Forward into Hell

by Vince Bramley

  We reached our positions and fanned out to man our individual bunkers. We set up our guns. I pulled a single Argie sleeping bag up around me and lay on top of the bunker while the rest crashed out all around. I drifted into sleep with one last thought: C Company attacks later today.

  Daylight rose over the landscape. The frozen ground sparkled in the early-morning light. The cold began to fade from the air. Now, by contrast with what had happened only hours before, very few artillery shells landed on targets around the mountain ranges. The air around Mount Longdon was calm.

  Standing around the OC, we received our last instructions for the attack on Moody Brook and the racecourse. We were to move to Wireless Ridge, now captured completely, and into an area which we would make ready for our thrust down the Ridge into a supporting position for C Company. I clearly remember that I had no nerves left to shred. I felt completely calm and resigned to the fact that we were about to embark on the worst fighting. My attitude had changed. I felt so at ease it was as if I was on an exercise or a day out. The shock of the past three days had given a new dimension to my thinking. Never again will I think, It can’t happen to me.

  The OC smiled as he finished his brief orders. Many things were still unclear to us; not least, when the attack would take place. Cammed up, ammo wrapped around and across my shoulders, the GPMG on my shoulder as well, I followed the line of troops off the north side of Longdon and headed around the rocky crags leading up to the far side.

  After we had tabbed about one thousand metres, with Wireless Ridge clearly visible above us, the absence of troops and the silence of guns in Stanley began to produce some puzzled looks along the line of Support Company. The OC shouted for a halt. We collapsed on the frosty ground to await further orders.

  I looked up at the sky, thinking, What now? Who’s fucked up this time? Let’s just get this part started.

  A few shouts came down the line. I leaned forward and saw the line breaking up and the men laughing. Sergeant Mick Matthews was sitting beside me.

  ‘What’s going on, Mick?’ I asked.

  ‘Fuck knows, Vince.’

  The shouting continued, as messages passed down towards us. A guy three or four positions down from us suddenly turned round and shouted, ‘The wankers have surrendered. A white flag is flying over Stanley. Put on your berets. Endex, endex.’

  The last part of the message had an ironic ring, because for some of the task force the whole thing had seemed like an exercise.

  Mick and I looked at each other.

  ‘Bollocks,’ I said.

  We stood up to see the remains of 3 Para coming off Longdon in their red berets. Joy washed through my body. Mick and I hugged each other. Nothing more was said. The message had reached everyone.

  I slipped off my helmet and put on my beret, which had stayed close to hand throughout. The line moved off with sudden urgency, not to move into position to kill, but to beat the Marines to Stanley. We deserved that right. We now had a different fight on our hands: entry into Stanley.

  As I stood looking down at Moody Brook, the red berets stuck out like sore thumbs against the grass. I felt proud. The beret on my head meant more than any task the Army had thrown at me. It meant victory. The feeling is indescribable.

  I found myself, for the first time since Estancia, thinking of home. ‘Jesus, I have a family thinking of me,’ I thought.

  As we stepped off the Ridge and descended into Stanley, home was in my mind but I turned to take a quick last glance at a place that had changed my life completely. Many friends had died there, many friends had been severely wounded there, many future friends would never realise it existed. That place has a name I shall remember until I die: Longdon.

  20

  FIRST INTO STANLEY

  As we were coming off Wireless Ridge and heading down towards Moody Brook someone shouted back to us that we had walked straight into a minefield. A sergeant in front stopped dead, as we all did. None of us would take another step. It seemed stupid, now that victory lay in our hands, to be killed by a mine. The sergeant shouted back, ‘Right, we’re in a bit of a shitty mess here. What I suggest is we take turns leading and tread in each other’s footsteps, OK?’

  A member of his platoon shouted from behind me. ‘Bollocks, you fucking lead. You’re being paid for that, so let’s see it.’

  We all started laughing out loud, but the sergeant got really niggled, and started ranting and raving. We all stood our ground. After about five minutes, he set off again, sulking. We followed in his footsteps until we reached safe ground.

