Soldier B: Heroes of the South Atlantic

by Shaun Clarke

  ‘Don’t worry, boss, I can take it. You can smell the bullshit before they speak it, so I’m well prepared for it.’

  ‘Good,’ Ricketts said. ‘It shows you’ve been well trained. A man who can take any kind of flak. A real SAS trooper.’

  ‘That’s me,’ Jock said, grinning defiantly from his bed of pain. ‘So what’s happening, boss?’

  ‘You’re being medevacked this morning,’ Ricketts told him. ‘Cross-decked to another ship that’ll take you to Ascension Island, then flown from there back to Blighty, where some sympathetic nurse might give you a hand-job under the sheets. What more could you want?’

  ‘To take part in the invasion,’ Jock said.

  ‘Not in your state, Trooper. As for you bullshit artists,’ Ricketts said, turning to the men gathered about Jock’s bed, ‘the British landing at San Carlos Water has been scheduled for the twenty-first. As a diversion, we’ve been tasked with mounting a raid against the Argies at Darwin, East Falkland. This is scheduled for tomorrow, so we’re being cross-decked to the Intrepid this evening. I therefore suggest that you go and get your kit in order. Say goodbye to this useless case on the bed, then get the hell out of here. We’ve no time to waste.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ Jock said. ‘It’s nice to know I’m valued.’

  ‘I’ll see you back in Hereford,’ Ricketts said, ‘when you’re out of those bandages. You’ll be more valued then. Keep your pecker up, Jock.’

  ‘Aye, boss, I’ll do that. Best of luck for tomorrow.’

  Ricketts nodded, glanced briefly at the other men, then raised his hand and spread his fingers. ‘Five minutes,’ he said, then left Jock to the mercy of his comrades.

  ‘You hear that, Jock?’ Andrew said. ‘You’ve got to keep your pecker up.’

  ‘I’ll go fetch some splints,’ Paddy said. ‘I think Jock’s going to need them.’

  ‘OK, you bunch of shites,’ Jock said, ‘you’ve all had your fun. Now piss off and leave me alone. I’ve got things to think about – like a hand-job from a saucy wee nurse in Hereford while you’re getting your balls shot off.’

  ‘There’s still life in this corpse,’ Andrew said. ‘I take that as a hopeful sign.’

  ‘Amen,’ Taff added.

  Before any more could be said, the medics came in to prepare Jock for his cross-decking. Ordered out of the sick bay, the troopers shook Jock’s hand, offered a few more parting shots, then went up to the flight deck to see him off.

  Jock was brought up on a stretcher and mocked relentlessly while being carried across the deck to the Sea King. He waved once, weakly but defiantly, before being hoisted up into the helicopter. Then the door was slammed shut and the helo roared into life, creating a wind that whiplashed the watching troopers before lifting off. It hovered above the helipad like an indecisive bird, then ascended and headed south, joining the many other helos already in the air, noisily cross-decking men and supplies from one ship to the other in the build-up for the forthcoming assault on San Carlos Water.

  Ricketts, who was leaning against the railing near the helipad, glanced across at the many other ships of the fleet – aircraft-carriers, destroyers, frigates, hospital ships and landing vessels – now gathering together for the definitive assault on the Falkland Islands. Seeing him there, Danny joined him.

  ‘The first of us to be shipped back,’ he said, his gaze focused on the helo that was taking Jock back to Ascension Island.

  ‘Yes,’ Ricketts replied distractedly. Then he added ominously: ‘Let’s hope he’s the last.’

  Two hours after sunset, nearly thirty members of the Squadron, wearing full belt kit and lifejackets, as well as carrying the usual complement of weapons, boarded a Sea King for the five-minute cross-decking from the Hermes to the Intrepid, now cruising a mere half-mile away. From there, the Troop would be inserted by sea onto Darwin, East Falkland.

  Within minutes the helicopter was in the air and heading across the relatively short stretch of dark sea. In the equally dark, cramped passenger compartment of the helo, the noise was deafening and the atmosphere claustrophobic.

  ‘Thing I most dislike about this whole business,’ Andrew said, distractedly checking the ammunition belts criss-crossing his chest, ‘are these damned chopper flights. Like being in a coffin. Even worse than a chartered flight to Spain. It don’t do me no good, man.’

