The CSM came over. ‘Well done. A Company is moving through to our left now. We’ve covered and given them all the help we could give. The rest is up to them. We can’t fire any more – it’d get them, it’s too close now. It’ll be light in an hour or so. Pull the gun back and dismount it.’
‘Sir, did we get any?’ asked Bob.
‘More than enough,’ he replied and walked away.
Had we killed? We must have. I felt nothing afterwards – just relaxed. I hadn’t seen our target: they had been hidden in darkness. We hadn’t killed at the end of a bayonet, or through a rifle sight. We had killed with a spray of machine-gun bullets. It didn’t seem personal. It was as if the enemy hadn’t existed at all.
15
FORWARD INTO HELL
We dismantled our gun and evenly spread out our kit. The air was chilling. Everything seemed frozen and still. Just over the skyline where we had been firing earlier, rifle fire now dominated the night. Bob and I crawled back to where we had been. Against the skyline, we could see figures moving through the crags. A tracer round bounced off the rock: the second phase was well under way.
The air went still, then it was sucked up as if a small whirlwind had come. The ‘whoosh’ grew louder and louder. I buried my head in the dirt. About seventy metres away the ground exploded in a mass of earth, shrapnel and rock. Then another shell came over, this time further to our right. I looked down the hill as the shell exploded, and saw an unbelievable display of flying red sparks: deadly shrapnel. The ground shook as shell after shell fell behind us. The first minutes of the shelling were terrifying.
‘That tells me they know they’re losing,’ shouted the OC. His comment was briefly registered, before another shell pounded into the ground.
‘Right, listen in, everyone, listen in!’ screamed the OC. ‘First, get into cover, get into cover now, quickly.’
I grabbed my kit, stood up and made for a base line of jutting rock about thirty metres away. Bob and the PC found a bunker and slid in. I wished that I had seen it too, for my new position didn’t seem safe. I squeezed into the crag, which had a lip, like a cave. It covered me, though I was vulnerable on my left side. Shells were landing further down the hill as we all scrambled for protection. I pushed myself as far into the crag as I could. I thought to myself, Lie facing the inside of this rock, Vince. Then I thought I wouldn’t see what was happening, so I pushed my back into the crack, laying my webbing over me, as if that would help. What a joke!
In the distance, a booming sound began that carried over the area. Someone screamed, ‘Incoming, incoming.’
Sure enough, the air disappeared, there was a ‘whoosh’ and then the explosion killed any remaining peace. The shells came in thick and fast. I lay watching the red, glowing shrapnel flying by. Now the shrapnel was creeping up towards me, the explosions getting so loud I thought that they would deafen me. The shells were landing about fifty metres away. Four or five shells would hit an area in a salvo; the next batch about ten metres nearer.
The booming from Stanley could still be heard in the gaps between explosions in our area. As I lay there watching the shrapnel getting closer, I found myself shaking. Was it from cold or fright? My legs shook and I couldn’t control them at all. The next salvo landed thirty metres away. I curled up into a ball as the shrapnel splintered the rocks around me. A piece of shrapnel landed in my little alcove, still burning with fury, sizzling into the dirt by my waist.
Four or five more shells landed around us and then it stopped, as if it had never begun. The air was misty, as though a fog had swept over us. I lay back, praying it was over.
In the half-light of false dawn, I could now hear shouting all down the hill. Some guys were screaming like mad. One voice went right through me – the scream of a man who knows he is about to die. All over the hill, people were shouting, ‘Medic, medic.’
I was about to crawl from my hole when another shell hit the ground. I hadn’t even heard it coming. I fell on my face and stayed there for a few seconds. Another shell landed nearby. This time a shower of dirt fell on my back. I crawled back into my hole and curled up again, waiting. My body shook uncontrollably. The shells landed in thick salvoes, the noise and explosions around me making my head spin as if someone were banging it against a wall. I willed it to stop, but the shells carried on landing around me. Then, this second bombardment within minutes ended as suddenly as it had begun. The last shell landed further down the hill. After a few minutes, many of us began to crawl from our hiding places. Standing on a rock, I looked down the hill. In the early-morning mist, I could see troops walking and running in all directions. Some guys were carrying wounded lads down towards the FAP. The screaming of the wounded was everywhere.
