Beyond Endurance: An Epic of Whitehall and the South Atlantic

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Beyond Endurance: An Epic of Whitehall and the South Atlantic Page 6

by Nicholas Barker


  ‘How would that be?’ I asked.

  ‘In the Copacabana there are many transvestites who never miss a chance to grab a wallet. And there are also gangs who operate in this area at night. It is not safe to stop.’

  I found this explanation oddly reassuring, but was less convinced when he turned off the Copacabana towards Botofogo. The car was now coming to a halt at the green traffic lights. He anticipated my question. ‘This is because,’ he explained, ‘there will be many coming through the red traffic lights the other way.’

  It was the kind of logic that I later came to apply myself when thinking about the way South Americans approach a problem: the simple rule of thumb is that their thinking will be consistently 180 degrees opposite from our own.

  The next port of call was to be Buenos Aires. We navigated very carefully up the River Plate: I remembered the problems I had previously experienced there only too well. We anchored off Buenos Aires overnight, then took a pilot into the port. Once again we were berthed close to the heart of the city. I was obliged to call on the Chief of Naval Staff, a man who later played an important part in our lives, Admiral Anaya.

  I did not call on the President, but I did meet a number of senior politicians. In true Argentine style these gentlemen were all either military or dual-hatted. Equally correctly I was always shepherded by either the Ambassador or the Naval Attaché. The Ambassador knew all the key players in the Argentine game of political chess very well. His Spanish was excellent and his interpretation included the gift of picking up the nuances that can all too easily be drowned in the river of protocol.

  The first day of any visit by an RN ship is invariably taken up by calls on local dignitaries. At lunch or the ship’s cocktail party reciprocal visits are arranged. In Buenos Aires this meant organizing a flight deck cocktail party for two hundred visitors. These were essentially representatives of the Argentine military and political hierarchy, and a more modest number of influential British expatriates. The Argentine military had assimilated aspects of British culture through the expatriate influence. This included a taste for the finer fruits of Scottish distilleries with which we were necessarily well stocked.

  A routine procedure for a captain on these occasions is to stand, booted, spurred and telescoped, in the vicinity of the gangway. By his side will be the Naval Attaché introducing each of the guests as they arrive. For the Captain this then becomes a memory game made as tricky as possible because of the similarity of the uniforms. It can also be a fairly drawn-out process: in South America punctuality is treated no more seriously than bribery. This meant that almost as soon as the last guest arrived it was back to the gangway station to acknowledge the farewells.

  We had a special little sunset ceremony which we performed with the Royal Marine Guard and bugler. At the same time we closed the bar to provide a second heavy hint that the party was over. This was interpreted in two ways. The visiting dignitaries reluctantly downed their whiskies and said their goodbyes. Meanwhile the wardroom scooped up the most attractive females and took them down to the mess.

  In contrast to Rio the cost of a run ashore was prohibitive. Added to this there were wild fluctuations of currency and the Shylockian instincts of local traders. This meant we had to rely on local invitations and the round of sporting events to create a break from sea time.

  For some reason, lost in the miasmal mists of seagoing folklore, the best shore option was known as a ‘grippo’. This is not perhaps what the uninitiated imagine. A ‘grippo’ is simply an invitation of hospitality. ‘Great grippo’ is therefore an approbation. It ensures that the run ashore is enjoyable and, best of all, free. The first grippo for myself and my officers was a visit to the Argentine Naval Hydrographic and Oceanic Establishment. This meant a guided tour, lecture, drinks and lunch. The next was a lunch on board the Argentine square-rigged sail training ship Libertad. This was also an opportunity to really get to know the Ambassador, Anthony Williams, his Number Two, John Chick, Naval Attaché Ben Neave and other junior members of the Embassy.

  When I later said that I knew a great deal about the thinking within the Embassy, both then and during the build-up to the conflict, it is in part because I was receiving information from sources close to the Ambassador himself, and equally from people who had the ear of the Anglo/Argentine community. In the event they were fortuitously placed with a number of influential friends.

