Forward into Hell
Page 2
I rejoined my own battalion, who were happily downing as much beer as they could. Then, having sunk a few myself, I made my way back to my cabin, to find Rawley already asleep. Once I was in bed, the new surroundings didn’t bother me, nor did Rawley’s snoring. The first day of the campaign slipped away as our ship drew nearer to the war zone.
2
EVERYBODY LOVES A SOLDIER
Saturday, 10 April. I awoke and quickly dressed. Rawley gaped through the porthole at a mass of sea, with us in the middle of nowhere. The ship’s movement was barely noticeable as we clambered to the galley for breakfast.
Soon after breakfast, the platoon gathered in Tommo and Johnny’s cabin for the first of many hundreds of briefings. GD was OK in camp, but out of it he was a bloody pain. Not one member of the platoon liked his attitude. He was our SNCO and we all had to know it every day. I don’t mean that I hated or even disliked him, but he just didn’t give us the freedom that the other platoons were allowed at times.
The routine on ship was to be something the Paras had never encountered before. Suddenly we had to know the meaning of every word the Navy uses. For example, ‘heads’ meant the toilet, ‘port’ was left, ‘starboard’ right, ‘galley’ the cookhouse. A list of these equivalents was pinned on the Support Company noticeboard, which was on D Deck. It was soon covered in graffiti correcting it to our standard. For example, the heads were to remain ‘The shithouse, OK?’ The amended list disappeared from the board within hours.
Often a naval officer would come around on inspection, or rounds as they called it, and ask a Para, ‘Ah, good. Can you tell me what “the bow” means, please?’
The answer was always, ‘The arse, sir.’
This never failed to turn the officer’s face a glowing red.
We all had a daily training programme to complete, and it was in many cases very much needed. We revised all military subjects that would be required for the terrain we would be living in. The intelligence and information being gathered by the superiors of the brigade were constantly brought round to us during the teaching.
The first subject we had to cover in depth was fitness. Secretly, we were not keen on this. We all felt that we were fit enough already. We were wrong, as usual. The whole company pounded the deck, and by the time the first week was over we would be doing twenty-four circuits in one session – about ten kilometres in all. We built up to ‘tabbing’ around the deck with full kit, often doing more than fifteen kilometres. This was funny when the sea was rough, because as we ran around in company formation the whole column would suddenly sway to one side with the ship. Sometimes, in rough weather, the PT instructors would stand debating whether or not a fitness run should take place. If it did, we ended up running in a snake motion. However, it was calm most of the time and before long we had got up a good pace.
As the early days of April slid by, we crossed the Bay of Biscay. The news was that the politicians were at a stalemate. On board we would often say, ‘Fuck the bloody twats sat there arguing. Let’s get it over and done with.’
The general attitude of the troops was: ‘Support the actions. We love Maggie for giving us the chance to kill some Argies. Just let’s hope we get back in time for the World Cup and summer leave.’
The SS Elk was now a supportive friend to the Canberra, following us en route. As she was our ammo ship, full to the brim with all types of stores, her presence was a constant reminder to us that war was imminent.
I wrote home to Karon and my parents almost daily. The incoming mail routine had been quickly organised, but for many lads it was a morale-breaker. You would often see someone standing in the corridors moaning that he’d had a ‘Dear John’, or some other bad news. For the majority of us, though, the mail was just the boost we needed.
At home, the massive support had produced in hundreds of females a sudden liking for both the Army and Navy, and they all wanted penfriends. This amused us very much. The daily sackfuls of letters were dumped in our rooms and we picked out the ones we fancied. The whole platoon would gather in one room, grab armfuls of letters and retreat to our cabins. There we would first feel an envelope to see if there was a photo in it, then gather around the growing pile of snaps and pick the best lookers. Some of the lads, even myself, found some right beauties, though writing back to hundreds of women was out of the question. But I did write to a lady from Winchester who was very nice and after the war I visited her on a few occasions and we became friends. She had four kids and was very polite in every sense.
Naturally, not all the photos were of beauties, and the platoons took to keeping personal ‘grot boards’. You could visit another platoon to view their board for the ‘Ugly Pig Contest’. Some of the pictures that found their way on to the boards made you wonder if England had anything worthy of Miss World.
You would hear a scream of delight when someone found a ‘grot’ photo, and this would bring the rest of the platoon crashing into the cabin to look, making comments like, ‘Fuck me; who’d love that beast?’ or ‘Pig in knickers!’
The photos would then be proudly stuck to the board, which was the nearest that girl would get to our hearts. We did, though, all pick penfriends to write to.
On Tuesday, 13 April, we sighted a Russian spy ship following us. The order came down that no one was to throw rubbish overboard as the Russians were picking up every bit for their intelligence. This brought me and Johnny to the bow the next day, where we secretly threw overboard a bagful of ‘grot’ photos. I said to Johnny, ‘They’ll look at those girls and forget about invading England forever.’
