The Regiment

by Rusty Firmin

  D Squadron were tasked in the offensive action role. Their first major task after South Georgia was a recce followed by a raid at an Argentine airfield on Pebble Island off the coast of West Falkland where the enemy had located an outstation next to the airstrip used by the civilian population. There was a concern that the Argentines had put a radar there which would help vector Argentine aircraft onto the task force when they approached the islands so, on 11 May, D Squadron patrols were sent out to take a look at the airfield. When they got there they were able to observe 11 mixed enemy aircraft and called this in, and a raid, featuring the rest of D Squadron, was quickly jacked up and brought in on the night of 14 May. All the aircraft were destroyed.

  By now, the main landing force had sailed south from Ascension Island – which we knew because we’d seen them go – and tension was running high. Following the loss of the Sheffield, all eyes were on the Exocet threat – which is where we came in with Mikado – but at the same time there was a need to deal with potential threats to the landing force as they came ashore.

  The plan that was being developed by 3 Commando Brigade was for a landing on the western side of East Falkland, at the northern end of the Falklands Sound, the channel between the two main islands. Two known Argentine positions potentially threatened this: Port Howard, on West Falkland, and a garrison at Darwin-Goose Green which was about 20 miles to the south of the selected landing site at San Carlos. Both of these were being observed by G Squadron OPs but these would certainly not be able to prevent the Darwin-Goose Green garrison, at least, from moving to interfere with the landings when they took place. As a result a plan was made to use D Squadron to mount a diversionary attack against Goose Green to fix them in place.

  Before this could happen, the devastating helicopter crash of 19 May took place, killing the squadron sergeant majors of both D and G Squadrons, six other senior NCOs and 12 others, most of whom were badged members of the Regiment. Even so, the diversion still needed to happen and most of the surviving members of D Squadron were tasked to take part in it.

  The landings actually came during the early hours of 21 May, while we were still sitting on Ascension, and D Squadron’s raid at Goose Green took place the evening before, as they brassed up positions around Goose Green with everything from small arms to Milan anti-tank missiles. Meanwhile, back on Ascension Island, things were once again afoot for us in B Squadron.

  With Mikado cancelled, the choice was between sending us back to Hereford or finding a role for us down south. With Major C now in command of the squadron, it was always likely that he would push for an active tasking for us, and that’s what happened.

  The decision was made: B Squadron would join the task force to reinforce the Special Forces effort. Some of the G Squadron OPs had been in place for several weeks and would need relief, and both D and G Squadrons needed to replace men lost in the terrible Sea King crash. That was more like it: morale was now right back where it should be, and there was a real buzz about B Squadron.

  The plan was to fly us down to the ‘exclusion zone’ in the two C-130s we would have used for Mikado, and then to parachute us and our equipment into the ocean for pick-up by ships of the task force. This time, however, we wouldn’t need to take the vehicles.

  The next couple of days were spent getting the equipment prepared. We needed to get everything crated and palletised so that it could be dropped safely into the sea and recovered intact. Each of us was taking a bergan loaded down with our operational equipment, a belt kit and ammunition, a para bag for our personal gear and, in most cases, two or three weapons. Additionally, there were various squadron stores to take along.

  With the equipment loaded onto the aircraft, there wasn’t a lot of space to get comfortable. On my flight we had squadron headquarters and half of B Squadron, about 30 SAS in all, but we also had the air despatchers from the Royal Corps of Transport who were responsible for dropping the equipment and Des, the RAF parachute jump instructor, whose job would be to make sure we exited the aircraft safely. Most of the space inside was taken up by the big heavy drop pallets which our kit was lashed to and so, after we’d taken off, I found myself a space on top of one of these and tried to get my head down for some sleep. It wasn’t particularly comfortable but at least there was some room.

  It was a long flight and twice I watched in awe as the huge Victor tanker aircraft manoeuvred alongside and then in front to refuel us. I can honestly say that it is quite a sight! Somewhere along the way, word was passed to us that the other C-130 had a mechanical problem and was turning back. As usual, things were not going to plan.

