Soldier B: Heroes of the South Atlantic

by Shaun Clarke

  Taking his bearings from the moon and stars, which that night were clearly visible, Grenville led the second canoe towards the approximate area of the chosen LZ, confident that when he drew closer to the shore, he would be able to arrive at the exact location by using the landmarks he had memorized from intelligence briefings. As the ship had managed to get to within a couple of miles of the shore, the canoes were soon in shallow water, with the beach clearly visible, striped by shadow and moonlight, and leading gently up to low hills on which patches of ice gleamed blue and white.

  Still paddling with the others, Grenville scanned the length of the shore for camp-fires or other signs of the enemy presence. So far there was nothing. After bending his right arm, hand raised to indicate ‘halt’, he again took his bearings, this time with a combination of compass reading and a visual check of the fall of land. Now knowing exactly where the LZ was located, he took the time to jot down useful notes of the tides (which he had observed during the journey), beach gradients that would be suitable for amphibious landings and general topographical details that would help in selecting the best areas for the advance by foot soldiers. This done, he pocketed his pen and notebook, then gently waved his outstretched hand up and down, practically touching the water’s surface, to indicate that the other canoe should follow him.

  Starting to row again, with Gumboot expertly doing the same behind him, he was soon gliding through shallow water and coming up on the beach. At his signal, Gumboot and the others stopped rowing, anchored the canoes, removed the protective waterproofing from the top of the hull, then carefully clambered out and splashed down into the water. After offloading their kit and weapons, which they carried bit by bit to the shore, they pulled the canoes in, carried them carefully across the beach to ensure that they would not be damaged, stored them under sparse, overhanging foliage, then constructed chicken-wire covers for them. These were then camouflaged with turf and more local foliage.

  Finally, with the canoes safely hidden, they strapped the overloaded bergens onto their backs and, at another silent signal from Captain Grenville, hurried off the exposed beach and began the march up the gentle, moonlit slopes of wind-blown grass towards where the Argentinian airstrip was located. They had not spoken a word since leaving the ship forty minutes ago.

  The march took them over the low hills and back down again, then along a narrow waist of land with the sea on each side, open and exposed, without natural cover anywhere. This eventually led them to the estimated mile-and-a-quarter field where the aircraft, visible in moonlight, were dispersed.

  Viewing them through binoculars, from behind a hedgerow on a slight rise about two miles from the grass airfield, Grenville was able to see the heavily armed Argentinian troops guarding them. Swinging the binoculars in both directions, to view the sea on both sides of the long, narrow strip, he saw the camp-fires of many other enemy positions, placed there as protection against attacks from the sea. According to the green slime, an estimated one hundred Argentinian troops were surrounding the airfield.

  ‘Let’s dig in here,’ Grenville said, speaking for the first time since leaving the ship. ‘We’ll recce the whole area as quickly as we can, then get the hell out. They want us back with the fleet as soon as possible, so let’s waste no time. Jock, you stick with the radio and be guard.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ Jock said, then moved forward to a more advantageous viewpoint, offering the protection of bushes from where he could see the still darkened airstrip, as well as all around him.

  ‘We’ll only be here a short time,’ Grenville said. ‘So make the OP a star shape.’

  ‘Right, boss,’ Taff said, unstrapping his bergen, lowering it to the ground, then opening it, as Gumboot was also doing, to withdraw his pickaxe and spade for the digging.

  The star-shaped OP serves the same function as the rectangular, but is smaller and easier to construct. It is shaped like a cross with four arms of equal length: one for the sentry, one for the observer, one as a personal admin, or short-term rest bay, the last as a proper rest bay for a longer, more comfortable sleep in a sleeping bag. Covered, like the rectangular OP, in ponchos, turf and other available materials, such as local brush or shrubbery, it has an open drainage well in the middle, into which excess water, such as rain, will run, and it also contains a kit-well. Giving good all-round visibility, it is excellent as a short-term OP that can be quickly constructed and just as quickly filled in and disguised, as if it had never been.