About twenty-five metres away, I saw a lad half-dragging himself down the hill, holding his leg. He had no webbing, no helmet, but his weapon was still in his free hand. I searched about me frantically. I had to help someone, but who first? I picked up and replaced my webbing. SLR in hand, I made my way towards the guy dragging his leg. As I reached him the OC screamed, ‘Support teams on me, support teams on me.’
The lad looked at me with pitiful eyes. I recognised him from B Company. He’d obviously been wounded for some time, as the blood on his leg was now dried and dark. He rested against a rock. When I reached him, I crouched to look at his leg. I was about to help him when he said, ‘You’d better go, mate. Your boss is screaming for you. Besides, it’s your turn over there now.’
‘OK,’ I said.
Quickly turning around, I made my way to where the OC was standing in his original spot. As I reached him, with all my kit, Tommo, Johnny and a few others joined us.
‘Where’s the rest?’ shouted the OC.
‘I saw a few carrying wounded down the hill, sir,’ said Tommo.
‘For fuck’s sake, we’ve a bloody task to do. How many here?’
Tommo did a quick head check. ‘Eight, sir.’
‘OK, follow Sergeant P. He will lead you to our new positions.’
Sergeant P stood there, his eyes showing strain. He was an excellent soldier, and many had great respect for him. As part of D Company, he knew the hill better than most, from previous recces.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Keep well behind me. It’s hell up front still – they’re crawling out of bunkers now, so watch yourselves.’ I quickly fixed my bayonet. I was standing right next to Sergeant P when he turned on his heels and started to half-run, half-trot through a small gap in some crags. I immediately followed him. Tommo and Johnny were behind me as we all squeezed through.
I can remember the OC shouting behind us, ‘Move, move. Their artillery will soon be here again.’
Sergeant P waited only for me to squeeze myself through the gap before he took off again. After we had gone about four or five steps, a hand dropped out of the rocks, grabbing at my ankle and denims. The shock of it made us jump. Instantly, Sergeant P was back with me. We both looked at my feet. Still holding my denims was a wounded Argie. His eyes were staring at me, pleading perhaps, full of sorrow? Sergeant P shouted, ‘Step back, Brammers.’
I tried to step back, but the wounded soldier tightened his grip on me. I leaned back as Sergeant P pointed his weapon and fired two bullets into the man’s head, the noise of his weapon echoing around the small gap. Tommo and Johnny were behind me now. The Argie’s head bounced quickly as the two rounds entered him. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and his mouth opened to release a trickle of blood and saliva, which ran down his chin on to his shirt collar. At the same time, his hand gave up its grasp on my denims and dropped on to my boot. I flicked my boot as if I was playing football. His hand and arm dropped across his body and from his mouth came a low whistle of air, mixed with blood. All this took seconds, but it seemed a lifetime to me. Each detail remains with me today. The sight of this guy dying at my feet shocked me. But I was growing harder. Although shaken, I felt no remorse at that time. The deadly game of war lay at my feet; only I mattered.
‘Come on, move!’ he shouted.
We all took off behind him. The small gap ended about five or six steps later and we broke out into a clearing. Across the skyline, I saw some guys walking through the mist, which was now lifting. They had fixed bayonets. In groups of two or three, they were searching around. Sergeant P and I stood together for several seconds, while the rest of the eight guys left from the platoon broke out into the clearing as well. A shell screamed in, landing just as we all hit the ground. As we picked ourselves up, Sergeant P shouted at us to move and we ran further into the clearing.
My first view of the surrounding area in the clearing was one of total bedlam. Bodies lay everywhere, wounded and dead alike. I could see four or five Argentineans clumped together across our pathway, twisted in their final positions, now beginning to rot. One had an arm hanging off. Another had half his head missing; the brains lay to one side, like spilled minced meat.
