Soldier B: Heroes of the South Atlantic

by Shaun Clarke

  The thought of an administrative position, shuffling papers instead of men, endorsing plans instead of making them, filled Parkinson with immeasurable gloom. Nor was he thrilled by the notion of taking early retirement and tending the garden of his house in Hereford, attractive though it was.

  Even at his age, he now realized, he was not a man cut out for a ‘normal’ life. So, as he gazed at the ships spread out on the stormy sea, at the roaring planes and helicopters, he accepted that he was where he belonged and would not enjoy leaving it. Thank God for this campaign.

  ‘I think the use of four-man patrols,’ Parkinson said to Captain Grenville, needing to distract himself from his thoughts, ‘is the best way to recce East and West Falkland. Insert on both islands and disperse the groups in all directions, marching by night to predetermined locations for the individual observation posts. Staying as long as necessary. Radio silence to be maintained until they’ve done all they can do and need lifting out. With so many small groups scattered all over, the chances of being caught are much reduced and the amount of intelligence gathered should be greatly increased. Naturally, the assault will only begin when that intelligence is gathered and assessed.’

  ‘I agree,’ Grenville said.

  ‘The Squadron arrives tomorrow morning. In the meantime, while we’re waiting, we can study those maps in the ladies’ toilet and select the best places for the OPs. Let’s go back down, Laurence.’

  ‘Might as well get started,’ Grenville replied. ‘No point standing up here all day.’

  Parkinson could happily have stayed up there all day, watching the aircraft, helicopters, destroyers and carriers, but he knew that it would do him little good, apart from making him sadder. So, after taking one last, fond glance at the fleet, he sighed and followed Captain Grenville back into the ship, down into its labyrinth of hatchways and corridors and holds, past the hundreds of troops resting in tiers of steel bunks, smoking and reading and playing cards and writing letters, in dimly lit holds smelling of sweat and stale, smoke-filled air. They made their way through it all to the smaller, cleaner, much brighter ladies’ toilet, where the SAS HQ was now formally located.

  There, compelled to smile at their lot, they unpinned the maps on the blackboard, spread them out on the tables and proceeded to plan the Squadron’s deep-penetration raids on East and West Falkland.

  Chapter 8

  The least exciting, but most demanding and valuable, of all SAS operations is the setting up and maintaining of observation posts by four-man patrols for recces inside enemy territory.

  Chosen as the Patrol Commander, or PC, on the Squadron’s transfer from South Georgia to the Resource, Ricketts was allowed to select his own team. He chose three men with the required specialist skills for this particular job: Corporal Paddy Clarke, Trooper Danny Porter, and the big black poet, Trooper Andrew Winston.

  Unable to conduct the normal rehearsal phase because they were aboard ship, Major Parkinson instead briefed his team with the aid of maps and aerial photos taken from previous aircraft reconnaissance flights. Ricketts was then given a day to prepare the patrol, make his own plan of operations based on the briefing and tell the other three what was expected of them. He then chose, and supervised the inspection of, the required equipment and weapons, ensuring that radios and batteries were working, ammunition was clean, grenades were primed, rations were drawn and water bottles were filled. The weapons, of which there were a considerable number and variety, were individually tested by being fired at the turbulent sea from the wind-blown deck of the ship.

  When this was completed, the members of the patrol were flown in on two 845 Squadron Wessex Mark 5 helicopters, which carried them the 125 miles from the Resource to the LZ near the centre of East Falkland. The night flight took them over the misty north-west coast of the island, then through a high-ridged, moonlit valley that led to the uplands. Wearing his Passive Night Goggles, or PNGs, which enabled him to see in the dark, even if only in shades of dream-like blue, the pilot had no difficulty in landing them on the correct LZ. Nevertheless, he did not touch down for long.

