The Exit Club: Book 5: Old Comrades

by Shaun Clarke

  Because South Georgia was out of range of landbased aircraft, D Squadron transhipped by Wessex helicopter from Fort Austin to the ice patrol ship Endurance, which would sail closer to the shore, enabling them to fly in to their LZ. Though smaller than Fort Austin, Endurance was equipped with two Wasp helicopters. To facilitate their landing, a large hangar had been built aft of the ship’s funnel, extending her poop deck to create a helicopter landing pad – and it was onto this that the Wessex helo landed, rocking unsteadily above the treacherous, surging waves, before settling at last on the swaying, creaking deck.

  Once the SAS were aboard the new ship, Lieutenant-Colonel Osborne held a briefing for the sixteen members of his Mountain Troop. Marty was standing beside him throughout the briefing, which took place in a large cabin above the flight decks, with drenched portholes giving a distorted view of the featureless grey sea and sky outside.

  While the SBS had been given the task of reconnoitring Grytviken and King Edward Point, the SAS Mountain Troop, under the command of Captain Michael Peters, a former mountaineer, were to be landed on Fortuna Glacier, South Georgia, to establish observation posts for the gathering of intelligence on the Argentinian forces.

  This would not be as easy as it seemed – because the glacier was a potential death trap with its five arms, flowing down into the South Atlantic, veined with hundreds of deep fissures and pressure ridges. Even though it was comparatively level at the top of the glacier, where the weight of the ice pressured downwards, there were hundreds of crevasses, most nearly a mile wide, which could swallow a man up to his waist. Finally, the men would almost certainly face sub-zero temperatures and gale-force winds.

  Nevertheless, the importance of that high point overlooking Grytviken and Leith Harbour was enough reason to take a chance and attempt a landing.

  The buildings on King Edward Point had housed the British Antarctic Survey settlement before the Royal Marines were forced to surrender to the Argentinians. The same buildings now housed the Argentinian HQ. They were at the mouth of a cove a thousand metres from Grytviken, which is what the green slime hoped the men would be able to observe from the OP on Fortuna Glacier.

  Still feeling bitter because he had not been allowed to take part in the Princes Gate siege, Marty was positively heartbroken at the thought of missing the assault on the glacier, particularly given his abiding love for, and experience of, mountaineering.

  Knowing that he would soon be retiring anyway, so hardly concerned about any disciplinary measures that might be taken against him, he approached Captain Peters when the CO had departed and begged to be allowed to come along, emphasizing mountain-climbing experience and mentioning his heart attack in Oman. Not aware that Marty had been restricted to tactical planning and his previous

  carefully not intelligence, Peters, grateful to have a man so experienced, gave his consent.

  Elated, Marty hurried down to the lower deck, where he found the rest of the Mountain Troop preparing themselves with their customary thoroughness. Arctic cold-weather kit was drawn from Endurance’s stores, including Swedish civilian mountaineering boots, which they used instead of their normal DMS boots. Weapons signed for included SLRs with twenty-round steel magazines; 7.62mm GPMGs, 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 phosphorous, CS gas and smoke grenades. The weapons were thoroughly checked, then the machine guns, rifles and pistols were cleaned of unnecessary lubricants, to prevent them from seizing up in the freezing temperatures of the glacier.

  Other equipment, apart from food and drink, included a couple of PRC 319 HF/VHF radio systems and a Clansman High-Frequency set, which could also be used as a Morse or CW transmitter. Also loaded onto the troop-carrying A/SW Wessex helicopters were four long, lightweight 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 these necessary tasks had been completed, the men gathered on the landing pads of the ship and took their places in the two Royal Marine Wessex Mark 5 helicopters and the smaller Wessex Mark 3, from the RFA Antrim, to be flown by Lieutenant-Commander Randolph Paterson.

  Taking off at midday, the helos headed for South Georgia, flying above a sludge-coloured sea, through a sky filled with black clouds.