That same day, we started the many emergency lifeboat drills. The whole brigade were allotted places to assemble in the event of the ship going down. These drills always caused moans and groans from all the troops. The overcrowding on and around the lifeboats made the sinking of the Titanic look like a TV cartoon. You would hear some officer shout, ‘Come on, lads, get in line. Play the game.’
Someone would crack back, ‘Fuck off, Wodney, go play your game in the mess.’ Or a lad, impersonating the voice of an officer, would shout, ‘I didn’t see the iceberg, sir!’
The best crack shouted was a very good take-off of Surgeon Commander Rick Jolly. He would give an almost daily spiel over the intercom about one thing or another. We all believed it was so that he could hear his own voice. Up on deck one night at about midnight, someone imitating the Surgeon Commander’s voice shouted, ‘I say, there seems to be too many people crowding on the port side for lifeboats. Could you please move around to the starboard side now?’
Everyone looked at each other then turned in all directions, milling about. This in turn caused the officers on deck concern about the shifting weight and they shouted frantically for everyone to stand still. The troops shouted all sorts of things back at them, under cover of the dark night. About three-quarters of an hour later, the officers were still shouting for the culprit to own up. We nearly killed ourselves laughing at the senior ranks trying to look super-efficient.
Wednesday, 14 April. By now, we were running about fifteen times around the deck per session. The days were warmer, and we began to feel it. After our run, we would go straight up to the heli pad at the top of the ship and do body exercises for another hour. We exercised with logs, or performed sit-ups, press-ups and so on. We had only been at sea a few days, but it was all getting very boring. All the talk was: ‘Are we or aren’t we?’
However, Al Haig had finished his talks with the PM on that day, and the BBC World Service, which was fast becoming our only source of information, gave out the news that more Jump Harriers would be joining the task force. This was enough to make most of us realise that ‘Our Maggie’ wasn’t going to fuck about.
As we passed the Canary Islands that day, we fired our personal weapons from the rear of the ship. The GPMGs were fired two at a time, each having roughly one hundred rounds through the barrel, so that we could balance them.
As on most evenings, I trooped off with Paul Reid a
nd Steve Wake, both very good friends, to the early showing of the film in the cinema. Paul was a constant mate from our days in Germany and has remained one of my best friends.
Thursday, 15 April. After our morning run, we had our first Intelligence brief, which was attended by the whole company. A Marine officer stood up front explaining the ground and weather conditions on the Falklands. He started with a formal ‘Hello, chaps. This will only take a small minute of your time’, before rambling on and on. The only real benefit we received from the lecture, as one corporal pointed out loudly when we were leaving, was that we now knew we would be cold, so we had to pack an extra pair of gloves. The general attitude among the junior ranks was: ‘Get the fucking senior ranks off our backs and stop the bloody officers all trying to be boss.’
The amount of rules and fart-arsing-about the lads had to deal with was bad enough for me to mention it in my diary.
That night the cinema showed The Enemy Below, an old submarine war film, which dragged out all sorts of cracks about Navy procedure. As the first reel finished, a lad shouted, ‘Now watch how they run like fuck to the lifeboats, lads, and notice Wodney shouting, “Walk or you’ll be on a charge!” ’ He was taking the piss, as everywhere you went on board there was some officer lurking in a corner, looking for a promotion for catching someone running.
After the film was over, the bar was packed as usual, with the battalion supposedly drinking no more than their two to three cans nightly allowance. In fact, the lads drank the bar dry within days and a special load had to be brought on to keep them happy.
Friday, 16 April. Our company had a swimming test. The tiny pool on deck barely held six people, but fifteen men crammed in, doggy-paddling. The test was really just a time-killer and the pool was so shallow that most of the lads were standing on the bottom, moving their arms to show the instructor that we were trying. The atmosphere was relaxed and no one was whinging about the possibility of going to war. Everyone just accepted that there were actions we had to follow.
Al Haig had arrived in Argentina for final talks with the idiots in charge there. In the bar that night, we were all on the same wavelength, thinking, Fuck the talks. Hope he fails. Let’s go down there and sort it out.
Many of us, including me, missed home. When you suddenly find yourself in a position that may either eventually bring you home, or keep you away forever, you think all sorts of things. ‘If onlys’ are the big ones, but isn’t life like that anyway? Writing home was for me a form of relaxation and a way of getting things off my chest.
That night, Tommo and Johnny came into our cabin, armed with two bottles of whisky. This was banned at our level, but many a Navy lad was selling bottles to a few of our boys in the know. Sitting around on the floor, we decided to play Yahtzee with the poker dice and get drunk. I had smuggled a few cans of beer from the guarded bar and the whisky became our chaser. The four of us got blasted to the point of vomiting. Next morning, my hangover was well worth it. GD was moaning like fuck: ‘If I catch drink down here, someone will be on a charge,’ and so on.
As Johnny said, ‘Trouble with him is he doesn’t know anyone to drink with in his mess.’
The following morning brought us into Freetown, Sierra Leone, West Africa. It was now Saturday, 17 April. The weather was hot and humid. We had some short but boring military lessons that morning, but, because we were now anchored up and looking at land, we could find distraction in the view for once.