  Though the idea had been to land a long way from Port Stanley, to avoid contact with the enemy, then march for two or three days to the chosen site of the OP, there was still a real danger of being seen. The pilot therefore hardly touched the ground, but mostly hovered a couple of feet above it as the SAS team jumped down and offloaded their kit. While they were doing this, Danny moved away from the LZ to act as sentry, his M16A2 assault rifle held at the ready. When the kit had been offloaded, the men hurried out of the whirlwind created by the spinning rotors and Ricketts waved the helo away. It ascended vertically, all its lights dimmed, and soon disappeared in the cloudy night sky.

  For the rest of this first night no words would be spoken. Instead, Ricketts ordered his men forward with the use of hand signals. Similar signals became the sole means of communication throughout the long, dangerous march, which took them along the valley, then over the hills, skirting around the frost gleaming in the moonlight, always on the lookout for mines. The wind moaned eerily around them, shaking the sparse vegetation, making it difficult to hear the sounds that would have warned them of Argentinian patrols. Everything that moved or made a sound was a potential enemy.

  Using an illuminated compass, and aligning landmarks and roads with the map to follow their pre-set route, they moved along in file formation with young Danny well in front, taking the ‘point’ as lead scout and constantly checking what lay ahead through the night-sight of his rifle. The other three were strung out behind him, a good distance apart, maintaining irregular space between them to avoid unnecessary, or too many, casualties if attacked.

  Marching behind Danny, Ricketts as PC was second in line, with Paddy Clarke third as signaller and big Andrew bringing up the rear as ‘Tail-end Charlie’. As lead scout, Danny’s job was to cover an arc-shaped area in front of the patrol. Ricketts and Paddy covered arcs to the left and right respectively, while Andrew had to regularly swing around to face the direction from which they had come, not only covering their rear but also ensuring that the patrol had no blind spots. Each man had to constantly look left and right for signs of enemy movement, as well as check repeatedly that the men in front and behind him were still in place. It was a rigorous, demanding routine that could not be ignored.

  Added to the mental strain of being constantly alert while not allowed to speak, was the sheer physical burden imposed by the extra weight the men had to carry on this particular patrol. Each of their bergens now contained extra link belts, magazines, explosives and other ammunition; spare radios or replacement parts and batteries; rations and water; a sleeping bag and spare clothing. Even more demanding were personal kit belts laden with additional survival gear, medical equipment, water bottles, emergency rations, and smoke and fragmentation grenades. Together, the bergens, kit belts and extra weapons made up a load that would have broken most men’s backs on a hike such as this.

  Nevertheless, tough as it was, to Ricketts there was a sublime logic and beauty in the very concept of the four-man patrol. Conceived by David Stirling, the creator of the SAS, the four-man patrol was the basic building block of the Regiment, a self-contained unit within a Sabre squadron, and one dependent on the absolute, unwavering trust between each of its members. This was one of its salient features. Another was the fact that though each member of the patrol had been given Cross-Training, to enable him to be proficient in all SAS skills, for the purposes of the four-man patrol each had his specialist role: in this instance, Danny as scout and tracker, big Andrew as linguist and medic, Paddy as signaller and demolitions expert, and Ricketts as PC, which required the ability to take over any of the other specialist roles should one of the men be wounded or killed. The four-man patrol was, then, a microcosm of the whole SAS – and an almost perfect, self-sustaining unit into the bargain.

  Now, marching across the hills of central East Falkland, Ricketts felt a great pride that overruled his simmering fru
stration at the patrol’s lack of progress. Because of the constant threat of contact with enemy foot patrols or of being seen by helicopters with electronic aids or solar imagers, as well as the need to always be on the alert for mines, progress was agonizingly slow.

  By dawn the next day, though they had neither seen nor been in contact with the enemy in any form, they had covered only ten miles.

  ‘We’ll have to hide during the day,’ Ricketts said, finally able to speak because dawn was breaking through the mist wreathing the distant, brooding hills and the grey sea beyond. ‘So make yourselves a scrape and climb into it. Danny and Andrew will sleep first. You and me, Paddy, we’ll rest next. Two hours on and two off for each man. OK, lads, get at it.’

