The Relentless Fury of Paddy Mayne: War Hero and SAS Founder.
- dthholland
- Jun 2
- 7 min read
“Wild maybe, but he was definitely someone you would want on your side.”
The words come not from a biographer or a military historian, but from a fellow soldier—someone who had shared both the chaos of battle and the rare silence that came after. To those who knew Colonel Robert Blair “Paddy” Mayne in the field, the phrase was more than a compliment. It was a reassurance, a testament, and at times a warning.
“Wild” hardly begins to capture the full extent of Mayne’s unpredictable nature. He was volcanic—capable of sudden bursts of rage, fuelled by whisky and pain, both physical and emotional. He once emptied a service revolver at the feet of a club manager over a bar tab. He could be blunt, insubordinate, even uncontrollable. And yet, in the crucible of war, when order gave way to chaos, it was precisely this volatility that made him invaluable. Wildness was his strength, if not always his virtue.
He was a man of extremes. On one hand, he had the analytical brain of a solicitor, the discipline of a trained athlete, and the leadership instincts of a born commander. On the other, he carried the scars of battle—not just on his back, which ached constantly from injuries, but in his mind, which bore the cumulative weight of death, responsibility, and trauma. Soldiers instinctively followed him not because he issued perfect orders, but because he shared in their risks. He stood in the same mud, under the same bullets, and acted as if death had already accepted his invitation but hadn’t yet found the time.
Mayne’s comrades admired the way he moved through battle with a kind of silent urgency—swift, direct, and efficient. When ambushed, he didn’t panic; he calculated. When outnumbered, he didn’t hesitate; he attacked. It was as though he had been engineered for this particular kind of war—fought in deserts, forests, and behind enemy lines, where rules blurred and raw instinct decided who lived and who didn’t.
The same soldier who described him as “wild” also made it clear that there was no one better to have at your side when it mattered most. That wasn’t just sentiment—it was survival. Whether you were deep in Axis-held territory in North Africa, assaulting artillery batteries in Sicily, or coordinating with the French Maquis in occupied France, if Paddy Mayne was beside you, your chances of coming home went up.
His methods weren’t always textbook. In fact, they frequently weren’t. But they worked. He brought the ethos of sport—adaptation, endurance, and tenacity—into the unforgiving geometry of war. While conventional officers pored over maps, Mayne was already moving across the terrain. He understood terrain not just as space, but as opportunity—each ridge, each sand dune, each copse of trees a potential point of advantage. It was said he could “read” a battlefield the way a seasoned rugby player reads the pitch.
There is no small irony in the fact that someone so ferocious in combat could inspire such intense loyalty in others. But loyalty was at the core of Mayne’s character. Despite his well-documented insubordination toward senior officers, he was fiercely protective of the men under his command. He went to great lengths to keep them alive. He never sent them anywhere he wouldn’t go himself. And when their missions went wrong—as special operations inevitably did—he took the responsibility squarely on his shoulders.
Even David Stirling, the SAS’s architect, understood this contradiction. Though he once reprimanded Mayne for what he considered excessive brutality—the killing of unarmed Axis soldiers in a canteen—he never questioned his courage or his impact. Stirling may have been the planner, the visionary, the organiser. But Mayne was the hammer.
His legacy is wrapped in this paradox. He was a warrior who could be gentle, a leader who defied hierarchy, a soldier both celebrated and sidelined. He was, in every sense, someone you would want on your side—not because he obeyed the rules, but because he bent them just enough to win.
In the context of the Second World War, where battles were no longer fought in straight lines and victory depended on speed, guile, and grit, Robert Blair “Paddy” Mayne was the right man at the right time. And for those who followed him into enemy territory, he wasn’t just someone they wanted on their side—he was someone they depended on to get them back out again.
Building the SAS
The foundations of the Special Air Service were unorthodox from the outset—an elite force operating outside the standard protocols of the British Army. As a founding member and later one of its most celebrated leaders, Mayne brought both structure and savagery to the fledgling regiment. He didn’t just follow the SAS ethos—he embodied it.
Operating in the North African desert, Mayne honed the art of lightning raids: swift, brutal strikes deep behind enemy lines that shattered the illusion of Axis security. He refined techniques in stealth sabotage, specialising in airfield attacks where dozens of aircraft could be destroyed in a single night. The strategy wasn’t merely to damage—it was to terrorise, demoralise, and disrupt supply and communication lines across vast enemy-held territories.
