Forward into Hell

by Vince Bramley

  The nerves and excitement I was experiencing at the thought of perhaps having to fire my weapon in anger for the first time slowly disappeared as the time ticked away. One and a half hours of lying in the cold with the wind shooting through us was all the action we had that night.

  Much to our relief, a whisper reached our ears that there would be new orders, as the Argies had left, withdrawing elsewhere. D Company, who had been operating in the settlement, had marched in before us, just ‘knocking on the door’. The settlement had had its Landrovers stolen by the Argies holding guard over the place only hours before we arrived. Our lead troops were brought into a house and given a cuppa and an update on the Argies, who had apparently come and gone as they pleased, stealing whatever food and goods they wanted. The civvies were very happy to see us, at first.

  At ease, we moved into the settlement. My only thought now was to settle down and get some sleep. The battalion came streaming into the settlement from all directions. Some of the lads accompanying officers were lucky enough to be bedded down inside some of the houses. Steve and myself sat in what seemed to be a garden. Jimmy Morham found us to say that he and some of Support Company had found a shed unoccupied and would we like to join him. So our first night at Teal Inlet was spent crammed in a small sheep shed with members of our own company. We talked briefly among ourselves to sort out who was on guard. Sleep came within seconds. I slept in my Arctic clothing with the now cherished black poly bag wrapped around my feet.

  With first light came the smell of hexie burners, as morning cuppas were brewed around the small shed. The welcome smell and smiling faces made the fifty-eightkilometre march seem almost worth it. Light beamed in through the cracks in the shed, allowing us to see clearly not only each other but also the sheep shit which we had been lying in all night. We were caked in it. As we opened the door to leave, our smell turned a few heads. We moved out to find where our positions would be. Once the shit dried, it brushed off and added to the camouflage provided by our dirty uniforms.

  Steve and I found B Company’s position. The company was busy reorganising itself into a defensive position to one side of the inlet. Our gun and Skiddy’s were placed overlooking the two tracks most likely to be a threat. As we positioned the guns, the first of many orders hit us.

  ‘A full slit trench will be dug, stag systems doubled, rations and water delivered within the first few hours.’

  Much of everything that happened around us was fully expected, now that we were halfway to Stanley. The Falklands were half ours. Choppers came in, hugging the terrain, sweeping in to dump their underslung loads of military equipment within seconds, then zooming off for more. The blast from the whirling of their blades chilled our faces, as we helped to centralise the bergens and kit.

  Having sited our trench positions, Steve and I started to dig in. After the long march to Teal the feet of all the lads were playing up badly. As I had a toenail missing and only a plaster covering it, the pain shot through me as I trod on my shovel. Steve looked at me with a grin and said, ‘This is going to be fun.’

  The digging was very slow. The ground wasn’t very hard, but the injuries to our feet slowed us. The agony of digging forced us to break off frequently. However, we had our bergens and tripods with us now and the thought of crawling into our sleeping bags as a reward for finishing our trench pushed us on.

  Johnny and Tommo came over for tea and chatted about the goings-on. We found out that some of the platoon had dropped out on the march. More importantly, though, Mick Coleman, one of our gunners, had just been shot in the leg – not by the enemy but by a knob in A Company. Weapons training seemed to have been the guy’s weak spot. He had left the mag on when cleaning his SMG and the weapon had fired a short burst into our lads. Mick was the only one that got hit. We were bloody fuming, since he was much liked in the platoon. Losing him to a stupid ND was not the best news of the day, though more bad news was to come.

  The CO and his band of followers inspected the lines later that morning. We thought they might instruct us to move our trench or something – the usual thing – but we were still thinking as though we were on an exercise. The CO looked grim as he approached the six of us taking a tea-break.

  ‘Listen in, lads,’ said the RSM.

  We looked at him, wondering what was coming.

  ‘During the march, 2 Para attacked Goose Green and Darwin settlements. After a long battle, the regiment liberated the settlement, with the loss of eighteen lives, including their CO, Colonel H Jones. Many have been wounded and a casualty list is being drawn up. They captured hundreds of Argies. The war is now a different concept, for the enemy are believed to have shot down members of 2 Para showing a white flag. More information will be given once known.’