  At the last peak of the Ridge lay a crumpled body, marked with his SLR and helmet on top. Two Para had lost three more to add to their list from Goose Green. I felt the loss of this lone soldier lying there, as we marched to Stanley.

  We passed enemy corpses all the way down to Moody Brook, and a litter of discarded military equipment. As we stepped on to the muddy, trampled road that led to Stanley, it seemed clean compared with earlier scenes. We looked around to see troops spilling off the Ridge, and some off Tumbledown, all heading for the capital.

  A BV (a tracked over-snow vehicle) was parked just off the road. There, standing on top posing like Rommel, was our own platoon sergeant, whom we hadn’t seen since Estancia.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he screamed. ‘Load your heavier kit on to here. We are well in front of those wankers, the Marines, as usual.’

  Seeing him standing there like that nearly made me boil over. He was giving orders and acting like he won the fucking war. I looked at him, more with pity than anything else. The platoon passed him the tripods, sights and IWSs. Then we turned on our heels to march into Stanley. Johnny and Tommo were with Tony Jones (‘Bones’) and Bob Geddis. I ran up to meet them for this famous walk. Bones expressed out loud the same view I held. I added my support. Tommo turned and said, ‘We all disagree with him and his attitude, but at the end of the day he’s the one with the rank, so let’s enjoy this last day without him, yeah?’

  We agreed not to talk about the platoon sergeant until after our expected leave period. This was to be short-lived.

  We had marched about two kilometres with members of D Company tabbing with us. We stopped and an officer shouted, ‘It looks like they have a few die-hards, lads. Sappers’ Hill to our right has enemy still holding. Order has it to take cover.’

  Immediately, about fifty of us scrambled into the ditch by the road. Bob came running up beside me and we set up the gun, facing Sappers’ Hill, which was some eight hundred metres away. Everyone lay there waiting. The minutes passed slowly. The backlog of troops still trying to reach Stanley were all following us into the ditches, wondering what was up. A radio message informed us that the Guards and Marines were arriving on the other side of the hill and told us not to bother, but to carry on marching. We all climbed out of the ditch and carried on marching. This seemed to niggle a lot of the lads. They cursed the brass for ‘shit info’.

  The road was littered with weapons, helmets, clothing, bullets and grenades. We all just walked past the pickings, interested only in reaching Stanley.

  The road was full of red berets. A few Craphats had joined the Paras’ entry. We were content to be in front of the Marines. They had been a constant pain to us throughout. Johnny giggled and remarked on what had happened on the trek across East Falkland when we were some twenty-four hours ahead of the Marines.

  ‘Looking at all the red berets here, I can’t see the brigade commander stopping us now, can you?’

  We all laughed because, when we had been tabbing to Estancia from Teal Inlet, the brass had got on to the radio net and told our CO, ‘For Christ’s sake, stop and take a rest, you’re making my boys look like week-one recruits.’

  The slagging had only just begun.

  Lying in the gutter were two dead Argentineans, their faces showing agony, their hands clenched into fists. One had blood covering the front of his combat jacket. The other was peppered with holes. I just glanced at them – it seemed
normal now. A bit further on, a helmet lay on its top. Some of the lads passed it back for inspection. Come my turn, I glanced inside to see the top of a head left there. It looked as if the bit from the forehead to the back of the skull remained, with a near-complete brain lying inside. I passed it to the next bloke. I wasn’t shocked or even really amused by it. Again, it seemed the normal thing to do, to look at it.

  The guy next to me laughed out loud. ‘Oh, yes, this is the ultimate souvenir. My missus will love this, pickled as an ornament.’ He carried it another kilometre or two before discarding it for some other thing.

  While we are on the subject of macabre spoils of war, it needs to be said that the essentials of hand-to-hand fighting have not changed much over the centuries. From the earliest battles, it was the foot soldiers who faced each other, and who did the dirty work. What happens after the battle is not so different, either. Throughout history, fighting forces have had their different ways of despoiling the defeated enemy.

