Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands

by Bleichert, Peter von

  Wrapped in pitch-black night, Albert made his way along the cliff, away from where he heard pursuing footfalls. He balanced along a spit of rock and tucked into a vertical crevasse. There was a flash and a bang.

  Albert peeked around the lip of rock. He saw smoke billow from the grotto. Two enemy soldiers had thrown in a grenade that would stun anybody inside, and with a nod to Vargas and then one another, stormed the grotto. A muffled explosion told everybody there that they had triggered Albert’s grenade trap. Within the confined grotto, the over-pressure and shrapnel had been lethal. Outside, Vargas swore and waved away the resultant smoke. He waited a moment and then entered. The slaughter he saw within was evident on his face when he reemerged. Frustrated, Vargas looked around. This time he caught sight of Albert’s head. Summoned by the explosion, other soldiers had arrived, too.

  Clinging precariously to the cliff wall, Albert fought against his concussion-diminished balance. The rocky beach was not far below. So, when Albert lost his footing and grip on the nearly sheer cliff-face, he fell backward onto his rucksack.

  The impact forced the air from his lungs. Albert gasped to replace it. He rolled against the cliff-base and slid beneath an overhang. He lay in the wet sand, caught his breath there, and then rolled over and up to flee. Flashlights danced on the beach around him. One blob of light settled where Albert’s body had left an impression in the pebbles. From above, came urgent shouts in Spanish. Shards of spalled rock began to fall around Albert. They’re coming down, he realized.

  When he heard voices near, Albert, pistol at the ready, gathered his courage, and stepped out. Aiming up the cliff, he saw three forms rappelling down ropes. The gun barked as he emptied it. Having sent 17 bullets in just a few seconds, he managed to mortally wound two pursuers. One man fell to a pointed rock, the crack sickening Albert. The other dangled from the rope that had caught his ankle, and swung dead in the wind. Before Albert rolled back under the protective space, he caught Vargas’s cold gaze.

  Vargas pointed at Albert. That jabbing digit said: ‘I recognize you; You are mine.’ Albert’s heart pounded from adrenalin. His hand shook when he tried to seat a fresh magazine in the pistol’s well. He finally found the space in the grip, smacked the plastic magazine home, and released the slide, chambering the first round. Albert felt his chest pocket. The bulge and weight of a grenade was evident. He heard the helicopter again. Its engine whined as it spun up and increased power for take-off. Albert tried to remember if he had seen any armament on the aircraft. Regardless, he decided he had better find cover.

  An eerie silence enveloped the area. For a fleeting moment, Albert thought that the helicopter had departed the area, and sped off in another direction, but a roar washed this notion away, and the Argentine Huey dropped along the cliff-line. It dipped its bulbous nose toward where Albert had squeezed into a crack. It screamed in, and came parallel to Albert’s position.

  Albert saw the flashes from the open cabin door. He heard the ricochet of the bullets that impacted around him, and swore aloud as he tried to stuff himself further into the folds of rock. He heard a blast from above. Albert craned his neck to see the source of the deafening sound. And then, another blast, making his ears ring. He saw smoke erupt from the helicopter’s engine pod and red lights flashing on its cockpit panel. Pilot silhouettes played their controls as they nursed the Huey’s single Lycoming turbo-shaft engine.

  As a helicopter pilot, Albert could see the movements as frantic. Most pilot movements were controlled and fluid. However, these shadows moved with an air of panic. The smoke and human iterations said the machine had been injured. The Huey bucked as its problems were compounded by failing systems. The shadows in its cabin grabbed handholds. When stable, they shifted the aim point of their rifles. No longer focused on Albert, they were instead trained on the cliff-top. One of the rifles flashed. Albert heard the supersonic zing of a bullet travelling overhead. They’re no longer shooting at me, he thought. Another form in the Huey’s cabin smacked the head of the rifleman who had fired. The shooting ceased.

  There was another bang from the top of the cliff, and another hole appeared in the side of the Argentine helicopter. Oil spurted from this wound like dark blood. Pushed by the rotor wash, the vital oil ran in streaks down the side of the engine cowling. More red lights flashed on the Huey’s cockpit panels. The men who pulled its strings knew when to save themselves; when enough was enough. The Argentine helicopter banked and raced off along the cliff. As it retreated over the black sea and above the din of waves and the whip of wind, Albert heard a scream of victory. The voice that delivered it was of a higher pitch. It belonged to a woman. When the gusts subsided for a moment, Albert heard the voice again.