  The CO half-smiled and proceeded to the next line of partly dug trenches.

  Skiddy, Kev, John and I looked at each other with open mouths. The thought of eighteen members of 2 Para dead outweighed the victory for us. I, for one, couldn’t have given a shit about Goose Green or anywhere else on the island at that time. It was the thought of losing our mates in the sister battalion that worried me. My mind flashed back to the Queen’s, the pub in Aldershot where we all used to meet up for a session on the beer. Divvy Richards, Russell (wounded), Billy Baker, Paddy Sullivan, Tam (killed), Big Jack Rapier, Paul Dale, Quincy, Geordie – the list of my closest mates in that battalion could go on and on. It was their lives I was worried about now. With hindsight, we can see that in military terms it was a typical shock battle, with all the characteristics of the Parachute Regiment – swift and hard.

  We hobbled back to finish our trenches. The small gathering of Paras that had grouped around the CO were all lost in their own thoughts.

  By mid-afternoon, our water began to run low. Steve was happy to carry on digging the trench while I trotted off to a nearby house for water. I knocked at the door and a woman, the first I’d seen in a friendly context for weeks, looked down to see me clutching six empty water bottles. I must have looked like a beggar. She smiled and beckoned me in.

  ‘Where you from, then?’ she asked, as if I was a lost child.

  ‘Aldershot, love,’ I replied.

  ‘I know you’re from Aldershot, you all come from there.’

  This wasn’t the first or the last time I’ve had to explain to someone that I actually did live in and come from the garrison town of Aldershot. People could never work out why I wanted to join the Army, coming from the same environment as my work. The woman giggled once she grasped the thought that these things did happen. In 3 Para alone, at that time, some fifteen lads came from or near Aldershot.

  I filled my water bottles and was ready to go. I felt like an alien and that I shouldn’t abuse the woman’s hospitality any longer. There was a knock at the door and four to five other lads appeared for the same reason as me. We were now all crammed in her kitchen and she made her way to the stove to make us all giant cups of coffee. She was totally friendly and warm towards us. That coffee was the best I’ve ever tasted. I sipped it slowly, not wanting it to be finished.

  Meeting the woman sparked a new feeling inside me. Then and only then, as I drank her coffee, did I begin to believe, as well as think, that the war was right. Strange that I should remember an incident like that. If I ever meet that lady again, I wonder if I could tell her that those fifteen minutes in her house helped me through the war.

  When I got back, Steve was finishing the trench and looking pissed off. I thought it was because I’d been away too long and felt guilty, but this idea was short-lived.

  ‘While you were away, Vince, we caught Chaderton hiding behind a bush eating a bloody big pile of jam sandwiches that he’d been told to share out among our lads. He’d eaten the lot, Vince.’

  ‘Bread, Jesus, bread – and that bastard’s eaten our rations?’ I screamed.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied.

  Johnny came over, as I was contemplating ways to kill Chaderton.

  ‘Sorry, Vince, you
’ve heard,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, and it’s the last he’ll eat after I’ve smashed his teeth in.’

  ‘He’s been dealt with. Leave it for now.’

  Johnny walked away. His only task had been to come and cool my temper.

  Within our platoon, we never forgave Chad’s selfish act. What his eating those sandwiches meant for all of us is talked about to this day.

  With the trench finished and the stag system sorted out, we settled down as the night crept in. Huddled in the trench, Steve and I made the biggest compo scoff we could muster together with our rations. As we swallowed the last dregs of a hot cuppa, we both smiled with contentment. The warmth of the trench made us doze, but our feet needed sorting out before we turned in. Fresh socks in my hands, I looked at my shrivelled, blue and bruised feet. The wet boots and socks had taken their toll of blisters. One blister was the size of my palm. There were six in all to complement my missing big toenail. Some people may think I moan too much, but at the time I complained only to my trench mate, who in turn moaned about his aches and pains.