A bullet hit the rock above my head and I ducked – not that it would have made any difference. A member of B Company was firing a sub-machine-gun at the area where the enemy was still holding out.
Sergeant P screamed an order to follow him. As we trotted further into the clearing, we had to jump over the twisted pile of corpses. My mind never was, nor has since been, so alert. Adrenaline was rushing through my body so quickly that I felt I was floating with an excitement mingled with fear.
A little farther into this clearing lay three or four Argentineans, shaking visibly, close together on the ground. We half-ran, half-walked through a deadly, sickening area of death. They looked up as we arrived. All had been seriously wounded, and were moaning and crying. One held up his hands across his eyes and shouted, ‘Mama.’ I felt he thought that we were, or I was, about to shoot him. He went on calling for his ‘Mama’ in a low wail.
Some lads from B Company were pushing a few prisoners to join the three or four already on the ground. One prisoner held his head in both hands. As he was thrown to the ground, he released his hands to break his fall and I saw that his ear was missing. A gunshot wound was also visible on his left knee. It had been bandaged, but the bandage was loose and trailed from the wound. Blood ran down from his ear and from his leg. He hit the ground and began to cry like the others.
One Argentinean sat in a trance, his eyes wide and staring at nothing. Tears ran down his face, the only sign that he was alive. None of them moved; all looked like they expected to be shot by us. But we ran past. The whole area was littered with weapons, helmets, clothing, food and ammo.
After running through this clearing, I noticed some B Company lads covering and firing into some rocks ahead of us. A lance-corporal screamed, ‘They’re breaking!’ He then fired off six or seven shots at what must have been fleeing enemy soldiers. Some others joined him, their SLRs echoing around the clearing.
My mind buzzed; my eyes searched and checked every crag. I felt I was floating, as if it was all a dream. At the same time, I was completely ready to meet my own death. I felt that luck was the only way I would survive now.
A few bullets whizzed overhead and smashed into the rocks. A corporal shouted that Tumbledown was firing at us. We ran into a tight gap in the path and all came to an abrupt halt, as it was a dead end. Four or five bodies lay sprawled there, close together. This time they were our own men: the camouflaged Para smocks hit my eyes immediately. CSM Weeks was standing over them like a guardian, screaming at some of his men to cover the further end of the path and a small crest. The CSM and Sergeant P exchanged quick words. I wasn’t listening; my mind was totally occupied with looking into the crags for the enemy. I turned and looked at our own lads, dead on the ground, mowed down when they tried to rush through this gap. I felt both anger and sadness. The CSM’s face showed the strain of having seen most of his company either wounded or shot dead. That night’s fighting was written in every line of his face.
We all doubled back into the clearing we had just run through. We spread out and waited for our next move. A wounded Argentinean lay to my right, about ten metres away. He had been hit in the chest and screamed as he held the wound. A lad from B Company ran across the clearing at him and ran his bayonet through him. The screaming Argentinean tried to grab the bayonet from him before it took his life. Our lad screamed, ‘Shut up, shut up, you cunt!’
The enemy soldier died as the bayonet was withdrawn. The lad walked back to his seat among the rocks, as if nothing had happened.
To my right, three Argentineans were crying with their heads in their hands. Were they the dead man’s friends? At their feet, lay one of our lads, moaning in pain as a medic attended to him. I could see his back was peppered with shrapnel. I swung to my left and fell against some rocks. I now felt the shock of it all coursing through my body. I wailed softly, my throat feeling like I wanted to choke. My eyes watered and I shook my head to force myself into reality. But this was reality. I looked for Bob and Johnny. I couldn’t see Bob, but Johnny was there, staring right at me. Our eyes met, telling each other that we felt the end had come.
A lad resting with his rifle pointed towards Tumbledown turned and fell into a tight ball, curling himself up as he hit the ground screaming, ‘Incoming, incoming.’
