Soldier B: Heroes of the South Atlantic

by Shaun Clarke

  Captain Grenville had been standing at the other side of the hatchway, just listening, amused, but he stepped forward when the good-humoured jeering and clapping of both sides had subsided. When he stepped into the recreation room, which the SAS were using as an all-purpose barracks, with bashas made up on the floor, the noise subsided even more.

  ‘Sounds like bullshit from both sides,’ Grenville said. ‘At least you troopers are still awake. Anyway, if points are to be made, now’s the time to make them. I’ve come to say we’re going to try another insertion, this time by sea, in the hope of setting up an OP on Grass Island, about two miles from Leith. If you bullshit artists of the Boat Troop think you’re better, now’s your chance to prove it.’

  After another outburst of hoots and catcalls, the former from the Boat Troop, the latter from the Mountain Troop, Ricketts, more serious than the others, asked: ‘What are we supposed to be doing in the meantime?’

  ‘You rest up and wait,’ Grenville told him. ‘Once we set up OPs, there’s going to be a wide-scale assault on South Georgia. You’ll all be involved in that.’

  ‘Throwing snowballs,’ Gumboot said, standing up with a wicked grin on his face. ‘That’s why you got in the Mountain Troop.’

  The anticipated rejoinders flew thick and fast, until Captain Grenville silenced them all with his raised hand.

  ‘OK, that’s enough. I want all members of the Boat Troop to get kitted out immediately, then gather at the docking area. We’re going to launch as soon as the Geminis are inflated. I’ll see you down there in one hour. That’s it, gentlemen. On your way.’

  The members of the Boat Troop cheered and hurried out through the hatchway, leaving Ricketts and the rest of his exhausted team to thaw out and get some rest.

  The docking area at the stern of the ship had been opened and was already being flooded when the men of the Boat Troop assembled near the launching bay. Kitted out with waterproof clothing and the usual array of weapons, the Boat Troop also carried special survival suits, life-jackets and SARBE beacons, to facilitate the pick-ups and, if necessary, aid rescue from the sea.

  The five Geminis to be used in the operation, already inflated and roped to the docking bay, were being lifted towards the men on the rising sea as it poured into the open stern to flood the bay area, rushing, roaring and spewing spray in every direction.

  Seeing it from this vantage point, the sea appeared to slope up to the distant, stormy horizon, soaring and rolling dramatically in immense, shadowed waves that appeared to be about to swamp the ship, though they simply made it rise and fall as if made of cork. The sky was just as threatening, hanging low, filled with black clouds, and the wind that came rushing in to smack the men was icy and vicious.

  ‘Looks like hell out there,’ Grenville said. ‘I think we’re in for a rough time.’

  ‘So let’s go, boss,’ urged Jock. ‘We best go before nightfall.’

  ‘Right, Corporal. Let’s do it.’

  The men embarked in the five Geminis, three to each boat, with Captain Grenville in charge of the lead craft, Gumboot, Taff and Jock sharing another. There were two large inflatables, powered by 40hp outboard motors, and three smaller versions, powered by 18hp motors, with the smaller ones roped to the larger ones – two to one, one to the other. When the docking ropes had been untied and the outboard motors turned on, the inflatables cruised out of the docking area, one after the other, and immediately were carried up and away on the giant swells of the windswept sea.

  The immense waves picked the boats up, carried them through shrieking wind, above ravines of light-flecked darkness, then swept them back down into roaring, spinning tunnels formed by waves curling almost above them, threatening to swamp them. When low in the water, the waves pounded against the inflatables and washed over the men, pummelling them mercilessly and making a dreadful drumming sound against the rubber hulls. When raised on high, barrelling along the crest of the waves with the men glancing down what appeared to be dizzy depths of light and darkness, the outboard engines, coming clear of the water, shrieked and shook dementedly.

  Within minutes the Antrim, which had been towering above them like a brightly lit skyscraper, receded into the stormy ocean, blending in with the grey haze where sea and sky merged, until little of it remained within view. Then it disappeared completely, leaving only the sea and sky, while the inflatables, rising and falling, plunging in and out of the water, shrieked and vibrated like wild things that could not be controlled.