  Through them, and through other Embassy sources, I learned a great deal about the Argentine administration. It was clear that corruption was rife at every level and the strongest characteristic of political life was feathering your own nest. It was a desperate administration lurching from one crisis to another and failing to solve anything.

  Those with left-wing or even humanitarian instincts were labelled reactionary. The likeliest fate of someone who dared question the Government was to be taken for a helicopter ride, weighted round the feet and dropped into a remote lake. Even by South American standards it was a brutal and cynical administration. The British community knew what was going on, but equally they knew that their good health depended on silence. What I learned was always ‘in confidence’. Some of the stories, which I believe to be broadly true, were harrowing.

  The Ambassador and his wife, Hedwig, were hospitable and charming, though they had very fixed views about ‘the locals’. But Ben Neave, the Naval Attaché, was particularly sound. If he had remained in post beyond the spring of 1981 it may have been that the Embassy’s perception of events in Argentina would have been different.

  John Chick, the Commercial Attaché, was largely preoccupied with oiling the wheels of the business machine. In Argentina the machine was decidedly rusty. I remember asking him what he actually did.

  ‘Oh, we introduce British business men to the locals and vice versa and arrange meetings and put them in touch,’ he said.

  ‘What sort of results have come about from these meetings?’

  He did his best to put a positive interpretation on it: ‘Oh, there’s lots of British activity in Argentina. Unfortunately this is an agricultural country and the Argentines buy their equipment from almost anywhere other than Britain.’

  I formed the impression that he was out of tune with commercial reality. But it was also clear that commercial links between the two nations at that time were hardly encouraged by the Argentine administration. Oddly enough I do not recall any of the Embassy hierarchy even hinting there could be something worrying in that.

  Some time earlier the Argentine had bought two Type 42 destroyers, one built in the UK, the other in Argentina. Other than that the volume of British exports to Argentina was pitched somewhere between poor and derisory. It would also be true to say, however, that the state of the Argentine economy was such that potential exporters must have been concerned about when, and even if, they would be paid.

  The tune that echoed round the Embassy was that everything was fine. But I heard the hollow notes. That Embassy orchestra may have included competent soloists but they lacked the direction of a strong conductor and the overall effect was less than harmonious. 1 could not have guessed it then, but in the months that ran up to the conflict it was going to become a symphony of errors.

  Chapter 3

  ‘PLANET EARTH’

  We arrived at our Falklands station on 16 December. Although we could not get alongside at Port Stanley, I exchanged calls with HE the Governor and it was the first time I experienced the extraordinary hospitality of Sir Rex and Lady Hunt. We anchored in the harbour close to Stanley, which must be one of the world’s tiniest capitals, even though a fair proportion of the colony’s 2,000 population live there.

  The ship was a piece of Britain floating in their harbour as far as the islanders were concerned. They always looked forward to the times when the Red Plum made her way through the narrows and into the lagoon-like harbour off Stanley. This event provoked sentiment and ceremonial. There was also a very practical reason why they should welcome our visits: we carried stores and s
upplies. These included the seemingly insignificant, such as a set of books or some preserves. There were also small items of furniture and some tools. Many of the items are the kind of thing we take for granted but to the islanders they were hard-earned luxuries. We were generally told what we had carried after it had been collected; in fact we never really knew what was inside the crates and never had cause to check.

  During our short visits to Stanley, apart from my calls on the Governor, we would refuel, embark mail and people who were going to assist with scientific projects, and sometimes land project personnel returning to South America or the UK.

  On this, my first Falklands visit, we landed a survey team at Fitzroy which was virtually uncharted at the time. The fifteen members of the team were to complete hydrographic work and soundings, and to make maps of Fitzroy Sound and Bluff Cove. They were to stay in a farm building which served both as workplace and dormitory. They would have to rely on the farmer and the other members of a sparse community for some of their food and supplies.