  Looking out past LieutenantCommander Paterson’s head, Marty saw a charcoal-coloured, snow-streaked stretch of mountainous land on a grey-smudged horizon, growing larger each second: the coast of South Georgia. Paterson was hoping to reach the LZ five hundred metres above sea level, but within minutes the mountains of the approaching island could be seen and clearly they were covered with falling snow that would make the landing dangerous.

  True enough, as the helo neared the LZ, it was met by wind-driven snow that created a white-out by making earth and sky indistinguishable. Nevertheless, with the aid ofthe helo’s computerized navigational system, Paterson was able to lead the other two helos on through the dangerous gorges until the sheer face of the Fortuna glacier emerged eerily from a curtain of falling snow. There the helos hovered, ascending and descending, trying to find a place to land, being buffeted constantly, dangerously, by the fierce, howling wind.

  ‘This LZ is a nightmare,’ TT said. ‘I see us being smashed all to hell down there.’

  ‘Let us pray,’ Alan Pearson said.

  The first attempt to land was indeed unsuccessful, so eventually Paterson and the others flew away to circle the glacier and hopefully find a clear area. In the event, they weren’t able to land until the third attempt, later that afternoon, when the wind was blowing at eighty kilometres an hour.

  When the sixteen troopers disembarked from the helos, the fierce wind was driving fine particles of ice before it. These stung the men’s eyes if they were not wearing goggles and, more dangerously, choked the mechanisms of their weapons. As they unloaded their equipment and pulks, they were sheltered from the worst of the weather; also, the hot exhaust fumes of the helos gave them a deceptive feeling of warmth. But when the helos lifted off, the troopers were suddenly hit by the full force of those winds and realized just what they were up against.

  Wiping snow from their arctic hoods, they examined their weapons and found that they were covered in ice. After thawing the weapons and wiping them dry, they split up into four groups, the men in each roped together, and prepared to go down the glacier in arrow formation. In this way, it was felt, they would be less likely to lose each other and could also help each other if there was trouble. Attaching themselves to the pulks loaded with food and ammunition, they began their descent of the glacier, looking inhuman in their bulky arctic suits and hoods, ghostlike in the mist and swirling snow.

  One patrol had orders to watch Leith, one Stromness and one Husvik, seven kilometres from the LZ. The fourth, led by Taff, had intended going down the opposite west slope to recce Fortuna Bay for boat and helicopter landing zones. But this did not come to pass. As the men moved slowly forward, the storm grew worse, with the wind howling even louder and the snow thickening around them, reducing visibility to almost zero.

  The ice surface of the glacier was covered with snow that was gathering in the crevasses. The men could not always see the indentations in the snow and within a few metres they had to stop when a new trooper, Sammy McCulloch, became the first to cry out as he plunged through the snow-covered ice into a hidden crevasse. Luckily, his fall was stopped by his Bergen straddling the crevasse, leaving him buried from the waist down, still holding onto the rope. When he had been rescued by the others, who dug him out with pickaxes and then pulled him up by tugging on the rope, they all stepped over the crevasse, leaned into the wind, and continued their advance down the white, gleaming side of the glacier. Then a second trooper fell into another crevasse, forcing them to stop and start the rescue procedure all over again. This occurred repeatedly and it was also happ
ening to the other groups, visible as shadowy, alien shapes in the snowstorm, clearly struggling but also making little headway.

  As the storm grew worse, their advance was reduced to a snail’s pace. By nightfall, when already they were frozen and exhausted, they had managed to cover only one kilometre and Marty suspected that they were wasting their time.

  ‘This weather’s too awful,’ he confided in Taff. ‘We’ll just get blown away by it.’

  ‘Blown away and blinded,’ Taff responded. ‘There’s no way we can work in this.’

  Unable to do more in the relentless snowstorm, the four patrols regrouped in the gathering gloom of the evening and attempted to make camp for the night. Seeking protection from the piercing cold, they found the least exposed part of the glacier, under a rock outcrop, and there tried to put up three-man tents. When these were violently whipped away by the gale, snapping noisily as they disappeared in the darkness, the men dug snow holes and attempted to sleep in bivvy bags with their boots on. By midnight, however, hurricane-force-eleven winds were howling over the mountains, which not only prevented them from sleeping, but also offered the real possibility of hypothermia and frostbite. At this point, Captain Peters decided to give up.

