Soldier B: Heroes of the South Atlantic

by Shaun Clarke

  To his surprise, he loved it. The excitement made him whole. Born in Liverpool, he had never felt Irish, so had no problems in Belfast, Londonderry, or even in so-called ‘bandit country’, where he ambushed terrorists and was in turn ambushed, surviving it all. The ‘enemy’ was the one he was told to fight, and that’s all there was to it.

  Posted back to England, he found Army life dull, so decided to try for the SAS. Being a natural survivor and blessed with strong nerves, he effortlessly passed Basic, Continuation and Cross-Training and was soon wearing the beret with winged dagger.

  After another spell in Northern Ireland, practising counter-espionage in bandit country, he was posted to Oman, where he proved himself during the bloody, victorious advance on Shershitti. After that, he knew he’d remain an SAS trooper for as long as they let him.

  Paddy didn’t feel sentimental about being in the SAS – it was just a job he loved doing – and since he didn’t have a family, let alone familial feelings, he withstood the mental stress of lengthy, silent vigils in OPs or scrapes by dwelling, as he was doing right here in East Falkland, on the excitements of his past and the ones he might have in the future.

  Though in a cold, damp, coffin-shaped scrape, hidden under a false roof camouflaged with turf, hardly able to breathy, Paddy passed the day more easily than the others, feeling no more than boredom. He took his pride from his suffering.

  By the third night they were passing through areas patrolled constantly by Argentinian troops, which meant that they had to be particularly careful and, even under cover of darkness, could advance only with great care. The urge to open fire was now stronger than ever – the humiliation of the Royal Marines at Port Stanley still rankled – but their training stood them in good stead and, instead of firing, they simply laid low again and took note of the troop movements, their numbers and weapons. Similar notes were taken on the movements, now more frequent, of Argentinian helicopters and aircraft.

  Eventually, after three days and nights, just before dawn on the third night, they reached the high ground overlooking Port Stanley and located the ridge chosen for the OP.

  ‘This is it,’ Ricketts said with confidence, checking his map against the actual location. ‘Let’s dig in, lads.’

  Still protected by moonlit darkness, using spades and pickaxes while Danny stood guard, they quickly, expertly, constructed a rectangular OP, employing the standard techniques that had recently been used by Grenville in South Georgia. So high and exposed was the ridge that there was little natural cover from the elements, enemy patrols or aircraft. For this reason they camouflaged the OP with a roof of turf over the usual supporting material.

  If nothing else, this would hide them from the thermal imagers of Argentinian helicopters. Whether or not it would hide them from enemy foot patrols was, as Ricketts knew from past experience, questionable.

  Under normal circumstances, from the OP position, their signaller, Paddy, would have established communications with the SAS base, entertainingly located in the ladies’ toilet aboard the Resource. However, because it was feared that they might be located by the Argentinians through the pick-up of their radio signals, Major Parkinson had ordered them to maintain radio silence until just before returning to the fleet. Therefore, for the next three days, the information already gathered, as well as the fresh intelligence picked up from the OP and by dangerous foot recces down the hill, to near the Argentinian positions in Port Stanley, was not transmitted, but kept in a file that would be destroyed should the enemy close in on them.

  The OP had only one narrow aperture, but it offered a good view of Stanley airport and the Argentinian positions in the surrounding hills. Valuable intelligence was gathered daily with the use of black-painted, camouflaged binoculars, telescopes and night-vision aids. Visual information was usually photographed and the details overdrawn on maps and aerial photos taken by previous aircraft recces. Other information was entered in the logbook as it came up.

  Throughout the three days, Argentinian helicopters made reconnaissance sweeps over the hillside. Occasionally foot patrols could be seen on the lower slopes leading down to Port Stanley and the airport. This made foot recces more dangerous for Ricketts and his men, but they made them nevertheless, usually under cover of darkness, when they were guided to the enemy positions by the glow of their fires or the lights shining inside occupied buildings.

  Sometimes Argentinian soldiers marched past, only a few feet away from where the SAS recce team was lying, pressed tight to the earth.

