When Stirling and Greaves reached the room which was, according to Tiger Lil, rented permanently by Lorrimer, Greaves hammered on the door with his fist and a gravelly male voice bid him enter. Doing so, he and Stirling found Sergeant Lorrimer, wearing his shirt and trousers, though bare-footed, stretched out on his bed, propped up slightly with pillows, reading the latest edition of The Strand.
Surprised to see two officers in his room, he slid his feet down to the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. He was of medium height, but broad-chested and muscular, with a handsome, world-weary face and a fearless, blue-eyed gaze.
‘Yes, sirs?’ he asked, clearly puzzled by their presence in his room.
Stirling introduced himself and Greaves, then explained why they had come. As soon as he had finished, Lorrimer agreed to join up.
‘Can you get us the cooperation of the LRDG?’ Stirling asked.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Excellent. Please get in touch with them immediately, then contact me here.’ He scribbled his brother’s private phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to Lorrimer. ‘That’s where I’m staying while I’m in Cairo. Get in touch when you’ve fixed up a meeting with the LRDG. If it can’t be arranged immediately, fix it up for later.’ He was leaving the room with Greaves when the latter, unable to contain his curiosity, turned back and asked Lorrimer: ‘Do you rent this room on a full-time basis, Sergeant?’
Lorrimer nodded. ‘Only during my leave periods,’ he said. ‘I’m a married man with three kids and a healthy sexual appetite. This room’s cheaper than anything else I could hire and the girls are conveniently located. What more could a man want?’
‘You’re a man of initiative,’ Greaves replied. ‘I think we made the right choice. See you soon, Sergeant.’
Their next stop was the MP barracks at Bab el Hadid, where one of Greaves’s favourite men, Captain Patrick ‘Paddy’ Callaghan, No 3 Commando, was languishing in one of the cells, pending a court martial for knocking out his commanding officer. Formerly an Irish rugby international and accomplished boxer, Callaghan was normally an amiable, courteous man, but unfortunately he had a violent temper. Indeed, before actually striking his commanding officer, Callaghan had run him out of the officers’ mess at the point of a bayonet. He was, nevertheless, an exceptional soldier who had already been mentioned in dispatches for his bravery in action.
When Stirling and Greaves proposed that he avoid his pending court martial by joining their new unit, he said, ‘Why not? I’m going out of my mind with boredom here. Count me in, gentlemen.’
The rest of the main group had to be searched out across the length and breadth of Cairo, in nightclubs such as Groppi’s, the Blue Nile and the Sweet Melody Cabaret where soldiers, sailors and airmen, drunk on the deadly Zebeeb, groped the ‘cherry brandy bints’; in the Union Jack pension with its egg ’n’ chips and Greek proprietor; in the numerous bars and brothels of the Berka; in the healthier Springbok Recreational Club at Helwan; in the surprisingly sedate Cairo Club, which was a services club reserved for sergeants and warrant officers; and in the Anglo-Egyptian Union, an officers’ club located outside the city.
From these and other places Stirling and Greaves, sometimes together, other times separately, trawled the rest of the men they personally knew, respected and wanted. These included Captain ‘Jock’ Lewes, Welsh Guards, former Layforce member, and the man who had made the first experimental static-line parachute jumps with Stirling. A superbly fit ex-Oxford rowing blue with a low boredom threshold, Lewes had already proven himself to be a superb exponent of night-time raids behind enemy lines in the Tobruk area. He also had a talent for devising training programmes and techniques, which Stirling intended putting to good use.
Finally, Stirling called for general volunteers, inviting them to a meeting in a tent in Geneifa, outside Cairo. Among those who came forward were Sergeants Bob Tappman, Pat Riley and Ernie Bond; Corporals Jim Almonds, ‘Benny’ Bennett, Jack ‘Taff’ Clayton and Reg Seekings; and Privates Neil Moffatt, Frank ‘Frankie’ Turner and Jimmy ‘Jimbo’ Ashman.
A few days later these men and more were gathered together at the chosen base camp at Kabrit, in the Suez Canal zone, to begin their special, brutal training.
They were called the ‘Originals’.
Located by the Great Bitter Lake, about 95 miles east of Cairo, and south of Aden, Kabrit was a desolate piece of flatland, fully exposed to the scorching sun, plagued by swarms of fat, black flies, and consisting of no more than three mouldering tents for the men, a command tent with a rickety card-table and stool, and one badly battered three-ton lorry.
‘Bloody hell!’ Corporal Jack ‘Taff’ Clayton said as soon as he had jumped down off the back of the three-tonner and was standing in a cloud of dust with the others. ‘There’s nothing here, lads!’
‘Not a damned thing,’ Private Frank ‘Frankie’ Turner agreed, swatting the buzzing flies from his sweating face. ‘No more than a piss-hole.’
The men were already wearing clothing more suitable to the desert: khaki shirt and shorts, regular Army boots with rolled-down socks, and a soft peaked cap instead of a helmet. Each man also had a Fairburn-Sykes commando knife and Browning 9mm handgun strapped to his waist.
‘Damned flies!’ Private Neil Moffatt complained.
‘Bloody hot!’ Corporal Jimmy ‘Jimbo’ Ashman exclaimed.
‘All right, you men!’ Sergeant Lorrimer bawled, his legs like tree-trunks in his floppy shorts, his hands on his broad hips. ‘Stop moaning and groaning. Go and put your kit in those tents, then come back out here.’
‘Yes, Sarge!’ they all chimed.
Picking their kit off the desert floor, they crossed to the three tents and wandered around them in disbelief.
‘These tents are in tatters,’ Neil observed mournfully, wiping the sweat from his face and neck with a piece of cloth that could have come from one of the tattered tents.
‘They’re also too small,’ Frankie Turner put in. ‘Might as well sleep out in the open for all the good these’ll do us.’
‘More holes than a fancy Eyetie cheese,’ Jimbo said, spitting on the ground between his feet. ‘And how the hell we’re all supposed to squeeze in there, I can’t imagine. I think this calls for a talk with our soft-voiced friend, Sergeant Lorrimer.’
‘Right,’ Taff said. ‘Let’s pitch our gear temporarily in a tent, then we’ll go and sort this out.’ He ducked low to enter one of the tents and was immediately followed in by some of the others. The tents had been raised over the desert floor; there were no beds or groundsheets. ‘Fucking beautiful!’ Taff exclaimed. ‘We’re supposed to lie on the bloody sand and get eaten alive. Not me, mate.’ Dropping his kit on the ground, he ducked low again and left the tent. The others did the same and gathered outside, where Lorrimer had indicated.
Lorrimer was over by the three-tonner, deep in conversation with Captains Stirling and Callaghan and Lieutenant Greaves. While the men waited for him to come over they had a ‘smoko’, which helped to keep the flies at bay.
‘I can tell we’re all going to be driven mad here,’ Jimbo said, ‘by these bloody flies and mosquitoes.’
‘Creepy-crawlies as well,’ Frankie said darkly.
‘Snakes, scorpions, spiders, ticks, midges,’ Neil said mournfully. ‘You name it, we’ve got it here all right. We’ll be eaten alive.’
‘Dust,’ Taff said,