  “You can come out now,” she shouted.

  Wiggling his jammed ankle free, Albert crawled from his hide. He moved out on a small ledge and saw the silhouette of his savior. She was petite and had long hair that tossed about in the air that rushed up the cliff. The curls shifted left and then right as the breeze changed direction. Her rifle—a .303 British by the look of it—was almost as long as she was tall. Holstering his sidearm and slinging his rucksack over his shoulder, Albert began the climb to meet his savior. He pulled himself over the cliff’s lip and stood up straight before her.

  “Aethelinda Jones. You can call me Linda,” she said. Then Linda squinted. Her flashlight blinded Albert as it moved about his face. It paused at his eyes and mouth. Both had a shape she recognized. “Do I know you?” she questioned, but she already knew the answer. Then her mouth opened in amazement. “My Goodness,” she said, shocked. She knelt.

  “Please,” Albert pleaded. He took her hand and tugged her back up.

  “Were…were you in that helicopter that went down?” she stuttered. Albert caught a glimpse of Linda’s freckled pale skin and big green eyes in the flickering flashlight.

  “Yes,” Albert said. “I think we should turn this off for now.” He felt her shaking hand and clicked off the flashlight. “Thank you. You saved my life. You could have been killed, you know?” he said.

  Linda shrugged.

  Albert looked out to the water and the silhouette of the retreating helicopter. He was thankful they had ceased firing on a woman, even one blasting away with a big bore hunting rifle. Albert touched her gun’s long, blued barrel, and admitted: “Nice.”

  “I have had it since I was a little girl. My father taught me to shoot as soon as I was strong enough. You must be hungry. And tired. Come. Let’s go,” Linda Jones insisted.

  ◊◊◊◊

  At the small family farm, the sheep enjoyed more living space than the people did. Albert saw a cottage that beckoned with a rope of smoke, rising from its chimney pipe, but the weathered barn was at least three times its size. The cottage had smallish windows that glowed yellow and warm, and a moss-covered stone roof that would keep those within dry and cozy. Albert and Linda walked along a mud path by a short stone wall. They passed the barn and the sheep that bleated within.

  They rounded a hillock blanketed by a fragrant flowerbed. Like the flowers, the cottage’s walls seemed to sprout from the very earth; growing as living rock reaching up for the stars. They moved on to the cottage’s heavy oaken door and the heavy wrought-iron knocker that hung at its center. The door flew open. Albert flinched, and his hand instinctively went to the butt of his holstered pistol. However, when he saw the old man with the shotgun, he managed to stay his hand. The old man inquired gruffly, “Who goes there?”

  “Easy, Dad. We have a special guest,” Linda proclaimed. A herding dog—marbled black and white—ran from the house, barking wildly at Albert.

  “Eight ball…” Hearing Linda say his name, the dog stopped barking, flapped his tongue out, and panted with a seeming smile. Then, with a halo of light about her, a little girl stepped into the cottage’s doorframe. She clung shyly to her grandfather’s leg. Albert froze. He shifted his weight as he examined the familiar vision. His feet seemed caught in the suction of the mud
dy ground. I know you, he thought. He had seen this little one before. The scene had been a vague fleeting image that hid in the folds of his memory. But now it had suddenly sprung to his conscious mind like a bolt of electricity.

  “Hello,” the child whispered shyly.

  “Prince Albert, this is Anne, my daughter,” Linda said. “And this is my father, Henry.

  “Prince?” Henry questioned. “Yeah. And I’m the bleeding Pope.”

  “Dad, try not to be so rude always.” She turned back to Albert and her face softened. Then back to her daughter and father. “Anne. Father. This is Prince Albert.” Linda performed an exaggerated curtsy with a crooked smile upon her face. Anne batted her eyes and blushed.

  Linda recognized her daughter’s instant fondness. The glow in her daughter’s eyes spoke of the tales of knights, towers, and dragons. It was, after all, not every day that a sheep shearer’s daughter met a real live Prince.

  “How do you do?” Albert greeted the old man. Then he crouched and looked at the little girl who squirmed at her grandfather’s side. “Good evening, Lady Anne,” Albert said to Anne.

