On 10 June, we had orders that something was going down soon. We stripped our weapons thoroughly, and oiled and greased them. The PC issued fifty rounds per gun for SF balancing. We needed to have our barrels working without gas stoppages. Bob Geddis immediately balanced his gun by firing across the water inlet into the sea. Tony Jones was just setting his up when the QM came screaming over and ordered us not to waste ammo. We pointed out that the guns needed balancing, but as it turned out there was a major fuck-up with all the guns in the battle: only two out of six worked. Fifty rounds through each might have saved lives and would at least have provided better firepower for the battalion.
Late that day, the PC came round with new formations for the coming battle. Support Company would now be a fire-based team, one SF gun working alongside a Milan team from the Anti-Tanks. These guided missiles would be used as anti-personnel weapons. I was to take charge of Bob Geddis’s gun with Sas, our worst soldier. Ratch went off with Johnny. I was happy with Bob, but I argued about the change, as I always contested orders that seemed to me to be backward. I pointed out that Ratch and I had gone so far together that we wanted to go the rest. In the end, though, the whole platoon was swapped around. Why?
My new gun team teamed up with Ginge McCarthy, Pete Hedicker and little Phillip West. We sat together and worked out our routine and methods for the battle procedures to come. We were told that the Wombat side of the Anti-Tanks Platoon, Skiddy, Kev and Johnny Crow, would help fill in the gaps in the rifle companies. Rations were given out, and Tom Smith, the Daily Express photographer, was still trying to swap sweets for other items of food.
That night, we lay there knowing this was perhaps to be the last night under the basher. We lay thinking and wondering.
At first light, we saw the CO and the OC in deep conversation, down by the company HQ, pointing at the model of Longdon, which had now been uncovered. It was shaped like the mountain itself. A gut feeling told me we were on our way. Breakfast over, we chatted and made brews. Still nothing happened. The only distraction we had was the sight of a lad walking back towards our lines covered in human shit. He had sat on a plank over the pit that had given way and he had fallen in. The sight of some officer holding his nose and telling the lad to clean up was too much for us. We laughed as the poor lad tried to get replacement kit for the afternoon.
The PC came down to us and we gathered round him eagerly. He stood, faintly grinning at us.
‘Spit it out, sir,’ said Johnny Cook.
‘Orders in half an hour. Tonight, lads. Green light. See you by the model in half an hour.’
11
‘GENTS, THIS IS IT’
The following account is based on my own experiences during the battle for Mount Longdon. To the best of my knowledge, everything I have said is true. It is not my objective to trumpet any military achievements, or to stand in judgement on the rights and wrongs of actions carried out in battle. This is now history and can never be changed. My aim is to try to express my feelings, and those of some of my friends, as we experienced those critical moments of life and death.
I am no great military commander or leader. I was just an ordinary soldier from the ranks. In battle, I found that I had forgotten many basic things: home, our cause, even my own being. What became paramount was survival – nothing else.
When we read a good story, we tend to imagine ourselves as the hero or heroine. We say to ourselves that he should do this or that, believing that we could play the part better. I am not suggesting that, in order to understand what follows, the reader should dig himself a hole in the garden in mid-winter. But, while curled in his armchair by the fire, secure, perhaps he might remember a time when he was cold, wet, hungry and near to exhaustion. Only then will he come close to the full reality of what we experienced.
Standing around the model of our objective, the members of the newly formed fire-based team waited for the last Intelligence reports to flesh out the OC’s orders. The morning was cold and lightly frosted, and the ground was starting to warm under our boots, which trampled the allocated spots as we awaited orders.
Now, after eleven days, it would seem that the green light had been given for the attack. Major Dennison approached the model and the fifty men awaiting him. His confident smile and his humour had been a constant morale-booster to his company. There before him and us lay the large model: the earth moulded to show every nook and cranny of the terrain; small, but prominent, white markers showing the positions of the Argentine bunkers; small twigs marking their machine-gun positions; white mining tape indicating possible mine-fields. Silence surrounded the area as the boss came to a halt by the model.
