by Stuart Slade
CHAPTER THREE ZERO HOUR
ABA Punta Alta Approaching King Edward Point, South Georgia
The procession of ships approaching Grytviken was supposed to be imposing. The frigate Punta Alta was in the lead as they rounded King Edward Point; the transport Bahia Thetis was three cables behind her. The frigate Querandi brought up the rear. The two big destroyers would have made it a really imposing demonstration but they were still to the north. They were closing in as fast as they could but weather, time and approaching night were against them. It was already dusk in South Georgia. Captain Fabian Torres didn’t like approaching a poorly-charted harbor in the tricky light conditions.
“Bring her down to three knots; prepare to back on the starboard screw.” He should have had a pilot on the bridge for this operations but no Argentine pilot knew these waters and if there was a British pilot here, he would probably put the ship aground. Torres had a nasty feeling that this operation wasn’t going to be as easy as its supporters had claimed. “Any movement on shore?”
“No Sir.” The navigating officer was busy taking fixes as the frigate moved inshore. “We’re almost dead center on the deep water channel to quayside. Separation is 100 meters.”
For a brief fraction of a second, Torres believed that his ship had been struck by a sudden, violent rain squall. There was the same drumming noise, the same hammering of multiple strikes on the thin metal of his ship. The illusion was convincing but was quickly disrupted by the sight of the bridge windows. They starred and shattered as bullets smacked into them. Almost paralyzed with disbelief, Torres realized that his ship was under heavy, close-range small-arms fire.
“Where is the fire coming from?” His yell was drowned out by one of the windows blowing out completely. The navigating officer went down; his head distorted by a bullet wound that appeared to have removed most of one side of his skull. Whoever is firing on us has a heavy-caliber sniper’s rifle. Bullets from normal rifles might not penetrate the bridge but those would. Torres heard ricochets inside his bridge, the heavy bullet that had killed his navigating officer had opened the way for the smaller rifle and machine gun fire. “I said, where are these damned bullets coming from?”
“Can’t see. They’re not using tracer.” The gunnery officer was interrupted by another crash. The sniper ashore had started methodically shooting out the bridge windows.
“Then take out anything that might give them cover!” Torres shouted the order. The storm of bullets had started shattering the instruments and equipment on the bridge. Just who the blazes is laying down this volume of fire? There were supposed to be civilians only on this benighted island. The sound of the gunfire was drowned out by the four-rounds-per-second firing of his beam 47mm guns. They were targeted on a stone building at the base of the quay. Their effect was dramatic. Fragments of stone flew into the air with the impacts as the two-kilogram shells struck with all the force that the 70-caliber barrels could give them. The 47mm was a good gun, probably the best of its class in the world. Its sheer power turned the stone building into a blazing shambles.
“That’s it. Use the 76mm to take out any other buildings down there.”
“The forward 76mm is gone Sir. Not answering commands. The aft mount can’t be brought to bear.”
Torres chanced a look over the sill of the bridge windows. He ignored the rattling of bullets striking the metal structure. The 76mm forward was out of action all right. Its fiberglass gunshield had been shredded by the volume of machine gun fire. Its all-too delicate mechanism was jammed by multiple bullet strikes. Torres noted that the hail of bullets striking the bridge had slackened dramatically but the bursts of fire from the 47mm twin mount had stopped also. He guessed that the mounting had just received the same treatment as his 76mm. As that realization sank in, he felt his ship lurch heavily. A grating sound rang through the structure.
“We’re aground!” The helmsman was trying to handle the ship’s wheel while laying on the deck. Obviously, it hadn’t worked too well, but Torres couldn’t blame him. To have stood up while the bridge had been under that volume of fire would have been suicidal.
The words were half drowned out by another crash, this time obviously an explosion. “Anti-tank missile, Sir. It’s hit us amidships.” The surface combat officer was nearly in a panic, the thin sides of the frigate weren’t intended to keep out missiles capable of knocking out tanks.
“All power, full astern. We’ve got to get out of here.” Torres gave the order and felt the engines trying to pull Punta Alta off whatever it was she had hit. She rolled and lurched again as another missile struck her, this time well forward.