  The condition of our feet was becoming a major problem for the battalion. An old complaint suffered by troops during many wars was afflicting us in a modern war: trench foot. Our boots, badly and cheaply made, coupled with our old-fashioned socks with puttees, caused this condition. It was characterised by a dull, thumping ache all over the foot, with blueness at the edges. Some say it is similar to frostbite, which some lads also got. The constant wet and cold would make the problem even worse before the war ended.

  I wrapped and dried my feet as best I could and put my boots back on. We all slipped into our sleeping bags and our exhaustion put us to sleep before we knew it.

  9

  SORE FEET

  ‘Corporal B, Corporal B,’ a voice whispered into the trench.

  Steve and I came round together. I looked up to see 4 Platoon’s officer looking down at me.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.

  ‘Vince, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Being asked your first name wasn’t unusual between officers and men in the field.

  ‘Sorry, old boy, bad news for you.’

  In my half-sleep, I couldn’t think of anything worse than being woken up.

  ‘Orders from the boss. We’re pulling out at first light and marching to Estancia,’ he said.

  ‘Estancia? Where the fuck’s that?’ I asked.

  It was another thirty to fifty kilometres away, towards Stanley, we learned. Steve and I looked at each other, as we sat in the bottom of our trench, too numb to speak. I broke the silence first. ‘This is getting fucking stupid, Steve. March here, dig there. We’re dropping down like flies and now more. Do-or-die marching without resting.’

  Steve laughed at my moaning, his teeth shining in the dark.

  ‘What are you so happy about?’ I said.

  ‘Just the thought of more pain for the cause.’

  Pain – Jesus, was he right. My feet would die before me, I thought.

  As I drifted back to sleep, I thought of my old corporal, who trained me: Corporal Derring. We hated him for his hard methods. He used to say, ‘Pain doesn’t matter, the mind does the work.’

  He was right, so right. His voice was screaming in my ears now, four years later. It was going to be mind over matter. There is wisdom in the Paras’ training methods. I thought briefly of my parents, who over the years had had a rough time with my slobbish attitude. I had been in and out of all sorts of trouble before joining the Army. I said to myself that, if I died with a bullet in the head, at least it would be better than worrying them into an early grave with my attitude, but to drop out now and be branded a wanker would be unbearable. I owed a lot to everyone – my old NCO, my parents and, above all, to the lads around me. A Para team cannot work without everyone giving their best. It’s the lads you fight and work for; you come second. A fresh outlook in the next stage helped me push myself that little bit more.

  The morning was freezing, with snow lightly covering the ground. Winter in May. The bad weather was coming in fast. Tactically, we had to get in sooner rather than later. With our kit packed, webbing on and bergens stacked and centralized for delivery, we sorted ourselves into marching order. Standing to one side of us was a civvie, ranting and raving at one of our SNCOs about the condition of his garden, now that trenches had replaced the neat lawn.

  ‘Sir, the Cabbageheads will fill them and will be staying to occupy them. Please calm down.’

  The man wouldn’t listen, complaining and threatening was his last wish, so he was punched square in the face and sent flying backwards on to his arse. Some of the lads who were finishing off brews spat out their tea, laughing.

  ‘Get on with your work,’ screamed the SNCO. We all looked away. The SNCO was much admired in the regiment. We began to think what it was all about. Just that one civvie made the morale bad. Perhaps he was a member of the infamous Falkland Islands Corporation.

  The order came to get ready to move out. We put on our damp webbing and grouped up ready, with weapons in hand. The Marines were just staggering into the settlement, hours behind their schedule, looking worn out and still carrying full kit. We were now a full twenty-four hours ahead of them. We moved around the settlement and passed, lying on the ground, a spreadeagled Argie who had been caught by D Company. I looked at him with interest; he was my first sight of the enemy. He was like any of us – only his uniform was different.

  The March was slow and laborious. The pain in my feet returned with every step. For the next few kilometres, we went up and down small hills, and the settlement quickly disappeared behind us.