Mayne’s adaptation of heavily armed jeeps marked a tactical revolution. These rugged, fast vehicles were fitted with Vickers K machine guns—often in pairs—enabling devastating firepower with extreme manoeuvrability. He treated the desert like a chessboard, each raid a move designed to provoke confusion, draw out reinforcements, and expose weaknesses.
In July 1942, during the celebrated raid on Sidi Haneish airfield, Mayne and Stirling led eighteen jeeps straight onto the tarmac in a night-time assault that obliterated up to forty aircraft. It was a high-stakes gamble that paid off spectacularly and helped justify the continued existence of the SAS to sceptical figures within Army High Command.
Such victories did not come without cost. The unit suffered casualties, and Mayne was often left carrying the psychological burden of those losses. Yet he pressed on, leading more missions across Libya and Egypt, often under punishing conditions of heat, exhaustion, and perpetual threat. His leadership style remained grounded: he didn’t command from the rear but fought alongside his men. In return, they followed him with unwavering trust.
Command in Europe
When David Stirling was captured by German forces in early 1943, the future of the SAS seemed uncertain. Mayne stepped into the vacuum with characteristic resolve. He assumed command of the newly-formed Special Raiding Squadron, taking the fight to enemy-held Europe as Allied forces prepared to reclaim occupied territory.
His first major campaign as commander came during Operation Husky, the Allied invasion of Sicily in July 1943. Tasked with neutralising heavily defended coastal batteries, Mayne’s squad struck hard. Reports from the time describe him personally leading charges, coordinating assaults under enemy fire, and inflicting massive casualties on Italian troops. Estimates from the engagement suggest his unit killed between 200 and 300 enemy combatants during one operation alone.
Following the success in Sicily, Mayne led his men in the subsequent Italian campaign, including the battle for the strategic port of Augusta. His tenacity and effective command earned him a bar to his DSO, a rare distinction.
In 1944, as Allied forces advanced into France following D-Day, Mayne—now a lieutenant colonel—was placed in charge of the reconstituted 1st SAS Regiment. Operating alongside the French Resistance, Mayne coordinated sabotage missions, disrupted German communications, and supported the liberation of towns across the country.
He built strong relationships with the Maquis, valuing their local knowledge and courage. These operations were often ferocious, involving close-quarter fighting, improvised tactics, and retaliatory attacks by German forces. In recognition of his leadership and service, the French government later awarded him the Croix de Guerre and the Legion d’honneur.
The Final Years
Victory in Europe in May 1945 marked the end of Paddy Mayne’s combat career, but not the end of his struggles. The disbandment of the SAS in October 1945 left him disillusioned, and civilian life offered little solace. Though he returned to Northern Ireland and resumed work as a solicitor, his war injuries—particularly to his back—limited his physical capacity. More troubling was the psychological toll.
Modern perspectives would likely identify his postwar condition as post-traumatic stress disorder. Mayne’s wartime experiences, coupled with the abrupt cessation of his military role, created a chasm that peacetime routine could not fill. He became increasingly withdrawn, continuing to drink heavily and struggling to adjust.
A brief attempt to rekindle a sense of purpose came with his involvement in the British Antarctic Survey, working in the Falklands. But the physical strain proved too great, and he returned home.
Tragically, Mayne’s life came to a sudden end in the early hours of 14 December 1955. After a night of drinking with fellow Freemasons in Bangor, he lost control of his red open-top Riley sports car while trying to avoid an unlit coal lorry. The vehicle struck a telegraph pole. Mayne was found dead in the wreckage, just shy of his 41st birthday.
Modern Legacy
The question of why Robert Blair Mayne was denied the Victoria Cross continues to provoke debate. Nominated for the award on several occasions, including for his leadership during the Sicily campaign and for actions in France, the honour was never conferred. Many believe it was due to his defiance of military convention, his unapologetic independence and record of disciplinary infractions.
In 2005 and 2006, campaigns were launched to have the decision revisited. Veterans, historians, and politicians alike lobbied for posthumous recognition. Questions were raised in Parliament, petitions signed. But the Ministry of Defence held firm. The case was closed.
Yet Mayne’s legacy requires no embellishment. His battlefield achievements, his pioneering tactics, and his unique form of leadership ensured that the SAS not only survived its experimental infancy but flourished into a permanent and feared institution.
