Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands

by Bleichert, Peter von

  The cabin door yawned open. Cold, salty air blasted inside, bringing droplets from the drizzly grey day. Albert felt the damp in his bones and, surprisingly, missed the dry furnace of Afghanistan. An attendant deployed an umbrella and held it over Albert as he stepped on to the truck-mounted staircase that had ‘FIGAS’—Falkland Islands Government Air Service—painted on its ramped side.

  A cheer erupted from the waiting crowd, and small Union Jacks waved frantically. Albert rendered a smile. A ceremonial guard stood in formation at the bottom of the stairs. At rigid attention, they formed a gauntlet that led to several waiting vehicles. A military band struggled to be heard above the howling wind.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Despite inclement weather, Albert rode in a convertible and waved to loyal subjects. In the other vehicles—mostly armored Land Rovers—heavily-armed men comprised the motorcade’s security detail. The procession made its way along Ross Road on Stanley’s waterfront.

  Young girls screamed like at a Beatles concert, old men saluted, and, among the throng, Argentine eyes took note. The vehicles rolled by Christ Church Cathedral and Whalebone Arch, passed Victory Green, and then on toward Government House where Albert would be welcomed by, and become a guest of, Governor Roger Moody.

  The motorcade turned from Ross Road and onto the shady grove of Government House Road. Albert saw the whitewashed stone mansion where he would stay.

  Perched on a small hilltop, Government House stood over a manicured lawn where cloud shadows, caught in the erratic wind, played their ways across the grounds. It had big windows that looked out over the sea, staring as though waiting for a love’s return. The mansion’s northern façade was dominated by a conservatory, and tall brick chimneys poked from its green-grey roof. Smoke from warming fires floated from their caps before being caught and carried away by the stiff and ever-present breeze. Built in 1845 and home to all London-appointed governors since, Government House stood watch over Stanley Harbour.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Albert sat cradled in an overstuffed wing chair next to a roaring fire that warmed him. A butler stood by to refill the Prince’s heavy crystal tumbler with whiskey. Depression and jet lag had combined to exhaust Albert. He felt sleep was upon him. The drink was slipping from his relaxed clutches. A pop from the walls awakened Albert with a spasm. The old building cooled in the evening. Its bones—beams and joists—had been crafted from parts of whaling ships that used to ply the rich waters around the Falklands. They made sounds as if they were still being stretched and twisted by the sea.

  “Your Royal Highness,” Governor Moody said as he entered the mansion’s library. Albert stood up and wobbled. Embarrassed, the governor gestured him down. It was the governor, after all, who should stand in the Prince’s presence. However, Albert knew the thin and tall governor to be a combat veteran of the Falklands War, and paid him this respect nonetheless. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” the governor acknowledged the gesture and took the seat next to Albert. He also accepted a drink from the hovering butler, then removed a fine Havana from a humidor box, lit it, and used a remote to start the stereo. Chopin’s ‘Raindrop’ prelude began to serenade. Cigar smoke drifted in curls, and then was sucked up the chimney by the convective fire.

  Although Governor Moody had met the Prince’s motorcade upon its arrival at Government House, he had immediately retreated to the building beside the mansion, the so-called ‘wireless room’ that housed equipment that kept the remote island in touch with London by satellite. “Excuse my absence, Your Royal Highness,” the governor said. “Since the War, we must report in every evening, even when distinguished company is in the House.” Distant and mesmerized by the flickering fire, Albert nodded acknowledgment and drank a long quaff from his glass. The governor looked the young man over, recognized his distant stare, and felt equal parts sympathy and reverence for his sovereign. The governor swirled the golden whiskey around his glass, took a sip, and decided not to fill the silence with idle chat. Both men peered at the fire. Among the flames, Albert saw the little girl and the outline of her teddy-bear. The governor, too, saw his own ghosts there, and decided to speak instead: “I think you will find your chambers most comfortable, Your Royal Highness.”

  “Please, governor, call me Albert.”

  “Very well. Are you thinking of the war? Of Afghanistan?”