  About an hour out from the drop zone (DZ), I struggled into my bulky black immersion suit, worn over my uniform, and began to mentally get my shit together. The air despatch guys also seemed to have woken up at about the same time – which struck me then as being a bit late – and were scampering about rigging the pallets for the drop. I noticed that they were using very small ‘D’ type shackles to secure the parachutes and I was concerned enough to grab one of the air despatch NCOs to ask him, ‘Those boxes are really heavy, will those shackles hold them?’

  ‘They’ll have to, mate,’ he responded. ‘They’re all we got.’

  That wasn’t very reassuring, but I assumed they knew what they were doing.

  Des the parachute jump instructor was now moving around, telling the lads to start getting their parachutes on; he was trying to be Mr Efficiency but inevitably the guys were fucking around and taking the piss out of him; he was a good bloke but, at the end of the day, a Crab* and therefore fair game. I visually inspected my main chute and then my reserve, and when I was happy I climbed into the harness and clipped my reserve on. Working in pairs, I checked over Bob’s parachute and harness, and he checked mine. Sorted. Word went round that we should expect 15-foot waves when we hit the water and I remember thinking: I hope whoever is picking us up is on the ball.

  *Crab = a member of the Royal Air Force.

  The idea was that the aircraft would make a series of passes over the DZ and each stick of six or eight blokes would then push their pallet – which was on a roller system – over the rear ramp and follow it straight out; the quicker we got us and the equipment out, the closer together we would land. Down below, there would be small boats manned by Royal Navy and merchant seamen who would be waiting to fish us out of the water.

  Twenty minutes out from the DZ, the air despatchers were still farting around getting the equipment rigged and I felt a stab of annoyance at their lack of professionalism. This was probably the most important operation any of them had taken part in and they had cocked up by oversleeping. We were a couple of thousand feet up and slowly descending to a jump altitude of about 1,000 feet. I looked around at the rest of 8 Troop and thought I wonder where we’ll be in an hour from now. It’s strange what you think about at moments of tension.

  We were sitting down now in our sticks of six or eight on either side of the aircraft. Outside it was cloudy and intermittently snowing. Des told us to stand up and hook up our static lines. The rear ramp of the C-130 opened and we could see the ocean below, with wild-looking white-capped waves. We were now on the final run in and Des positioned himself by the tail ramp, ready to despatch the first stick of six from squadron headquarters. The red light came on: standby. Then green came on: go! The first stick pushed their boxes out but, as they prepared to follow, we saw the parachute canopies part company from the pallets. The crappy little shackles had snapped like twigs. The parachutes blew away like plastic bags caught by the wind while the carefully packed pallets of equipment screamed the thousand feet down to the sea, burst apart on impact and their mangled contents sank to the ocean floor. Fucking great! There was nothing to be done now, so the guys followed the boxes out and we saw their parachutes open properly.

  The air despatch guys were white-faced. This was a big-time fuck up. The C-130 came around for its next pass and the same thing happened. The parachutes immediately came away from the pallets a
nd the equipment ploughed straight into the sea.

  I was first out in the third stick and behind me were Bob and Gonzo but as we made the run in, there was a problem. I looked round and saw Bob and Gonzo shouting towards each other. I looked up and unhooked Bob’s line and my line and changed them over so Bob was in front of me. Then it was red light on; green on. We pushed our boxes out and they followed the others to the bottom of the sea. Shit. Then it was us. I shouted to Gonzo to push me out and I pushed Bob. As we went past Des, I was laughing loudly and Bob shouted something at him; Des just looked confused.

