Forward into Hell

by Vince Bramley

  It was almost dark. Our silent approach, attack and tab were now in Stage One. The battalion set off from their places at their own speed; all would have to be in position by 1200 hours that night. H hour was 0030 hours.

  Lying before us was about twelve kilometres of ground and a river. The time was about 1700. This seems like plenty of time to reach the starting line of our attack. However, what must be taken into consideration is the nature of the ground and the amount of kit that we had to carry. My kit alone weighed about a hundred pounds, possibly more. Many lads in our group had to swap kit throughout the march – a machine-gun for a tripod, for example. Milans, being bulky and awkward, went from shoulder to shoulder. As the last daylight faded, I could see the thin line of troops disappearing into the darkness, struggling with their kit and the terrain, and there, in front of us, the lights of Stanley presented an eerie view. To see Stanley’s houses all aglow with cosy fires seemed an unnatural sight, almost make-believe.

  As I stepped off, three or four local civvies stood by their Landrovers and tractors, all wishing us luck. As Tommo reached them, one turned to us and said, ‘Makes me sick, all this waste. I tried to come with you, but your bosses wouldn’t let me. I really wanted to help you more.’

  I smiled, the whole group smiled. I looked at the man and said, ‘It’s not a waste, whatever happens tonight. Just remember you did help, OK?’

  ‘How?’ he asked.

  ‘Your tractors and Landrovers have been a lifesaver while we were tabbing this island. Now it’s our turn to do the rest.’

  Smiling, Johnny piped in, ‘Not only is my mate right, but with the mentality of some of our bosses you’d be better off watching the game from here.’

  This short and simple conversation was over in seconds and the civvies watched us disappear into the darkness.

  Within a thousand metres of setting off towards the objective, sweat was running down my forehead. Jesus, I wanted a rest. The weight of my webbing was cutting into my shoulders, the bandoliers cutting into my neck. By resting the SLR on my webbing, I could reach up and pull the straps from my neck to help relieve the agony they gave me.

  About three kilometres into the march, we stopped. I sat down quickly and swapped the bandolier straps over to my other shoulder, longing to rest for those vital five minutes we were given. But, within seconds, whispered orders to move passed along the line. Struggling to my feet, I hobbled under the weight and stumbled over the ground.

  Every kilometre seemed to grow longer, and nobody spoke now. The deadly silence hung over the advancing troops, each man wrapped in his own thoughts of the coming battle. Who would survive, who would die? In the silence, the occasional grunts of the lads cursing their load were very audible.

  My own thoughts of the weight I carried and the march were overcoming the fear. Again, the feeling of occupation, of doing something practical, wiped out the misery of standing around and waiting. Waiting, the soldier hates. Now we were on our way, the fear was there, though obscured by this quick, hard march.

  The second break in the march came after about seven kilometres. This time, like many others, I just fell to the cold, damp ground to capture those glorious moments of rest.

  Unbeknown to us, we had at this stage reached the river. It had been an earlier idea of the 9 Squadron boys to bring up some girders to lay across it, but they were forced to abandon this plan. Some of the forward recce lads from 9 Squadron and our D Company had tried, much to its credit, though unsuccessfully, to search for a shallow crossing. It wasn’t to be, and for us it wasn’t to be a dry night! Those fucking rivers – no other word can I find to describe them – meant wet feet and in our boots the wet mixed with the cold, letting us know that we were in for extra misery. (Strange, now, that I should remember the wet feet and a small river crossing.) The Murrell Bridge to our right lay some two kilometres away. We expected it to be mined.

  12

  EXCHANGE OF FIRE

  As I sat on the damp, semi-frozen ground, half-lying and half-propped up on my webbing, a moment of peace was shattered by the whistle of three or four artillery shells whizzing over my head. The explosions came from not too far behind where we had just advanced from. The artillery opened up behind us: British shells exchanged for Argentinean. Our barrage lasted for a couple of minutes, restoring an uneasy silence among us. One or two more enemy shells came back in our direction within minutes, the tit-for-tat seemingly picking up. There we sat in the middle, listening for what could be a deadly hit. The ground shook behind us, sending shock waves into the air, until the whole barrage ended as it had begun. Nothing. No booming sounds behind us or in front.