  To just lie there, doing nothing, was not only frustrating, but required unusually cool nerves. Yet all of them preferred the danger to the boredom of spending all day and night in the OP, where the light was too dim even for reading (notes were entered in the logbook by torchlight) and the only distraction was listening to the BBC World Service through muffled headphones. This at least kept them abreast of political and military developments regarding the Falklands.

  The situation, they learned, was reaching crisis point. This was proven by the fact that Port Stanley’s airport was now being bombed from the air and bombarded from sea every night, offering the men in the OP a tremendous, fiery spectacle that illuminated the dark port while blotting out the stars with billowing black smoke.

  Always, when this happened, the Argentinian helicopters took off from the erupting airport, crossing directly over the OP as they fled inland. Just as often, when they returned, some of them would be missing, having been shot down by the fleet’s Harrier jets after being located by other SAS OPs, located much further away from the Argentinian positions and so not under radio restrictions.

  The nightly bombings and bombardments became an enjoyable form of distraction for the men in the OP.

  After gathering all the information he could reasonably expect to find, Ricketts took a chance and radioed it back to base, with a request that the team be picked up as soon as possible. Confirmation came that the helicopter was on its way and would be there in approximately forty minutes.

  ‘Right, men,’ Ricketts said, ‘let’s pack up and leave. Danny, you take point as sentry while we dismantle and fill in the OP.’

  ‘OK, boss,’ the baby-faced trooper said, immediately picking up his M16, clambering out of the OP, and slithering down the slope for about fifteen yards, to take up his position behind an outcrop of rock, overlooking the lights of the otherwise darkened port. Ricketts, Paddy and Andrew then packed up their kit, dismantled the OP and buried as much as possible beneath the earth, which they then flattened and covered with loose soil.

  Fifteen minutes before the helo was due to descend for the pick-up, an Argentinian foot patrol made its way up the hill, the three men in triangular formation, weapons at the ready. It was obvious they had located the approximate area of the OP from the radio call made by Ricketts to the fleet.

  The Argentinians investigated the dark, slightly moonlit ridge in a criss-crossing pattern, then spread out even farther as they advanced towards the summit – one, the scout, being too far ahead of the others for his own good.

  Ricketts cursed softly and was about to tell his men to open fire – which might have exposed them to other enemy troops hidden lower down the slope – when Danny waved his right hand behind him in an up-and-down motion, signalling that Ricketts and the others should stay flat and remain out of sight. They obeyed his instruction just as the Argentinian scout stepped past Danny’s position, missing him by inches, to advance straight up the hill towards Ricketts.

  The other Argentinians were not even looking when Danny rose silently, a mere shadow against the skyline, and applied the silent killing technique by coming up behind his victim, covering his mouth with one hand and swiftly slashing his jugular vein with his Fairburn-Sykes commando knife. He held the body tightly while lowering it to the ground before it could go into spasm and start thrashing noisily.

  Danny killed the man skilfully, with great stealth and speed, and was moving, crouched over, towards his next victim even bef
ore the first soldier was dead.

  The second death occurred in darkness, completely hidden from view. There was just a brief thrashing sound – a falling body crushing bracken – then the last Argentinian, hearing the noise, looked around him in panic. His face was visible in the moonlight, eyes wide, searching frantically, but even as he started turning his rifle to fire, a white hand covered his mouth and jerked his head back, enabling a gleaming, moonlit blade to slit his throat.

  The soldier’s body shuddered convulsively as Danny’s other hand slipped around it. His rifle fell from twitching fingers as he spasmed, staying upright, held tightly by his killer, then was lowered gently, almost tenderly, to the ground, to be rolled over and pressed face down into soft soil, which silenced his final, dying gurgle.

  Eventually, after checking that the man was dead, Danny stood up and extended his right hand, waving it in towards his body, signalling: ‘As you were.’

  Ricketts and the others heaved a sigh of relief, then stood up to gather their kit together and await the helo’s arrival.

  Danny walked back up the slope, his rifle slung across his shoulders, wiping his bloody blade on a cloth and smiling dreamily at them.