  In South America and the Pacific islands, the victors shrank heads as trophies. The Romans often crucified their prisoners of war. In more recent times, the Japanese beheaded and the Germans gassed, hanged and shot POWs, while the Russians took no prisoners. In Vietnam, American soldiers eager for proof of their personal tally of kills severed enemy ears.

  Within the British and Commonwealth armies, similar acts are by no means unknown. In both World Wars, the Gurkhas drew prisoners’ blood with their kukris and cut off heads or ears. It is accepted by the government that the Gurkhas do such things, but in the Falklands it was not only the Gurkhas. On two occasions, I saw corpses with their ears missing, and I heard that this occurred throughout the campaign.

  The reactions of those without frontline military experience will range from disgust to disbelief. Nevertheless, in the bedlam of battle, the normal standards of behaviour are left far behind, and acts occur that are plainly out of character. It is true that victory is in some cases celebrated by the taking of ghoulish souvenirs. I have no doubt that I will not be the last soldier to make these observations.

  We passed the first of the buildings with interest. It was burned to the ground and smouldering. Only its chimneystack remained. We passed some big hangars with huge red crosses on them. Some of the lads went inside and came out waving amputated limbs. One lad waved the arm of an Argentinean as if he was waving goodbye to everyone. This caused laughter along the line of troops, until a concerned officer ordered him to put it back.

  Two Para had been in front of us, mixed in with our C Company. Both battalions reached the capital before orders from above halted our advance on the airport where we knew the whole Argentinean Army had gathered. Orders came along the line to rest up until something could be done about lines of organisation of defence.

  Our platoon gathered around the back of a house near the racecourse. All the houses seemed to be secured in one way or another. The CO came up to us as we were taking a brew, sheltered from the wind that whipped around us with a light drizzle. He looked tired but was concerned for us all. He asked why we were still in the open and nodded towards some houses that were to be forced open to make ready for the coming night. It seemed to me that I should ask how he was, because he was asking how we were. He was a bit taken aback by my asking. I liked the man and still do. He was perhaps the best CO I have ever served under.

  As we prepared to smash our way into the houses, the familiar noise of a helicopter grew louder and louder above the small alleyway between them. The wind from the chopper whipped up more strongly, blowing out the hexie burner. Johnny got up cursing and shouting, ‘Why can’t those fuckers land elsewhere?’

  We walked to a garden to watch the incoming chopper. We looked at each other in amazement when we saw, hovering about ten metres from the ground, an Argentinean helicopter trying to land. A large white bed sheet hung underneath it, flapping in the wind. About fifteen of 3 Para’s lads stood looking at it. Some were laughing at the pilot, whose face we could see very clearly. He was obviously worried that we were about to shoot him out of the sky. Some lads pointed their rifles at the chopper, motioning it to land. It swayed from side to side as it hit the ground. The engine’s hum quickly died as the pilot and crewman were hauled from the craft. They were dragged to the side of a shed and stripped of all their papers and weapons. Johnny and I were in fits of laughter because the Argies must have thought they were being searched. They were, but just for souvenirs. Even their airborne jackets disappeared into a hidden corner. After some minutes, they were marched off into captivity. We then saw our lads crawl all over the chopper, stripping it for souvenirs. One lad sat in the pilot seat pretending to fly it, as if at a fairground. He hummed and buzzed his own sound effects. We all curled up laughing. Eventually, a sentry was placed on the helicopter to stop it being stripped beyond use.

  We made our way back to our kit. Tommo had smashed into a house and was pulling all our kit into the kitchen. Myself, Johnny, Bones and the PC made for the master bedroom. Mark Hammel and Gaz Easter joined us. We closed the door to avoid being ‘spammed’ for dirty jobs. I thought to myself how funny it was that we should hide with our own boss in there with us. He didn’t want the brass chasing him either. We all bounced on the bed like big kids. Mark decided a double bed was too small for six guys, so a grass-drawing contest was held to choose the two to have the bed. Mark and Gaz won. Under the bed, Johnny found a huge tin of beans and tins of peaches and luncheon meat. I elected myself cook. I slipped into the kitchen and brought back the biggest pot. Sweeping my arm across the dressing table, I removed all the make-up and ornaments. I placed two bricks on the table, lit the hexie and emptied the tins into the pot for cooking in five minutes flat. We all produced our dirty, sticky mess tins from our webbing and ate the stew like pigs. Bones complimented my cooking, but became concerned when I told him the peaches had also gone in.

