Victoria at the Falklands

by Jack Tollers

  Chapter Seventeen

  Peter’s fight

  He had been on those islands for nearly two months and the weather had noticeably worsened. It wasn’t that he felt cold or anything: by now he was quite used to the freezing winds and uncooked rations, probably because he kept focused on the military situation most of the time. Nearly always, these days, he had his mind quite entirely taken up by the war—and Victoria. But anyway, there was so much to do that he hadn’t even time to think about his personal comfort. That morning he had had a rather gloomy briefing from the Lieutenant Colonel in charge, a tall officer with a shaven head. Peter found him very much like Kojak, the T.V. detective, and each time he saw him he pictured him with a lollipop, a private joke of sorts. But the circumstances were no joking matter, and Peter knew he was in for it.

  ‘Gentlemen, we the people of Task Force Mercedes will have to meet the British in our shirt sleeves,’ he so summed up the situation. ‘We have only two radios out on the Land-Rovers we dispose of.’ They had taken them from the civilians at Goose Green. ‘No other vehicles. Only eleven machine-guns when we should’ve had twenty-five. Few mortars and only one 105mm recoilless gun—without a sight.’ The Lieutenant Colonel shook his head in despair. ‘We should’ve had twenty five.’ He paused for a second. ‘And even if you prefer to be sceptical about our local intelligence, the BBC has released a report we can turn to: at least one British Parachute Company is on its way and an attack can be expected tomorrow or, at the latest, the day after.’ He paused for a few seconds, letting the full import of this bit of news sink in. ‘We’ve got to stop them along a 31 kilometre perimeter up North, and you know what that means,’ said the Lieutenant-Colonel.’

  Peter waited patiently. He knew what was coming and expected his orders calmly, even confidently. Perhaps the other officers around him had that effect on him. First Lieutenant Stevanovich was there, a very much-respected officer who had graduated second from a class of 250 at the Military Academy. And then, Second Lieutenant José Vásquez, a very likeable small chap from the Province of Córdoba he knew from the Army Academy and had befriended at Mercedes. The fact that he was married to a girl called Victoria had made him all the more likeable, and Peter had told them both all about his love troubles. Victoria Vásquez had sympathised and so had her husband, and he had quite frequently been invited to their house in the Regiment. Vásquez was now next to him, waiting for his orders in silent expectation, along with all the others. True, there were one or two of the officers present that Peter found less likeable—old Suter among them—but circumstances now bound them together in a spirit of comrades-in-arms which he found comforting. For a second his mind wandered and he was reminded of his maternal Grandfather, a German Wehrmacht Captain, who had served in Von Paulus’s entourage and who had been killed during the siege of Stalingrad. As a child he had more than once contemplated his photograph standing on a mantelpiece, a laughing good looking young man in full uniform hugging a little girl. The photo had 1941 written in black ink at its base: at the time, Peter’s mother was only three. His thoughts were suddenly cut short when he heard his name.

  ‘Second Lieutenant Cayol will immediately take a platoon with him to where First Lieutenant Alí has dug up an outpost position, four kilometres to the north of ‘A’ Company’s main line of defence.’ Peter assented while looking closely at his own map. That meant quite a walk up the Isthmus to Boca House by the sea, near where Second Lieutenant Alí had been posted.

  In effect, it took them a good two hour trek to get there and it was dark and very windy when they finally arrived. It turned out to be a long-abandoned building in ruins. He soon found out that the troops there had dug up a complex line of trenches with interlocking arcs; a pretty good job, considering the haste with which it had been done and the peat’s granite quality. After meeting Second Lieutenant Alí and having a short consultation with him, Peter gave orders to an N.C.O. that had come over with the platoon and they settled down occupying the trenches around the derelict house. Alí had had nothing new to tell Peter.