  We were also to embark David Attenborough and his team. This was part of his ‘Planet Earth’ project which was to feature some of the Antarctic islands and the Antarctic itself.

  However, on arrival in Stanley, we encountered one of the British Antarctic ships, the John Biscoe. She had sheared two blades of her propeller and had managed to make a very slow passage from the Antarctic on her bow thruster. The problem was doubly unfortunate because rectification could not be carried out underwater. She needed to be docked for her propeller to be replaced. Worse still, towing did not seem to be an option because of the expense. Following a flurry of signals, it was finally agreed that I could undertake the tow of over 1,000 miles – probably one of the longest tows since the war by a warship, from Port Stanley to Montevideo where the John Biscoe could be properly repaired.

  That meant an almost immediate about turn for the Endurance, We met only briefly the people who we were to serve as guardship. We set off with a long string of plaited nylon towrope behind and several shackles of cable veered from the John Biscoe. The journey also meant that we were to spend Christmas at sea, not at South Georgia as planned. Even though we managed to make nine knots on the tow north it also meant the Antarctic programme was to be delayed by a fortnight.

  The weather was kind to us. The main problem was flattening the tow to ensure that the plaited nylon tow-rope rose almost to the surface. The alternative was to risk dredging up the Graf Spee or any of the considerable number of wrecks that lie off Montevideo. If nothing else this was a good PR job which knocked on the head the British Antarctic Survey’s nickname for Endurance – ‘HMS Encumbrance’.

  We ran straight to South Georgia from Montevideo. On the way we met up with the British Antarctic Ship, the Bransfield, and transferred David Attenborough and his film crew. At Stanley we had also embarked a team from the Scott Polar Institute at Cambridge. They were to do some experimental work on the movement and flexibility of icebergs.

  One of the most satisfying aspects of life in Endurance was the relaxed and friendly working environment. This was in part created by the Antarctic itself. To be successful working in the waters around the cold continent meant that, by design, the Endurance was different. Our bridge was both driving centre and Operations Room. It therefore became a place where the sailors could come and speak to the Captain or First Lieutenant on a purely social basis. In turn this created opportunities for officers to get to know the men to a degree that is almost impossible in a regular warship. The dividend of this unique relationship was paid in full in those dark days when we needed it most.

  Our arrival at South Georgia heralded the start of nearly two years of a growing interest in the background, sounds and climate of the area. It was impossible not to be overwhelmed by the Antarctic scenery. South Georgia is an extraordinary place. It’s like taking a ridge of the Alps and parking it in the middle of the ocean. Grytviken, Stromness and Husvik border the shores of Cumberland Bay, the focus of former whaling activities. I found myself increasingly fascinated by the history of this, particularly when I encountered some of the old characters who had experienced the full hardship of life in the whalers.

  Grytviken, probably the largest of the old whaling stations, had by 1980–81 become the base from which mostly biological work was done by the British Antarctic Survey. Close to the station is the monument and last resting place of Sir Ernest Shackleton. Sir Ernest is buried in a small cemetery amongst sailors of many nations, particularly Norwegians, who led the way when it came to fortitude. Right next to the small cemetery is a penguin colony, the remains of two veteran whaling ships, and the flensing pans – slipways where whales were drawn up and dissected. Nearby is the church where we held a number of services during the Conflict.

  It was at Grytviken that David Attenborough and his team were now based. This reunion was quite special and reminded us all of what a joy it had been to have them on board. In addition to filming his epic series ‘Planet Earth’, they were also putting together some footage for children’s programmes.