  ‘It’s not a chopper,’ the Loadmaster said. As it was only a five-minute flight, he was still standing by the door, getting ready to open it. ‘It’s a helicopter – or a helo. Get your terminology right, soldier. We don’t like the word “chopper”.’

  ‘Strike me dead, man, for using the wrong word, but whether it’s a helicopter or a helo, I still don’t like it, period.’

  ‘You’re just scared of heights is all.’

  ‘I can’t see no heights, man. I can’t see a damned thing. All I can see is your white face in that overhead light there.’

  The Loadmaster grinned. ‘More than I can see, friend. In the darkness, you’re practically invisible. Must be useful in your line of business. Is that why they took you on?’

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny.’ Big Andrew was not amused. He ran his fingers up and down his M203 grenade-launcher, then checked that its incendiary bombs were still in the pockets of the belt criss-crossing his chest. ‘You want a tan like this, man, you’ve got to go and cook in the sun. With me it comes natural.’

  ‘So how come you take charter flights to Spain?’

  ‘I like the rain on the plain.’

  The Loadmaster laughed and looked out of the window. ‘We’re about 300 feet up,’ he said. ‘We’ll be coming in to land any minute, so you’ve no need to fear.’

  ‘That guy’s talking to himself,’ Andrew said. ‘He can’t be talking to me. I don’t know what fear means. Hey, Danny, have you ever been scared? Do you know what fear is?’

  ‘I think it’s RAF slang,’ Danny replied. ‘They know lots of words we don’t.’

  Andrew chuckled at that. ‘Right on, my little brother. They’ve got a language all their own. Phrases like “scared shitless” and “crapping your pants” and “turning white around the gills” and so forth – all the things they know from personal experience, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Danny said.

  Andrew let the Loadmaster hear his healthy bellow of laughter. He stopped laughing when the Loadmaster listened intently to his earphones, glanced out of the window again, then said with an evil grin: ‘Sorry, guys, but we’ve got a bit of a delay. Another helo’s still sitting on the Intrepid’s flight deck, so we’re going to have to complete a second circuit.’

  ‘What?’ Andrew asked. ‘Are you putting me on, man?’

  ‘No, Trooper, I’m not putting you on. We’re going to have to stay aloft for a while. But don’t worry, it’s free. Hey, I notice you haven’t gone white around the gills yet. Is that a good sign or simply a physical impossibility?’

  Andrew rolled his big brown eyes. ‘Oh, we’ve got a clown on board. Someone should give him a clip-on nose and a striped, cone-shaped hat. Another circuit, for Christ’s sake!’

  Some of the men were still laughing, but they stopped when they heard a very loud, unusual bang.

  The noise was still reverberating through the passenger compartment when the helo tilted sharply, throwing the Loadmaster to the floor, scattering the other men and their equipment, then plunged screaming and shuddering towards the ocean.

  ‘We’re going down!’ someone bawled.

  Stars exploded in Ricketts’s head when a boot kicked his temple. He opened his eyes to find himself pinned to the floor – or perhaps the ceiling – in a tangle of writhing bodies – men bawling, weapons clanging – as the helo continued its clamorous dive towards the ocean, shuddering wildly, going into a spin, its engines roaring unnaturally, as if about to explode. Ricketts took a deep breath and reached out for his SLR – too late.

  The helo plunged into the sea with a dreadful roaring, tearing noise, metal buckling and shrie
king before the water poured in, drenching him, completely submerging him, cutting off all sound. Ricketts was picked up, turned over, battered, sent spinning like a top, then smashed against something hard in that terrible silence. He may have blacked out briefly – he couldn’t be sure – but consciousness returned with a sudden inrush of noise – splashing water, bawling men, clattering weapons, twanging metal – and he surfaced beneath the tilting ceiling of the helo, coughing water, surrounded by other bobbing heads, drifting webbing and clothing.

  ‘We’re turning over!’ someone cried out. ‘It’s starting to sink!’

  That much was true. As Ricketts trod water, unable to find the floor beneath him, he saw that the helo was tilting to the side, sinking, with the water pouring in through the smashed perspex of the cockpit, where the pilot, waist-deep in water, the navigator dead beside him, was clambering out, holding a distress flare in his hand.