  ‘I’m afraid that by putting us in this place with the sea at our back as well as at our left and right plus the English coming at us from the north, we haven’t a chance,’ he had shaken his head, ‘To all purposes we´ve been painted into a bloody corner.’ Alí was a tall, corpulent officer with a raucous voice, and notwithstanding his pessimistic outlook had seemed very much decided to put up a fight, something that in the circumstances Peter appreciated very much.

  ‘For that matter, this whole Isthmus is a bloody corner,’ Peter had replied with a shrug.

  ‘This sector has been drawing heavy fire from a frigate that some of the men have identified as the “Arrow”. That has somewhat complicated our logistics in this area but fortunately the ship has gone and for some time now no fire has been shot from any quarter.’

  But a couple of scouts had relayed information to the effect that a fraction of the 2nd Para’s Company was only a few kilometres to the North, marching directly towards their position. The Lieutenant Colonel had certainly got it right.

  Peter knew that his was a precarious situation and not having a radio was going to make the fighting a matter of groping in the dark. In any case he knew they could only hope to stop the English approaching their positions but that counter-attacking was out of the question. And by then it was common knowledge that the Brits much preferred to attack by night: they had the best equipment available, a good level of training—the men at 2nd Para were all professionals—and their state-of-the-art guns would give them a clear advantage in such circumstances. He went over to a nest where their single 7.62mm machine gun was firmly secured to its tripod and had a word or two with Ramírez and Escudero, the two soldiers that served it.

  It started to rain and for once Peter welcomed the water. He knew that this meant that in that weather at least the English wouldn’t be able to call down close artillery support. It was a miserable night by any standard. A Sergeant came up to him and reported that one of his soldiers had all the symptoms of trench feet. He organised the man’s evacuation down to Goose Green and gave him some pieces of chocolate he had managed to grab a couple of hours before. The rain gathered force and he looked for cover from its wetness as well as a good vantage point from where he hoped to detect the presence of the enemy. A roofed trench next to the derelict Boca House seemed a good place for these purposes and offered some sort of a refuge against the rain.

  He thought that these were probably his last hours. He remembered the nightmare he had told Jimmy about and recognised the same fear: the cold knots in his stomach and his dry mouth brought back the same feeling, the same impressions he had had that feverish summer night in Corrientes. There was no denying it: if this wasn’t the end it looked very much like it.

  He thought of Victoria once again, so very much in his mind since he had received her letter a couple of weeks ago. He took out his torch and extricated a small plastic pouch from his shirt pocket. He had carefully preserved Victoria’s letter which was however pretty wrinkled by now: he had read it a dozen times. By now he practically knew its contents by heart but he found great comfort drinking in again and again the adorable words written in delightful blue calligraphy.

  ...even little Peter, our neighbour, I don’t know if you remember him, has asked about you. He has written a letter to you and has asked me to forward it, so you’ll find it with this one. The whole country hangs on to any bit of news about you all, and even at my Art School students and professors seem to be talking all day long about this war. Now, don’t get me wrong: it’s not that they mention you by your name or anything, it’s just that I can’t keep from mentally replacing their words with your darling name, Peter. If they say, ‘the Army has new marching orders’ I hear ‘Peter has new marching orders’. If they say ‘Argentina will fight to the end’ I think they’re talking about you. And so on. Peter, Peter, Peter. Your name keeps coming up in this weird manner no matter where I am or what I
’m doing. Darling, please come back. All right, yes, fight valiantly and all that, but please come back in one piece. After all, I’m fond of every single piece of you, my love. Please, please me, don’t let me down and get back to where you once belonged.