  The twin peaks of the Two Sisters lay to the right and rear. We had penetrated well into No Man’s Land. Two Sisters was the objective of 45 Commando, while 42 Commando were to take Mount Harriet. All this would happen simultaneously for 3 Brigade at 0030 hours. I kept looking at where we were going to be, three or four kilometres further in. It made me feel even more vulnerable.

  As the last of the shock waves disappeared, the march was no longer a hassle or a burden, simply because reality was on us again. I leaned over to Pete Hedicker and half-whispered in his ear, ‘What’s the fucking holdup now, Pete?’

  ‘Rumour has it we’ve reached the river. Mind you, I wish they could find a dry crossing tonight – the last thing I want is wet feet again. They’ve taken me days to dry out.’

  The conversation ended and I leaned back on my webbing, grabbing the most of the extra minutes. We had now spent five minutes waiting, and the cold air was penetrating our bodies, the sweat from the tab drying.

  I looked up and the sky was clear, with not a cloud in sight. I sat in a trance, trying to ignore the nervous turmoil of my insides. A shooting star caught my eye. It raced across the dark sky, disappearing as quickly as it came. I thought to myself, That spent years reaching here, all for a few seconds of life. Crazy. I wished upon it all the same.

  Little Phillip West sat next to Pete, whispering that we were moving. Ginge came up to us. ‘Right, lads, about twenty-five metres and we cross the river. Any probs?’

  We shook our heads and I passed the message on to my gun team. Bob Geddis and Sas got up with me. We stood for a moment, then followed the snake of troops heading to the riverbank. On reaching it, I was happy to see that it was only five metres wide. A sergeant from 9 Squadron stood by the bank. To help us, he had a couple of his troops in and around the route across. Nine Squadron’s help affected me greatly. The sergeant and the guys on the other side were saying, ‘Sorry, lads, we couldn’t find anywhere shallower.’

  They lightly manhandled us across. Stepping on some stones, I prayed I would reach the other side with dry feet. I managed about five or six dry steps, then in I went right up to my thighs. I cursed to myself. I could feel the water seeping into my damp boots and through my socks.

  Once the support team were across, we set off again, tabbing along the river line for about a hundred metres. Suddenly, the line of troops I was following were dropping to their knees. As I reached my secure halting position, a stream of more troops came out of the darkness. Standing up, we realised that we had bumped into B Company tabbing to its start line. At this stage, we were all parallel to each other, with only a metre or so separating us, as everyone came to a halt again.

  Beside me stood a dark figure. I stepped forward and whispered, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Doc. Is that Vince?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied.

  He looked at me. Through his heavily camouflaged face, I saw his teeth grinning.

  ‘What are you grinning at?’ I said.

  ‘I’m grinning at this fucking show. At this rate we’ll be late and then the Cabbageheads will have something on us.’

  In the pause, we stood looking as the others filed away into the darkness.

  B Company was now almost at its start line and we were only two hundred metres from ours. Doing a complete ‘U’ turn, I followed our line, stumbling. Tryin
g to keep sight of Pete Hedicker was in itself becoming a task and the weight of the ammo was cutting into my shoulders again. We came to a halt and Lieutenant Oliver came down the line. ‘Corporals Cook, Bramley.’

  ‘Here,’ I whispered.

  ‘Good, follow me.’

  We came to a peat bank. Our company was splitting up, getting into position. Lieutenant Oliver crouched down with us when we came to the final stop.

  ‘Right, we’re now on our start line. Set the guns up quickly. We have about fifteen minutes.’

  Looking to my right, I saw for the first time the steep slope of Mount Longdon’s rear, only three hundred metres away. The objective still didn’t look much. I looked at it, trying to pick out points from the orders, and at the same time getting the GPMG placed on a good spot on the bank. Finally, I managed to put the tripod into the high mount. The gun slid on and Bob Geddis tucked the tripod legs in. I loaded the GPMG and slowly cocked the weapon, instinctively trying to make no noise. The long belt of ammo hung from the machine-gun waiting for its eventual expenditure. The silence of the night had an eerie effect on me, but, with battle imminent, all we could do was sit, watch and wait.