  With only inches between himself and the ceiling – now actually the overturning side – of the helo, Ricketts had to frantically tread water while being dragged under by his ammunition belts and webbing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrew’s wide eyes and flashing teeth; clinging to a door handle, he was tugging young Danny up out of the water to enable him to shuck off the heavy bergen that was dragging him under. Beyond Andrew, in a jagged frame of shattered perspex, silhouetted by the night sky, now outside the helo and balanced precariously on the smashed nose, the pilot was firing his distress flare.

  It shot up out of sight with a whoosh, making the pilot’s arm jerk and almost throwing him off the nose, then exploded directly above to illuminate the crashed, sinking helo.

  Even as Ricketts felt a brief exhilaration, a dead body surfaced near him, then another, and a third, as the helo turned turtle and sank completely. Ricketts saw the pilot waving his arms wildly and toppling off the turning nose. He caught a glimpse of Andrew and Danny falling into one another and plunging into the rising water. Then he too was submerged as the water reached the turning wall, forcing him down into total darkness, silence, and a numbing cold.

  He lost all sense of direction, not knowing up from down, but managed to wriggle out of his webbing and get rid of his heavy boots before he ran completely out of breath and again started blacking out. He forced himself to stay calm and resisted unconsciousness.

  It was darkness and silence. A bottomless well. Ricketts was only made aware of himself by the objects, or bodies, bumping into him. Open your eyes! he thought. It was hard, but he managed it. Objects darker than the darkness of the water were swirling and turning around him. Dead bodies, he thought. The sea’s darkness was streaked with light … Light? What light? he wondered. Where’s the light coming from? His lungs were about to burst. He could hardly think straight. His thoughts went in and out like faulty gears as he slipped towards unconsciousness. Light! he said in his shrinking mind. The light’s streaking that water filled with dark shapes. It was dimly illuminating the bodies bobbing and sinking around him. A light coming from somewhere.

  He forced his eyes to stay open, though they stung from the salt water. Numbed by cold, bereft of air, Ricketts was sinking and drifting out of himself when he saw where the light was. It looked like a star, now expanding, now contracting, its striations spreading out all around him like a pale, shivering web in which the dark, drifting objects, the drowned bodies, appeared to be trapped.

  Ricketts turned towards the light, fighting oblivion, kicking his legs, and reached out to take hold of the star and let its light warm him. He surfaced to a burst of sound – splashing water, bawling men – and saw that the light was the moon beaming down on the sea.

  He had made his escape from the sinking helo by swimming up through the hole in the smashed nose, now sinking below him.

  Getting his senses back, he realized that the SARBE surface-to-air rescue beacon – essentially a small radio used for communication between the helo and the ship – had probably kept sending out its distress signal until the helo sank beneath the waves. With luck, an SAR, search and rescue, helicopter would soon be on its way. Meanwhile, like the other survivors bobbing around him, he had to stay afloat and hope to be rescued before suffering from hypothermia or even freezing to death.

  As the helo sank, bubbles rose to the surface and the high waves turned into a minor whirlpool that picked Ricketts up and swept him in a circle with the other survivors and debris – mostly webbing and clothing. Wiping the water from his eyes as best he could with numbed fingers, he saw Andrew clinging to a rescue dinghy, its automatic search-and-rescue beacon transmitting while the pilot let off more flares. Beyond them, surprisingly far out to sea, Danny Porter drifted all alone. Between them, and between Andrew and Ricketts, were other survivors. Some of them, badly battered in the crash, were already dying and sinking.

  The whirlpool created by the sinking helo subsided, leaving the waves to rise and fall as usual. Picked up on the waves, then swept along in the rushing troughs, Ricketts knew he was safe in his life-jacket. He also knew that he was starting to freeze and could do nothing about it.

  The dead and their debris were floating all around him when he saw an SAR helicopter emerging from the darkness, its searchlights beaming down on the sea, to illuminate Danny, floating alone, drifting south towards Antarctica.

  Even as the helo descended to just above the surface, its spinning rotors sucking the sea up in angry waves that threatened to submerge Danny before he could grab the unfurling lifeline, the lights of a cutter materialized in the distance, obviously coming from the direction of the fleet and heading steadily for the scene of the crash.

  Picked up on a high wave, then sucked down through a trough, Ricketts briefly lost sight of Danny. When he was swept back up on the crest of the same wave, he saw Danny in mid-air, swinging from side to side, being winched up to the SAR helo, unreal in the silvery beam of the searchlights, obscured by spray from the surging sea.