  And... well, I thought I would wait till you came back before telling you the good news, but I suppose I can’t help myself, I’m so excited. Everything has changed over here and things are definitely looking up at home as I shall proceed to explain. Hang on a minute with your battles, let go of your war impedimenta for a second and read carefully: we can marry whenever we want to (as soon as you come back, right?). Things straightened up at home when Aunt Diana, my father’s sister, God bless her, came to live with us. She’s such an angel. You’ll get on with her like a house on fire as soon as you meet. I keep telling her all about you all day long and she’s most interested. She’s a widow too having lost her husband nearly ten years ago, and, well, had begun to come over to Bella Vista on weekends. She used to live in Mar del Plata but had recently moved to an apartment in Buenos Aires and since February we began to see quite a lot of her. From the outset she would hear nothing about being treated like a guest and won’t stop doing house chores all day long. You should see her, she’s a perfect pet with the little ones, and is extremely successful with them, helping them with their homework, taking them out to tea, playing cards, supervising the shopping and cooking like the gods. What more can I tell you? The children just love her, and, well, I don’t know, she even tells them wonderful bedside stories that she makes up as she goes along. You can hear the little ones laugh away at bedtime, nearly every night. Having an Aunt like this is just heaven. She’s always in a good temper and hums all day long (most of the time out of tune, but no one seems to mind). She’s a perfect angel and things have changed so much since she began to stay with us. And then, even Father is much better. Between you and me, I think he’s a bit afraid of her because now he’s helping also—as in the old days—and dresses and shaves and behaves quite normally. He’s actually got back to writing—a book on Catilina’s Conspiracy, I ask you. Well, anyway, Aunt Diana started to stay over on Mondays too, and later on began to stay on till every Tuesday, until Father invited her to leave her apartment in Town and move over to our place. So that’s exactly what’s happened, and they´re now building a small house in our garden for her so she can have a bit of privacy, and everything seems to be working wonderfully. Anyway, I don’t know if it was her idea or Father’s, but the other night they both managed to surprise me: they called for me from the study and when I went in I found them both smiling. Brother and sister have a way of talking in unison which is quite confusing at times but I managed to get the gist of what they were driving at when they laughingly announced that it was high time that I married (someone, anyone, Father said) and that I was not needed any more (which, I gladly admit, sounds a bit disgraceful). Well, basically, that between them they could manage perfectly, which is, as I’ve been telling you, quite true... So... how about marrying as soon as this dreadful war is over?

  Peter suddenly looked up, listening to renewed artillery rumblings to the West, where Mount Darwin stood. Those were heavy guns indeed, possibly Light Anti-Tank Weapons, he thought, and they were a sure sign that something was cooking over there. Not having a radio was a curse, he thought once again. He still felt the cold knots in his stomach and even if not exactly frightened, his hands trembled slightly, the letter in his hands shaking a bit. Marrying Victoria! That would be heaven, and why on earth not? He looked out into the night, not seeing more than a few feet in front of him.

  He had of course answered immediately and now wondered if his letter had reached Victoria. Marrying her was all he wanted, and nothing else. Except, perhaps, to read this letter again and again.

  ...realise it’s not quite correct that a girl should propose in this manner, but, darling, the circumstances are certainly very unusual and I thought that, well, maybe the prospect would cheer you up a bit, bless your heart.

  I hope you’re not cold and that you’re feeding yourself properly, they keep sending tons of food from over here and I hope some of it reaches you.

  And again, darling, please come back... I’m praying every night to my good friend St Joseph—and my recent friend, St Peter— to protect you and, through our Blessed Mother’s mediation, send angels to keep you company as promised in the ninety first psalm: ‘He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways’. Just look it up if you have a Bible at hand (I wonder) and it’ll comfort you as this letter isn’t able to do...