  ‘No problem,’ he conveyed without speaking, simply raising his thumb in the air. Ricketts replied in kind.

  The helo arrived on time, hardly visible in the dark sky, its presence only evident from the sound of its engine and spinning rotors, first a distant throbbing sound, then a drumming and whipping, and finally a roaring that decimated the silence. It descended quickly, hovering just above the ground, whipping up a minor hurricane of flying debris. Then it was ascending again even before the last of the men, Ricketts, had heaved his heavy kit aboard and clambered in after it.

  ‘Piece of piss,’ Andrew said.

  Chapter 9

  ‘I’ve called this briefing,’ Captain Grenville said in the ladies’ toilet of the Resource, ‘because we’re going in on another urgent recce.’

  Corporal Jock McGregor and troopers Taff Burgess and Gumboot Gillis glanced at one another with the air of men being offered a release from prison. They were also pleased to be given the chance to do something, now that the war with Argentina had truly begun.

  The day after Ricketts and his patrol had been inserted on East Falkland, the British submarine HMS Conqueror had sunk the Argentinian heavy cruiser the General Belgrano. This had led to jubilation among the members of the fleet, but this was brutally extinguished when, two days later, an Exocet missile fired from an Argentinian Super Etendard warplane sank HMS Sheffield, resulting in many British dead and wounded. During that time three British Harriers were also lost, one shot down, two colliding over the sea. The war with Argentina was well and truly engaged, making the frustrated members of the SAS itch to take part and make amends for their own recent disasters.

  ‘The various recce patrols of East Falkland,’ Captain Grenville continued, ‘produced enough intelligence to enable us to launch a major offensive against the island as the first step on the road to Port Stanley. The intended landing beaches are at San Carlos Water, on the west coast of East Falkland, but before the landings can take place we have to destroy any Argentinian aircraft that are within range of the beaches. At the moment, all we know is that those aircraft are based on a grass strip near the only settlement on Pebble Island.’

  ‘Our destination,’ Jock said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Do we know anything else about the aircraft?’ Gumboot asked, scratching the broken nose that lent a distorted appearance to his ferret-like face.

  ‘Only that they include 1A-58 Pucara ground-attack planes built in Argentina for use against lightly armed forces. Each carries 20mm cannons, four 7.62mm machine-guns and bombs or rockets, all of which can be used when flying slowly, to strafe our ground troops.’

  ‘How many?’ Taff Burgess asked, rubbing his big belly and offering the other two his familiar, distant smile.

  ‘That’s what we have to find out.’

  ‘Then we destroy them.’

  ‘No. Then we report back here. Once we’ve brought the intelligence back, the green slime will decide the next course of action.’

  ‘Shit,’ Jock said, then coughed into his fist and glanced around him. It was difficult to breathe in the toilet because of the dense cigarette smoke, most of which came from the constantly burning fags of the radio operatives set up near the toilet booths. ‘Hell of a place for our base,’ Jock observed. ‘Makes me feel right queer, boss.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because you are queer,’ Gumboot responded.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ Taff said.

  ‘Come on, men, cut the bullshit,’ Captain Grenville said. ‘We’ve no time to spare.’

  ‘So what do we know about Pebble Island?’ Jock asked sensibly.

  ‘We believe there’s a radar station on the island, although electronic checks have shown that if there is one, it’s not being operated. However, they may just be maintaining radio silence until the right moment and we can’t risk having our amphibious ships detected as they near Pebble Island, en route to San Carlos Water – so eyeball recces, rather than airborne or electronic surveillance, are required.’

  ‘The good old-fashioned way,’ Jock observed.

  ‘Right, Corporal,’ Captain Grenville said. ‘Which is why we’re going in by boat again, instead of by helo.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Taff Burgess said. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘When you’re kitted out, Trooper.’

  ‘So let’s go and do it.’