‘Gents, this is it.’ His smile signalled relief, encouraging thoughts of a quick victory and home.
Using a long stick to point out the positions, he started to deliver the orders.
‘Here is our base line, gents. We will be giving support fire for B Company throughout the battle. They are the first line for the assault.’
Looking at the model, his stick going from position to position, he explained the layout of the CO’s orders, which he had broken down for this company to understand. B Company would be assaulting first, hoping to capture the heights with a silent approach to their objective. C Company was to be held in reserve, then moved forward through the battalion to capture Wireless Ridge, the second phase possible only if the first had been successful. A Company would assault from a given flank once the heights had been secured.
The delivering of orders lasted for some time and it was not until the OC was happy that he had given a full explanation that he threw open the floor to questions.
‘What’s going to happen if we fail to take the heights?’
The group turned and looked at the sergeant who had broken the ice with the first of many ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’.
‘Failure isn’t in my vocabulary, Sergeant,’ said the boss, smiling.
Everyone felt his confidence, as if we were all one. Many questions later, all answered with serious humour, he recapped the orders.
‘Remember, they have the edge. Their bunkers are well prepared. Morale is low, but equipment they do have. All I will say now, in closing, is “prisoners’‘.’
Everyone looked at the Intelligence officer who stood close by.
‘Gents, as we are well aware, the Argentines demonstrated at Goose Green their total lack of regard for human life, in the gunning down of 2 Para while accepting their surrender. They cannot be trusted, so, as far as our objective is concerned, it may be in your interests not to think about chatting to these fellas until later. Get my drift?’
No one said anything; it was more than obvious that the enemy were in for the kill too. We had talked between ourselves about the white flag issue long before these orders. No one was keen to accept the enemy’s word any more.
‘Well, gents, scoff up and get ready. Move out at 1400 hours. Good luck.’
I was deep in thought. His ‘good luck’ was something we would all need.
Sitting by our basher, we started to make the ‘last supper’, as Johnny put it. All the weapons were now well oiled and ready, ammunition squeezed into every spare hole on our webbing and bodies, water bottles filled. We ate and then finished packing our equipment tightly together.
Few spoke during those last hours of waiting. We were wrapped in our own thoughts. It was hard for me to think of anything but the coming night.
Tommo and Johnny came and sat beside my basher. This small damp corner surrounded by old oil drums had been my only refuge for the last eleven days. Sitting in a small circle, we talked of the battle facing us.
‘Well, I remember Dicky A telling me that the whole area was like an ants’ nest up there, though the orders seem as if there was nothing to worry about,’ I said.
‘You’re right, Vince,’ said Tommo, ‘but we have to trust the Intelligence and brass on this.’
Johnny passed the brew to me, smiling, and said, ‘Might be the last time trust c
omes into it now.’ He laughed. His humour always took over. He ended the conversation by swallowing the last of the tea and farting loudly.
The final hour passed quickly as we rechecked our equipment for the last time. Putting on my webbing and placing the bandoliers over my shoulder, I became aware of the incredible weight of the kit. The webbing, although tight and secure around my waist, made me feel like a deep-sea diver as I walked towards the landing zone to await the chopper. Chatting in small groups, we stood waiting for the first load to be taken to the top of Mount Estancia.
Tom Smith, from the Express, stood by with his camera.
‘Don’t forget to get me on the run to the chopper,’ I remarked.
‘You owe me a brew,’ came his reply.
Tom had been attached to 3 Para for some time. The lads had begun to relax with the press and he was accepted among us. His dislike of sweets had prompted the swapping of many compo pieces.
The Sea King came in low and fast towards the small inlet, hovering above it. The first group quickly formed and waited for the thumbs-up from the crewmen. Half-running, half-staggering, the eight to ten guys clambered on to the chopper and were gone within seconds of its arrival. The next group gathered while watching it fly to the mountaintop for the form-up. The chopper was gone only minutes before it returned to pick up our stick. The whirling blades produced an ice-cold blast against my face as the chopper landed. The thumbs-up was the signal for the heavily weighted-down troops to run forward and clamber on board.
