Lion Resurgent

by Stuart Slade

  Headquarters Section, Mobile Column, West of Mount Kent

  “My God, our Griqua friend came through for us.” Rigsby was fascinated and a little appalled by the chaos caused by the missile volley. The Argentine tankers had been a bit too confident, a bit too convinced that infantry would not stand against their tanks. Probably too many years of breaking up demonstrations and deposing governments. Internal security duties could be death on an Army’s ability to fight real wars.

  “The Germans taught the world what a well-placed, well-commanded unit of tank destroyers could do to an armored force when the chips were down.” Major Albert Fitzgerald threw in the historical comment to cover his own shock at the devastation the South Africans had wrought on the lead company of the Argentine cavalry regiment. The devastation we have wrought, he corrected himself; two thirds of the men in those Boomslangs are British. Then he stopped and corrected himself again. And not a few of the British are descendants of the Germans we took in after The Big One. Churchill was right when he called for magnanimity in victory. Now, that gesture is paying off.

  “Stanford is falling back right now. If the Argies follow him in, we’ll have them in a pocket; under fire from both sides and the front.

  Cross’s Platoon, Hills West of Mouth Kent, Falkland Islands.

  “Make yourself calm.” Sergeant Anders Lehmkuhl spoke quietly to the young British officer. His grandfather had spoken of the bravery of young British officers who had fearlessly exposed themselves to fire in order to lead their men. And how those brave young officers had died from the fire of 7mm Mausers in the hands of expert shots. They had the time to do this thing right. Van Huis’s Platoon had drawn fire from the battalion mortars and it would take time for the battery to retarget. Behind them, the two missile gunners were using their electro-optical sights to try and pick out the command vehicles.

  “Take them when you are ready, jongmens.” Geldenhuys’s voice over the radio was calmly reassuring. Cross’s Platoon had been almost back-to-back with van Huis’s. Together their missile salvoes would drive a wedge through the Argentine formation, splitting one of the Argentine infantry battalions away from the tanks in the center of their line.

  “All vehicles, prepare to fire on three. One….two….three.” Despite being safely under cover, Cross ducked as the front of the Boomslang was covered in flame when the two missiles streaked out from their launchers. They dipped, then picked up speed as they crossed the two thousand yards of open ground towards their targets. Their targets were small four-wheeled armored personnel carriers. They were barely more than armored trucks armed only with a 7.65mm machine gun in a one-man turret. They had no real place on a battlefield dominated by tanks and missiles. The Mamba missiles tore them apart, sending them tumbling and burning into the rocks. Through his surveillance sight, Cross saw wheels detaching from the burning hulks and rolling down slopes until they tumbled and fell sideways into the rocks.

  The second flash of flame made him duck again, causing him to forget that he was securely inside the Boomslang’s command cupola. “Back, let’s get out of here before the Argies do something we might regret.”

  The Boomslangs backed away, spinning on their suspensions and heading forward. In front of them, the British infantry in their Bulldog armored personnel carriers were also moving forward into the gap carved by the Boomslang’s missile fire. The whole Argentine left wing was crumbling under the impact of the assault. The troops there were milling around helplessly. The destruction of their command facilities made any attempt to organize a defense against the British assault hopeless. In the encounter battle that was taking place, the British force was quickly moving to dominate the battlefield.

  First Troop, 14/20th King’s Hussars, West of Kent Mountain.

  The fast-firing 76mms were killing him. The Cavaliers would get off single shots and receive half a dozen in reply. That disparity had already cost him three of his four tanks. Stanford guessed that his own wagon would be next. After the probe by the first company of Argentine tanks had been pushed back, the other two companies had funneled into the gap and they’d made short work of his troop. There had been no repeat of the missile salvo that had crucified the first group of enemy tanks. Stanford guessed that the Boomslangs were repositioning. That was what tank destroyers did. They would fire from ambush and then slip away to repeat the dose at another time and place.

