thirds

of his force.

He was now in the very heart

of enemy territory.

Danger and discovery lurked

at every bend in the river.

Yet, they were still only

halfway to their target.

I think, at this point,

Hasler must have wondered

whether, against these odds,

they could possibly make it.

And if they did,

what difference could it make?

So few men left, so little

explosive. And then what?

Capture, torture,

death before a firing squad?

This must have been one of Hasler's

lowest moments.

As Hasler and his men

paddled on towards Bordeaux,

Ewart and Wallace took

a different and final journey.

They were driven to an execution

site in an army camp at Souge,

just outside Bordeaux.

They were accompanied

by two wooden coffins.

At Souge, they were led forward

and tied to two wooden stakes.

A firing squad of 16 men

levelled their rifles.

The order was given to fire.

The two marines were

then finished off by the Gestapo

with shots to the back of the head.

On December 9th, a Portsmouth

newspaper reported that

"a small British sabotage

squad had been engaged

"at the mouth of the Gironde

River and finished off in combat."

The item was spotted by 16-year-old

Heather Powell,

Bobby Ewart's sweetheart.

Convinced that this was connected

with her beloved Bobby,

Heather became deeply depressed.

She fell ill

and was taken to hospital.

Here, she was diagnosed

with advanced tuberculosis.

She died days later of her illness

and, some say, of a broken heart.

She was one day short

of her 17th birthday.

Journey's end was also approaching

for Hasler and his men.

Undetected by an alerted enemy,

with his prey now no more

than a stone's throw away,

Hasler had now penetrated

more than 50 miles downriver.

Hasler hid his canoes

in the reeds, just over there.

The main port of Bordeaux is

two miles in that direction.

He was now so close to the city, he

could hear the rumble of traffic,

the hooting of cars, dogs barking.

He could also hear the whir and

clank of the cranes on this quay.

Hasler and his men were now within

touching distance of their prey.

At around 21:00, Hasler gave

the order to arm their limpet mines

and prepare for the attack.

They shook hands,

and wished each other good luck.

And then, quietly,

they pushed aside the reeds

and slipped out into the darkness,

Crayfish heading off to

the east bank of the river

and Catfish making her way upstream

towards the Quai des Chartrons.

But they were not the only ones

heading for the ships

on the Quay des Chartrons

that night.

Claude de Baissac and his

SOE team were also making

the final preparations for THEIR

attack, at the very same time.

De Baissac's job was more simple.

He could carry explosives

directly onto the ships,

hidden in the haversacks of his

agents who were working as painters.

So, while Hasler and his men

were making their final approach,

having paddled 70 miles

deep into enemy territory,

Claude de Baissac and his team had

to walk only 100 yards from their HQ

just down there, straight to their

targets, right under German noses.

Meanwhile, for Hasler and his men,

everything now depended on

the last two miles.

They needed maximum concentration,

absolute stealth,

if they were to have any chance

of completing their mission.

Paddles dipping in and out

of the water

with minimum noise and disturbance,

Hasler hugged the bank of the river

until he got to the port,

and then tucked Catfish into

the deep shadows cast

by the quayside,

to observe his targets.

What he saw was a cluster of ships.

Among them, a large cargo vessel

called Tannenfels, whose riverside

flank was fully exposed.

It was a perfect target.

He allowed Catfish to slip

silently on the flood tide,

down the ship's side.

They were now abreast of

the great ship's engine room.

They could hear the hum of its

auxiliary engines and even catch

snatches of conversation and music

coming from the crew's quarters

Hasler took off his gloves

and reached below his cockpit

for the first limpet.

He gently attached it,

feeling a small jolt which told him

that the magnets had taken hold.

The first blow had been struck.

After their second limpet

was planted, they began to

make their way towards the stern,

to find a place for the third.

Suddenly...

..there was a loud

clang from above.

Glancing upwards, they saw

the clear outline of a sentry

silhouetted against the sky.

The two Marines tried to melt into

their canoes and stayed stock still.

They had no option now

but to rely on their camouflage

and their training.

Hasler said later, "I felt as though

my back had been stripped naked".

Minutes turned into

what felt like hours as they waited

and waited for the shout

and the shot.

But none came.

Mistaken for a log or a piece

of flotsam, their camouflage

and their discipline saved them.

Finally, Hasler gave the signal

to Sparks to let go

and they drifted out,

the tide now carrying them

with increasing speed,

downstream and away from danger.

Hasler's limpet mines would start

to explode in six hours' time.

The job was done.

This mission was accomplished.

As soon as they were clear

of the harbour lights,

Hasler turned in his cockpit

and, grasping Sparks' hand,

shook it warmly.

Then the two men shot off

downstream, paddling hard.

They had just six hours to cover

the next 20 miles.

But now, they were swept on

by an ebb tide

and spurred forward by

the elation of success.

And then, more good news when they

came across Laver and Mills.

They, too, were in high spirits -

they had planted eight limpet mines

on another two ships.

At 3:50am, the first of Frankton's

bombs began to go off.

