Heroes of the South Atlantic

A few of the lads laughed, but Andrew remained unfazed. He swirled the Drambuie in his glass, letting it thoroughly soak the crumpled piece of paper floating on top. ‘Where’s your sense of military history?’ he challenged them, staring at each in turn. ‘Did you know that this place was uninhabited until the British established a garrison when Napoleon was sent to St Helena in 1815? That makes a line of history from Napoleon to us, sitting right here. I think that’s kind of magical.’

‘Where’s St Helena?’ Jock asked. ‘The other side of the island?’

‘Seven hundred and fifty miles south-east of here,’ Andrew explained with a studied display of patience. ‘A mere drop in the ocean. And to there – we’re practically sitting in his ghostly lap – the great Napoleon was exiled. Now I think that’s real magical, man – and magic is poetry.’

‘I’m gonna puke,’ Gumboot said.

‘Don’t blame you,’ Jock agreed.

‘I salute the great fellow-soldier,’ Andrew said gravely. Then he flicked his lighter, set fire to the ball of paper in the Drambuie, put the flaming concoction to his lips and swallowed it.

It was the kind of sport the Regiment enjoyed and Andrew’s mates all applauded. When he had finished his drink, the ball of paper was still on fire. He put his lips over the glass and appeared to suck up the flame. When he put the glass down, the fire was out. The men clapped and cheered again.

‘Anyway,’ Ricketts said when the noise had subsided, ‘I think Parkinson should get on the blower and try to stir up some action.’

‘Talk of the devil,’ Paddy said, indicating the door with a nod of his head as Major Parkinson entered the bar and walked straight to their table.

‘Evening, chaps,’ he said. ‘Sitting here moaning and groaning, are you?’ The men jeered and howled melodramatically, until Parkinson pulled up a chair and sat down with them. ‘Contrary to what you bullshit artists think, our CO has been keen to get this squadron embarked. He’s therefore pleased to inform you, through me, that today he received a request for an SAS troop, the whole of D Squadron, to sail in the Royal Fleet Auxiliary Fort Austin for a proper assignment.’

Reprieved at last, the men roared their approval.

Some twelve hours later, in the grey light of dawn, the men of the SAS Squadron were driven away from Wideawake airfield, past planes, helicopters, fork-lifts, supply trucks, advance-communications equipment and stockpiles of fuel, rations and medical supplies, to the nearby beach, where Gemini inflatables were waiting to take them out to the fleet of battleships that would carry them on to the South Atlantic.

3

The 22,890-ton RFA Fort Austin sailed under the Blue Ensign in company with the large destroyer HMS Antrim (6200 tons), the frigate Plymouth (2800 tons), and the large fleet tanker Tidespring (27,400 tons). Maintaining radio silence, the fleet soon left Ascension Island far behind to become surrounded by the deep swells and ominous grey waves of the forbidding South Atlantic.

Although normally unarmed, the Fort Austin was carrying improvised weaponry, including GPMGs, general-purpose machine-guns. It had also embarked four Lynx helicopters specially fitted for firing the Sea Skua missile, and it was loaded with 3500 tons of ammunition, stores and spares. With a length of 183.8 metres, a beam of 24.1 metres and a draught of 14.9 metres, she was an impressive sight, and, to the uninitiated, overwhelming inside.

Spending most of their days and nights in the dimly lit, sweltering hold, in tightly packed tiers of bunk beds and hammocks, surrounded by dangling equipment and clothes hanging from stanchions, in a tangle of bags, packs, bergens and weapons, with little to do except be patient, the SAS men passed the time by studying as much detail of the islands as they had been given by Intelligence, playing cards, writing letters in which they could not state their whereabouts, visiting the latrines out of boredom as well as need, and exchanging the usual banter and bullshit.

‘Here comes young Danny, just back from the head, getting his lovely Darlene out of his system by having a good wank. How did it go, kid?’

‘None of your business, Gumboot.’

‘Shot a healthy wad, did you? Enough to last you till tomorrow? Me, I can do it ten times a day and it’s still not enough. That’s why women can’t get enough of me – because I just keep on coming.’

‘They can’t get enough of you,’ big Andrew corrected him, ‘because you pay them too much. The whores of London have never had it so good – at least not since your missus ran off and sent you on the prowl around King’s Cross. At least Danny here doesn’t have to pay for it. He has youth on his side.’

‘Hey, look, he’s blushing! Danny’s face has gone all red. If he had as much heat in his dick, we’d all be in trouble.’