  Later, we received orders to move up to the end of the racecourse and collect all our belongings, which were being flown down from Estancia and Longdon. The last flickers of daylight were creeping over Stanley when we reached the main shed. Fifty to sixty guys had congregated in the area, all members of 2 and 3 Para. Seeing those happy and familiar faces was a morale-booster. A Marine officer was shouting for some help from everyone. When one Tom turned on him and shouted, ‘Fuck off, Cabbagehead, it’s your turn to work now,’ the officer went potty, screaming for his name et cetera. Everyone cheered and shouted abuse at the officer, who eventually stormed off, much to our pleasure.

  The choppers came in to rest quickly. Kit fell from them at all angles and we ran to collect it. A central collection point was established. Two hours passed before our platoon’s kit arrived. I collected my bergen and my souvenir bag from Longdon and we all slipped away from what was obviously going to be an all-night rubber-dick task.

  As we entered the house, our morale fell flat when we saw the sergeant was there. There was hardly any mud or dirt on him and his smiling face made me want to vomit. I retreated to the bedroom with the others. It was now about 2100 hours, but the excitement at the thought of home and victory was buzzing like mad in my head. Sleep? No way.

  The platoon sergeant entered the bedroom and addressed the PC, to whom we had not only taken a liking but who also supported our views on the sergeant.

  ‘Sir, a curfew is being placed on all troops until daylight. A sentry must man the kitchen only. Apart from that, everyone is to stand down and get some sleep.’

  The PC grinned and acknowledged the sergeant. A stag list was set up for one hour per man. Each had to sit and stoke the peat stove – some task!

  That night, I lay twisting and turning for hours. The confined space of the bedroom made nearly all of us feel claustrophobic. Come morning, the windows were fully open, and the wind was blowing violently into the room. The previous three to four weeks of living in the open had adapted us to the open air. It was about a month before I regained the normal tolerance to an indoor atmosphere.

  Aft
er a night of little more than dozing, relief came with the daylight. Standing outside with just my SLR in my hands, I looked across the rows of back gardens towards the mountain ranges. Thoughts of the previous days were still very fresh in my mind. Bones joined me with Rob Jeffries. There and then, we decided to go on the loot. We quickly moved up on to the lower slopes of Sappers’ Hill and among the racecourse bunkers.

  The Argentineans had laid out their bunker system in a very neat and careful manner. Row upon row of deep bunkers ran all along the racecourse and well into Stanley itself. They had obviously meant to fight all the way. What had caused them to surrender so quickly? It was said later that Mendez had not wanted a FIBUA battle, because casualty figures were running very high. If this was so, surely the Argentineans should have kept to their bunkers. Had his army run completely out of control, forcing surrender?

  In the bunkers were rows of one-hundred-and-fivemillimetre artillery guns, point-fifty-calibre machine-guns and one-hundred-and-six-millimetre rifles. They were all set up facing in the direction of what would have been C Company’s line of advance. The whole area was littered with military equipment. The spoils proved the best thing about the war.

  We each picked up an Argie kitbag from the bunkers, then the three of us ran from bunker to bunker looking for anything that might take our fancy, from bayonets to discarded letters. Slowly, my kitbag filled up. Occasionally, I would see something I liked better and have to throw an item away. Bones and I picked up some shell cases and squeezed them into our kitbags. Beside us, a big one-hundred-and-five-millimetre gun stood, silent now, as we rooted around it.

  ‘Bones,’ I said, ‘this gun is still facing Longdon. Look.’