  The shooting started without any kind of warning and Peter hastily put Victoria’s letter in his left trouser pocket surprised by the sudden din, the deafening noise of explosions around him paralysing him for a full minute. He then turned the torch off and tried to identify the enemy’s location. He estimated that they were no more than four hundred metres right in front of him, down a steep slope. It was a rather bold move by the Brits, he thought, only possible in this dreadful weather and in the dark, for they had little cover. He rushed to where the machine gun was vomiting fire in a rather disorganised fashion and with signs he ordered the men there to hold their fire. He wanted to establish where the enemy was, and how much fire power they had. The answer came soon enough, and he identified at least two anti-tank rockets, the white phosphorus burning through one of his soldiers not fifty metres to his left. He heard the poor chap’s cries quite distinctly over the general din. Just about then Peter realized it was beginning to dawn and he conceived a plan of his own. If he could get to the cliff at his left he would surely have a vantage point from which he could wipe the English out of their positions as soon as daylight discovered them. He selected Ramírez and Escudero, and tried to explain his plan to them, shouting at the top of his voice and gesticulating madly. Presently the two burly soldiers began to nod in understanding. They took the machine-gun and two boxes with ammo between them and followed Peter, who grabbed the tripod; then, in no time they were out of the trench, running madly. It was one hell of a run up the cliff—and they were under heavy fire—but they finally managed to nest it safely on a ridge that gave them some cover. Peter knew that as soon as the Brits identified the gun’s location they were sure to try and blow it out with their own artillery. But not, he thought, before he had cut out quite a few of them with his gun. Once it was properly placed he ordered his soldiers to fall back, but both of them refused to do so. They insisted on staying on to back-up Peter’s machine gun with their F.A.L. rifles. An argument ensued but the men were adamant and there was nothing Peter could do except threaten the grimly smiling men with a court-martial as soon as the battle was over. Peter shook his head, defeated. It was an honour for him, he thought, to fight with blokes like these, privates Ramirez and Escudero, and he hoped to God they wouldn’t be hurt, specially Ramírez who was married and had a little baby waiting for him on the continent: Ramírez had proudly showed him the baby’s photograph only the day before.

  The three men waited for a better view as the daybreak progressed while the battle wore on to what looked like something of a stalemate. Peter wasn’t frightened anymore—he had forgotten to be scared, he thought with a wry smile— and the knots in his stomach had disappeared. All he could do was repeat again and again the lines of the Psalm: ‘He shall give his angels charge over thee...’ He was thinking that he would get hold of a Bible as soon as he could when, suddenly, and quite to his surprise, he distinctly saw a British platoon moving through open ground, some three hundred yards away. He hesitated before opening fire, but when Ramírez started to fire his rifle, he thought it was now or never and his machine-gun started to harass the platoon, clearly bringing down two or three soldiers and pinning down the rest of them. He distinctly saw them retreat in search of the relative cover offered by a fold in the ground. But then Escudero indicated that down on their right flank a section of Paras was moving along the beach towards them using the slopes as cover. Peter tur
ned his gun in that direction but could hardly find a clear target. And then, just as he fixed the gun on one man who came into view, a Milan missile hit their position, killing Ramírez instantly.

  Peter himself was badly wounded, his right forearm bleeding freely. The concussion had nearly made him faint but he held on to his machine-gun and kept firing, bringing down another Brit.

  It was then that a clean shot got him in the head.

  He fell flat on his back, remaining quite still.

  After that there was an eerie silence, the Brits evidently trying to appraise the situation.

  Peter appeared to be saying something in his agony. Private Escudero had miraculously survived all this and heard him. He managed to wrestle his way through the soggy marsh and slowly approached the rock next to which Peter lay until he could actually hear him. But then he only gathered some arcane mumbling about angels taking care of him. And then he was suddenly silent.

  The man closed Peter’s eyelids. A piece of white paper had fallen out from his trouser pocket but, as Escudero picked it up he saw that the rain had already dissolved most of the ink on it. He remained in his place for a long time, looking down at what he deemed to have been his best officer ever.

  Suddenly he was surrounded by British Paras and a Sergeant walked up pointing his rifle aggressively at the Argie soldier sitting dejectedly next to Peter’s body. The Englishman was a big fellow with a tarred face and a grim expression. He used his rifle as a pointer and moved Peter’s body to ensure that he was dead.

  ‘This, your commanding officer?’ he asked Escudero who had remained quite still, quite defeated.

  To Escudero the cockney sounded like Chinese and he only managed to say, ‘No eenglaizze’.

  The N.C.O. shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Well, all I can say is that if I ever die in battle, I hope it’ll be with a smile like this bloke’s.’