On entering the craft, I was surprised to see the insides completely ripped out: there were no seats or safety harnesses. Ten guys squeezed into all the available corners. Sitting by the window near the door, I watched the ground and the remaining troops grow smaller. I was leaving behind me not just a small inlet called Estancia, but perhaps my last glimpse of life as I knew it.
The chopper hovered and landed in what seemed seconds, and the pilot thumped it on the ground without any hesitation or regard for the usual rules and regulations of the MOD. We spilled out on to the rough terrain and pulled our heads in to avoid the cold wind as the chopper zoomed away on its next task.
Moments later we all stood up to see other members of our battalion walking about, talking and pointing out the different tasks to be completed. Tommo and Johnny joined us in the last load from the chopper and, sitting on the side of the hill, or rather mountain, we chatted for what were to be the few remaining minutes of spare time.
Lieutenant Mike Oliver, our PC, came up to us. ‘Corporals Cook and Bramley, come with me.’
We followed him to the very edge of the hill, which meant skylining ourselves to the enemy, for they could see Mount Estancia and Mount Kent next to us, both now in our hands. We stopped behind him and wondered why he had brought us so close to the enemy’s eyes. Placing his binos in my hands, he smiled and said, ‘There you are: Stanley, our ultimate aim.’
Looking to where he pointed, I could see the small town about twenty kilometres away. Lying before this was our first objective, Mount Longdon, which began about twelve kilometres away.
At less than three hundred metres, starting from the side slope of Mount Estancia, lay one long area of what was, in fact, dead ground, which rolled into our objective where it rose up again to form Mount Longdon. Handing the binos to Johnny, I couldn’t help but remark, ‘Sir, we have Longdon to worry about first and, to tell you the truth, that does worry me.’
Johnny was busy looking through the binos, and joking that he hoped the pub wouldn’t close before we got there.
Lieutenant Oliver grinned at us. ‘No worry. As you know, I’m with you and we’re lucky in the fact that we’re giving support.’
Johnny said, ‘Well, support or not, I feel that Vince is right but I also say that I now need a shit.’
We looked at him and laughed. I looked at Lieutenant Oliver and confided, ‘See what I’ve got to put up with. You’ve only had us for four months. I’ve had this character round my neck for three years now.’
The binos were back in the PC’s hands now, as we watched Johnny trot off back to his kit to sort out the ‘tracing paper’ the MOD supplied as toilet paper.
Steve and Taff were sitting with Bob Geddis, making a brew. As we reached them, they looked up and asked, ‘What did he want to show you?’
‘Stanley and Longdon.’
‘Well, what’s it like?’ asked Steve.
‘From what I saw, it looked like a dump.’
‘Dump or not, it’s where we’re headed,’ remarked Bob.
Rick Westry clambered over to sit with us and share the remainder of the brew.
‘Well, how are we feeling?’ I asked.
‘Fucking stupid question,’ said Taff. ‘What do you think we feel like?,
His remark was said as if he was upset, which made us all look at him with wide eyes.
‘I personally feel that this is the right place to have my last wank because it’s turning me on, but because I know you’d all be watching I’ve given it a second thought.’
Throughout this time on the top, waiting, the constant humour never ceased to make me laugh. There we were, halfway round the world, about to embark on a life-ordeath crusade, with six hundred troops cracking sillies. It was almost certainly a way of masking fear, fear of death itself, or at least the unknown. When I look back now, I not only remember waiting with shattering fear, but also the humour that overcame it.
A small convoy of tractors and civvy Landrovers pulled up beside the main bulk of waiting troops. The Mortars Platoon unloaded its cargo of mortars and the Milans, the latter each costing about six thousand pounds. In the age of technology, these small sophisticated guided missiles were being dragged across the hillside strapped to wooden pallets.