  At Husvik I was determined to carry out a small investigation of my own. It was rumoured that the local duck were particularly tasty so I took my shotgun ashore. I perched myself behind an old whaling shed and waited for a prime specimen to come within range. After a while the icy silence was broken by a human voice. A peer round the edge of the shed revealed David Attenborough. His clipped and deliberate voice to camera was setting the scene. I was distracted as a flight of duck winged into view. The repeated roar of the shotgun echoed around the bay and a South Georgia Pintail fell to the ground. As I set off to retrieve it I was aware of the Attenborough monologue continuing:

  ‘Man has not been here since 1963. (Bang, bang) He left these bases like the Mary Celeste (bang, bang) waiting for phantom crews to travel once again to the whaling grounds …’

  I understand that when the programme was broadcast a number of phone calls suggested that the echoing shotgun blasts had done little to complement the dialogue. Indeed the idea that man had not set foot in this place for almost 20 years was quite literally blown away. And this slight lapse in the Attenborough credibility was all because of one modestly sized duck which, when prepared for the table, tasted of seaweed and salt.

  On the night of 6/7 January we tried to find an island which had been reported by an American research ship 30 miles to the north of the South Sandwich Group. After hours of frustration we determined that it had either disappeared or their navigation was faulty. We did, however, visit most of the South Sandwich Islands. These have the appearance of little ice-clad Gibraltars running in a line running roughly NE–SW. The most southwesterly of these, Southern Thule, was the island the Argentines had claimed in 1977. The Foreign Office response to that had been predictably weak-kneed. They reasoned that the island was in an international area and therefore there was no need to interfere. I am not alone in believing that the lack of formal protest sent signals to the Argentine that were later to prove costly.

  The first island we visited was Zavodovski, a desolate volcano at the northern end of the group, populated according to David Attenborough by 9 million chinstrap penguins. The smell of the island, in part created by countless tons of guano, gave credence to this claim. To make matters worse the fumaroles at the side of the volcano were pumping out sulphuric smoke. The smell was bad enough on board. On shore it was like living close confined with a group of people who ate only baked beans and boiled cabbage. This had given the map-makers a chance to be creative. The names of various coves, inlets and headlands included Pungent Bay, Mount Asphyxia and Acrid Cove.

  David Attenborough loved the place. Predictably he positioned himself among several thousand penguins and prepared to tell the world all about them.

  ‘Here we have the distinctive strap of black feathers under the chin. This is why they are called chinstrap penguins …’

  He paused and grinned at me.

  ‘That’s a touch obvious, isn’t it Ni
ck? Perhaps you can help me to come up with something better when we get back on board?’

  His natural humility, which I noticed again and again, surely comes from the confidence of having nothing to prove. David is quite simply the best at what he does and is a constant inspiration to those who work alongside him. The sailors thought he was wonderful. Here was a national figure who enjoyed a joke at his own expense and was always keen to hear what others had to say. Only when strongly encouraged would he become ‘the star’ and then his fund of excellent stories seemed inexhaustible. He once told us about filming a snake on the side of the Mombasa to Nairobi road. He wanted the pictures to appear as if this was the desert. Meanwhile the sound man became increasingly frustrated each time a truck went past.

  Towards the end of this tortuous day a Cadillac full of ‘orange-haired American ladies on Safari’ stopped to enquire what was going on.

  ‘I am studying the artificial insemination of an elephant,’ he said.

  ‘How are you doing that?’

  ‘With this black thing I have in my hand [his elongated microphone] with a knob on the end.’

  After that, when he was going ashore, the sailors always asked him if he had his artificial inseminator with him.

  ‘Are you going to stuff it up the arse of a penguin?’ they asked.

  Another purpose of our visit was to investigate the political situation on Southern Thule. My exchanges with Whitehall and the Foreign Office made it clear that I was not to upset the diplomatic apple-cart by doing something as provocative as landing at the base the Argentines had subsequently created there. I did however win permission to overfly. Naturally this was purely on the basis of ‘vital scientific research’. David wanted to have a close look at some more penguins. By sheer coincidence of course the low-level flying that was required to monitor the colonies gave us the opportunity to tune into every frequency we could and to note the numbers of people on the base. We were not surprised to find they were Naval personnel. At that time there were around forty-five of them on the base which was being supplied by the Argentine ship Bahia Paraiso. These little bits of information were to prove invaluable when, 18 months later, I was to return in very different circumstances.

 

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