For the next eight hours, successive

explosions ripped holes in the sides

of the blockade runners, and water

began to pour into their holds.

Unfortunately, the tide was now low

and the ships were empty.

Later that morning,

de Baissac's team,

still preparing their own attack,

heard the explosions.

To say that de Baissac was not

pleased would be an understatement.

He said, "WE were well on the way

to attacking these ships,

"but then, at the critical moment,

"the unfortunate Commando raid

took place."

"The only result was the ships

"onto the bottom

and were quickly re-floated

"but we had to abandon our

attack altogether."

So far as I know,

de Baissac was given no warning

that Frankton

was going to take place.

He was furious that somebody else

had sunk them when he had put

so much effort

into the sinking of them.

They were his targets

and they were sinking.

But one can understand, anyone

who's put a great deal of effort

into something and somebody else

does all the work under their noses,

one is somewhat put out.

Would you blame him?

While de Baissac fumed at the missed

opportunity, Hasler and his team

split into pairs and began their

long and desperate journey home.

Had London coordinated with SOE's

network on the ground,

Hasler's men need never have

travelled more than a mile or so,

before being scooped up and whisked

to safety by the French Resistance.

Instead, their journey involved

more than 70 miles

in the depth of winter,

through enemy-occupied France,

a furious enemy on their tails,

and without shelter,

food or assistance,

beyond what they could beg.

Only Hasler and Sparks made it.

After an extraordinary journey

across France, Spain

and into Gibraltar, they finally

arrived home in March 1943.

Laver and Mills were captured

and then, like their colleagues,

executed.

Once, there had been 12 men.

Now, there were just two.

On Sunday 25th April 1943,

Blondie Hasler was invited to tea

at Louis Mountbatten's home.

There, he related,

for the first time,

the full story

of Operation Frankton.

Although Frankton had cost almost

every one of Hasler's men,

he had still, against all the odds,

completed his mission.

Limpet mines had been successfully

planted on blockade runners

in Bordeaux, and had blown a hole in

German illusions of invincibility.

Mountbatten and Churchill

recognised what Hasler

and his team had achieved,

awarding Hasler

the highest medal possible

for this kind of operation -

the DSO.

Sparks was given a DSM.

Looking back, even over 70 years,

Operation Frankton still stands out.

It was one of the very first

deep-penetration raids

by Special Forces, which had

genuine strategic purpose.

There have been many such

canoe-based raids since.

But, to my mind, this was

the greatest of them.

It was the raid which gave birth

to my old unit the, SBS,

and it is the raid that has

inspired me all my adult life.

The Germans, too, recognised

Frankton as something exceptional.

One German officer called it,

"The outstanding commando

raid of the Second World War".

But in this story,

one big question remains.

Did Mountbatten know

of SOE's planned attack?

We may never know the answer

to that question for certain,

but one thing is very clear -

with Whitehall factions more

interested in fighting each other

than in working together

to beat the Germans,

this was a Whitehall cock-up

of major proportions.

And the people who paid the price

were Hasler's young marines.

Mountbatten - he was in charge

of Combined Ops, and he gave

the OK for the operation.

So it was on his head, really.

He said it was worthwhile

losing those men.

Which...

He's in a different position to us.

Our lives weren't as important

to him as what the operation was.

Along with the lost lives,

one of the biggest tragedies of

Frankton was the lost opportunity

to strike a much more effective blow

against our enemy.

Hasler and de Baissac

working together could have

made a much bigger impact.

It was fairly clear by...

at the latest, Christmas,

that there had been

a major cock-up in that

Frankton had taken place

and had sunken ships at

a horrible cost in casualties.

80%, which is much too much.

And, equally, SOE's effort

had been...

..well prepared, but a great waste,

as it turned out,

of resources and effort.

By the time Frankton was over,

the need for better cooperation

was, at long last,

being recognised in Whitehall.

In the summer of 1943,

a control system was established

in the Admiralty precisely to

prevent the wasteful duplication

of effort, courage and endeavour

that had made Frankton so notorious.

A new official was set up

in Whitehall

called the Controlling Officer,

who made sure that

this particular type of model never

happened again, that people didn't

trip each other up in precisely

the way that SOE had been tripped up

by Combined Ops

in Operation Frankton.

Next to the actual sinkings,

the clearing house was, I think, the

most important result of Frankton.

As the war progressed, SOE and

Combined Ops began to turn away

from the pin-prick raids of the

past, to something rather grander.

You could certainly maintain

that the setting up

of the Controlling Office

after Frankton was an assistance

towards the major cooperation

between all three Armed Forces

and all the secret services that

worked so well in the end

in Normandy D-Day.

What stands out for me

from this story

is not the inter-departmental

rivalries in Whitehall,

the petty squabbles,

the cruel twists of fate.

It is the extraordinary loyalty,

determination and courage

of those ordinary young men

who followed Blondie Hasler

into the heart of the enemy,

that cold December night in 1942.

In an age of easy living, where

we are seldom asked to choose

between ourselves

and something greater,

they should be an

inspiration to us all.

Subtitles by Ericsson