  Outside the aircraft it was every man for himself. I checked that my canopy was flying correctly and when I could see it was, I unclipped my reserve and threw it away so that it fell into the sea. I had a brief sight of the ocean, with ships dotted around beneath us, then I was in a cloud surrounded by snow. I came out of the cloud much lower down and again I could see ships but also the huge waves and the grey, freezing-looking sea. I inflated my lifejacket just before I hit the water. I had no idea where anyone else was, all I could see was the waves as I bobbed up and down. The shock of the icy water on my face and hands was numbing but I was just about able to take my parachute harness off. I held onto it, though if it had started to drag me I would have let it go. I didn’t look up to see where the aircraft was or to watch out for any boxes hurtling down to splatter me; I was totally focused on trying to spot someone coming to rescue me.

  I realised that I needed a piss so I just let it go in my immersion suit which made me feel nice and warm for a while. Lying on my back, looking up at the waves, I couldn’t see anybody and I began to worry that they’d missed me but suddenly, there was a big guy with a knife in front of me. It was a merchant seaman in a Gemini inflatable. He grabbed my immersion suit and rammed the knife into my life jacket, then hauled me into the boat. Thank fuck for that.

  ‘Cold is it, mate?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s fucking freezing.’

  ‘Never mind, soon be roasty-toasty.’

  ‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ I told him, and meant it.

  ‘No problems.’

  We took off for the mother ship, HMS Andromeda, without seeing anyone else from B Squadron. There was a scramble net hung over the side of the ship and as I climbed it, my rescuer took off to look for the others. I reached the deck of the ship with my hands and face freezing, and looked back to see a horde of small boats criss-crossing the DZ, looking for the rest of B Squadron.

  When we were all accounted for, we were taken down to one of the mess decks and told that they had managed to recover some of the kit and that we should look through it to see if any of it was ours. As it happened my para bag had survived so, apart from the piss-soaked uniform I was standing up in, I had a tracksuit, a pair of trainers and some civilian clothes. Not a lot of use. All of my operational kit, my ammunition and my three weapons were at the bottom of the sea. Pretty well everyone else was in the same boat, so to speak.

  Everyone in the squadron was seething. Most of our kit had been carefully assembled and personalised over several years so we were completely comfortable with it, and now it had been lost thanks to the incompetence of the air despatchers. My view, for what it is worth, is that they should have been court-martialled for neglect of duty, the unprofessional wankers. In the meantime we were issued a set of clothing to wear, a white jumper, blue trousers, socks, pants and a vest, and given a good hot meal courtesy of the navy chefs. That evening, we had a get together in the senior ratings mess, and over the next few days we made ourselves at home. The navy looked after us well and I could have no complaints on that score.

  After a few days on HMS Andromeda, we were cross-decked to a kind of hybrid navy/ cargo vessel, the RFA Fort Austin, which was acting as a mother ship for SAS operations. The ship had suffered a near miss from an Argentine bomb in San Carlos water not long after the landings and had a few holes in it but was otherwise in reasonable shape. The problem we now faced was that we had virtually no kit apart from what we stood up in. This was partly resolved by borrowing weapons and kit from members of G Squadron, when they began to arrive back from their patrols after ground forces got to their positions and ‘relieved’ them, but we were still seriously under-equipped.

  We’d arrived on the Fort Austin on about 25 May and by then, things were beginning to happen with the land campaign. On the 27th, 2 Para headed off towards Darwin and Goose Green for their attack there, and on the same evening the rest of 3 Commando Brigade began to move out on foot in the general direction of Port Stanley.

  Meanwhile, we could do nothing and we spent a lot of time hanging around waiting whilst the head shed decided how to equip us and where to send us. We were in sight of land and I couldn’t really understand why we weren’t just put ashore; instead, we stayed put on what we all suspected was a rather large Exocet target.

  We spent a lot of time playing cards with the crew, many of whom were Hong Kong Chinese, and as time went by, quite a bit of money began to change hands. Most of us had been pretty much skint when we’d first boarded the ship but as time went by a few of us accumulated quite a tidy amount. I certainly did.