  My stomach tightened and, with five minutes to go, my legs began to shake and my whole body felt numb. Was it the cold from my drying sweat that was causing me to shake, or fear?

  I had long been resigned to the fact that, if this was the end, then so be it. Was I lucky to be in this position, or unlucky? I had no doubts about our actions then and still don’t. Resigning myself to possible death was easier than I thought; the waiting was the only pain. As those final minutes passed by, I didn’t think of home, nor did I think of my family. I didn’t think of death or myself. All I remember, and very clearly, was thinking about B Company’s lads going in first. I had so many friends going up that slope ahead of me, taking the brunt of the attack. I can remember crossing my fingers and half-praying for them. It was too late now to think of my family or examine my conscience. All that mattered now was survival and victory.

  Behind me, Captain Mason was struggling to establish radio contact with battalion HQ. The strict radio silence was still in force. The message came to him to get off the net and wait. In the stunned silence that followed, Corporal McCarthy whispered, ‘This guy’s a complete knob.’

  This little hassle quickly forgotten, we turned back to the slopes of Mount Longdon, watching and waiting. You could have heard a pin drop in those final seconds. Our eyes were almost popping out of our heads, straining to see the opening shots.

  ‘Sir, sir,’ whispered the radio operator.

  ‘What?’ asked Captain Mason.

  ‘CS24 has contact.’

  We turned our heads back again to the sight of an unbelievable display of tracer rounds. The area was like a shooting range, tracer rounds ricocheting in all directions. At times, the noise of the battle would seem to pause as if nothing had happened at all, then it would burst into life again. I remember saying out loud, ‘Get in there, get in there,’ willing the lads on.

  It was an easy time for me, lying by my gun, but it had also to be the most frustrating ever. It was like a football match when you want to join in and help your side.

  ‘Sir, sir,’ shouted the radio operator. His loud mouth didn’t matter now, but minutes ago he would have had a fist filling it.

  ‘What now?’ shouted Mason. Jesus, was that man arrogant.

  ‘CS9 wants you.’

  Mason grabbed the handset – one moves quickly for the CO.

  ‘CS76 here.’

  The conversation took seconds. Mason thrust the handset into the radio operator’s hand.

  ‘Pack up, pack up,’ he said.

  We all looked at him in surprise.

  ‘What’s up?’ shouted Lieutenant Oliver.

  ‘Pack up, I said.’

  ‘Fucking hell, why doesn’t he tell us the rest of the message?’ said Johnny.

  We gathered all our kit together as quickly as possible. The GPMG and tripod were dismantled, the ammo linked together and thrown round our shoulders in seconds rather than minutes. Sitting in a half-crouched position with my SLR facing the objective (not that I could use it, not knowing our own positions) I and the others watched the slope and the tracer rounds. We also kept turning towards Captain Mason to see what he had up his sleeve.

  Small groups of men formed circles around their commanders and, when radio silence broke again, Lieutenant Oliver rushed over to our position.

  ‘Right, listen in,’ he said.

  I felt like saying, ‘I was anyway’, but the time for joking was over.

  ‘B Company has had to change its tactics a bit. Corporals Bramley’s and Cook’s teams will follow myself and Captain Mason into A Company positions, while Corporals Tommo, Rawlings and Peers will go to another task, OK?’

  Johnny looked at me as if he knew I was just about to ask what was happening. Johnny’s look told me to keep quiet and I did. Mason came up to where we were crouching down in a small semicircle. He simply shouted at us to follow him and not drop behind, then leaped up and was running in the darkness.

  ‘The bastard,’ said Bob Geddis. ‘We have all this fucking weight and he’s gone.’

  We quickly followed him, running and stumbling over the thick tufts in the ground.