  In his smaller inflatable, roped to Captain Grenville’s larger boat, Taff struggled with the rudder, trying to keep the boat close to the one ahead in case the rope snapped. It was a Herculean endeavour, requiring great physical strength, since the howling wind and raging, roaring water were relentlessly trying to hammer and tear it from his hand.

  Jock McGregor and Taff Burgess were seated right in front of him, both leaning forward, heads bowed, stretched out over the strapped-down weapons and equipment. In charge of the waterproof PRC 319 radio, Jock was keeping in contact with Captain Grenville in the larger Gemini, which, a good distance ahead of them, kept disappearing in immense fountains of spray, then materializing again, often on the crest of giant waves. It seemed to float high above them, almost touching the black, tumultuous clouds, as if about to take wing.

  ‘Christ, Taff!’ Gumboot bawled back over his hunched shoulder. ‘What the fuck are you doin’ back there? This inflatable’s like a bloody buckin’ bronco! Keep control of that rudder!’

  ‘Go screw yourself, Gumboot,’ Taff shouted against the roaring wind. ‘If I can’t control this rudder, no one can – not in this bloody sea.’

  ‘Excuses, excuses – always bloody excuses!’

  ‘If I didn’t have my hand on this rudder, I’d shove it right down your tonsils.’

  ‘You and whose army?’

  Jock knew that the banter was simply a healthy way of letting off steam at difficult times. All the same, their conversation was distracting and could cause him to miss something on the radio. Glancing up at the raging sea, observing the immense, curling waves and dark, boiling sky, he decided to tell them to shut up, to enable him to make a call to Captain Grenville in the Gemini ahead. Even now, this was being carried aloft on the crest of a wave, only to be swept down the other side, out of sight once more.

  At that moment, the corporal in charge of the small boat roped to the other large Gemini cried over the radio: ‘Damn it! Our outboard motor’s cut out! It’s not working, Captain!’

  ‘We’ll try to tow you,’ said Captain Marsh of the other large Gemini, ‘but in this kind of wind … Damn, the tow rope’s already too taut. I don’t think it’ll hold.’

  Glancing ahead and to the side, Jock saw the rope that tied his own and another small inflatable to Captain Grenville’s large Gemini. It was being given enough slack to hold because Taff, controlling the rudder, was also driving the outboard motor and trying to keep up with the boat ahead. However, with its engine dead, the other inflatable’s tow rope had stretched as tight as it could go and looked to be on the point of snapping in two.

  Jock felt he should warn them. His stomach heaved as, about to make the call, his own, smaller Gemini, roped to the one in front, followed its dizzying course up the next wave, then plunged down the other side, into barrelling darkness and the deafening roar of the churning sea.

  When it emerged, the outboard motor had cut out.

  ‘What the hell …?’ Taff bawled, furiously working the rudder, glancing back over his shoulder at the silent mechanism, which was smashing in and out of the water, but flapping about loosely. ‘Fucking hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘The bastard’s practically been torn off by the waves. We’ve no engine left, Jock.’

  ‘Jesus Christ! What else?’ Jock pleaded, glancing back at the smashed motor, then across the boiling, roaring sea just as the rope of the third small craft, being towed by the other big Gemini, snapped in two, with the two halves whipping up in the air like giant, crazed snakes,
only to be slapped back down by the howling wind. Set free, the small inflatable, its outboard motor dead, went spinning away from the larger craft, completely out of control, then disappeared beyond a series of high waves. It did not reappear.

  ‘Shit!’ Gumboot exclaimed, his flinty eyes scanning the sea, fearlessly taking in all that was happening. ‘I think we’re fucked, mates.’

  He was not far wrong. Even as Taff fought with the rudder and Jock checked the location of the boat ahead, the lack of an engine let the surging waves sweep their boat violently to the west, snapping the tow rope.

  ‘We’re adrift! Gumboot bawled.

