Forward into Hell

by Vince Bramley

  He did. The gun barrel facing our previous position was sinister, eerie. I stood on a box at the end of the barrel and looked down it.

  ‘Fuck me, Bones, the bastard’s still loaded.’

  Swapping places, he said, ‘Obviously in a hurry to retreat, yeah?’

  The small lanyard which was attached to the firing mechanism moved slightly in the wind. I placed my hand on it and said to Bones, ‘If I pull this cord it’ll be the biggest ND of the war, yeah?’

  Laughing, we walked off. With our kitbags loaded on our shoulders, we made our way back to the bungalow. Rob joined us, with his share of pistols and grenades and an SMG, hanging from different parts of his body.

  ‘Why don’t you pack them away like us?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t matter if I’m caught anyway, ’cause I’ll just get some more,’ he said, laughing.

  We bumped into Tommo, Johnny and TP, who had all been doing the same as us. It seemed weird that we had all finished looting at the same time. Johnny made a brew and we sat around chatting. The platoon sergeant walked in on our conversation.

  ‘Right, no more fucking off. You can all stay here and area-clean the outside of this building, OK?’

  We all looked at this very professional barrack-room soldier. I burst out laughing, which sent him off into a right tantrum.

  ‘Bramley, you have no discipline. You do as you’re told, hear me?’

  ‘Hear you? Hear you, yes. But see you? No.’

  We glared steadily at each other.

  Tommo broke in. ‘Look, Vince, you go and find food and we’ll stay here. Fair?’

  The tension snapped, with the sergeant merely shouting and screaming his orders and then walking off. We all looked at each other like schoolboys revelling in their naughtiness.

  Sergeant or not, I had no respect for that man and I wasn’t going to be a yes-man for his bullshit in the middle of an empty battlefield.

  TP, Rob and I slipped off, leaving Tommo to have a chat with the platoon sergeant. The PC was very much on our side, letting us do our own thing.

  As we stood on the road outside, Johnny mentioned that we would be getting Argie prisoners to area-clean that afternoon.

  ‘So, fuck off now and do your own thing before it’s decided we also need haircuts!’

  We all walked back down towards Moody Brook. An Argie lorry came up behind us, driven by some 2 Para lads. We waved them down.

  ‘Here, we’re off to Moody Brook for some looting. Coming?’ shouted the company driver.

  ‘You’re on,’ laughed TP.

  We jumped on the back of the lorry and sped off along the three or four kilometres of the only road. Along the way, we passed scatterings of troops making their way into Stanley for the first time.

  ‘Anything left for us?’ shouted one group.

  ‘No, we’re charging five pounds as a taxi service though.’

  As we passed them, the ‘fuck off’ fingers went up as they turned to finish their last slog of the war.

  21

  SPOILS OF WAR

  We entered the pumphouse at Moody Brook that had been the Marines’ barracks at the time of the enemy invasion. The smell of damp hit our noses straight away. All the walls were pocked with bullet holes and shrapnel marks. A few Marines were kicking and searching through the items on the floor. I found a decent pair of Argie boots in my size and slung them over my shoulder.

  The Marines came up to us and started chatting. The bad atmosphere between us was only slight now.

  ‘This used to be my old sleeping spot,’ said one.

  ‘Were you here on their invasion, mate?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, and look at it all now. They told the world they captured us all without killing any of us. You know something? When we were guarding that idiot Governor, they stormed this building with everything they had. We wanted to fight them without surrendering, but that’s history now.’

  A 2 Para lad said, ‘Yeah, I know how you feel. It’ll be years before the joke of “hands up, here come the Marines’‘ goes.’

  We all laughed: the damage was done.

  Our lorry back to Stanley picked up a few lads struggling with their kit. The three Marines with us motioned the driver to stop at a large shed off the road. We backed the lorry up and parked, then we entered the biggest ‘free’ military supply shop there ever was. Even the troops we had picked up joined in. Inside, there were about fifteen guys already looting. The shelves were packed roof-high with anything you could want: sock, boots, combat jackets, webbing, food, medicine. Most of it was USA stamped and made. I filled every space on my body with kit. TP and I ended up throwing items into a groundsheet and tying all the corners up. When we left the shed, the lorry had gone, but we found a wheelbarrow lying on its side in the ditch. In the kilometre or so back to the bungalow, we picked up anything we fancied.

  The morning passed in pleasure. It was the best day’s ‘shopping’ I can ever remember. Once in our new home, we loaded all our kit into one area, as did the rest of the platoon. Tommo had found whisky and beer hidden somewhere he wished to keep secret, but we shared out all the other goodies evenly. My only worry was how on earth I was going to carry it all home: bayonets, helmets, boots, clothing of all sorts.

  The PC entered our Aladdin’s cave and pissed himself laughing. ‘I haven’t got a disciplined group of professional soldiers here. I’ve got football hooligans in disguise,’ he said. ‘Where’s my share?’ That was his last word on the matter.

  At midday, we all received six prisoners each to guard while they cleaned the area our own platoon sergeant had wanted us to clean. In my group, they were all typically Latin types, young and scared-looking. I marched them round to the front of our bungalow to join TP’s group. All the prisoners started to dismantle a bunker in the front garden.

  TP leaned against the wall of the building shouting to groups of Marines now entering Stanley. ‘What took you, wankers?’

  Two Marines stopped and looked him up and down. One shouted, ‘We’re fucking pissed off with you bastards, too, you know. Why don’t you guard those little cunts instead of slagging us?’

  ‘We are,’ I said. ‘Trouble is we’ve been here so long waiting for relief that they’re our mates now.’

  ‘Fuck off, Para shit.’

  ‘Now, now, lads. Let’s not get too upset,’ laughed TP.

  It was easy to see that a fight was brewing. The prisoners had stopped work and were all watching the display with open mouths. The PC arrived to cool the situation by ordering the Marines on.

  After the incident, TP got all the prisoners together and taught them a routine that they had to perform to the signal of a clap of hands. The next group of Marines passing was greeted by myself and TP clapping, followed by twelve Argies shaking their fists in a wanking gesture. The Marines looked at each other with open mouths, then started to laugh with us. One shouted, ‘Cool, cool, I like it!’

  ‘At least that lot had some sense of humour,’ laughed the PC as he watched us from the bedroom.

  This reminded us of the time when one of the radio ops used a prisoner to carry his radio around the battlefield. The unfortunate Argie was tethered to the op by a power cable and whenever the officer wanted to use the radio the prisoner was hauled over like a dog on a lead.

  The clearing up took days. Each day the prisoners came down the road to us regularly at 0900 hours. We had the same prisoners for four days and they slowly ground to a halt. At one stage, we all ended up standing round a small radio in the kitchen, listening to the World Cup taking place in Spain. One of my prisoners could speak a little English, and translated the score for the others.

  One afternoon, the platoon sergeant came in screaming, ‘What the fuck are these little shits doing in here?’

  The atmosphere always changed when he was around. Tommo told him it was Naafi break.

  ‘Bullshit, get them out.’

  The prisoners were marched back outside and I went with them.

  T
ommo said, ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘Simple,’ I said, ‘I’m going with my prisoners to the nearest hut to listen to the football.’ This we did, for the remainder of the day.

  On the second day, Mark and Gaz moved out to another house. Each house or bungalow was home to a platoon now. The second day also saw the start of the shits for most of the battalion. The mild form of dysentery spread like wildfire. At the bottom of one garden, we built a hasty shitpit, using oil drums with planks for a seat. It became a regular event to see guys running for this area, and in some cases not making it. The water supply was next to nothing, because the enemy had blown up the pumphouse before surrendering. The troops got very thirsty. A can of Coke was like gold dust. Even precious souvenirs were swapped for a drink of some sort.

  Late that second day, after the prisoners had marched off to their central spot, Clive, Bones and I went off on another loot. This time we found a hut with a padlock securing the door. We drew straws to see who would smash it off. Clive lost. Bones and I hid in a ditch in case the door was booby-trapped. How lax and carefree we had become, gambling for this task with a draw of the grass. Looting became a gamble with life.

  Clive removed the padlock with ease. On entering the hut, which was the size of a large room, we stood in complete silence as we scanned the shelves. The left side, by the door, was filled with rifle magazines, loaded ready for dispersal. Primed grenades stood on one end of the far side. In front of us lay row upon row of medical equipment. On the right were brand new rucksacks, boots and socks. A desk stood in the centre of the shed with paperwork still in its ‘in’ and ‘out’ trays.

  The left side didn’t interest us. Weapons were now last on our list. After all, Stanley was full of weapons. However, standing in one corner was a portable toilet. We all rushed at it together. I won the race and there I sat for the first time in four weeks – on the throne – while the other two rooted around. Luxury.

  I picked up new equipment to swap with the old I already had back in my kitbags. I opened drawers, searching for anything of value. Combing through the items in the shed and picking what we wanted took about half an hour. As we pulled the door to behind us, Clive mentioned the live grenades and wondered if we should nick a few.

  ‘What’s the point?’ I said. ‘We’ve enough already.’ He agreed. That night I tossed and turned in my sleep, causing Johnny to wake me up.

  ‘What’s the fucking matter with you, Vince? Talk about moaning and talking in your sleep.’

  This was the start of the nearly seven months of nightmares I would have to endure. Always it was the same dream: Denzil rolling about on the ground with smoke coming from his smock. I lost sweat by the bucket and spent many hours lying awake. My wife Karon could not, or would not, understand the problem, much to my frustration.

  Next morning, as I stood outside the back door sipping one of Johnny’s brilliant brews, Clive came running up from the side of the bungalow.

  ‘Vince, that hut we were in yesterday – come quickly, have a look.’

  Clive, Bones and I went down the road to where it stood at the back of some larger sheds. We couldn’t get near it, as it was surrounded by white mining tape protecting an area of at least fifty by fifty metres. A 9 Squadron lad stood guarding the entrance to the sealed area.

  ‘What’s going on, mate?’ asked Bones.

  ‘Well, some lucky bastards broke into a portable bomb, apparently. As you go inside, the shelves on the left are full of mags and grenades. They didn’t touch any of it. Whoever went in only looted the clothing side.’

  ‘So, what’s wrong with that?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ he said. ‘My boss went in there late last night to see if it was rigged. Well, you guessed it,’ he said, laughing. ‘He found a bomb reckoned to be about seventy pounds placed under all the weapons. A pressure bomb, lads. If the lads who had looted it had lifted one or two items from the shelf – bang! No more drinking in Aldershot.’

  My hair stood up on end, and I must have turned white. Only Bones remained at ease.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ he said.

  We all walked away and stopped around the corner.

  ‘Fuck me,’ I said, ‘I feel sick.’

  Clive was leaning against a wall almost in convulsions.

  ‘Shitting hell – if Clive had picked up those grenades, Vince,’ said Bones, ‘we’d all be gone.’

  ‘Look, I reckon it’s best that firstly we don’t talk about it and, secondly, we keep it to ourselves, yeah?’ said Clive.

  ‘Deal.’

  Of all the events of the previous few weeks, this must have been the silliest act of them all. My looting days ended there and then. We had become so careless with our own lives that greed had dominated everything. My personal feelings had been numb about a lot of things during the fighting, but that was because I felt I had to adapt to the circumstances of war. Greed had overtaken my personal feelings only after the surrender. War was a dirty business. The Argentineans played dirty even though, or perhaps because, they knew they would have to surrender. Booby-traps were a part of their defence. My greed had led me to overlook this fact.

  Back at the house, I made a cuppa and sat on the doorstep with Johnny, telling him about the stupid loot. He, as always, curled up laughing, turning it into a joke. The guy had style.

  My prisoners halted by the front gate and broke off and joined me. The six guys looked ill and tired of it all. I expect we all looked the same. I shared my brew with them, making two more cups with my rations, and they stopped cleaning to sip the tea. The water was heavily purified, so it tasted tangy.