  Leaving the cramped, smoky toilet, they made their way down through the creaking, throbbing bowels of the ship to the SAS requisition area. When they entered the hold filled with makeshift tables laden with all kinds of military clothing, including tropical and Arctic wear, and stacked with crates of weapons, radios and food supplies, they found Ricketts and his team handing back the equipment they had used for their recent OP overlooking Port Stanley. Ricketts was signing his name on a form while the others, some smoking, were waiting for him.

  ‘Well, well,’ Jock said with a wicked grin directed at Ricketts, Paddy, Danny and big Andrew, ‘the Boy Scouts managed to find their way back after their day out.’

  ‘So where are you lot off to?’ Ricketts replied, handing the requisitions clerk the pen and paper, then turning to face the Boat Troop. ‘Another Girl Guides’ outing, is it, lads?’

  ‘You’d know more about the Girl Guides than we would,’ Gumboot said, ‘since they’re in the only age range you could manage – if you could manage it.’

  ‘Another recce?’ young Danny asked, baby-faced yet more serious than the others.

  ‘Right,’ Taff said with a distant smile.

  ‘Come down to us for some advice, have you?’ big Andrew asked, brown eyes bright in that handsome ebony face. ‘You know we’re dependable.’

  ‘I’d be safer depending on a fucking Argie,’ Paddy said. ‘Advice from you lot? Don’t come it, mate!’

  ‘OK,’ Captain Grenville said, ‘that’s enough of the bullshit. This is a confidential mission, Sergeant Ricketts, so get your men out of here.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Ricketts replied. He turned to the rest of Grenville’s team. ‘Don’t take any notice of these lads. They’re just trying to be helpful. Given the reputation of the Boat Troop, they figure you need it.’ He turned away while the mocking comments flew thick and fast. ‘Come on, lads, let’s go. Let the girls do their business.’

  Hoots of derision followed the laughing exit of the Mountain Troop, then, after quietening down his men, Captain Grenville requisitioned the weapons and equipment needed for the recce. These included waterproof clothing, special survival suits, life-jackets, a waterproof PRC 319 radio system, and SARBE rescue beacons.

  While the men were putting on their waterproof clothing, Grenville phoned through to the docking bay, asking them to prepare two Klepper canoes for his four-man patrol. By the time he had put on his own waterproof gear, the men had received t
heir packed, heavy bergens and were checking their weapons. When they were satisfied, Grenville led them out of the hold and even deeper into the bowels of the ship, until they arrived at the docking bay, which was open and flooded, with the canoes already placed in the water by the Naval ratings who worked here.

  As it was nearly midnight, the interior of the docking bay, which resembled a vast hangar, was eerily lit by dimmed spotlights that could not be seen by enemy aircraft, but made the open stern, as well as the sea beyond it, seem even darker and more mysterious than it was. Large Landing Craft, Vehicle Personnel, or LCVPs, were anchored in the water between the three great steel walls, with the smaller Rigid Raiders, five metres long and with fibre-glass hulls, suspended from cranes directly above them. Inflatable Geminis, now all deflated, hung from the walls.

  ‘They look like giant johnnies’, Jock observed, ‘but they’d be too small for me.’

  Taff chuckled.

  ‘Quiet, troopers,’ Grenville said, picking up his bergen onto his shoulders, raising his waterproof cape over his head and gazing down at the Klepper canoe just below him. ‘Gumboot, you come with me. You two,’ he said to Jock and Taff, ‘can share the other canoe. OK, let’s move it.’

  Luckily, the sea was calm, enabling them to load their bergens and weapons into the prow and rear areas of the canoes, cover the hull with a waterproof covering and insert themselves into the two holes in the covering. Once seated, one man behind the other, they tightened the waterproof covering around their waists, picked up their oars and told the Naval ratings to untie the ropes and push them away from the dock. When the ratings had done so, setting them free in the water, they rowed the canoes out of the docking bay and into the dark, open sea.

  Normally, the patrol would have cross-decked to a submarine and let it take them close to the shore, but in the absence of a suitable submarine, the Resource had sailed under radio silence close enough to the shore for Pebble Island to be visible to the naked eye. What the men in the canoes now saw was a strip of featureless, dark land with few visible hills.