“They’re trying for the magazines.” The voice was getting nearer to a full-blooded panic.
“Of course they are. Wouldn’t you? Now control yourself. We must be able to see where those missiles came from.”
There was a pause while the Surface Warfare Officer steadied himself. “Those wrecked ships, off to port. The last missile came from there.” He paused. “Aft 76mm mount. Derelict ships bearing red oh-nine-oh. Engage.” The aft 76mm would be on the extreme edge of its firing arc but it was better than nothing. It started firing and the heavy crash shook the grounded frigate. Perhaps that might have broken the suction that was holding her in place because she lurched backwards and then started crabbing awkwardly.
“Steady her, back her up, get us out of this.” Torres kept his own voice calm and thoughtful. Enough bad examples have been set this day. “Get me through to Commandante Romero. Commandante? We have been hit by intense small-arms fire and two anti-tank missiles. We’ve lost our forward 76mm and port 47mms. We’ve taken out the missile launcher but we can’t see where the small arms fire is coming from. We’re just taking out anywhere that might give them cover. .. Thank you, Sir.”
On the quayside, a large pile of crates suddenly erupted into flame. The hot white fire caused strange shadows to dance in the gathering dusk. As if it had been a signal, a splash erupted between the Punta Alta and the quay. A brief pause then another splash, further from the quay, closer to the frigate. It was mortar fire. Whoever was using the weapon was walking his fire on to the ship. The third round dropped alongside; the fourth was slightly over. Both lashed the frigate’s side with fragments. The fifth exploded on the helicopter deck aft.
Overhead, Torres saw a dark shape sweep over. Streams of tracer from its side lashed down at somewhere in Grytviken. Querandi had launched her helicopter and the Agosta was using its door guns against whoever was firing the mortar at Punta Alta. “Sir, Querandi reports her helicopter got the mortar man.”
One man? Torres asked himself. Just what was going on here? His reflection was broken by a streak of white light that leaped up from Grytviken. It ended in an orange flash as the Agosta helicopter finished its run. The bird seemed to crumple in mid-air with the blast. It dropped out of the sky, into the bay. “and they got it.” His reply to the SWO spoke volumes. He’d been tempted to think this was some foolish civilians putting up a fight, but civilians didn’t have anti-tank and anti-aircraft missiles. There were troops here; very well-trained ones.
Out to sea, Querandi was firing both her 76mm guns and her 47mm twin at the area the surface-to-air missile had come from. There were old, cylindrical storage tanks there, once used for holding whale oil? Or fuel for the whalers? Torres didn’t know, but they were shredded by the rapid-fire guns.
The firing had stopped. Torres stood up slowly, the rest of his bridge crew followed suite. He guessed the machine guns and rifles had run out of ammunition at last. Or burned their barrels out given the hail of fire they had generated. The ambush was over. Punta Alta had paid dearly for her lead into South Georgia. In the darkening gloom, Bahia Thetis sailed past her and started to land the troops she had on board. They would be spreading out through the town, trying to hunt down the men who had staged the assault on the frigate. Torres guessed that they would be long gone by now. As if to chastise him for the thought, there was another crack. A si
ngle shot. The surface warfare officer slumped to the deck. He had been shot in the head. He was the only officer on the bridge who was still wearing his cap and had probably been mistaken for the Captain.
“Sir, Commandante Romero asks your status.” The communications officer handed over the microphone. It was a wonder the radio was still working.
“Sir, forward 76mm and port 47mm mounts out of action. Damage and flooding forward from grounding and a missile hit.” He paused for a second as a piece of paper was pushed in front of him. “Hangar is damaged by shell and missile hits. We have hundreds of bullet strikes on the superstructure; some of which were armor-piercing and penetrated the hull plating. Minor flooding amidships and aft. So far two officers and seven enlisted men known dead; twenty wounded. We need to dock, Sir so we can do a more thorough survey. Very good, Sir.”