  ‘The frostbite can be so bad,’ Peters reminded Marty, ‘that a man can even lose a limb. So get on that radio, RSM, and ask them to come and lift us out.’

  Marty did as he was told. After explaining the situation to HMS Endurance, he was informed that three Wessex helos would be despatched at first light, one from Antrim, the other two from HMS Springtide, and that he was to send up a flare when he saw them. Marty promised to do so.

  The ensuing night was hellish with the force-eleven wind not abating at all, the snow and ice particles beating at them every second, instantly flaying them if they made the mistake of exposing a patch of skin to the elements. Sleep was impossible, or at least came only in fits and starts, and by first light, when a pale sun shone through, they were exhausted and numb.

  The Navy pilots, however, were as good as their word. Even before he heard them – since the wind was still howling, the sweeping snow still hissing– Marty saw the three helos coming in to attempt a landing on the glacier.

  Wriggling quickly out of his bivvy bag, he sent up a chemical flare as the rest of the group came back to life, looking up to see the green smoke spreading through the still-dark, snow-filled sky. Sitting upright, they smacked the snow off their hoods and gloves, then slapped themselves to get their circulation going.

  Contacting the lead helo through the PRC 319, Marty learned that the pilot was again LieutenantCommander Paterson and that he had spotted them and was coming in for a landing. The helo duly descended through the still-raging blizzard, its rotors creating a more violent snowstorm as it tentatively touched down. It was followed immediately by the other two helos.

  As quickly as possible, given the appalling conditions, the men distributed their equipment to the three helicopters, then took their places, with Marty and Alan Pearson taking seats in Paterson’s Wessex Mark 3. It lifted off first. It was followed by the two Mark 5s, one of which was carrying Captain Peters, Taff Hughes and Tommy ‘TT’ Taylor.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Pearson murmured, shivering with cold where he sat beside Marty in the Mark 3, both staring up through the swirling snow as the helo ascended. ‘I thought I was going to lose my fucking balls, I was so fucking– ’

  He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw one of the Mark 5s flying into a particularly fierce gust of snow, a virtual white-out, then shuddering violently and turning off its true course. Tilting downwards, it headed nose first for the ground, through the sweeping snow of the howling blizzard.

  ‘Shit!’ Marty exclaimed as the helo wobbled dramatically, screeching, fighting to right itself, then went down even more quickly, obviously out of control, to crash into the glacier in a mess of buckling skis, breaking rotors and flying glass, throwing up a great fountain of snow.

  Even as the helo was shuddering like a dying elephant, half buried in snow, Marty heard the other Mark 5 pilot, Captain Ranleigh, speaking on Paterson’s radio, saying that he was going to land again on a rescue mission.

  ‘We’re coming down after you,’ Paterson said. ‘Over and out.’

  Marty saw the Mark 5 turning around and descending, heading straight back into the blizzard until it had practically disappeared in the swirling snow. Paterson’s Mark 3 followed suit and soon was enveloped in a thick curtain of snow, virtually another white-out in which the glacier and sky merged as one. Then the snow thinned a little and Marty saw the Mark 5 landing, its spinning rotors sucking up more snow and hurling it in great white waves over the crashed, wrecked helo as shadowy figures hurried out of it.

  The wall of the glacier was now directly outside the window of the Mark 3, appearing to rise rapidly as the helo descended, then the rotors whipped up more snow as the helo settled down on its skis, bounced a little and came to a halt.

  ‘All out!’ Lieutenant-Commander Paterson barked.

  Marty and his men jumped out of the helo, intent on a rescue operation. But when they disembarked and crossed to the Mark 5, positioned beside its crashed counterpart, they found Captain Peters’ group already helping the survivors into their own helo, all of them swept by snow and ghostlike in the blizzard.

  An SAS corporal, a new man, was the only person injured among the seven passengers. Even though the pilot’s cabin had been smashed to hell, the pilot was okay.