  Taff struggled with the rudder, trying to turn towards Captain Grenville’s Gemini, but the loss of an outboard motor defeated him, giving the sea dominion. The inflatable was swept up on a wave, careered down the other side, miraculously survived a spinning tunnel of roaring water, then rushed farther westward. Grenville’s Gemini soon disappeared, moving on towards Stromness and now hidden by the surging waves, while Taff, exhausted, struggling with his useless rudder, was forced to give up and let the raging sea take them where it would.

  It took them towards Antarctica.

  Captain Grenville watched the second dinghy disappear beyond the turbulent horizon with a deep feeling of shock. Now he was left with only one dinghy in tow, while the other large Gemini had none. He had just lost two boats and six good men, with little hope of getting them back. He could scarcely believe it.

  Glancing in one direction, he saw only the raging sea and its soul mate, the cloud-black sky; glancing ahead he saw the jagged hills of Grass Island emerging out of the storm. He looked out to sea again, desperately hoping to spot the lost boats, but he saw only huge waves, one falling and breaking on the other with a terrible roar.

  Praying to God that the men in the lost boats would be all right, though holding out little hope, he turned back to his own men and said, ‘All right, we’re still here, practically there, so let’s make our insertion. That beach is only half a mile away and we’re going straight onto it.’

  The storm abated a little as they headed for the shore, but about 400 yards out, when the white, frozen hills were visible through the mist, snow started falling on them, as if to make up for the lessening wind. The men huddled up in their waterproof outfits and prepared for the landing.

  Luckily, the closer they came to the shore, the less the wind blew and the more settled the formerly raging sea became. Slowing down their outboard motors, the pilots of the two large Geminis inched carefully into shallow waters, then stopped and anchored, enabling the men to clamber out and wade to the shore, carrying their light M16s above their heads.

  ‘Leave the rest of the equipment in the boats,’ Captain Grenville ordered. ‘We may not be stopping here.’

  Leaving his exhausted men on the beach, within sight of the inflatables bobbing out in shallow water, Grenville held his M16 at the ready and hurried up the snow-covered hill directly ahead. Reaching the summit, he was able to look across the small island to Leith Harbour, only two miles away. Blocks of ice were floating in the water, but the storm had abated. Glancing around him, Grenville saw nothing but other hills covered with snow and ice; there was no sign of Argentinian troops. Looking out to sea, he could not even see the British fleet; nor was there any sign of the two missing dinghies – only what now looked like calmer sea under a dark, stormy sky, from which snow was falling steadily. Satisfied, he returned to the men resting on the snow-covered, pebbled shore.

  ‘There’s no storm between here and Leith Harbour,’ he said, ‘so I think we should move on to South Georgia and set up our OPs. Let’s do it now, before the storm reaches here or a new one starts up. Do you men think you’re up to it?’

  ‘Do birds sing?’ one of the men asked. ‘Do men shit? Of course we’re up to it, boss.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, lads. So, let’s get going.’

  They returned to the boats, started the outboard motors and cruised around the small, bleak island. They then set off across the two miles of ice-filled water, heading straight for South Georgia. The sky was low and ominous, but the storm did not return, and the darkness, which had fallen with great speed, offered protection from Argentinian observation posts. Cruising slowly, quietly, between drifting blocks of ice, they managed to reach Stromness Bay without seeing, or even hearing, Argentinian patrol boats. However, just as Grenville was beginning to feel more confident, thinking his troubles were behind him, the blocks of ice gave way to drifting packs of gleaming, sharp ice splinters which punctured the inflatables, one after the other in rapid succession, causing the air to hiss out of them.

  ‘Christ!’ Captain Grenville exclaimed softly, then regained his sense of humour and said, ‘OK, lads, abandon ship! Take everything but the rats.’

  They were now only about thirty yards from the shore, in shallow, ice-filled water, which allowed them to clamber out of the hissing, sinking inflatables, form a chain from the boats to the shore, and pass the equipment along the human chain before the assault boats, crumpling pitifully, sank for good. Now, no matter what happened, they had no means of returning to the Fleet, hidden beyond the horizon.