Torres turned around and sighed. This was not going to look well on his fitness report. “We’re to dock as soon as the Marines have cleared the quayside area. All damage control teams, start sealing off the flooded areas and get the pumps going.
Moody Brook Barracks, Near Stanley, Falkland Islands
“Men in position Sergeant?” Major Charles Pettigrew had moved his men out more than three hours earlier, as soon as word of the Mermaid sinking had been received. He had guessed that the Marine garrison barracks at Moody Brook would be the first target of the Argentine strike group.
“That they are, Sir. Covering Yorke Bay and Mullet Creek.”
“Radar showed two groups of ships approaching. Big one heading for Yorke Bay, smaller one for…. Here we go.”
The train-like roar overhead told its own story. Pettigrew watched as his barracks erupted into fireballs as the eight-inch rounds from the cruisers and assault ships offshore slammed into the empty structure. The building collapsed almost instantly into burning ruins. The big shells continued to pound the area where the Marine garrison had been quartered.
“They weren’t playing games were they, Sir?”
“Batting for keeps I would say, Sergeant. Well, every shell they fire at the old place is one less they’ll fire at us. And the barracks has done us a real favor. With a little luck, we’ll catch the landing force off guard.”
There was a final salvo of shells. The bombardment was over. What had once been the Marine barracks was now utterly destroyed. Pettigrew heard a more distant rumble from over by Stanley. The Argentine cruisers had shifted their fire to the airport.
Lake Cove, Falkland Islands
“Here they come. Like lambs to the slaughter.” Lieutenant Hallam was watching the cruisers offshore through night-vision binoculars. There were four ships out there. One a conventional heavy cruiser, the other one of the Argentine Navy’s odd ‘assault cruisers.’ He knew the details of both ships. They’d both started life as American Baltimore class ships with nine eight inch guns each. One had been sold to Argentina in that configuration but the Septics had converted the other into an early missile cruiser. Not very successfully by all accounts. The converted ship, with her six eight inch guns forward still in place but her stern gutted, had also been sold to Argentina. The Argentines had rebuilt the ship again. The stern was now equipped with a helicopter landing pad and hangar and facilities for
handling landing craft. She was launching her troops now. The four landing craft were already on their way to the beach while the amphibious personnel carriers were forming up behind them. Hallam counted ten of them. A reinforced company. How reinforced depended on what was in the landing craft of course.
The landing craft were taking their time coming in, waiting for the amphibious carriers to join up with them. Behind them, four medium-sized assault helicopters were taking off from the assault cruiser.
“Now that’s appropriate.” Hallam had looked at the assault cruiser carefully.
“Sir?” Sergeant Fox was also watching the approaching invasion group.
“The assault cruiser. She’s the La Argentina, I can see the extra long-range communication antenna between her masts.”
“Nice to know, Sir.” Fox’s family name had once been Fuchs. His father wasn’t quite able to grasp the relationship that existed between British NCOs and their officers.
“I think so, Sergeant. The regimental history will demand details like that. Ah, the amtracks are coming in first, the landing craft behind them. What’s the betting that there’s a tank platoon coming ashore?”
“Sounds likely, Sir. One here and two around at Yorke Bay? With the helicopter boys to hold the road between. Talking of which.. . “
The four helicopters had formed up and were heading towards the beach. Hallam recognized what was happening easily enough. It was a typical Septic-style vertical envelopment assault. The tanks and amphibious infantry carriers, the amtracks, would attack over the beach while the helicopters landed troops behind the defenses to take them in the rear. Before the Americans had taken a dislike to the Argentines, they’d sold their forces a lot of American kit and trained their officers. So it wasn’t surprising the Argentine assault was strictly American-pattern.
The problem was that the helicopters were slow and clumsy. Hallam recognized them, Agosta Pumas. Probably carried a reinforced platoon between them. With a marine company and a tank platoon heading for the beach and a platoon hitting them from the rear, Hallam’s platoon was seriously overmatched. On the other hand, he’d known that before he’d moved into position. He had a good chance of wearing down the opposing force while it was still making its way to the beach. A little bit, anyway,
It was really a question of timing. Each of his three squads had a single man-portable anti-aircraft missile launcher and a pair of anti-tank rocket launchers. His weapon squad had an anti-tank missile launcher and two tripod-mounted machine guns. Now, if he could fit all of those together properly, he had a chance to inflict a serious hurt. Enough to make them back off? Probably not, but it was a chance.