  On the grounds that his Mark 5 could hold more men than Paterson’s Mark 3, Captain Ranleigh insisted that Paterson take three of the men, including Captain Peters and the injured man, while he lifted off the remaining four. Paterson saw the sense in that, but still recommended that the passengers ditch everything but their weapons and belt equipment. He also suggested lightening the Mark 3 by leaving some of its special equipment on the ground. When the men had done as they were told, discarding everything except weapons and belt equipment, and when the Mark 3 had been stripped of some of its special equipment, which was buried carefully, deeply, under the ice and snow, the men were distributed between the two operational helos and they took off again.

  The Mark 3 had barely lifted off the ground when it flew into a white-out, was buffeted by the fierce wind, and, with its heavy load, became the second to crash. Marty felt the helo shaking like a car with punctured tyres, then it tilted to one side, showing the ground directly below, and Paterson called out a warning just before it went down. The rotor blades made contact first, snapping off and spinning away, then the skis buckled under the crashing fuselage, making the helo tilt farther. The men inside were scattered like skittles, thrown into each other, and scrambled about on the floor of the passenger cabin, cursing loudly as their weapons and other equipment were scattered and clattered about them. The helo shuddered and shrieked, the metal buckling, glass breaking, then it shuddered in the exploding, swirling snow and sank into impacted ice.

  ‘All out!’ Captain Peters bawled as he and Paterson unbuckled their safety belts and turned back into the disordered passenger cabin. Surprisingly, no one had been hurt and all of the men were able to make their escape from the wreckage, dropping onto the ice and snow, back into the raging storm.

  Even before the last man had emerged, the remaining Mark 5 helicopter became visible in the murky sky as Captain Ranleigh courageously returned to the glacier, checking out their location. Managing to find them, he contacted them by radio and informed Captain Peters that he was too short of fuel to be able to land again, but was going to fly back to the Antrim to top up his tanks, after which he would return and pick them up.

  Captain Peters switched off his radio as the helo turned away and headed back out to sea, eventually disappearing beyond a broad bank of dense clouds and dark, snow-streaked sky.

  ‘What a fucking disaster,’ TT said. ‘Two choppers down and here we are still trapped on this glacier. Who would have believed it?’

  ‘All I know, man,’ s
aid Trooper Will Simpson, wiping snowflakes from his black face, ‘is that I don’t want hypothermia or frostbite, so I’m belting in and wrapping up.’

  ‘Good idea,’ TT said.

  This, Marty knew, would be the worst time for all of them: the time when even the strongest man could break. First the failure of the mission, then a night of hellish cold, then two helicopter crashes in a row, now being trapped here. The physical enemy was the cold, but the loss of morale could be more dangerous, particularly if it led to self-pity or a feeling of despair.

  It was also, however, the kind of situation that the SAS were specially trained for. He was therefore pleased to see his remaining men rising to the challenge by making themselves as comfortable as possible with hardly any kit and sharing only between them.

  It was a long, hellish day unrelenting and the men, taking turns to keep warm in the single tent, gradually becoming covered in snow and merging into the landscape. The snow, continuing to fall without respite, eventually buried them.

  ‘I’m fucking dying,’ Simpson complained, blowing repeatedly into his hands to try in vain to keep them warm. ‘I can’t take this cold, man.’

  one survival tent

  with the blizzard ‘Hang in there,’ Alan Pearson said.

  As promised, Ranleigh returned a few hours later

  and tried to find a landing place. But, defeated by the increasing ferocity of the storm, he had to go back once more to the ship, thus filling those on the glacier with despair. Later that day, however, he courageously returned, this time managing to land, and picked up the frozen, exhausted men.

  Dangerously overloaded, the Mark 5 limped back to the Antrim, a red streak in the vast greyness of the sea, and dropped onto the swaying deck like a bloated fly too heavy to stay aloft. It was not a graceful touchdown, given the weight of the helo, but eventually the men tumbled out onto the deck, most of them numb and shivering, none warmed by the knowledge that the mission had been a disaster.