‘Shut up, Jock,’ Ricketts said. ‘You’ve got a mouth like a sewer. Go and pick on someone your age – another geriatric.’

‘I’m the same age as Danny. He just looks younger than me. That’s because I’m a man of broad experience and it shows in my face.’

‘Dissipation,’ Andrew said. ‘Your mug certainly shows that. Now me, I’m often mistaken for Muhammad Ali. Black is beautiful, friends.’

When feeling trapped or claustrophobic in the crowded, noisy hold, a man could make his escape by touring the immense ship and observing the constant activity that went on in its other holds and on the flight deck. Most of this revolved around the transfer of stores and equipment, either to smaller ships alongside or by jackstay rigs or helicopters to HM ships. The noise both above and below decks was therefore considerable nearly all day, and sometimes went on through the night.

‘Fucking Navy,’ Jock said. ‘You’d have to be mad to join it. I mean, trapped on this floating factory for weeks on end with only the sea all around you. You’d have to be psycho.’

‘That’s what they say about us,’ Andrew replied, ‘and maybe they’re right.’

‘They’re just a bunch of poofters,’ Gumboot said, leaning against the railing and spitting over the side to baptize the sea. ‘We’ve all known that for years. That’s why they like life aboard ship, packed cosily together in their bunks. Why else would they do it?’

‘Three days we’ve been at sea already,’ Taff said, ignoring Jock’s base observation and instead watching another helicopter taking off with a roar, silhouetted by a pale, cloud-streaked sun as it created a wind that whipped their faces and pummelled their bodies. ‘One more day and I’ll go mad.’

‘Won’t we all?’ Ricketts murmured.

Luckily, they managed to survive the next day – and on the fifth, 9 April, Antrim’s fleet linked up with the ice patrol ship the Endurance 1600 kilometres north of South Georgia, and, escorted by it, began closing in on the island.

‘Thank God!’ Danny exclaimed softly, again leaning on the railing and gazing hopefully at the distant, as yet featureless grey horizon. ‘Now let’s see some dry land.’

However, as approval for the operation had not yet been received from London, another ten days passed before Major Parkinson could announce its commencement.

‘How are the men holding up?’ he asked Sergeant Ricketts.

‘Not bad, boss, but they’re obviously getting a bit frustrated. There isn’t much to do down there in the hold except listen to the hammering of the engines, play cards, write letters, trade bullshit and take the piss out of passing sailors.’

‘But no trouble so far?’

‘Not so far – but their remarks to the sailors are becoming more saucy by the day, so there could be some punch-ups in the near future. There’s a lot of energy needs squandering down there, one way or the other.’

‘We’d better distract them.’

‘I think so, boss.’

‘Let’s keep them extra busy, Sergeant. Every minute of every day. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll be right and they’ll start popping sailors. Let’s burn up all that healthy, excess energy before they release it another way.’

‘Good thinking, boss,’ Ricketts said.

Within each of the four Sabre Squadrons of the SAS – A, B, C and D – there are four kinds of 16-man specialist groups: Mountain Troops for mountain and Arctic warfare; Boat Troops for amphibious warfare; Mobility Troops for operations in Land Rovers and fast-attack vehicles, as well as on motorcycles; and Air Troops for freefall parachute operations. However, during their training, the men must serve with every group, to make them adaptable to any of the four main forms of warfare.

Given the nature of the Falklands, the SAS men on Fort Austin were divided into the two groups needed for this particular operation: the Mountain Troop, led by Captain Hailsham and including Sergeant Ricketts, Corporal Clarke and troopers Porter and Winston, which would be used for land-based reconnaissance and engagements; and the Boat Troop, led by Captain Grenville and including Corporal McGregor and troopers Burgess and Gillis, to be used for any required amphibious landings.

The first group was therefore kept as busy as possible with interminable lessons on the geography and topography of the Falklands; the second with similar lessons on the tides and waterways of the islands and with the constant checking of their Gemini inflatables and Klepper canoes.

Nevertheless, life aboard ship became increasingly dull and frustrating, leading to restlessness, moans and groans and even an occasional angry confrontation between SAS Troopers and the crew. Sergeant Ricketts was therefore relieved when at last they were called to the briefing room by an obviously pleased Major Parkinson.

‘I’ve just been informed,’ he told his frustrated SAS Troop, ‘that our accompanying tanker, Tidespring, is carrying M Company of 42 Commando, Royal Marines – destined to be landed in South Georgia.’

There were murmurs and many wide-eyed glances among the men.