  Jimmy Morham walked behind me, whispering about the amount of kit Steve and I were carrying. He was pushing his lads to keep up. I couldn’t help noticing how much thinner his face had become. Did we all look like that now?

  A Scorpion tank, on tracks, came past us. The commander was looking out for anyone struggling hard. He pointed to me and shouted, ‘Jump on.’ I grabbed the GPMG from Steve. A ride up the coming big hill was an offer I couldn’t refuse. Steve shouted to me that I was a ‘slimy bastard’, so I grabbed him and pulled him with me. The ride was bouncy and we struggled to hold on to the vehicle. The long line of our troops going up and down the hills spread out for a couple of kilometres.

  About half an hour later, we stopped. Wishing to stay on board but knowing it was the turn of others, the five or six of us on the tank jumped off without having to be told. Others clambered on, thanking God for this luxury. How we all wished that we had had the choppers.

  We came to a small wooden bridge where the lads were stopping for a tea-break. Rumours that we would be staying there for the night proved false. Orders for a night march hit our ears within minutes of stopping. However, the lie-up in that spot was to be two to three hours. We would wait until dark before we moved on.

  Ian McKay stood laughing with his platoon. We sat down with them and brewed up. Suddenly, a small fire broke out, caused by someone’s hexie stove igniting the grass. We all just sat there, looking at it. Ian grinned, but ordered it extinguished.

  ‘The fucking Argies will think we’re sending an Indian smoke signal, you twats. Get it out,’ he shouted.

  We all laughed.

  Sheltered from the wind, Steve and I lay in the sun. It felt warm for early winter. Half-dozing, we all lay there, waiting for last light. We didn’t know it at the time, but we had just crossed over the Malo Hills. To our right, the SBS had taken out a small group of Argies hiding in a house.

  At last light, we stood up, glad of the rest we had had from the day’s marching. We joined the long line of 3 Para marching towards the mountain ranges that were beginning to appear in front of us. I wondered how much further we would march before we had to fight.

  Our few hours’ break had restored us somewhat, but the next few hours were designed to undo all that. The pace was hard, very hard, compared with the past stretch. Closing up was automatic on a n
ight march, but gaps still appeared. Some senior members of the battalion told those leading to slow up for the weaker ones, but to no avail. We went on like this for hours. The sweat poured off me, and my feet had ceased to exist, so that I stumbled, hobbled, trotted. Whatever I could do to keep up, I did.

  We came to a halt at around midnight. We’d been tabbing for six hours. Apart from the two hours’ break before last light, we had been continuously tabbing. We flopped to the ground. I was totally exhausted by now and prayed that the brass would lie up for the rest of the night. My prayers were granted. Orders swiftly came back along the line of the battalion to ‘bash up’ for the night, with follow-up orders that we would not be marching until first thing in the morning. We looked at each other, wondering why.

  We got up and moved into some sort of defensive position. Kev Connery, John and Skiddy were to our right, Johnny Cook was just south of us. He came over to explain that we would be staying put for half the next day. An officer from battalion HQ gathered a few of us around him.

  ‘We are now within the enemy’s artillery range. The CO has ordered that we will dig shell scraps for protection. No movement, like walking around et cetera, until ordered tomorrow. Mount Kent is just to our front, which the SAS will deal with later.’

  They did, with a back-up from 42 Commando. Hardly any Argies were there, as they had been airlifted out to help at Goose Green.

  Skip and Tommo were laid up with us in our little area. I heard Skip mumbling in the dark about having to dig in.

  ‘Skip, is that you?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yeah, come over.’

  I found him knee-deep in a peat shell scrap, finishing off this improvised sleeping position.

  ‘Tommo’s over there somewhere, playing boss.’ He commented that the rest of our guys who had dropped out of the tab were not happy with all the kit we’d had to lug. ‘Portable donkeys, are we?’

  ‘You’re telling me. I’m fucked. If I hadn’t had Ratchy with me, I’d be dead somewhere out there. Ratch has been brilliant. Guts or what?’