  The Battle of Goose Green came and went. By 30 May, 3 Commando Brigade were well established less than 25 miles from Port Stanley and on 1 June, 5 Infantry Brigade arrived to join the fight, while we stayed stuck aboard our ship. On the night of 11 June the final battle began, as 3 Para seized Mount Longdon and the Commandos took Two Sisters and Mount Harriet, but it wasn’t until the next day that we finally went ashore with a definite mission.

  We were flown ashore to an RV near Mount Kent and given the mission of infiltrating overnight towards the airstrip at Stanley to RV with G Squadron patrols and take over their observation role until the end of the war. What we hadn’t quite appreciated was that it was pretty much endex. On 14 June, as we watched the airfield, it slowly filled with Argentine soldiers. Word came through over the radio that they had surrendered and that the Union Jack was flying over Stanley. Well fuck me! The Commanding Officer and a Marines officer who spoke Spanish had spent the previous day negotiating the Argentine surrender and they had jacked their hand in, lock, stock and barrel.

  With hostilities over we headed for the airfield and, by the time we got there, there were thousands of Argie soldiers and the place was strewn with abandoned weapons in piles five or six feet deep. Looking at the Argentinians, it occurred to me that if one of them was to get antsy at the present of a tiny handful of British soldiers, it could all get very nasty indeed, but nothing happened.

  For a professional SAS NCO of five years’ standing, the next move was SOP: get some souvenirs! The lads and I walked over to a line of Pucara ground attack aircraft and started poking about. I managed to open the canopy of one without setting off the ejector seat and had a poke about inside, where I found a nice semi-auto pistol which I grabbed. It wasn’t much use to me but I thought it would make a nice presentation piece for the mess on HMS Andromeda. I had the patrol camera with me so I took some pictures of the prisoners, the aircraft and other bits and pieces, then we made our way into Port Stanley where we were being accommodated.

  The thousands of Argentine soldiers being marched out to the airfield were a sorry sight. They genuinely looked defeated; none of them were cracking jokes or laughing which is what I’d have expected from Brits in the same situation. There was no fight in them at all; they’d clearly given up some time ago. On the other hand, the Falkland Islanders themselves were almost dancing with joy that they were back under British rule.

  In Stanley we got the good news: they were planning to get the airfield operational as soon as possible and start moving us back to the UK, and we were near the top of the priority list. Thank fuck the RAF had failed to do any meaningful damage with their Vulcan raids!

  So in the end, I’d have to say that the Falklands War ended up as a bit of an anti-climax. For much of it, I was convinced I was going to end up very dead somewhere around a small airfield in Ti
erra del Fuego. When that was called off, I found myself taking part in one of the first operational SAS parachute jumps since the 1960s – and definitely the first one into the sea. But finally, I’d been a spectator at the final surrender and had managed to get through the whole war without firing a single shot in anger.

  There was a lot of criticism in the Regiment afterwards about how our part in the war had been handled. Firstly, was it really necessary to deploy three squadrons into what amounted to a tiny area? The infantry and Commando units who did the bulk of the real fighting complained that very little of the information collected by our patrols ever got to them in a usable form. They also claimed that the sheer number of Special Forces out there – the SBS were there too – got in their way and hindered their ability to do their own reconnaissance effectively. You had SAS, SBS, the Marines’ Arctic Warfare Cadre who acted as the brigade recce force, the patrols companies of the Para battalions and the recce troops and platoons of the Commandos and infantry all trying to do their stuff in a restricted area which is not a recipe for success.

  There was also criticism of the roles we were given. The G Squadron intelligence-gathering OPs were clearly a good idea, or would have been if their information had been properly distributed, but with the exception of the Pebble Island raid, it’s much less clear cut what D Squadron really achieved and on two occasions they had to be pulled out of the shit they’d got themselves into: once on South Georgia and again at the very end of the war when they launched a raid close to Port Stanley which went wrong. As for Operation Mikado, there was a strong implication that the massive risks it involved were justified because it was critical for the survival of the task force but it’s an undeniable fact that we didn’t do it and the task force survived; so it wasn’t that critical then.