  With the OP constructed, Grenville took the sentry arm, which overlooked the grassy strip and airfield. Studying it through his binoculars as the sun came up, he was able to count eleven Pucaras. As the sun rose higher in the sky, he saw that the Argentinian troops were indeed spread right around the airfield and along the narrow strip of land with the sea on both sides. He also noticed, with a slight shock, that the ground on which the planes were parked was on the top of another rise that put it on the same level as the OP.

  ‘Damn!’ Grenville whispered.

  ‘What’s that, boss?’ Jock asked from the personal admin rest bay.

  ‘I thought we were on a rise, but the slope rises again to put the airstrip on the same level as the OP. That’s going to make it damned difficult to get away from here without our movements being noticed by the Argies, even in darkness. We’re going to be silhouetted by the sky.’

  Jock sat up and expertly scanned the area. ‘Aye, you’re right there. On the other hand …’ His eyes moved left and right, then settled on the right. He jabbed his index finger in that direction. ‘There’s a slight depression over there, running back towards the sea in the general direction of the LZ. We’ll have to take our chances and crawl along that.’

  Grenville studied the depression with some care. ‘Right,’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s do that. We don’t have much choice. We’ll take off when darkness falls. In the meantime, let’s take note of as much as possible without leaving the OP.’

  Jock studied the airstrip and both sides of the strip through his own binoculars. ‘Those sentries don’t look particularly alert to me,’ he said with a slight trace of contempt, ‘I reckon you could go for a Sunday walk and they wouldn’t even notice.’

  ‘I reckon you’d get your balls shot off, so don’t try it, Corporal.’

  ‘Aye, aye, boss, I hear you.’

  As the day progressed it became increasingly evident that the Argentinian sentries were indeed not very alert and certainly not expecting to find British soldiers spying from the edge of their well-guarded, wind-blown airstrip. And yet it was also clear that any attempt to move out of the OP would result in being spotted immediately. Grenville and his men therefore settled in for a long, cramped, tedious watch, taking turns in the sentry arm and passing on to the others anything they had seen that might be of the slightest interest.

  Of most interest was the fact that the enemy sentries were obviously not expecting a British assault in the immediate future – a mistaken notion that had made them lax – and that their aircraft, the eleven Pucaras, were not being used and probably would not be until the actual assault began. It would certainly therefore be wise to put them out of action before D-Day.

  While the Argentinian troops moved constantly up and down both sides of the strip throughout the day, sometimes on foot, more often in jeeps and trucks, they never ventured away from the airstrip, nor came in the direction of the OP. By the time the sun had started sinking, Grenville knew all there was to know about the airstrip and its defences.

  ‘Time to move out,’ he said.

  The star-shaped OP was demolished and filled in under the cover of darkness, though that in itself was dangerous enough. Mission completed, they packed everything back into their bergens, checked their weapons, took one last look at the airstrip, where lights were winking on here and there, then ran, crouched low, to the slight depression that snaked around the top of the hill and led back towards the sea. Unfortunately, it did so in a way that took them dangerously close to the Argenti
nian sentries, which is why, even before they reached the depression, they had to drop onto their bellies and virtually crawl to it.

  ‘Shit!’ Taff exclaimed in a whisper.

  ‘What?’ Grenville enquired.

  ‘My bergen’s jutting over the top of the depression.’

  ‘So’s mine,’ Gumboot whispered.

  They stared at one another, eyes gleaming in descending darkness, then Grenville said, ‘We don’t have a choice. We’ll have to take the bergens off and leave them here.’

  ‘If they’re found,’ Jock pointed out, ‘the Argies will know we’ve been here and guess that the British assault is imminent.’

  ‘I know,’ Grenville replied, ‘but we still don’t have a choice. It’s either that or be seen for sure. We’ve been here all day and the Argies haven’t come near this area, so let’s just pray that they won’t for the next few days. Come on, chaps, let’s dump them.’

  The four of them struggled out of their bergens, which wasn’t easy to do without sitting up, but eventually, when they had been discarded, they moved off again, holding their M16s out ahead of them as they wriggled on their bellies along the depression, practically chewing the soil.