The helicopters came first. Three missiles streaked up from the rock fields that lined the bay, towards the Pumas. The reaction was immediate. The helos tried to maneuver out of their way, while spitting out flares and chaff. Hallam couldn’t quite understand why they were kicking out chaff. Everybody knew the British Kestrel SAM wasn’t radar homing. Perhaps the aircraft threat warning system was programmed to fire both regardless of the threat. For one of the helicopters, neither chaff nor flares were able to save the situation. The missile exploded under the tail boom and took out the tail rotor. Without its counteracting force, the Puma Span out of control and fell out of the sky. It crashed offshore in a spray of greenish-white. A second helicopter took a hit high up on its fuselage, right by its twin engines. It staggered in the air but kept flying, turning back to the assault cruiser offshore. The third missile missed completely. That left just two helicopters to dump their infantry behind the defensive line on the beach.
Out to sea, Hallam saw the orange-red cloud that marked the heavy cruiser firing. The shells screamed over his head and impacted on the hills behind the beach. The Argentines had got that broadside wrong; not by much but they had made a mistake. They didn’t repeat it. The second salvo of shells landed right on the beach itself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the brilliant white line of an anti-tank missile heading across the water towards the amphibious carriers. It hit one. The orange-red flash of its warhead silhouetted the bulky shape of the carrier. The amphibious personnel carrier was hit hard. Hallam could see its bows rear up as it sank. He wondered if anybody inside had actually managed to escape from the sinking vehicle.
It didn’t really matter. Another carrier was hit by a rocket as it hauled itself out of the water. It stopped, burning, but the tail ramp dropped down and the infantry inside bailed out. They started to move towards the rocks that bordered the small strip of sand. Hallam’s men fired on them. Some of the Argentines fell, but the armored carriers used their machine guns to spray the defensive positions. His defenses had already been badly disrupted by the eight-inch shells from
the cruiser and his platoon lost its cohesion. By the time the landing craft reached the shoreline and dropped their ramps, the situation for the defenders was already critical.
It was the tanks that made the difference. Each of the landing craft carried a single American-made M92 light tank armed with a 76mm semiautomatic gun. The combination of rate of fire with close range was a disaster for the defense. One tank took a pair of anti-tank rockets and burned. The other three hosed down the positions with cannon and machine gun fire. By this time, Hallam had more than enough of his own to do without trying to understand what was happening across the whole bay. His little command group was under direct attack by a dismounted squad of Argentine Marines who had their amtrack in support. In the darkness and confusion of the assault he managed to disengage and fall back towards the agreed rendezvous point. He was dreadfully aware that few of his men would be joining him there.
Back on the beach, the Argentine Marines who had lost their vehicles on the way in were mopping up the last instances of British resistance. The rest of the invasion force, the three light tanks and seven of the ten amtracks were already forming up and starting to move along the road to Stanley. They were the left-hand prong of a two-stage envelopment. The rest of the force was coming ashore at Yorke Bay.
ARA Almirante Brown, Yorke Bay, Falkland Islands
The eight-inch guns forward were firing steadily. The vibration from the shots caused the tightly-packed LVTP-7 amtracks in the Almirante Brown’s vehicle hangar to shudder. Major Facundo Caceres felt the shock through his commander’s seat in the lead LVTP. He didn’t object. To him, the more shells that were poured into the beach defenses the better. Word had already come in that the attack on Lake Cove had run into much heavier opposition that had been expected. It hadn’t helped matters that the assault here at Yorke Bay had been delayed by navigational problems. All the marker buoys had been removed and the ships had had to pick their way in very carefully. The delay had meant that the assault on Lake Cove had gone in first and the defenses would be thoroughly alerted.