  “Please, Prince Albert, do come in,” Linda signaled.

  “Albert. Please, just call me Albert.”

  “Albert,” Linda giggled as if the privilege of familiarity tickled her. “Please,” she added, and gestured for the open door. “Dad.” Linda’s bossy tone got her father to lower the twin barrels of his shotgun. This petite farm girl was obviously in charge.

  Albert entered the small cottage, feeling like he had travelled to some parallel universe. The cottage was far more spacious than its modest exterior had implied, and, he saw, the decorations were traditional English. The first thing he noticed was the hutch that displayed blue and white plates. Although not the finest of China, each plate, nevertheless, showed off attractions of Great Britain.

  The images were a tourist’s menagerie; A mail-order variety of places. Each reminded someone of the place where they belonged. A place beyond sheep pastures, endless empty grasslands, and cold unforgiving seas. Albert took in the collection: There was the Iron Bridge of Shropshire, Hadrian’s Wall, Stonehenge, Kings College, and the Blackpool Tower. Finally, on an oval serving plate, framed by three panels, were Buckingham Palace, Balmoral, and Windsor Castles. Albert grinned and looked over the furniture.

  The chairs and sofa, all shrouded by blankets, were brightly-colored and hand-knitted with local wool. They likely hid the furniture’s tatters and holes that came from years of comfortable use. One of the chairs was draped in a grey and white blanket. However, this particular blanket opened one yellow eye, and turned out to be a very fat, very old cat named Grey Bear. Awakened, Grey Bear gave a quivered stretch. With half-closed eyes, he ‘sussed up’ Albert, and decided it was not worth moving. He circled in place and collapsed again. Absorbing heat from the small fireplace, Grey Bear drifted off to sleep again. Albert smiled and continued to look around.

  The sitting room’s wallpaper was faded and busy, and most of the paintings that hung there could have been done by the numbers. Albert rubbed his eyes. Then he spotted one piece in the collection that caught his interest. It had sail boats moored off a grass marsh, and, on a beach, a couple shared a picnic beneath an umbrella as a child made castles in the sand. Albert leaned in to get a closer look. He saw from the signature that Linda was the artist.

  “This is quite good,” he said. “I can see you’re a fan of impressionism.”

  Linda smiled gratefully. Had she been born elsewhere—away from the farm, perhaps in a city like London—Linda would have been an artist. Her attic was crammed full of pieces she felt unworthy of display. Although many were gems that could populate an exhibit, they had long been banished to collect dust and cobwebs, reminders of a life that could have been, but never came to be. Linda looked to her dry callused hands, and thought: Not the hands of a painter. Albert rubbed his tired itchy eyes again.

  “Tea?” Linda offered.

  “That would be lovely, thank you.” A nice hot cup was just what Albert needed.

  Ten minutes later, Linda had set the table for a ‘smoko,’ a traditional Falkland serving of tea and toast usually reserved for mid-morning. She had even boiled a fresh egg for the weary Prince.

  “Hope you don’t mind sheep’s milk,” she said as she poured it into his cup.

  “Not at all,” he said, and thanked her.

  Linda offered Albert a slice of thick grain bread and set out an assortment of preserves and honey. “All from the garden,” she added with a smile. There was a long quiet moment as both Albert and Linda sipped from their cups. “Annie,” Linda belted, jarring Albert from his tranquility. The delivery of the child’s name was enough to chase the little girl from where she had been peering between the banister rails and back to bed.

  They detected heavy breathing from the living room. Henry was sound asleep again in his favorite chair. Its worn fabric and overstuffed pillows embraced his skinny body. Albert smiled and had another sip. He found the tea quite aromatic, dark, and hot, and it washed down the chewy bread nicely. “The butter is so sweet, is it not?” Linda queried. Albert hummed contentedly in answer. “Our only cow spends all day chewing grass and eating my flowers.”

  “It’s delicious,” Albert declared. He had not tasted anything this good in some time. “The honey…it tastes of rapsflower blossom.”

  “It’s pale maiden, actually. The bees love them,” Linda added thankfully with a smile. “When you’re done, I’ll find you some clothes. My Dad made up a bed for you, as well.” She saw worry spread over Albert’s face and read his thoughts. “Will they come after us?”