  Just as the old warrior had intended with his insightful question, Albert was forced to meet the governor’s eyes. “Your Royal Highness…Albert. Though no disfigurement may be apparent, war can wound a man deeply. It is something that one cannot understand unless they have been through the trial themselves.” Albert looked over the governor’s sharp-featured face, studied the liver spots that made a map of his face, and then peered into his blue, unrevealing eyes. Albert recognized practiced blankness in them, and realized knew pain lurked just below.

  “Yes,” Albert uttered, with a trembling voice.

  “It can be hard for an Englishman to admit this pain, let alone express it. It is not our way. It must be even more difficult for someone in your position, someone with such expectations put upon him,” the governor said. Albert wanted to say something, but was afraid his voice would crack if he spoke. Albert felt his throat tighten and tears began to well. “While we are welcomed home with praise and parades, it is often just an ear we need. Someone to listen,” the governor continued, took another drink, and peered at Albert over the rim of his tilted glass.

  In that moment, Albert realized how much he longed for a relationship with his own father. He also understood how hard it would be for such words to come from the King’s mouth, hard for reasons of culture, station, and personality. Hatred of his father was pushed aside just a bit, though the space was readily filled by Albert’s self-loathing. Feeling detached from his own life, as though he had stepped out of a movie and had just returned, Albert thought, I killed a little girl. The thought became a trembling statement that echoed in his flight–clogged ears: “I killed a little girl,” Albert said out loud.

  The governor was taken aback. He had assumed the Prince had killed, been forced to kill by circumstance, but he never expected such a confession. Questioning if he had actually spoken the words, Albert added stutteringly: “We targeted a vehicle, dispatched a missile, and a child got in the way.” The last words were choked, and Albert began to sob. It was the first time since Jugroom Fort that he had cried. The first time, in fact, that he had cried since he was just a boy. The governor dismissed the butler, moved to Albert, and wrapped an arm around the young Prince.

  “It was an accident. Such things happen in war. You were doing your duty, for King and Country.” The words only made Albert cry harder. With streaming eyes clenched shut, Albert saw the girl engulfed in flames, a look of surprise and pain on her face.

  Albert questioned his own sanity, and, regardless of the answer, realized he would never be the same. The innocence and the carefree days of youth were now an unfamiliar memory. He fought to regain composure. He had contemplated suicide since Afghanistan. That night, by the fire of Government House, with the kind governor’s arm about him, Albert promised himself and God he would do no such thing. He would live with the pain. Crying made him realize this pain could be diminished somewhat, forgotten a little, that he could heal. However, Albert was certain that when God decided to take him, he would likely welcome the day.

  “Son, I too have killed,” the governor said. “Although my rifle claimed many, what haunts me to this day was one night at Many Branch Point. I had thrown what I thought was my last grenade at a retreating Argie. It turned out to be white phosphorous. So, instead of exploding and killing him, it ignited his uniform. He was burning alive. And I was out of ammunition and could not end his suffering. He was just a conscript. Just a boy. He should have been picking up birds in the local café, not aiming a rifle at me and my mates. He cried for his mother as he burned. To this very day, I feel this grief.” The governor let out a deep, tormented sigh. “I have becom
e more at peace with the memory, though the nightly visits never seem to stop. Despite this, despite the horrific burdens we carry, we must carry on. As Churchill said: ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going.’”

  That vaunted name stopped what was left of Albert’s tears. He sat upright again. Exhaustion had broken Albert’s mantle, and he felt ashamed for it happening in front of a stranger, a dignitary he was meant to impress. The governor recognized this.

  “Do not be embarrassed. We are all just men. This little chat is between you and me. You have my word as a gentleman.”

  “Thank you,” Albert sputtered, chugging the last of his whiskey. “I think I will turn in”

  “This way, Your Royal Highness,” the governor gestured to an old staircase.

  “Albert, Governor. You may call me Albert. After all, we are all just men,” he said with a forced sleepy smile. Filled with respect for the young Prince, the governor watched Albert shamble up the old creaking stairs. He signaled the butler to follow.