  This agonizingly slow, physically draining form of movement had to be continued for approximately half a mile, which took them a torturous three hours to cover. By the time they were out of sight of the Argentinians, they were sweating even in the freezing cold; they were also covered in dirt and breathing harshly. Nevertheless, now out of sight of the enemy, they climbed to their feet and began the rest of their six-mile march back to the beach.

  Still blessed by darkness, they uncovered the Klepper canoes, carried them back to the water, anchored and loaded them, clambered in, pulled the anchors in and rowed themselves back out to sea. When they were out a reasonable distance, seeing nothing but the stars sharply cut off by the sea’s black horizon, Jock used the radio for the first time, informing the Resource that they were on their way back and giving their location. In return, he was informed that the ship was coming in as close to the shore as possible to pick them up. He was to signal the ship with his Morse-code lamp as soon as he saw it.

  About forty minutes later, when they were rowing in a black sea reflecting the star-bright sky, they glided into a patch of dense fog. A few minutes later the Resource came into view, materializing eerily out of the fog-filled darkness, towering over them as an immense rectangle on which lights glowed dimly.

  Jock picked up his signalling lamp and sent a message in Morse code, identifying the two Kleppers, giving the name of their occupants and asking for permission to row around the ship and enter the docking bay. Permission was received by another light flashing in Morse code. It flashed on and off high above them, then signalled ‘Over and out’ and blinked off, leaving only the darkness.

  With his right hand Jock signalled ‘Follow me’, then he and Grenville started rowing, leading Taff and Gumboot around the ghostly ship, illuminated dimly by the lights that shone high above them.

  In the darkness, beyond the fog, the great ship creaked and groaned as if alive. The sea, though relatively calm, beat and splashed relentless against its hull, making a dull drumming sound.

  Eventually the stern of the ship came into view, first as a mere sliver of light on the black water, then as a vertical rectangle of light in which tiny, silhouetted figures moved back and forth, finally as a towering square of light that appeared to be burning out of three immense walls of steel – actually the inside of the ship’s hull – from which hung deflated Geminis. Below the inflatables were suspended Rigid Raiders and, in the water between the steel catwalks, anchored LCVPs.

  As the two canoes drifted into the docking bay someone cried out, ‘Welcome home!’

  The four men in the canoes gave the thumbs-up, grinning like Cheshire cats.

  Chapter 10

  ‘The date for the assault on Pebble Beach,’ Major Parkinson informed captains Hailsham and Grenville on the deck of the Fleet flagship HMS Hermes shortly after the Squadron had been cross-decked by helicopter from the Resource, ‘has been brought forward from 21 to 15 May.

  ‘Why?’ Hailsham asked, since this would drastically reduce the time his Mountain Troop had for briefing and preparation. ‘That only leaves us two days.’

  Major Parkinson sighed. ‘I know. The problem is that the three Sea King helos required for the insertion are only available for ten hours each day. As they have to be serviced, and since the nights of the sixteenth and nineteenth are scheduled for the re-supply and debriefing of recce patrols, any landing on Pebble Island will have to be made before the sixteenth. The raid has therefore been rescheduled to the early hours of the fifteenth. We’ll just have to make do.’

  Shading his eyes with one hand to protect them from the wind and spray, Parkinson was forced to squint as he studied the many activities taking place on the enormous deck of the ship. Despite the aircraft-carrier’s size, the Hermes was presently steaming into strong headwinds that made her roll heavily in the surging waves. Because her secondary role of anti-submarine helicopter carrier had added many helos to her complement of Harrier jets, she had a (light deck angled at 6.5 degrees with a 7-degree, gleaming white ski-jump ramp that appeared, from where Parkinson was standing, to soar all the way up to the stormy sky. The immense deck, which was rising and falling hypnotically against a backdrop of stormy sea, was littered with Sea Harrier jets. Sea King helicopters, with folded blades, were parked forward, near piles of strapped-down 10001b cluster bombs. Four LCVP landing-craft were slung in davits. The jackstay rigs and derricks were a brilliant, blinding yellow against the off-white ship and surrounding grey sea.