  “Yes,” Albert spoke bluntly. “I should not linger.”

  “We can care for ourselves,” she looked to the rifle propped beside the door, and then to the shotgun at her father’s feet. His gasping snore made them both laugh.

  “I need to make my way back to base; back to Mount Pleasant.”

  “I know a few fellows that may be able to help.”

  “Your husband? Anne’s father?” Albert took advantage of the opening to find out more about his savior and host.

  Linda did not answer. She just shook her head. Albert understood that her husband, whoever he was, was gone. From her expression, Albert also surmised the man had passed away.

  “I’m sorry,” Albert offered uncomfortably, and took another bite of jam-smeared toast as he stirred his tea. She removed the tea cozy she had knitted, tipped the pot, and filled his cup again. When Albert sat back and rubbed his belly, Linda pointed the way upstairs.

  In order to avoid waking Annie or her father, Albert and Linda were both careful to tread lightly when they climbed the creaky stairs. Linda guided the way to her bedroom. There was mostly silence as she went through the drawers of her husband’s dresser. She held articles of clothing up to Albert to judge their size against his body. Albert could see sadness and loneliness in the emeralds of her moist eyes. As she held a wool sweater over his torso, their gaze met and held. Albert wanted to kiss her, and suspected she would welcome it.

  “This looks like it should do,” she turned away with a blush. “You are a little taller--” Linda sighed instead of finishing her sentence. “Well, then. Off to bed with you.” She pointed to the room just down the hall.

  Albert peeled the smelly flight suit from his sticky skin, and crawled between the cool, soft, clean sheets. He stashed his Glock beneath the deep, fluffy pillow, lay his head down, and fell deep asleep.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Albert awakened to serene morning light streaming through lace curtains. However, a worrisome pounding at the cottage door jarred him. He bolted from bed and down the stairs.

  7: ARAPUCHA

  “Guerrilla war is a kind of war waged by the few but dependent on the support of many.”—B. H. Liddell Hart

  “Quickly; in here,” Henry said, as he gestured toward an opening in the floor. The thunderous rapping at the door became even more insistent and was
accompanied by yelled Spanish.

  “No. Where is your shotgun?” Albert countered as the Glock in his hand would not suffice against an enemy breech team.

  “Don’t be daft. Leave this to me. We need you to stay alive and out of enemy hands. Now, do as I say,” Henry left little room for argument.

  Albert began to climb down into the hide. He paused on the rickety ladder.

  “Where’s Annie and Linda?”

  “Tending the herd,” Henry answered and pushed down on the top of Albert’s head. The hatch closed and he was swallowed by the pitch black of the old root cellar. Albert heard the carpet being dragged back over the hatch. He shivered.

  The cottage door splintered. The soldier with the battering ram stepped aside to allow his armed comrades to enter in a practiced fluid motion. Once inside, they formed a semi-circle around the immovable Henry. Each soldier—Argentinian flags on their shoulders—pointed their assault rifles at his chest. Vargas strolled in, pistol in hand. Henry saw something unsettling in the cold stare of Vargas’s dark brown eyes. This one would kill without hesitation, Henry knew, and he swallowed hard.

  In the black of the root cellar, the sounds of creaking boards and stomping boots echoed, and dust from the creaking floorboards overhead rained down upon him. Muffled voices, and then a stubborn shout from Henry: “God save the King.” As the last syllable of the old man’s battle cry was enunciated, Albert heard a single pistol shot, followed by the thud of Henry’s body as it collapsed to the floor. Albert was filled with equal parts fear and rage. He heard footsteps climb the staircase to the second floor of the cottage. When the sounds retreated, and Albert heard an engine turning over outside, he got up on the ladder and pressed his shoulder against the hide’s hatch door. With some effort, he raised it enough to roll Henry off, and peeked through.

  Albert felt like a rat leaving a nest. He had hid while an old man stood his ground. As he scampered out, Albert resolved to never again accept sacrifice in the name of his position. He looked to Henry. Blood streamed from his mouth and nose, and there was a single red hole torn in his chest. While barely alive, he locked eyes with Albert, and, with a painful last breath, muttered, “Annie. Linda. Tell them I--” Albert closed the man’s eyelids and finished the sentence on his behalf: