That night I wrote and told Char what he had said, adding:
Still, at least they’ll maybe let me retire gracefully, meanwhile I am busy trying to keep my head above troubled waters, and think – ‘Think or thwim’, as they say in the Tactical School…
There is so much to do. None of our plans seems to hold up for much more than twenty-four hours, as Mr Nott footles about, wringing his hands and worrying about his blasted career. And the Ministry men play their intricate and interminable games with an eye to the aftermath (’get in quick if there’s credit, be elsewhere if there’s not’).
I’m not intending to prove I’m an ‘ace’ or whatever – it’s mostly about trying to do whatever I’m charged with doing in the most economical and effective way. Which means getting no more heads blown off than can be helped. Sometimes that will mean sending a friend to his death in order that eight others will survive. I don’t look forward to those sort of decisions, you may imagine.
I am sorry to rattle on, but we’re far from home, and as I go on the rounds of seeing my people, I greatly fear I may be seeing some of them for the last time. Morbid really, but I suppose realistic too.
And, with that, I signed off, and returned briefly to the Ops Room which was, as ever, extremely busy. Like all of the other Ops Rooms in our little fleet, it would remain so throughout the night, as I and my captains prepared to sail, at midday tomorrow, for the cold south, and the Battle for the Falkland Islands.
5
‘Weapons Tight!’
Of all the varied creatures which inhabit the vast lonely stretches of the world’s oceans, I think perhaps the sailor is most impressed by the whale. The eye is always pulled to watch the majestic appearance of the earth’s largest inhabitant bursting out of the waves in that glorious slow motion he has, blowing his huge jet of water into the empty skies as he clears his enormous lungs. But this giant of the seas has, I am afraid, a major fault in his design. To an active sonar, he looks just like a submarine. Even to the professional eye looking not quite in the right direction, his fleeting white swirl on the water can falsely signal the menace of a periscope.
The morning of 18 April was a prize example of the confusion he can cause. At 0900 our newly arrived tanker Olmeda reported the sighting of a ‘feather’, the wash of a periscope. It did not require a great stretch of the imagination to work out that the Argentinians could easily have put a submarine into the Ascension area in a bold attempt to finish the war before it started.
All ships were ordered to weigh anchor. Hermes was underway by 1000 – two hours earlier than planned. Within thirty minutes, all ships had been ordered to form up – and the Battle Group was quickly into formation, with no hitches. Sonar operators worked swiftly to establish the identity of the submarine contact from its behaviour and, inside the hour, as we moved quickly away from Ascension, we believed it not to originate from Argentina. We were more inclined to think it might be a Soviet nuclear boat, because it took fast, evasive action over a extended period. Only two creatures of the deep possess this tremendous power – Red October, and Moby Dick.
Our fears and hopes were not finally settled until a patrolling RAF Nimrod reported sighting a school of whales close by and we formally classified the contact as such. This was to become almost routine for the men who searched the sea for submarines – the sonar operators – as we made our way along the migration routes of the world’s largest mammals. The incident had disrupted our logistics transfers a bit, but nothing irrecoverable. It earned COMAW’s considerable displeasure, but he had not realised the cause. And when it happened to his own group a week or two later, he also sailed early with the same results. From my personal point of view, the whole event had been a useful work-up as well as a way of getting all ships to sail early. This was by no means the last occasion that whales caused us to get over-excited and I’m afraid that, later on, when the use of anti-submarine weapons had been permitted, we must have killed quite a few. I had plenty of sympathy for whales, but not enough to counterbalance my strong dislike of Argentinian submarines. The whales’ design fault was too often fatal.
Anyway, we were away in good order and good time – Hermes, Glamorgan, the frigates Broadsword, Alacrity and Yarmouth, in company with Olmeda and Resource. Invincible was scheduled to leave later and catch up overnight. We had twelve days to make our way down to the Exclusion Zone. Our plan was to enter from the east, at night, to launch a Sea Harrier strike on Stanley airstrip at dawn with as many aircraft as we could sensibly muster. We would shell the Argentinian shore positions most of the day and send two anti-submarine frigates inshore to search for submarines. After dark, we’d start getting the Special Forces ashore.