  Albert’s upper floor bedroom awaited, cozy and warm. Modest in décor, it had a wood-fired stove that radiated heat and a soft glow. As the butler retreated, Albert slid under the soft bed’s thick duvet. Swaddled in comfort, he peered out a small window to the black sea. On the horizon was the flicker of a ship’s deck lights. With his head sinking into the soft, cool pillow, Albert surmised that the lights likely belonged to a cruise ship filled with eco-tourists returning from the Southern Ocean. He fell asleep.

  4: WAYLAY

  “We're surrounded. That simplifies the problem.”—Chesty Puller

  The rotor blades of the Apache thumped and turned slowly. The helicopter floated along the meadow. Its belly brushed tall, swaying grass. Ahead were the thatched roofs of simple houses. Horses scattered and ran away over the hills.

  Albert was at the machine’s control. Relaxed, he looked up through the cockpit glass at the bright stars of the clear night, then down to his co-pilot’s helmet. The man in front of him never seemed to answer any questions. One of the house doors opened. Light spilled out into the dark night, and, one by one, children emerged and lined up against the brick wall.

  The helicopter’s cannon rattled and flashed. The children fell in exaggerated spinning deaths. Albert screamed. The co-pilot turned, and, beneath black empty eye sockets, a skeletal jaw hinged open in a mocking silent shriek. Albert screamed again.

  ◊◊◊◊

  “Your Royal Highness. You were screaming.” Government House’s butler stood in the door frame. His face, shadowed by hall light, betrayed his concern. Albert was drenched in sweat. Major Fagan, now in his fatigues and a beige beret that covered his salt and pepper hair, peeked around the corner. Albert recognized the SAS’s cap badge. It was Excalibur. The longsword was pointed down, wreathed in flames, and worked into the cloth of a Crusader shield. Beneath was the motto, ‘Who Dares Wins.’

  “You all right, then, Captain?” Fagan asked with his thick Yorkshire accent

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Albert answered. “Thank you.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  The butler said he would fetch a glass of water, and he shut the door. The room was swallowed by darkness again.

  Suddenly, came muffled thumping, and Albert had to ask himself if he was really awake. Then, hurried footfalls in the hall. Albert swung his legs out of bed. His bare feet hit the cold floor and confirmed he was in fact awake. He clicked the nightstand light on. The muffled thumps became the crackle of gunfire. Albert looked out the window and saw flashes on the mansion’s lawn.

  “Captain Talbot.” The chamber’s door was thrown open again. Fagan leaned in, pistol in hand. “Come quickly.” Still fogged by alcohol, jet lag, and sleep, Albert sat slumped at the edge of his bed. “Now, sir.”

  The order blasted away the last of the fog in Albert’s mind. He complied and moved toward the voice. Seeing he was only dressed in pajamas, Fagan threw a Kevlar vest at Albert.

  “Put this on and follow me.”

  Crouched, Albert and Fagan moved along the House’s upper hall. A grenade exploded downstairs. The mansion shook. The blast was answered by a string of automatic gunfire and shouts. Someone was coming up the stairs, too. Major Fagan knelt and raised his SIG Sauer handgun.

  “Don’t shoot,” a voice said. It was Governor Moody and he had an Uzi submachine gun in hand. “Albert, are you all right?”

  “So far,” Albert answered as he looked over his pajamas and body armor. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m not certain. The security detail and the mansion guard have failed to answer their radios. Someone yelling orders in Spanish tried to get inside the House.”

  There was a flash and explosion outside. The three men flinched and dropped down.

  “We have to get the Prince from here,” the governor insisted to Major Fagan. To my office,” the governor insisted.

  The three men headed down a narrow set of stairs.

  The butler was dead. He lay there at the bottom riser, a shattered glass of water at his side. Albert, Fagan, and the governor stepped over him. Out of respect, each was careful not to contact the corpse. They entered the kitchen.

  The simple kitchen held baskets of vegetables, trays of eggs, and, hanging from an iron rack above the hearth, well-used pots and pans. Beside the wood chopping block lay a dead footman. Albert, the governor, and Fagan turned for the lower hall.