‘This island,’ Parkinson continued when they had settled down again, ‘lies 1300 kilometres east-south-east of the Falklands and, as the main base of the British Antarctic Survey, is particularly important to Great Britain. Its recapture will therefore be a clear indication to the world in general and Argentina in particular that if necessary we Brits will fight to recapture any territory stolen from us.’

‘About time!’ Gumboot exclaimed.

‘Bloody right,’ Jock said emphatically.

‘Let’s get them up and running,’ Taff Burgess added, smiling at the ceiling. ‘Let’s kick the shite out of them.’

The ensuing laughter and applause were silenced when Ricketts, on the ball as always, asked: ‘Who’s in charge this time?’

‘The second-in-command of 42 Commando, Major Guy Sheridan RM, will be in command of the landing forces, including us’ – a few groans at this – ‘and he’ll work with our CO aboard the Antrim in planning the assault on the island.’ This brought more cheers. ‘In addition to us, Sheridan has 120 men of M Company and about twenty-five swimmer-canoeists of 2 SBS, Royal Marines. There’s also a small detachment of Marines aboard the Antrim with M Company’s Recce Troop, a mortar section and the company OC. In all, about 235 men.’

‘How many Argentinians are holding the island?’ Ricketts asked.

‘We don’t know for sure. Why? Are you worried?’

‘No, boss, I’m not.’

‘I didn’t think so,’ Parkinson said with a grin. ‘Anyway, we’ve just received a signal…’

‘I thought we were sailing in radio silence,’ big Taff butted in.

‘It was dropped from a maritime reconnaissance aircraft,’ Parkinson explained. ‘A signal authorizing us to carry out covert recces on South Georgia.’ This sparked off more cheering.

‘As part of this, plans are being drawn up for our Mountain Troop to land north of Leith, where the Argentinians have reportedly been collecting scrap from an old whaling station. And 2 SBS will land about the same time in Hounds Bay, south-east of the island’s main settlement of Grytviken, and move up the coast in inflatable boats to establish observation posts, which can observe the settlement from across five kilometres of open water. That’s it. Any questions?’

‘When do we leave?’ Andrew asked.

‘The operation has already commenced. On your feet, bullshit artists. We’re busy at last.’

4

Because South Georgia was out of range of land-based aircraft, D squadron transhipped by Wessex helicopter from Fort Austin to the ice patrol ship HMS Endurance, which would sail closer to the shore, enabling them to fly in to their landing zone.

Looking down on the South Atlantic, where a man could freeze to death in a couple of hours, Ricketts wasn’t the only one to give a slight, involuntary shudder, no matter how fearless he might normally have been. He was glad, therefore, when a streak of crimson appeared in the alluvial, snot-grey sea, then took shape as the hull of the Endurance, also known as the ‘Red Plum’. Though smaller than the Fort Austin, the Endurance was equipped with two Wasp helicopters. To facilitate their landing, a large hangar had been built abaft the ship’s funnel, extending her poop deck to create a helicopter landing pad. It was onto this that the helicopter containing the SAS team landed, bobbing up and down, to and fro, above the treacherous, surging, shadowy waves, before settling at last on the solid but constantly swaying deck.

Once aboard the new ship, Major Parkinson held another briefing, this one solely for the 16 members of his Mountain Troop, which would be led by the young and handsome, but decidedly efficient, Captain Mike Hailsham, and including Sergeant Ricketts, Corporal Jock McGregor, Trooper Danny Baby Face Porter, and the massive Trooper Andrew Winston.

Captain Hailsham was standing beside Parkinson throughout the briefing, which took place in a large, committee-room-sized cabin located above the flight decks, with drenched portholes giving a distorted view of the featureless grey sea and sky outside.

‘Right,’ Major Parkinson began. ‘To put you in the picture, the Special Boat Squadron has been given the task of reconnoitring Grytviken and King Edward’s Point while the Mountain Troop, meaning you lot, under the command of Captain Hailsham here, will be landed on Fortuna Glacier, South Georgia, to establish observation posts for the gathering of intelligence on the Argentinian forces. This may not be as easy at it sounds, for reasons which Captain Hailsham will now explain.’

Parkinson stepped aside as Hailsham picked up his pointer and tapped it against the map pinned to the board. ‘The Fortuna Glacier is a potential death-trap,’ he said bluntly. ‘Its five arms flow down into the South Atlantic and are veined with hundreds of deep fissures and pressure ridges. At the top of the glacier, where the weight of the ice pressures downwards, it’s comparatively level, but there are also hundreds of mile-deep crevasses. These can swallow a man up to his waist – though if he’s lucky, the bulk of his bergen will break his fall and his colleagues will then be able to drag him out.’