Twelve days may seem plenty but there was still a great deal of training to be done, particularly for the aviators. The ships also needed to get used to having so many aircraft about. And some night flying practice was essential, particularly with the dim deck lights required in war. Everyone now had to learn how to operate beyond standard peacetime safety limits: flying faster, lower, and in worse weather, for instance. War requires a complete change of attitude – the emphasis shifts from avoiding the low chance of a silly accident, to dealing with the high chance of destruction by the enemy. But no one had set any wartime safety standards and we had to learn fast that limits were still required. More than once, we found out the hard way.
Meanwhile the preparations were proceeding apace: the Antrim group (Operation Paraquet) was hurrying on towards South Georgia; the Brilliant group, with Sheffield, Coventry, Glasgow and Arrow was well ahead with their tanker Appleleaf; General Haig was still shuttling; the amphibians were sorting themselves out at Ascension; and the sonar operators in the Battle Group were finding whales in great numbers. None of this took much of my attention, but there was one consideration which my diary reveals as very much on my mind. London had put me under orders to go towards a two-hundred-mile-radius Exclusion Zone and make aggressive noises, but only when I got there. Presumably they hoped this would frighten the Argentinians into going home. It was certainly worth a try. But it wasn’t that simple – exclusion zones seldom are. I wrote down my thoughts about the weaknesses in this strategy in my diary that night:
Militarily not very sharp, since, should the opposition decide to the contrary, they will be able to carry out a co-ordinated pre-emptive strike on my aircraft carriers and ruin any chances we had of retaking the Falkland Islands. It is not as if the Args had not already proved they were prepared to pre-empt – witness South Thule, South Georgia, and finally the Falklands themselves. Not happy with this state of affairs.
There were, in addition, some other hard truths to face, the first being that we could not, in the face of a two-hundred-strong enemy air force, put forces ashore anywhere on the islands without air superiority. This does not mean providing total immunity from enemy air attack, only that the land forces be given reasonably effective air cover, sufficient to ensure that their operations on the ground are not seriously hampered. Opinion on what constitutes ‘sufficient’ differ sharply depending on your situation. The Royal Marine watching the approach of an Arg Pucara ground-attack aircraft coming straight for him will certainly see the matter more urgently than the distant Force Anti-Air Warfare Co-ordinator who is desperately trying to juggle his strictly limited numbers of aircraft to do an apparently unlimited number of jobs.
The Argentinian Air Force must not be allowed to dominate the skies – and to stop them we do have a small number of fairly basic, naval interceptor aircraft; not many, just a couple of dozen Sea Harriers so far, with a few more coming down in Atlantic Conveyor, before the country’s entire Sea Harrier inventory is fully committed. We do have large numbers of RAF interceptors, but they are of no use whatsoever since they require large airfields to operate from. And there is no such airfield where we are going. We have one at Ascension, nearly 4000 miles north of the Falklands, but from there would take eleven Victor tanker aircraft to get one long-range Vulcan bomber
over the islands for five minutes, and then bring it back. The only other British airfield in our area is at Port Stanley but that isn’t going to be available until mid-June, at the earliest. And it would not be fit for RAF Interceptors [Phantoms] for however long it took to lengthen the runway after that – like some months. This leaves us with two working aircraft carriers: the bigger Hermes is nothing like big enough – certainly Admiral Tom Brown wouldn’t have thought so, since she carries about half the aircraft he could on his USS Coral Sea; the other British carrier Invincible has roughly half the capacity of Hermes. There is a third, Illustrious, but she is presently not due to complete building and workup until the middle of next year. The two we have will need to last until long after any land battle is over. We are going to have to find some way of keeping at least one of our two operational carriers out there for some months after the land battle is over. Lose Invincible and the operation is at least severely jeopardized. Lose Hermes and the operation is over. One unlucky torpedo, bomb or missile hit, even a simple but major accident on board, could do it.
Right now I only had loose instructions to go into the Exclusion Zone and keep the Argentinians out of it. We usually call this a ‘Show of Force’, which is fine if it succeeds in frightening the enemy off without a shot being fired. But what if the Argentinians are not frightened? What if they call our bluff? What if they make a really determined effort of, say, fifty aircraft in a major strike? What if they are prepared to lose twenty or thirty aircraft in an all-out attempt to sink one of our carriers? What if they choose to do what I did to the Coral Sea? What are the Malvinas worth to General Galtieri? This is what I meant by the diary phrase ‘Not happy with this state of affairs’. The other aspect that occurred to me was that Mrs Thatcher, like any Prime Minister who agrees to fight a war, is unlikely to get much sympathy if it goes wrong. My diary put it simply enough: ‘She might call it “naval incompetence” and gracefully wrap her hand in.’ With John Nott’s question in mind, I added, ‘Nasty thought.’
Thus, on this April night, far off the Atlantic coast of Brazil, I am less than optimistic, too aware that if they hit Hermes or Invincible the Royal Navy will somehow be publicly disgraced, that I will certainly be court-martialled, whether ‘important enough’ to take all the blame or not. Worse yet, the British military will become the laughing stock of the world, limping home in defeat. John Bull humbled at last. At sea.
However, moods pass and the daily events helped to drive the darker fears away. I settled down to deal with the inappropriately named John Coward. I do not think the later Vice Admiral Sir John Coward KCB, would think it that much of a slight if I suggested that his basic instinct was to start the war against Argentina all on his own. He made it clear that he was keen to hurry on over to Port Stanley and set about them at the earliest possible moment. As he was still far closer than I was to the Falklands, I rather felt I should discourage this. But I knew Coward well, his courage and his competence, and I found myself writing thoughtfully: ‘He could swing it, I expect. Though I’m not sure what he should do thereafter…and it would be splitting the force (against Rule One)…but it would get the war under way before the Args can pre-empt on the aircraft carriers.’
Ultimately I thought better of such expendability and sent him a sharp signal saying, ‘Do nothing of the sort. Wait for me. And stay out of trouble.’ He was unconvinced and continued to press. It was, I mused that evening, a classic case of the young bull saying to the old bull, ‘You see that field of cows over there, let’s rush down this lane, jump over the gate and chat one of them up.’ ‘No, Captain Coward, let’s not. Let’s walk steadily down the lane, open the gate and see to the lot of them.’
I rounded off the diary entry by recording:
Coward is reading more into the Rules of Engagement than is intended, and fancies starting the war all on his own. Can’t entirely blame him, but a pesky nuisance all the same…Meanwhile I shall have to amplify the ROE so that all the Commanding Officers can know what I’m thinking, rather than apply their own interpretations, which might range from ‘Ask them for lunch’ to ‘Nuke ‘em for breakfast’.
Our Rules of Engagement at this time forbade us to attack any ship before we entered the Exclusion Zone, unless of course we ourselves came under attack, in which case we were permitted to defend ourselves using minimum force. Understandably, this was how the Cabinet wished Britain to be seen in the eyes of the world community. In reality, of course, things may turn out rather differently. But that would not be the fault of the British Government. That would be the fault of Admiral…ummm…whatsisname…Woodward, overstepping the mark.
On Wednesday 21 April, some 1500 miles out from Ascension, our understanding of the Rules of Engagement were all put to the test. Around midday, the Hermes radar operators picked up a high-altitude unidentified air contact at long range. We immediately sent up a Sea Harrier to intercept – which took longer than I had hoped – but the pilot reported a Boeing 707 in Argentinian Air Force regalia, out to have a look at us. No weapons could be seen on him and, on sighting the Harrier, the pilot altered course to clear the area.
Our pilot took a photograph from alongside, and it was clear enough that the Boeing had been converted into a military reconnaissance aircraft. It also seemed likely that it was using its weather-avoidance radar for surface search to pin-point us, see how many ships we had and where we were going. It was quickly nicknamed the ‘Burglar’.
We immediately raised the anti-air warfare readiness of the force, since an air strike can always follow a reconnaissance flight. We also changed the formation of the ships and thereafter kept at least two Harriers on deck alert, ready to take off and intercept any intruders at short notice.
This put an important question in my mind. Am I going to let this ‘Burglar’ go on reporting our latest position back to Argentinian headquarters, possibly telling their carrier where to send a pre-emptive air strike? Or am I going to ‘splash’ him, in flagrant defiance of my own Rules of Engagement, perhaps to save ships and lives in my own force? I guess not, but he is a considerable worry. I know all too well what can follow up behind recce aircraft-strike direction is one of their prime tasks.
At 0230 the following morning, another high-altitude contact showed up, a hundred and forty-four miles to the south-west – the direction of the South American mainland. Again we sent a Harrier, up into the night, and he intercepted sixty-five miles out, identifying a Boeing 707 carrying airliner navigation lights. The Harrier drove him out to the north-east of the Battle Group. But then the Boeing broke cover and turned sharply south for home, identifying himself as the Burglar beyond any reasonable doubt.
It seemed to me that this sort of thing could not be allowed to continue, so I ‘tweaked’ Fleet Headquarters in Northwood to leak information that we now had instructions to shoot the Burglar down in the hope that this might put him off. Actually, I went further than that and I asked for permission to shoot him down. And, to my slight surprise, I got it via DSSS (the long-range secure speech radio via satellite); at least I thought so at the time. With a couple of qualifications that – a) he came within a certain specific range limit, and b) we had ‘positive identification’ that he was, indeed, the Burglar.
At 2000 that night, again in darkness, the Boeing made yet another appearance. By now, everyone was in a high state of agitation. The Force Anti-Air Warfare Commander in Invincible sent two Harriers off after him inside two minutes, and a third three minutes later. I considered this well over the top, and my diary records my irritation. ‘Ridiculous,’ I wrote. ‘So gave AAWC a hard time. Not well handled at our end either – helicopters slow to get airborne and Communications Intercept not warned. You wonder how we’ll ever get it to go right.’
At 1134 the next morning, the 707 came again. We detected his radar and sent up a combat air patrol. However, we did not manage an intercept and the aircraft vanished, we guessed without detecting us. He was becoming something of a habit, a bad one and unwelcome wi
th it. Just after sunset that evening, up he comes again, this time from the south-east, two hundred miles away, obviously high, heading straight towards us, and with his radar switched on as usual. Invincible’s Sea Dart system locks on in good time, giving us accurate course, speed and height, and telling us exactly where the target must be for us to hit it at the maximum range of our missiles. But this is well beyond the specific range permitted by my ROE. So we hold our fire as he comes on in at 350 knots. He is within two minutes of reaching the limit – at which point he is ours.
It crosses my mind at that point that it could just be someone else. I don’t think it is, because the Burglar has been visiting regularly now for three days. It is time to remove him, firstly because he could be the fore-runner for a strike, and secondly, as they said about the shooting of Admiral Byng – ‘to encourage the others’. Nevertheless, I still call for a final check, ‘Do we have any record of any scheduled commercial air flights anywhere over the South Atlantic?’ The reply is a confident negative. Then that, I thought, is that. If he comes any closer, he’ll have to go. One final, final check though. ‘Just lay off his course, forward and back from his present position, on a map of the South Atlantic. Quickly now!’
We are only a minute from missile launch against the Burglar. Every ten seconds he is getting a mile nearer. The Deck Alert Harrier, launched too late, is not going to get up there until the Burglar is well past. Still no answer from my General Operations Plotter. But with twenty seconds to spare, it comes back. ‘He seems to be on a direct line running from Durban to Rio de Janeiro,’ came the careful reply.
‘Weapons tight!’ I order, and the GWO immediately broadcasts it, denying all ships permission to fire.
The Harrier is sent to get close in and check visually. Sure enough, he reports back that it is a Brazilian airliner, with all the normal navigational and cabin lights on, bound no doubt from Durban to Rio, and now fast disappearing away to the north-west.
One Hundred Days Page 16