  ‘Right, boss,’ Paddy said, clearly relieved he could talk at last and continuing to do so as he unstrapped his short-handled spade. ‘I don’t mind waiting my turn. Very sensible to let the babies rest first. You can tell the poor shites are already worn out and in need of their sleep.’

  ‘Beauty sleep,’ Andrew replied, digging his spade into the hard, frozen soil. ‘When you’re born black and beautiful, like me, you’ve a moral responsibility to remain that way. So it’s beauty sleep, you ugly little bastard. That’s all I need it for.’

  ‘If you’re beautiful, I’m a fucking orang-utan.’

  ‘Who’s arguing?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Just shut up and dig,’ Ricketts said. ‘We haven’t got all day, lads.’

  ‘Hard at it, boss,’ Danny said, digging the soil out with his spade and throwing it over his frail shoulder. ‘It’ll be done in no time.’

  The ‘scrape’ is a small hollow scraped or dug out of the ground and covered with wire, which is then strewn with local vegetation. It is a temporary measure used for short-term rest by day or night, in the lying-up position, or LUP, which is actually any position chosen by the patrol.

  In this case the men only dug, or scraped, hollows deep enough to stretch out in – two to sleep under the camouflaged roof of wire and turf, the other two to keep watch, with these functions being swapped every two hours.

  It made for a long, wet, cold and miserable day in which psychological as well as physical strength was vital. Nor could they eat properly, since they dare not light a fire or use their hexamine stove; instead, they could only sustain themselves with snacks of cheese, biscuits and chocolate.

  Having been particularly well trained in combating the torments of the mind, as well as those of the body, Ricketts and his men, while not especially liking the scrapes, took them in their stride and managed to survive an interminable day, during which they saw only the occasional Argentinian helicopter or aircraft, but no foot patrols.

  By nightfall, they were on their way again, on another long march through dark countryside.

  Inevitably, as they neared Port Stanley, they began to see, if not Argentinian troops, at least their positions, from the camp-fires glowing eerily in the darkness. When this happened, they recced that area and kept a record of the information, but did not radio it back to the fleet, for fear that the signal might be picked up by the enemy, leading to their location.

  Occasionally they saw enemy foot patrols moving, like them, through the moonlit, misty darkness. When this happened they always dropped to the ground and kept the enemy under cover. But they didn’t open fire, since their first objective was reconnaissance, not combat, and an engagement, even if won, would have blown their cover to enemy intelligence, thus jeopardizing the forthcoming assault. Though the temptation to open fire was very strong, they never gave in to it.

  If the first day had been bad, the second was even worse. They could do little but hide in their scrapes until darkness fell again, either sleeping or keeping their eyes peeled for signs of enemy activity. Their psychological training was such that they were able to do this, though all of them did it in different ways.

  Phil Ricketts was married and the father of two children, Julia, 10, and Anna, 11. His wife, Maggie, came from Wood Green, North London, was working-class and proud of it. She was a secretary in a mortgage company in the high street, and was independent, sensual and good-humoured. While the marriage was secure and Ricketts truly loved his wife, he was sometimes disturbed by the fact that he preferred a man’s life, away from home and hearth, doing what only men could do. This wasn’t gambling or getting drunk or screwing around; it was simply the need for adventure and the sharpened sense of life offered by constant danger.

  Before joining the Army, Ricketts had worked as a toolpusher on the North Sea oil rigs. Though it was hard, dangerous work, he had always enjoyed being out there more than being at home. Some men are like that – they can’t lead a normal life – and when Ricketts finally accepted that he was one of that breed, he sensibly enlisted in the Army.

  At first Maggie had resented it, wondering what she had done wrong, but when she realized that he simply loved doing a man’s job – that no other woman was involved – she let him get on with it.