  At dinnertime, TP’s prisoners and mine all sat chatting together at the back of the bungalow. The Argie who spoke a little English helped us all exchange names. Not one Argentinean could say ‘Vince’. I was always ‘Wince’.

  Some who read this may say that familiarity breeds contempt. I agree with being careful about this – in the right place and at the right time. But, for the time those prisoners were with TP and me, ‘Wince’ became my name and we told each other about our different home backgrounds. Most of them I found excitable and eager only to return home, like all of us. Also, they believed their actions to be right in attacking the Falklands. They couldn’t believe that they had been beaten. Their attitude towards us as soldiers expressed nothing but praise. Should we admit that we had just about run out of ammo when they surrendered? Should we be thankful that they were using the same calibre ammo in their rifles as we did in ours?

  Most of the Argie prisoners with me were naive conscripts. Many people will say that the whole Argentinean Army we fought consisted of young conscripts, but this is wrong. Many of the units on the mountains had elite back-up forces, trained in sniping and holding their ground in a deadly manner. Let me illustrate this with the following story.

  Back in Aldershot, after leave, I was standing in the pay office with a guy from B Company, who wishes to remain anonymous. After we left, we walked back to the Naafi together. He was leaving the regiment having been wounded so badly that his army career was over.

  ‘Vince,’ he said, ‘X and I were pinned behind a small rock. A sniper had us in his sights and was shooting at anything that moved. X moved to the side and saw a group of Argies whispering together not three metres away. X beckoned me to look at them. Both of us saw them suddenly crawl towards us. They actually crawled right into our laps. I just pointed my SLR at the head of one of them as he came past. I blew his brains out there and then. The three others screamed for “no shooting”. X and I dragged them into our position, then some of the company did an assault through our position that left us in a more secure position. X wanted to waste the men, now prisoners, and move on. They just looked at us in complete silence. A platoon sergeant came, half-crawling, up to us. We explained the situation. He looked at the prisoners. One spoke perfect English, with an American accent. We were really surprised, Vince, I can tell you. We questioned them for some minutes. All spoke perfect
English, praising our soldiering. The sergeant fucked off and came back after ten minutes or so. He took X aside, while I guarded the prisoners. X came back to me and said, “Get them over this ridge quickly.” We pushed them the fifteen metres, out of view, then suddenly X let rip, shooting them all dead. I helped to make sure they were completely dead, if you know what I mean.’

  I said to him, ‘So what, why the big scene?’

  ‘Vince, look, mate, they were Yanks. Orders came from above to waste them, mate.’

  ‘How did you know they were Yanks. Speaking with that accent may only mean they were schooled there?’

  ‘They told us, Vince. That was their mistake. After all, let’s look at it this way, politically both Maggie and Ronnie were meant to be helping each other in this war. The existence of Yank mercenaries can’t be in the best interests of the higher ranks, can it?’

  In my view, he was right. Whose corpses did we bury on that mountain? We will never know.

  Four and a half years later, in 1987, I spoke to X in a London pub. X is now also out of the Army. He confirmed the story in every detail. The existence of US mercenaries was common knowledge among the Paras. X was told to keep his mouth shut or something bad might happen. The government didn’t like the story. So why do I tell this story, which some might think shameful? Simply because those mercenaries were trying to kill us too. Certainly, I believe both the lads who told this story. I particularly trust X, for he was one of my closest friends in 3 Para.

  22

  REMEMBERING THE DEAD

  Working with the prisoners was at times boring and frustrating. This was because going home was in sight. They almost certainly felt the same. Rumours from the brass had us twisting and turning for the ten or twelve days we remained there. The priority was to get the Argies home. Even I could see that, since there were some ten thousand enemy soldiers on East Falkland. The last thing we needed was a riot.

  On the fourth or fifth day after the surrender, orders came from the high and mighty that the prisoners were to be moved to the quayside and shipped off home on the Canberra and Norland. We gathered our small parties together on the road in front of our bungalow and formed them up to march off. As it wasn’t their normal time for finishing work, some of them became fidgety and nervous. Tommo was busy swapping items of military kit with some Argies lucky enough to be driven away on a lorry: his cap, badge and so on.