As the unloading of this equipment took place, a light booming sound was heard from the direction of Stanley. No one took any notice of the continuing sound and carried on working. Some guys were chattering in little groups.
The first shell to reach us took us by surprise. The sudden rush and suction of air, and the distinct whistle, made the troops duck their heads as it crashed into the ground about a hundred metres away. More shells landed in roughly the same area, bringing an uneasy feel to the air around us.
The atmosphere changed in seconds. Had the Argentineans placed a spotter on us? No one knew, but the officers suddenly started to shout loud verbal commands for the troops to split up, to cease bunching. Within minutes of this sudden artillery attack, a whole new concept seized us: reality.
Sitting by Rick, I mentioned Johnny’s idea of a crap – it was now in my mind, too. I got up from the damp ground and strolled over to the other side of the hill, about fifty metres from the forming battalion. I found a small batch of rocks and, placing my weapon beside me, carried out the usual human function. Rick came up behind me and squatted a little way from me. While we were chatting, I suddenly noticed a guy in the valley below. There he was, walking along, seven hundred metres from us, as if he was out for a Sunday stroll. Rick shouted to him; both Rick and I were out of sight of our company. The guy stopped and looked up in our direction, where he must have seen us waving. He immediately waved both of his arms at us then carried on walking towards Stanley. To be sitting in this absurd position, first chatting while artillery shells landed the length of a football pitch away, and then waving and shouting to try to stop what looked like a Sunday walker in the valley, seemed too ridiculous for words.
When we got back to the platoon, Rick mentioned the solitary walker to the PC.
‘Oh, it’s probably the Argentines’ artillery spotter. If he’s going towards Stanley, there’s nothing to worry about, is there?’ He smiled and walked off.
Tommo and Johnny both looked at me and Rick and said, ‘Yeah, yeah, what next?’
The conversation was interrupted by the OC calling everyone in for a quick change of orders.
‘Well, gents, I’ll make this snappy, for those shells are near the mark. Firstly, our SAS
boys have reported from their little nest somewhere over this hill that Mount Longdon is experiencing a lot of activity at the moment. By this, I mean reinforcements. Last reports were about another company, strength one hundred and twenty, so, contrary to our estimated hundred and fifty men on there, we’d better think more along the lines of two to three hundred, OK?’
‘Yes, sir,’ we all murmured, as if this was quite a normal thing.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘No change of direct orders, plans the same. The CO feels very confident still. Right, go back to your positions until move-out time.’
Back in our little corner of sanctuary, we made our last brew. Steve Wake joined us and we swapped a few simple messages for home. It was becoming more and more nerve-racking, this time to ourselves. Steve chatted for some minutes before he was called away. As I sat on my webbing, the padre came over and stood there in his uniform, trying to be cheerful for us. The guys handed him their various messages for home. Johnny and I stood up to chat with him.
‘Sir, just a little favour,’ I said.
‘What’s that, Vince?’ he asked.
‘If the worst happens tonight, could you jack it up for me to be buried in Aldershot and not here?’ Grinning, I also said, ‘Could you ask Karon to put a bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey in the coffin with me?’
He gave me a stern look, which changed to one of agreement when he realised that I was serious. ‘Yes, no problem,’ he replied.
The padre, Derek Heather, had married me to Karon only six months before. He had married many of the lads in the battalion and I for one didn’t envy his task of having to be the bearer of bad news. Johnny chatted hurriedly with him and Tommo joined in. The time was nearing and the atmosphere was growing tight.
‘Mount up, mount up!’ shouted a sergeant from platoon HQ. Suddenly, my nerves became uncontrollable, my knees shaking as I stood and my stomach churning as it had never done before. Not even the feeling of my first parachute jump can compare with the nausea that surged through me. My mind was blank with fear and the prospect of death. Shaking, I put on my webbing and adjusted all my kit comfortably for the coming tab.
Forward into Hell Page 9