  Soon, not satisfied with routine work for the Army, Ricketts had applied to join the SAS. Once accepted, he knew he had found his real home. Nevertheless, when he was in an OP or, as now, in a scrape, trying to combat the silence and interminable hours of inactivity, he did it by dwelling on his marriage and why it wasn’t enough for him. He had yet to find an answer to all his questions, but thinking about them helped pass the time.

  Like Ricketts, young Danny also thought about his home life, though his thoughts ran along simpler lines. Danny had never harboured a doubt about what he wanted to do in life: from childhood, he had wanted to be a soldier – something both of his parents fully understood. He had collected toy soldiers, read war books, watched war movies, played soldiers instead of cowboys and Indians, then started collecting guns. In this sense, he had been a soldier since he was a boy; it just took time to get there.

  Danny had always been small and slim, rather quiet and good-natured, but his temper was legendary during his school years and led him into a lot of fights. By the time he left school, at 15, he had decided that he wanted to join the Army and would let nothing stop him. Before he joined, when he was 18, he already knew that eventually he would transfer to the legendary SAS – which he did, passing every test. When at last he was awarded the winged dagger, he was not in the least surprised.

  Nevertheless, Danny’s confidence in his ability as an SAS trooper was not matched by the same in his personal life. Born and bred in the Midlands, he was the only child of decent, working-class parents who showered a great deal of affection on him and would have been surprised, even shocked, to learn of his violent temper and frequent fist-fights.

  Though the fights were real enough, Danny, on leaving school, was too obsessed with getting into the Army to learn about life’s other realities, notably sex. Inexperienced with girls, he viewed them too romantically; so, when he first met Darlene in the company of some mates and their girlfriends in a local pub, he could not resist the knowledge that she fancied him and was not shy of showing it.

  He loved Darlene desperately, though with certain residual doubts, most based on idle gossip from those very same mates who had intimated that her father was a boozing prat, her mother a tart, and that she, Darlene, was inclined the same way. Though Danny had tried to ignore such comments, which wounded him deeply, they kept coming back to stain his pure love with the shadow of doubt.

  So, when in an OP, or LUP in his scrape, Danny wrestled with the gulf between his total confidence as a member of the Regiment and his doubts when it came to personal matters.

  Nevertheless, he only did so with one half of his brain, while the other half – always alert and with natural killer’s instincts – never failed to concentrate on the job in hand.

  Andrew and Paddy had very different kinds of thoughts, which were, in both cases, much less personal. Though not quite a born killer like Baby Face, big Andrew had remarkable physical strength and, like Ricketts, an unappeasable hunger for excitement. All brute energy on the
one hand, he was highly imaginative on the other, and needed to express both aspects of himself to prevent his boiler from bursting. His poetry expressed the inner self – that gentle soul in the enormous body – and the SAS, with its discipline and challenges, took care of the physical side.

  Also, as the SAS took no account of his black skin, but judged him purely on his merits, Andrew felt as natural in the Regiment as he did when expressing himself through his poetry.

  Not married and not planning to be – at least not yet – he passed the interminable time in OPs or, as now, in his cramped, damp scrape, by dreaming up more lines of poetry about his life with the Regiment.

  Though he never forgot – not for one minute, second even – exactly why he was lying in silence in a hole in the ground. It was see or be seen, kill or be killed. He couldn’t afford to forget that.

  And Paddy? He had no problems. He didn’t care if he lived or died. He’d lost both his parents in childhood, in a routine car accident in Merseyside, and been brought up by distant relatives, decent but dull. Fleeing at an early age, he had hitchhiked to London, became a labourer on a building site, drank too much, screwed around too much and routinely squandered his money. Drifting into petty crime, he had kicked a few heads and been kicked in turn, but eventually, after a spell in the nick, he had decided to call it a day. Seeing a TV ad that sold the Army as an adventure, he enlisted and ended up in Belfast, being assaulted with bricks, screamed at by housewives and occasionally fired upon by teenage snipers.