  A lad from the ACC who was ammo bearer for us all fell over in front of me. He was carrying two sandbags full to the top with seven-point-sixty-two link for our guns. I helped him up; my own weight didn’t seem to matter. Lieutenant Oliver came running back.

  ‘What’s the hold-up?’ He looked angry.

  ‘Sir, you’re gonna have to tell Captain Mason, we’re the ones with the heavy kit here, he’s going too fast.’

  Captain Mason was six feet four plus, with bloody long legs.

  ‘Give me a bag to carry,’ Lieutenant Oliver said. Placing it on his shoulder, he ran on again.

  We had run about two hundred metres. We were all still together but now the run had become a fast stumbling walk. The noise of the battle continued to our right now, as we moved around the slope. Suddenly, a zipping sound whipped across my face. I didn’t think anything of it as I walked and stumbled to keep up. Then, three or four more zips hit the ground in front and at my feet. Still I carried on.

  As I was walking behind Lieutenant Oliver, we saw bodies lying all over the place. I thought, What the fuck are they doing, lying there? Jesus Christ, fucking lying there and we’re struggling.

  I saw a lad kneeling over a guy in a sleeping bag. I remember, as I got to them, just watching him. A low moaning was coming from the sleeping bag.

  I had gone about twenty paces when several more zips hit the ground, sending a small shock wave all around me.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, are you completely nuts or what?’ some guy shouted.

  ‘What?’ asked Lieutenant Oliver.

  ‘Do you know a sniper’s picking at us?’

  We stopped, frozen solid in our tracks, then fell to the ground, our small column now joining the bodies lying all over the place. We had walked into A Company’s form-up, where they had been stopped by a sniper. Lying there, it hit me like a sledgehammer: the zips had been missing me by inches. I lay there thinking, You fucking idiot, Vince.

  I cursed myself all the time we lay there, blaming myself for an unprofessional act, but then I’d never been shot at before and my mind had been so occupied with moving that the zipping sound seemed unconnected with the battle.

  As we lay there, Lieutenant Oliver urged in a low voice, ‘Pass the word back a sniper has us in his sight. We will crawl to the bank ahead, OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.

  Once the word had gone along the column, in which I was near the rear, we crawled on all fours, those zipping sounds still thumping into the ground around us. After about ten minutes of crawling – bloody hard work with all the kit we had – I looked up to see a peat bank about twenty metres in front of me. Sitting behind it were about twenty guys all look
ing at me and the others. I lay flat on the damp, freezing ground. Raising my head in the direction of the raging battle, I could see the tracer rounds still ricocheting in every direction. I was about to get up and run the last few metres, when a bullet zipped into the ground by my fingers. I flopped down again, having raised myself only slightly. I lay there for a few moments, not daring to move.

  The others behind me had cottoned on to the danger. I was now so alert that I felt every ounce of energy in me was acting on my behalf. I raised my head only and there sat my audience and Johnny, grinning. I couldn’t believe it. There I was, pinned down with four others by a sniper, and my mate’s there, all comfy and grinning. I lowered my head, looking at the ground and shouted, ‘What are you fucking grinning at, John?’

  Almost in a laugh he shouted back, ‘You don’t know how silly you look lying out there. Why are you talking to the ground, you pleb?’

  Still facing the ground, I yelled back, ‘Because that bastard up there may just see my breath in this cold air, OK?’ Even I was seeing the funny side to it now.

  Our banter was abruptly stopped by the PC.

  ‘Corporal Bramley, this is neither the time nor the place to have a chat. Get over here with us, now,’ he said in an agitated voice.

  ‘Sir,’ I shouted, still facing the ground. ‘This guy up there is quite good and …’

  My excuses were interrupted by him again. ‘You are no use to man or beast lying there. Now get here.’

  Now I was mad. ‘I’ll not even be beast if I move, for Christ’s sake.’

  A pause came, with whispers from the bank. All four of us had been lying there for some fifteen minutes.

  ‘OK,’ shouted Captain Mason. ‘Just crawl slowly and see what happens.’

  I lay there thinking, What a fucking joke – crawl slowly and see what happens.