  With 1027 ratings and 143 officers, the Hermes was like a floating Air Force base, always busy, noisy, and wind-blown, with huge waves – though the sea seemed impossibly far below – often smashing noisily against the hull, hurling spray over the deck and soaking the busy ratings. Major Parkinson, not easily impressed, was very impressed.

  ‘There’s another small problem,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Please do tell me, boss,’ Captain Hailsham enthused sarcastically.

  ‘These headwinds have prevented the helos being prepared in advance, which is going to cause another slight delay. The storm is expected to abate by this afternoon, but because we’ll be late in loading the helos, our time to complete the mission will be reduced from 90 minutes to 30.’

  ‘With all due respect, boss, that’s asking an awful lot from our lads.’

  Parkinson sighed again. ‘I know, but I’m sure they can manage. Get in, do the job, and get out. It’s a hit-and-run mission. At least we’re no longer expected to eliminate the Argentinian ground crews and the rest of the island’s garrison, as well as destroying the planes. As our time has been reduced from 90 minutes to 30, the attack has been limited to destroying the aircraft and ensuring that our helos are back aboard the Hermes before daylight. This in turn will ensure that she and her escorts will be well to the east of the islands before the Argentinian Air Force can attack them, if they decide to do so.’

  ‘Let’s make sure we hit every plane on the ground,’ Captain Hailsham said. ‘Every damned one of them.’

  ‘I still say we insert by boat,’ Captain Grenville offered, sounding aggrieved.

  ‘No,’ Parkinson replied. ‘We don’t have the time. This is a surprise attack, so we have to insert by helo. Sorry, Larry, but you’re out of this one. You’ll be back here acting as base, in constant radio contact. You’ll get us in and out.’

  Hailsham raised his eyebrows at Grenville and gave a broad, mocking grin. ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. Shall we adjourn to the briefing room?’

  ‘Yes,’ Parkinson said. ‘The Squadron’s already been gathered together there. They’re all primed and waiting.’

  ‘Then let’s talk to them, boss.’

  After another glance at the immense, swaying deck and the stormy sea beyond, Parkinson turne
d away and slipped through the nearest hatchway, leading the other two into the depths of the ship, down steel ladders, through more hatchways, along creaking corridors, past cabins and lockers and the operational area, to the hold containing the ship’s large briefing room. The members of the Mountain Troop, together with the SBS members who had just made the recce, were sitting in chairs in front of the big blackboard, now covered in maps of Pebble Island.

  The babble of conversation died away when Parkinson entered the room with his two officers and took his place on the small, raised platform in front of the maps. He picked up a pointer and tapped the map behind him, letting the pointer rest on Pebble Beach.

  ‘There it is, gentlemen – our LZ. The beach on Pebble Island. That island is the stepping-stone to San Carlos Water, which is, of course, the back door to Port Stanley. Our job is to ensure the safety of the forthcoming landings by putting all the Argentinian aircraft on Pebble Island out of business. How does that grab you?’

  A cheer went up from the assembled men, only dying away when Parkinson waved them into silence.

  ‘What about the Argies?’ Ricketts asked.

  ‘Right,’ Danny said, looking and sounding, as always, like a choirboy. ‘Do we mop ’em up?’

  ‘No,’ Parkinson said. ‘We no longer have time for that. We’ve had an hour lopped off our schedule, which only leaves 30 minutes for the actual raid on the airstrip. Our job, therefore, is to ensure that all their aircraft are immobilized in that time – then we get the hell out. We’re not interested in taking prisoners or a high body-count. Our sole interest has to be the aircraft.’

  ‘How many?’ Ricketts asked.

  ‘Eleven Pucaras.’

  Big Andrew gave a low whistle. ‘That’s some job to do in thirty minutes, boss.’

  ‘You don’t think you can manage it?’

  ‘Didn’t say that, boss. Merely observing that the time is pretty limited for that number of targets.’