  They passed a dead dark-haired man folded over a chair. The corpse’s uniform was blood-stained and full of holes made by the governor’s Uzi. Major Fagan grabbed a handful of hair and rolled the stiffening body off the chair’s back. Even though there was no recognizable insignia on the uniform, Fagan declared him an ‘Argie.’

  Numb and seemingly indifferent to the mayhem, the governor said: “My office is that way.” He pointed in the direction of a set of double doors with the barrel of his Uzi. The three moved that way and came upon a hall cabinet.

  “One moment,” the governor said. They all paused at the piece of furniture. As the governor removed a key from his robe pocket and unlocked the cabinet, Fagan tracked his semi-automatic pistol around, watching for threats. The governor grabbed a shotgun from inside the cabinet and handed it to Albert.

  “I trust you know how to use this?”

  Albert’s answer was communicated by a check of the 12-gauge’s chamber. Finding it empty, he cycled the shotgun’s forearm and dragged a shell into the chamber.

  “Very well,” the governor approved.

  The three men moved on through the dark smoke-filled hall. The crackle of intermittent gunfire continued outside.

  Heavy bootfalls boomed along the upstairs hall. The three men looked up. The sounds stopped at what was the Prince’s chamber.

  “Carry on,” Governor Moody urged. He unlocked and pushed open the door to his office.

  The room was empty and undisturbed. A portrait of Captain John McBride hung on the paneled walls, and a large oak desk sat flanked by two tall bookcases that held leather-bound tomes. The governor began clearing books from shelves.

  “Lock the door,” the governor ordered and Fagan complied. The governor removed the plank of one shelf and pried off a false back, opening into a cobweb-filled crawlspace. “This will get us to the garage. In you go. Both of you.” There was no arguing with the diplomat-warrior.

  Albert moved to enter, but Fagan held him back and went in first. With Albert and the governor behind him, Fagan felt his way in the pitch-black. He swatted at the sticky webs that stuck to his face and shuffled forward, feeling his way along the lath and plaster. Then he saw light that outlined a small door. He kicked it open and squeezed through.

  Albert emerged next to a toppled pile of paint cans that had concealed the door within the garage workshop. Fagan scanned the room. There were tables, racks of tools, and garden implements. He signaled Albert, who emerged, followed by the governor and his Uzi. The governor used his key to unlock the workshop door and opened it just a crack. He peeked throug
h to the garage proper.

  “All clear,” the governor proclaimed.

  Albert and Fagan followed him to the garage where two Land Rovers were parked. The glow of fire flickered through the small windows lining the top of the garage’s door. The mansion is burning, the fact hit Albert. Again, using the key, the governor opened a wall-mounted lock-box. He removed a key FOB that would start one of the vehicles.

  “I’ll drive,” Governor Moody declared. As the governor knew the roads, neither Albert nor Fagan argued. They piled into the Land Rover. Major Fagan took the governor’s Uzi, slapped in a fresh magazine, and handed Albert his nine-millimeter pistol.

  “You get in back and stay down,” Fagan instructed Albert. With pistol in his dominant hand and the shotgun cupped in the other, Albert rolled over the rear seat and into the back of the Land Rover.

  The governor started the vehicle and opened the garage door with a remote that hung on the shade. As the door rose slowly, the governor revved the engine.

  Impatient with the slow door he yelled: “Sod it,” and reversed out, splintering the edge of the wooden portal. He spun the Land Rover around in the driveway, rocking its boxy body, and squealed its wide knobby tires.

  Small arms fire plinked off the armored vehicle’s sides as the last of the enemy assault force had turned its fire from the mansion guards to the escaping Land Rover. Through a gun-port in the Land Rover’s door, Fagan sprayed bullets back at the offenders.

  “We must get the Prince to Mount Pleasant,” the governor said as they sped away. He glanced at the burning mansion in the rearview mirror, and passed a fire truck racing there. The Land Rover’s engine revved and shifted through gears as they accelerated. “Anyone want some air? It is a bit stuffy in here,” the governor said with utter calmness. Albert and the soldier shared a smile of mutual admiration for the rock-steady governor.