As I stood with some thousand-odd troops, an English family came eagerly up to the pier, to wave a Union Jack for us. They had good intentions, but the patriotic feelings they had must have flown straight out of the window as soon as they got within earshot of us. They had not taken into consideration the average squaddy’s humour. The flag and their good wishes were the last things we were interested in, once we spotted the daughter. She was dressed in a flimsy dress and her large breasts were more than noticeable. From us, looking down her cleavage, the general scream was ‘Get yer tits out, love,’ or ‘Sit on my face, while I wave a different flag for yer.’
The whole family was there, little brother and all. They looked up at the troops gazing down at the main attraction. They tried to smile and pretend that they hadn’t heard us, but you can’t ignore hundreds of sex-starved men, shouting for nookie. After taking a spell of verbal abuse for the daughter, they slowly walked off, perhaps never to feel so patriotic again.
Out from the shoreline came some natives, paddling like mad in their canoes, which were full of African goodies. About six canoes came to meet the troops; we called them ‘bum boats’. As they stopped by the Great White Whale, the black guys looked and shouted, ‘You good men want a spear or arrow?’
One lad from the Anti-Tank Platoon shouted back, ‘Black bastard, we give seven point sixty-two up arse if no go away.’
This brought laughter from the troops on every deck. The black men in the bum boats laughed with us, oblivious to the insult. One of them shouted back, ‘Anything plastic do good for me.’
A couple of lads below threw two containers at them for good terms. They became very excited at the – to us – useless gift. A Navy lad standing next to us said, ‘It’s like this every time we dock at places like this. They’re so poor. The containers serve as water containers for the tribes inland.’
But the sick humour now led to coin-throwing. It began with a ‘fuck off’ gift, but they dived into the sea to fetch and retrieve the coins. It was amazing to see the clear outline of their bodies under water as they dived to the bottom. This game lasted for perhaps an hour, but we soon got bored because no matter how many coins you threw at them they retrieved them.
The intercom announced that anyone dealing with the bum boats would be charged, as they carried a high risk of malaria and other diseases. It was at this point that some lads below turned the fire hoses on the natives, which had a very good effect on them. The water was powerful and easily reached the boats bobbing beneath us. Crashing into the boats, it soon began to fill them. The locals frantically tried to paddle away from us, but the hoses followed them. Two boats sank to their rims, sending us into fits of laughter. The group in another boat tried to paddle their half-filled and sinking vessel. The blacks were now angry and shouting, ‘You bad white men, you bloody bastards.’
As they struggled in the water with all their worldly goods, a lad from the deck below us shouted, ‘We remember your sneaky attack on Rourke’s Drift. Now swallow that.’
The morning activities over, Johnny and I joined the huge daily queue for scoff. It always reached up two flights of stairs, along two corridors and ended in a small hallway. This occurred on both port and starboard of the ship, so that there were perhaps two to three hundred people queuing at all times. Many lads took to reading books in the long-drawn-out hour it took to get to the hotplate. However, the food was reasonable and not many complained. We would only baulk at the thought of the officers getting waited on, while sitting at their own tables: ‘One law for the rich and another for the poor.’
After dinner, the heat became so intense that we sweated without even moving. Yet this didn’t stop the forty-five minutes of running around the deck. The run, in shorts and trainers, was enjoyable, but you felt completely drained afterwards.
That evening was excellent. The run and the sweat made the bar the prime target for everyone and it was soon packed to the limits. The Marines had a jazz band that came in to entertain us. At first the lads said, ‘Fuck the Marines’ band, we don’t need them,’ as if they were alien beings, but the short-lived burst of hatred disappeared after the band played one hit. They gave it max for us and the fun turned into the normal inter platoon singsong competition, each platoon having to do a stint. The music was readily supplied by the band.
As the night ended and I slipped between the sheets, the great ship lifted her anchorage from Freetown. By first light in the morning, we would be looking at nothing but sea again.
3
TALK ABOUT WAR
Our lectures were in the early afternoon now. The most memorable was by some very keen Marines who had been serving in the Falklands at the time of the invasion. Obviously, listening to first-hand experience was better than listening to some officer lecturing us on his personal beliefs all the time. However, an Intelligence officer from ‘way up top’ gave a graphic account of what the Argies were up to at that time. The intelligence constantly coming in was essential to all levels. What I remember most about this lecture-cum-brief was the officer standing proudly in front of us, saying, ‘The Argentine Army is the best and strongest in South America.’
He told us, ‘You will be in for a big scrap if it comes to war, gents, have no qualms about it. At the last recorded reports, the Argies have about nine thousand men in fortified positions around Stanley, the capital. But we also have good reports that they are underfed, morale is low and they have taken to eating horses and sheep et cetera, which they have been stealing from the inhabitants. This tells us that they are very undisciplined and goes to show that conscription is going to be their mistake.’
My immediate feelings were: ‘Nine thousand fucking men, and we have only two or three thousand. What the fuck is the big brass up to?’
Al Haig extended his talks, which pissed off a lot of the guys, because the feeling was, if he succeeded, then all this bullshit was chess.