This drew snorts of derision from some of the men. ‘Don’t laugh,’ Captain Hailsham admonished them. ‘I’m not joking about this. That glacier is massive, filled with crevasses, and extremely dangerous. In good weather conditions the procedure I’ve just described will be adequate to the situation, enabling us to advance, albeit slowly. However, in sub-zero temperatures and gale-force winds, which we’re likely to encounter, it’s extremely hazardous. In fact, sudden gales, which come from the mountains and are then funnelled down valleys, can produce gusts of over 240 kilometres per hour. To make matters worse, the weather’s unpredictable. What may appear as a window of clear weather can be closed in minutes by whirling snow storms, producing a blinding white-out. So believe me, that glacier is treacherous.’

‘Luckily, Captain Hailsham has Himalayan experience,’ Major Parkinson interjected. ‘That, at least, is a help.’

‘If it’s that hazardous, why choose the glacier for an OP?’ Ricketts asked, thinking it was a poor site for an observation post.

‘I have to confess,’ Parkinson replied, ‘that 42 Commando’s second-in-command, Major Guy Sheridan, advised against it. However, the importance of that high point overlooking Grytviken and Leith Harbour, combined with Captain Hailsham’s experience as a civilian mountaineer, was enough to make us take a chance and attempt a landing on this difficult LZ. We were encouraged further when we found that this ship carries detailed charts and maps of the area, now pinned up behind me.’

Captain Hailsham tapped the drawings on the board with his pointer. ‘These plans of the buildings on King Edward’s Point were carefully traced from drawings. The buildings housed the British Antarctic Survey settlement before the Royal Marines were forced to surrender to the Argentinians. The same buildings now house the Argentinian HQ. They’re located at the mouth of a cove a thousand metres from Grytviken. That’s what we hope to observe from the OP on the Fortuna Glacier.’ After a short silence, Hailsham asked: ‘Any questions?’

There were no questions, so Ricketts said: ‘Silence is consent. I say let’s go now, boss.’

‘I always take note of the wishes of my men,’ Major Parkinson replied with a grin. ‘OK, Cap’n, get going.’

Captain Hailsham enthusiastically left the cabin, followed by the others.

The men prepared themselves with their usual thoroughness. Arctic cold-weather kit was drawn from the Endurance’s stores, including Swedish civilian mountaineering boots, which they used instead of their normal-issue boots. Weapons were signed for and carefully checked, including SLR semi-automatic rifles with 20-round steel magazines; 7.62mm general-purpose machine-guns; a couple of Armalites with single-shot, breech-loaded, pump-action grenade-launchers; M202s with 66mm, trigger-mechanism incendiary rockets; Browning 9mm high-power handguns; and fragmentation, white-phosphorus, CS-gas and smoke grenades. The weapons were thoroughly checked, then the machine-guns, rifles and pistols were cleansed of unnecessary lubricants, to prevent them from seizing up on the freezing glacier.

Other equipment, apart from food and drink, included a couple of PRC 319 HF/VHF radio systems and an older Clansman high-frequency set, which could also be used as a Morse or CW, continuous-wave, transmitter. Also loaded onto the troop-carrying Wessex helicopters were four sledges, or pulks, which could be hauled by hand and would be used to transport the weapons and other equipment from the LZ to the summit of the glacier.

When this vital work was done, the men gathered on the landing pads of the ship and took their places in the two Royal Marine Wessex Mark 5 helicopters flown in for this op from the fleet oiler, the Tidespring, and the smaller Wessex Mark 3, from the RFA Antrim, to be flown by Lieutenant-Commander Randolph Pedler RN. At midday the helicopters took off and headed for South Georgia, flying above a sludge-coloured sea, through a sky ominous with black clouds.

‘It looks as welcoming as hell down there,’ Trooper Winston observed, glancing over his shoulder, through the window. ‘It’s just not as warm.’

‘Getting cold feet, are you?’

‘My feet are fine, Gumboot. I’m merely casting my poetic eye over the scene and making a measured observation. That landscape’s as white as your face. Feeling ill, are you?’

‘Very funny,’ Gumboot said. ‘The company poet has just spoken. He’s trying to hide the fact that he’s got cold feet by changing the subject. We all know just how white he’d be looking if he wasn’t so black.’

‘Now that’s real poetic, Gumboot.’

‘Thanks, Andrew, you’re too kind. When you come down out of the trees and learn to spell you can write me up in your notebook.’