  Encircled by mountains that hid them from the Argentinians in Grytviken, they hid under an outcrop of rock until they had dried all of the equipment, shucked off their lifebelts, and were ready to march on in pursuit of locations suitable for observation posts.

  ‘Since we can’t get back to the fleet,’ Grenville said, ‘we’ll just have to avoid the Argies and stay here until the assault begins. Bearing in mind that it can’t begin until the fleet receives our recces, it’s up to us to do the best we can and send back as much intelligence as possible.’

  ‘Not much else to do around here,’ a corporal said sardonically, ‘so we might as well do that.’

  ‘No belly dancers,’ a trooper said. ‘No strippers. No pubs full of beer. A man has to do something.’

  ‘Then let’s go,’ Grenville said.

  After checking his map for two areas of high ground overlooking Leith Harbour and Stromness Bay – though not so obvious that the Argentinians would expect to find them there – Grenville broke the remaining members of his troop into two separate units, one to establish an observation post in the hills above Leith, the other, his own, to establish one above Stromness. He then marched his own team up to his selected vantage point overlooking both areas, where they settled down to building their OP.

  Thirty years earlier both areas had been whaling stations, boasting hundreds of workers, but now they were virtually deserted and, viewed from the wind-whipped, moaning hills, they revealed themselves as no more than a few scattered lights in the night’s chill, occasionally moonlit, darkness.

  Though sited on high ground to provide the best possible view of enemy activities and enable transmission of information back to base, the OP had to be dug into the earth to screen it from enemy eyes. In this instance, Grenville remained on guard and radio watch while his three troopers, using spades and pickaxes, dug the hole in which they would stay until the assault came.

  Because Grenville had no idea when the assault from the fleet would take place, he anticipated a long stay here and therefore had the men dig a rectangular layout, rather than the short-term star shape. The spoil from their digging was removed in bergens and sprinkled unobtrusively over the ground a good distance from the OP. Once this had been done, the hole was lined with plastic sheets and the troops put up a hessian screen, with a poncho and overhead camouflage net, supported by wooden stakes, iron pickets, and chicken wire, and including a camouflaged entry and exit hole. When this business was completed; the troopers, wearing face veils and thick leather gloves, settled down in the OP, taking turns as telescope observer and sentry, as well as in the rest bays, with their kit-well, including the weapons, piled up in the middle.

  From the completed OP Grenville’s signaller was able to establish communications with the Antrim, thus enabling Grenville to inform his OC abo
ut what had happened to him and the others. In return, he was informed that one of the missing boats had been found by helicopter and the crew returned safely to the fleet. The other missing boat, containing Corporal Jock McGregor and troopers Taff Burgess and Gumboot Gillis, was still missing, its occupants presumed drowned.

  Disturbed by that news, Grenville tried not to show it and instead encouraged his men to settle down to the business of observing Argentinian movements from their OP.

  The wind howled eerily all night. The snow covered them like a blanket. Before long, they were cramped, cold and uncomfortable, boots wet, limbs numbed by constricted blood. For most it would have been a night in hell, but Grenville and his men had been trained for this.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon,’ Major Parkinson informed the OC of the Squadron, in the company of Captain Hailsham and Sergeant Ricketts in the OCs private cabin aboard the Antrim, now anchored with the other ships far north of South Georgia, ‘an Argentinian submarine was observed reconnoitring the coastline of the island, almost certainly looking for signs of British landings.’

  ‘Did they see anything?’

  ‘We don’t think so.’

  ‘But some of our men are safely ashore.’

  ‘Correct. Captain Grenville managed to make it with three of the Geminis, two large and one small, after which he divided the men into two groups to set up well-hidden OPs in Leith and Stromness. We’re now in radio contact.’

  ‘What about the submarine?’

  ‘The first good news is that while searching for it in his helo, Lieutenant-Commander Pedler spotted one of the missing SAS inflatables and lifted its three men to safety.’

  ‘Which men?’

  ‘Corporal Woodward and troopers Blakely and Powell.’

  ‘What about the inflatable?’

  ‘Corporal Woodward ensured that it would sink before letting himself be lifted up. Both Woodward and Pedler have confirmed that it sank before they left the area.’