  His own tank was also repositioning, driven out of its previous hull-down location by the advance of the Argentine M92s. He was running out of options. The ground behind him was open and if he fell back from here, he would be caught exposed and the M92s would make short work of him. And of the rest of A Squadron, what was left of it. They’d started with 14 tanks. Now they had five. Stanford took another quick look through his commander’s sight and slumped slightly with relief. B Squadron had entered the battle at last and its flanking fire was pouring into the Argentine tanks. Then he saw the thing he valued most of all, the salvo of more than a dozen missiles tearing across the ground and decimating the Argentine formation. Best of all, the missiles were coming from behind the Argentine formation, closing their tanks in a ring of fire.

  Geldenhuys’s Company, Hills West of Mouth Kent, Falkland Islands.

  “We have them Sir.” Geldenhuys’s communication was terse and to the point. His company formed a triangle, van Huis’s Platoon at the point, Cross’s Platoon as its right base and Randlehoff s Platoon reinforced with Geldenhuy’s own two-vehicle headquarters section as its left base. That triangle was a wedge that had split the Argentine unit into two and its missile fire dominated the ground for four thousand yards in every direction. One of the Argentine infantry battalions had been severely mauled and was dispersed off to the British right. The other infantry battalion was virtually untouched and it was acting as a pivot covering the retreat of the surviving Argentine tanks. Geldenhuys had the picture of the battle set in his mind. He could see that an Argentine disaster was unfolding before him. The remains of the cavalry unit had only one place to go and that was back to Teal Inlet. Geldenhuys knew that would suit Colonel Rigsby perfectly. There, they would be out of the way and could be finished off later. The way to relieve the airmech unit holding Mount Kent was open.

  Geldenhuys’s train of thought was interrupted by a crackle on the radio. “Cross here. The Argentine infantry is retreating to the south. Permission to pursue?”

  “Negative broer. That is no work for your tank destroyer. Leave the Britse moddervoete to that. You stay where you are and give them covering fire with your missiles if they need it. Acknowledge.”

  The deflated and disappointed note in Cross’s voice was almost comical. Another young British officer with dreams of glory that, today, would go unfulfilled. “Acknowledged. We will remain in place and give covering fire.”

  The radio crackled again, this time the column’s headquarters command net. “Well done, Geldenhuys. For your information, the enemy is in full retreat to Teal Inlet. Mount Kent is under heavy attack and we are ordered to proceed there with dispatch. The good news is that the AirMech unit at Goose Green been relieved by C Squadron and the Iniskillings. One Para is repositioning to Mount Pleasant while we speak while the gunners are moving into place with Two Para along Wireless Ridge and Tumbledown.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” Geldenhuys hesitated before asking the next question. “What do you want us to do now?”

  “Follow at a distance and provide cover with your missiles. My God, you people earned your pay this day.”

  Cabinet Office, 10 Downing Street, London

  “The dispatches are in, Prime Minister.” Admiral Charles Gillespie spoke somberly in the darkening Cabinet Office. It was late evening and the gloom was almost tangible. “From Admiral Chupe at the beachhead and Brigadier Strachan at the airheads.”

  Prime Minister Newton poured himself another glass of whisky and steadied himself. “What’s the damage?”

  “From the beachhead? The destroyers Goldfinch and Gossam
er plus the frigate Cleopatra have been sunk along with the landing ships Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot. The cruiser Lion and the assault ship Intrepid have been damaged. Over four hundred men known to have been killed. We also lost six aircraft shot down. Argentine casualties are at least fifty aircraft. Admiral Chupe says that the landing force was ashore by the time the air strikes started but a considerable quantity of fuel and ammunition was lost on the two landing ships. He adds that the remaining air defense destroyers are running low on ammunition. If the Argentine Air Force comes back tomorrow, his ships will have a hard time of it.”

  “Is he withdrawing?”

  “Absolutely not. He says the Navy will be there to support the Army for as long as is necessary. He adds that debts must be repaid, Prime Minister.”

  Meaning that the British Army died in 1942, covering the Great Escape and now it is the Navy’s turn to cover the Army. Newton looked at his glass and found it disturbingly empty. He refilled it and inspected the contents carefully. “What about ashore?”

  “There, the news is good. Goose Green has been relieved and the AirMech Brigade has repositioned to occupy Mount Pleasant. That area fell without a significant fight. The northern column advancing from San Carlos met an Argentine cavalry unit and defeated them, pushing them back to Teal Inlet. The column is now moving on Mount Kent to relieve the AirMech force holding that area. Brigadier Strachan reports that the Argentines are assaulting his positions there but they have made no ground and the position is strong. He is confident of the outcome. The guns have arrived overlooking Port Stanley and are ready to commence the bombardment of the Argentine defenses.”

  General Pitcairn Howard looked at the map that dominated the Cabinet Room. “That all depends on what happens at San Carlos tomorrow. If we lose more amphibious ships and supplies, we won’t be able to exploit our gains today. We’ll be stuck with troops scattered all over the island and no way to support them.”

  “We still have the second amphibious group at sea to the east of the Islands. They can cover the landing force.” Gillespie wasn’t that convinced; the two assault carriers were fully committed supporting the airmech forces.

  “Perhaps. Whatever happens next, we have to hang on. We can’t roll over when the going gets hard, not again.”

  There was a communal nodding of heads. This time, nobody would be proposing an armistice that stopped short of victory.

  “Gentleman, there is one other piece of business we have to consider today. I fear the East Fife Question has reared its ugly head again.” Sir Humphrey Appleday had a file nearly three inches thick in his hands. Seeing it Gillespie and Howard both groaned.

  “What is the East Fife Question?” Newton was curious. He’d heard of this dilemma but he’d never been present at previous meetings when it had been raised.

  Sir Humphrey cleared his throat. “Well, Prime Minister, the temporal environment of the sequence of events that have become collectively known as the East Fife Question appear to date back to the latter days of July 1940. According to the generally-accepted collegium of events, a small convoy of lorries and a Humber staff car on the strength of the Sherwood Foresters Regiment of Infantry but apparently requisitioned by members of the Auxiliary Police without the assignment of the necessary documentation or authority….“

  “Stolen by the Blackshirts.” Newton hissed the name of his old enemy.

  “That may be so depending on the viewpoint of the interlocutor, Prime Minister, but to continue. The officer purportedly in charge of that alleged Auxiliary Police unit requisitioned complete loads of fuel for all of his vehicles, paying for the fuel with a requisition draft for the due and correct amount, inclusive of purchase and motor fuel tax. The petrol station owner accepted what he assumed was a legitimate draft in good faith and presented it to the local police administrative establishment for the proper remuneration. The officer responsible for the conduct of financial affairs in the local Scottish Police force pointed out this draft was from an Auxiliary Police unit and an English one at that. That being the case, the draft was outside the remit of his responsibility and so he referred it and the bearer to a higher authority. The matter was referred up the chain of responsibility without any resolution.

  “The petrol station owner would not let the matter drop and an investigation into his claims was started. This showed that the alleged Auxiliary Police Unit not only had no authority to requisition the petrol, the unit itself had no organizational existence. Indeed, all its paperwork proved to be forgeries of such a primitive nature that it strained credulity acceptance of their veracity was so easily forthcoming. For the last four decades, the file has been circulating around the Ministries with each assiduously denying that it has any responsibility for the purloined fuel. The petrol station owner has long since passed away of course; but his sons and heirs still pursue the sanctity of their inheritance with true Gaelic determination. Put in the simplest of colloquial idioms, they want their money. With interest.”

  Prime Minister Newton shook his head. This, at least, would take his mind off worrying about the Argentine air attacks due tomorrow. “Very well, Humphrey. Show me the file.”

  Sir Humphrey smiled to himself. He was one of a select group who knew what had actually happened that evening in East Fife although he would never admit that fact. It had become a game for he and his fellow civil servants to keep the East Fife Question file circulating, to see how thick they could get it before somebody actually came up with a satisfactory solution. “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  Officers Mess, Argentine Air Base, Puntas Arenas, Argentina

  It was one thing to hear how few aircraft had returned from the strike at San Carlos; it was quite another to see the Mess afterwards. The Squadron had a listed strength of eighteen aircraft. Each Ciclone had a crew of two, so the long mess table had 36 seats. Six were unused, representing the three crews lost during the Chile confrontation. That left thirty place settings on the table. Sixteen of those place settings were completed by a wreath of evergreen branches and a single candle. It was a stark reminder that two thirds of the aircraft sent out by the squadron had failed to return. Of the seven aircraft left on the apron, four were shot up so badly it was questionable if they would be ready for flight tomorrow. The ground crews would be working all night but the Ciclones that had returned were in too bad shape for anybody to count on them being ready for another strike.

  Lieutenant Manuel Devin stepped into the Mess and walked along the table, pausing by each candle to make the sign of the cross for the crewman it represented. He had returned from the strike still keyed up from the adrenalin rush caused by the low-altitude pass over the British ships. That had deflated as he and the rest of the base personnel had stood by the runways, waiting for the surviving Ciclones to return. As minutes had ticked by into hours, the extent of the losses had become impossible to deny. He stood behind his seat as the unit chaplain said a prayer for the souls of their comrades who had not returned. Nobody had any illusions about the shot-down pilots surviving. They would either have flown into the sea at high speed and died with their aircraft or ejected into the criss-cross hail of gunfire. There were other whispers as well. It was claimed that some of the British ships carried a death-ray. One touch of its beam and it was all over for the crew who flew its victim.

  The way the air crew were spread along the mess table meant that speaking would have been difficult, but nobody was in the mood to do so. The mess stewards went down the survivors of the group, serving the soup. Devin looked down the array of faces, noting how few of them seemed to be present in anything other than the physical sense. He turned slightly as a bowl of cazuela gaucho was placed in front of him. He waited until each man had been served, then took his spoon and carefully tried the chicken soup. “This is very good. The staff have done us proud tonight.”

  His words seemed to break the spell of the half-empty mess. The surviving aircrew started eating, slowly and carefully; as if their bowls would suddenly erupt into ant
i-aircraft fire and a hail of British missiles. Devin looked around. The squadron commander and all three flight commanders had gone. With a suddenness that shocked him, he realized he was the most senior surviving pilot in the squadron. As he spooned up the last of his cazuela gaucho and watched his bowl being replaced by a plate of parrillada he found himself wondering who would be the senior officer after tomorrow’s strike. Or if there would be a squadron left to have a senior officer.

  Hangar Deck, HMS Furious, Off the Falkland Islands

  “Jerry, a word, if you please.” Ernest Mullback turned around, to see the CAG standing behind him. The man’s voice seemed to echo in the hangar deck. The surviving aircraft, six Sea Mirages and a dozen Buccaneers, were struck down for overnight maintenance. Eighteen aircraft; the survivors of the eighty brought down by the two carriers. The rest had been blown up by missiles, ripped up by rapid fire guns or vanished in the fireball of exploding fuel tanks.

  “Max?” Mullback sounded stunned. Commander Frances looked at him carefully. All the pilots, the ones that were left, had the same expression on their faces. Vacant somehow.

  “Jerry, your Highball birds. The hangar erks have worked out a way to wire R-550s on to your wing pylons. Frankly, with the Argie fleet neutered, your Highballs aren’t much use to us right now while the air defense suppression aircraft and bomb trucks are. So, you and yours will be taking over the fighter role. You’ll be doing CAP tomorrow while the remaining Mirages intercept the inbound raid. We’ve got to stop them Jerry; the amphibs off the beachhead are wide open. Another good Argie strike gets through and they’re finished. We don’t think they’ll come after us out here, but if they do, your Bananas will have to do what you can.”

  Mullback nodded dully. “Very good, Max. The other birds going on strike?”

  “At dawn. The booties are on Mount Kent. They’re being attacked by Argie infantry in regimental strength. They’re holding them off but they’ll need air support. Right now, that position is critical.” Frances paused. “Everything is critical. The amphibs at San Carlos, the booties on Mount Kent, the assault carriers backing them up and the Paras overlooking Stanley. I can’t think of anything that isn’t critical right now. I’m told Albie and the Incredible Bulk have got Rotodynes up flying CAP. You’ll just have to do the best you can. We’ve got nothing left.”