We all dropped to the ground, crawling behind rocks wherever we could. The first shell went over us, on to the west side of the mountain. Then the shells started to creep towards us and one thumped into the clearing, hitting a rock about thirty metres away. The ground shook as if we’d been hit by an earthquake; shrapnel pierced the ground or bounced off rocks all around us. Grant Grinham screamed out as shrapnel hit his leg. Two of his mates were pulling him into better cover as the shells rained around us again. This time, when an Argentinean cried out, no one went to his aid. Soon after, Corporal Stewart McLaughlin was hit in the back by shrapnel. He was later killed by a direct mortar hit as he was being taken to a first aid post.
I lay there trembling, as the shells roared over us. Each explosion shook more fear into us. The barrage ended after ten or fifteen shells had landed on different parts of the mountain.
I crawled from behind my rock. I stood up, then fell against the rock that some lads were running around as they tried to get the wounded lad out of this deadly area and to the FAP. In front of me, a B Company lad was sitting beside a wounded Argentinean. They rested together as if they were watching a game.
Jesus, I thought.
A sergeant shouted to the lad, ‘See to him, will you?’
This broke his dream and he turned to the enemy soldier beside him and started to dress his wound with a field dressing. The Argie put out his hands, holding on to the lad for support as the bandage was wrapped around him.
I looked about me in a frantic search for ‘Mick’ (Dominic) Gray. I looked at all the remains of B Company spread out around the clearing. I couldn’t see Mick and I remember thinking, Oh, no, not Mick, please.
I stood up and walked into the clearing, ‘Anyone here seen Mick Gray?’ I shouted.
No one answered me. I turned to my left and saw the elder Kempster brother, who sat leaning forward, his head resting on his rifle, both hands grasped around the gas regulator.
‘Kempy!’ I screamed. I trotted to his side and sat with him. ‘Where’s Mick?’
Kempster looked up at me, as I moved in beside him. His eyes were laughing, yet I could see that he was worn out.
‘Hi, Vince,’ he said, with a slight grin. ‘Mick’s been hit in the head. Lucky bastard survived it. He’s gone to the rear now, skiving git.’
I felt an immediate relief. Thank God, Mick was OK.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ I said. ‘You OK, mate?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where’s your brother, Dave?
’
‘He’s been wounded, Vince. Bad, I’ve heard.’
‘Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.’ I felt bad for not asking about that first.
Three Para had many sets of brothers in and around the battalion. It was amazing that none lost their lives. Private (later Lance-Corporal) Gray survived million-to-one odds when a bullet hit his forehead without entering his skull. Instead, it travelled over his head, through his helmet, then out through the back. Dave Kempster lost his arm in a burst of rounds that took it nearly clean off. A lad with him lost a leg.
‘Right, let’s go,’ shouted Sergeant P.
I patted Kempster on the shoulder and ran towards the sergeant. We followed him over a small hump to another clearing. We bumped into our OC, who tagged on. As we ran over this clearing, an Argie crawled out of a bunker. He looked like a mole, about to dart back if seen. We all seemed to fire at him together. Bullets hit him from about four weapons, including mine. He slumped in the entrance of the bunker, dead. What would we have done if he hadn’t been holding his rifle? Was he thinking of surrendering? We ran on round a corner. There lay more dead Argies, three sprawled in a line. One had his weapon still in his hand, the breech with a bullet half-fed into it. His fingers were outstretched as if he’d tried to grab a grenade that lay there. I trotted over these bodies, as we all did, but I stopped briefly to pick up the grenade and place it in my smock. Once round this bend in the path through jutting rocks, we came upon a group of about five or six guys busy beating up a group of shouting Argies. A rifle butt hit one of them square in the face and he dropped to the ground. The others at once stopped shouting.
We stopped and placed ourselves in a small opening on the north side of the mountain. A guy from D Company grabbed and pushed at the group of Argies, shouting, ‘Shut up, you Argies, or we’ll top the fucking lot of you!’
The language barrier didn’t matter. His tone said it all.
Nearby, another Para was sticking a bayonet into an Argie. He leaned on his weapon to make sure it went in fully. The Argie’s arms flapped at his sides in a last dying act. (As often as not, the bayonet was jabbed into the eye, because of the thick winter gear the Argentineans wore.)
Forward into Hell Page 13