  The helo flew back towards the fleet, with Danny being winched up as it went, then disappeared into the darkness, taking Danny with it.

  Clinging to the rescue dinghy, but seeing the approaching cutter, the resolute pilot of the crashed helo set off another flare. It exploded high above in a brilliant fireworks display, bathing the black sea in its silvery light. In that eerie glow Ricketts saw the other survivors; he also saw the dreadful debris of the crash, including dead bodies kept adrift by their lifebelts, some staring skyward.

  Aware that he was freezing, hardly able to feel his limbs, Ricketts kept moving as best he could. It was, he assumed, like having amputated limbs: he could sense them there and will them to move, but he couldn’t really feel them. Nevertheless, he was moving – the splashing water told him that – and he kept doing so until the cutter arrived and started picking the men up.

  Ricketts was lucky, being one of the first. Rolling onto the deck and being immediately wrapped in blankets, he couldn’t feel a thing – not the deck, not his own body – but experienced an enormous exhilaration. Big Andrew followed shortly after, his face wet and gleaming, groaning, ‘Christ, man, I’m cold, so damned cold. What the fuck happened, man?’ He was rolled onto a stretcher, covered in blankets, given a brandy, then picked up and carried away with Ricketts, who realized, when he floated up beside Andrew, that he, too, was being carried on a stretcher. He was too numb to feel it.

  Ricketts, Andrew and Danny spent the rest of the night in bed in the sick bay, recovering from mild hypothermia and unable to sleep properly because the pain, which was caused by the return of feeling to their limbs, made them too uncomfortable.

  Early next morning, when Major Parkinson came to see them, he told them that the cause of the crash was unknown, but that it may have been caused by a large seabird being sucked into an engine intake.

  ‘Whatever the reason,’ Parkinson said, ‘it’s been an absolute disaster. Few of the men made it to the surface. Eighteen are dead. You three were lucky.’

  ‘Is the assault on the Falklands still scheduled?
’ Ricketts asked.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, it is.’

  ‘What about the diversionary assault on East Falkland? The one we should have made?’

  ‘That’s still scheduled as well. We simply can’t let this dreadful incident stop us. The diversion is vital.’

  ‘And us?’ Ricketts asked, indicating Andrew and Danny in the adjoining beds.

  ‘Just get some rest, Sergeant.’

  Parkinson left the sick bay without saying another word. When he had gone, Andrew turned to Ricketts and said, ‘He didn’t actually answer the question. What does that mean?’

  ‘If it means what I think we won’t be happy, but let’s wait and see.’

  Thirty minutes later, the ship’s doctor arrived. After examining his three patients in turn, he said: ‘Well, lads, aren’t you the lucky ones? I’m going to have to ship you back to Hereford for recuperation.’

  ‘What recuperation?’ Ricketts asked. ‘There’s nothing wrong with us, doctor.’

  ‘You’re suffering from hypothermia.’

  ‘We were suffering from that. It was mild and we’re not suffering any more. We don’t need to recuperate.’

  ‘Yes, you do, Sergeant. This condition is unpredictable. You could even be suffering from shock without knowing it, so you have to go back.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Ricketts said. ‘Feed that birdseed to the others. We were first out of the water and we weren’t in it long. Trooper Porter – five minutes. Me – about ten minutes. Trooper Winston – a couple of minutes longer than me, but he’s as strong as an ox. We’re not suffering from hypothermia, Doc, and we’re not going back.’

  ‘You’ll all do what you’re told, Sergeant Ricketts, and that’s all there is to it. Now lie down and shut up.’

  ‘Yes, Doc,’ Ricketts said. He waited until the doctor had left the sick bay, then turned to Andrew and Danny. ‘So now you know what Parkinson meant. We’re not going to take part in the final assault on the Falkand Islands. We’re being dropped from the Task Force and sent home to be mended.’

  ‘Mended?’ Andrew responded, outraged. ‘Who the fuck needs mending? I’m as fit as a fiddle and raring to go, so I don’t need no spell in a hospital in Hereford, tucked up nice and cosy with a bunch of whining wimps and premature geriatrics. Fuck it, man, we’ve come all this way, doing a good job, and now they’re planning to send us back. It’s a bag of unwholesome shit.’