‘Ho, ho,’ Andrew said. ‘A shaft of wit from the white-faced wonder. They grow his kind like turnips in Devon, where the folks all chew straws.’

‘I like Devon,’ Baby Face Danny, said. ‘I once took Darlene there. We stayed in a hotel at Paignton and had a wonderful time.’

‘In separate rooms,’ Paddy said.

‘Having simultaneous wet dreams,’ Gumboot added.

‘You shouldn’t make fun of young love,’ Taff Burgess rebuked them. ‘I think it’s cruel to do that.’

‘I don’t mind,’ Danny said. ‘I know they’re just pulling my leg.’

‘To keep him from pulling his dick,’ Gumboot said, ‘which he seems to do all the time these days.’

‘That’s true love,’ Andrew said.

‘I’d call it lust, but what’s the difference?’

‘Now we know why your missus ran off,’ Andrew said, flashing his perfect teeth at Gumboot. ‘You were too sensitive and sentimental for her, too romantic to live with.’

‘Now that’s cruel,’ Gumboot said. ‘That’s hitting a man below the belt. I could reply in kind by making comments about your girlfriends, but since I know that it’s little boys you like, I’ll keep my trap shut.’

‘Little boys like me, Gumboot.’

‘Yes, Andrew, I know they do. They like your nice smile, your black skin, your poetry and the fact that you have a dong so tiny you can slip it in smoothly. Say no more – I’m outraged.’

‘Scared shitless more like it.’ Paddy’s grin was wicked. ‘I can tell by the colour of his gills that he has constipation.’

‘Scared? Me scared? Who said that? Stand up and be counted!’

‘I would if I could but I can’t because my poor knees are knocking. Yeah, Andrew, you’re absolutely right: it looks like all hell down there.’

The bantering, Ricketts knew, was not a cover for fear, but a healthy way of psyching themselves up for the work to be done. Now, having exhausted conversation and nearing the LZ, they fell into a contemplative silence, each secretly preparing in his own way for what was to come.

Ricketts studied them with pride and a great deal of admiration. Trooper Danny Porter, who was a baby-faced Audie Murphy with the same lethal instincts, looked grave and almost delicate beside the enormous bulk of Trooper Andrew Winston, who was scribbling down his thoughts, or poetry, in a notebook, as he often did just before an action. Corporal Paddy Clarke, born and bred in Liverpool, was tapping his left foot and soundlessly whistling as he checked his SLR semi-automatic rifle. Trooper Taff Burgess, a beefy Welshman with a dark-eyed, slightly childish face, was glancing distractedly about him and offering his usual dreamy smile. Corporal Jock McGregor was rolling his own ciggies, which he would smoke at a later date, and displaying not the slightest sign of concern. And Trooper Gumboot Gillis, the small, sinewy, ferret-faced, former Devon farm-worker, was distractedly scratching at his balls.

All of them, in their different ways, were exceptional soldiers – truly the best of the best, a hand-picked elite. Which is why, as Sergeant Ricketts also knew, they were in the SAS.

Unclipping his safety belt, Ricketts made his way to the front of the helicopter, where Captain Hailsham was strapped in beside the Mark 3 pilot, Lieutenant-Commander Randolph Pedler RN. Looking out, past Hailsham’s head, Ricketts saw a charcoal-coloured, snow-streaked stretch of mountainous land on a grey horizon, growing larger each second.

‘Is that South Georgia?’ he asked.

‘It sure is,’ Lieutenant-Commander Pedler said. ‘And it doesn’t look good out there. We’re hoping to reach the LZ 500 metres above sea level, but I think we’ve got snow. That won’t make it easy.’

Pedler was right. Within minutes the mountains of the approaching island could be seen more clearly and were covered with falling snow.

‘You’d better go back and strap yourself in,’ Captain Hailsham warned Ricketts. ‘We’re in for a bumpy ride.’

‘Right, boss,’ Ricketts replied, then returned to the main cabin to strap himself in with the other troops.

Nearing the LZ, they were met by wind-driven snow that created a ‘white-out’ by making earth and sky indistinguishable. Nevertheless, with the aid of the Mark 3’s computerized navigational system, Lieutenant-Commander Pedler led the other two helicopters on through the dangerous gorges of South Georgia until the sheer face of the Fortuna Glacier emerged eerily from a curtain of falling snow. There they hovered, then ascended and descended, trying to find a place to land, with the roaring helicopters being buffeted dangerously by the fierce, howling wind.