Survival

by David Fletcher

  Fortunately, this discussion and all other conversation was put on hold when the three diners reconvened after lunch to partake of a slice of birdwatching from the stern of the ship. Instead, they tried between them to distinguish the albatrosses from the petrels and the petrels from the shearwaters, and really only felt confident in their identification skills when they were treated to the sight of diminutive storm petrels feeding off the surface of the sea as they pattered across it. They were, the party of three agreed, too small to live in this endless watery environment, and barely credible in their choice of feeding habits. How, by dining on the minuscule creatures they found on the surface of the sea, could they possibly derive enough sustenance even to fuel their never-ending dance across the waves?

  Equally puzzling was the fact that the Falklands had once been located off the east coast of the tip of South Africa. But that, according to Tony, the expedition team’s miserable geologist, was where it was back in Gondwana days, before South America had bidden farewell to Africa. And, as he was keen to point out in his afternoon lecture, just because a chunk of Africa cleaves off, spins around and ends up closer to South America than it does to the Africa it has left, it doesn’t make it part of South America and it never will. The Falklands, he announced, were not only culturally detached from South America but geologically detached from it as well. It wasn’t only Alex, it appeared, who was mildly jingoistic when it came to the claims on this disputed Atlantic territory. And this was a point he readily admitted to when, with the other members of the famous five, he turned up for dinner later on.

  Alex and his little clan had gathered in the inside restaurant – and had very soon been joined by Tony. This made for a less-than-stimulating meal, simply because it was impossible to ignore the pall of gloom that Tony cast over the table. And if he wasn’t being gloomy, he was being unbearably tiresome, and he achieved his outstanding level of tedium by continually talking about various impenetrable aspects of geology, to the exclusion of virtually everything else. It was just as well that Derek was occasionally able to illuminate the murk of Tony’s presence with a few contributions of his own. Delivered, of course, with his trademark lack of inhibition.

  One of the ‘less provocative’ of these that Alex would not easily forget concerned a safari holiday in Namibia where years ago he and Elaine had been taken to a hide after dark to observe leopards. This was on a private reserve, and leopard sightings could be almost guaranteed because the owners of the reserve would put out food to attract these scary felines. It was, as Derek conceded, by no means a natural spectacle, and had more to do with a zoo experience than a true safari event, and indeed this zoo flavour of the arrangement was emphasised in the design of the hide. This was a long, half-submerged construction, giving a dozen or so clients an opportunity to view the action.

  However, as Derek went on to explain, even with this ‘zoo’ arrangement, leopard sightings were not absolutely guaranteed. And this was because these creatures have very sensitive hearing, and if they detected the presence of humans in the hide, they would not make an appearance. Accordingly, Derek and Elaine and the other occupants of the hide – all of whom were British – complied with the instructions they had been given before entering the hide not to make a sound or even to whisper to each other. And consequently, they were rewarded with the sight of two leopards. It was just after this successful viewing that the manager of the reserve told them that very often a contingent of Italians would visit the hide, but on not one occasion had they seen a leopard. Italians, it seemed, when in a group, no matter how small the group, could not refrain from chatting to each other for more than about thirty seconds. And to expect up to a dozen of them to remain silent for thirty or forty minutes was to ask the impossible. It could be, he concluded, that no Italians had ever set eyes on a leopard, and they never would until they abandoned their stereotype and learned to shut up.

  That, Roy suggested, would be a very long way off. And before this politically incorrect stereotyping was drawn to a close, he went on to remark that at least the Italians had wanted to see leopards. And not just reduce their bones to powder for use in ineffective medicines and potions. Nor would they have regarded the abuse of such a wonderful wild animal as anything other than barbaric.

  So, another day at sea ended on a familiar theme, and Alex and Debbie retired to their cabin, buoyed by the company of three of their dinner companions and wondering whether the fourth would benefit from the attentions of a life coach…

  nine

  For the first time since he’d arrived at Mount Pleasant, Stuart was actually keen to start his day. It was why he was sitting in his tiny office at such an early hour. At seven o’clock in the morning he was normally trying to decide whether to have another half-hour in bed or to get up in the hope that lurking somewhere on the breakfast buffet would be at least a couple of pieces of edible bacon and maybe one sausage that didn’t put him in mind of an overfilled condom. Where, he had often wondered, did they get these monstrous obscenities, and were they really what servicemen actually wanted, or were they just designed to look engorged and therefore suitably macho? He might never learn. Just as he might never learn what his new crop of intercepts meant. But it wouldn’t stop him trying.

  There were more than ever. The volume of traffic had risen through the whole of yesterday and it was now even higher. And Venezuela’s local difficulties had dropped out of sight. Almost every message, every signal and every exchange of information now concerned what was going on in China. Or, more precisely, what might be going on in China, now that it had apparently stopped communicating with the rest of the world. It was unprecedented. The most populous nation on the planet had taken a vow of silence – and more. As well as imposing a radio silence and a social media blackout, and unplugging itself entirely from the internet, it had stopped all flights out of the country, and – through its complete silence – was not giving clearance for any flights into the country either. And all shipping movements had come to a halt as well. It seemed to Stuart that China had either decided to engage in some form of extreme self-quarantine, or its all-powerful communist clique had a really serious problem on its hands; something it just couldn’t control.

  The more Stuart pondered these conjectures, the more he concluded that they were both highly improbable. Why, if you had a serious epidemic on your hands that warranted a massive self-quarantine exercise, would you not tell the rest of the world what you were doing? They would probably be extremely grateful and very relieved, and might even offer you some help. However, on the other hand, something so serious that it could break the grip of the communist regime was just about inconceivable. When you’re able to monitor all your citizens, ignore the law as you wish, and lock up or otherwise dispose of anybody causing you a problem, nothing could be that serious. Even the outbreak of a really dangerous flu would no doubt be brought to heel. No matter how draconian the measures adopted to achieve this might be. And no matter how many people might need to be dealt with…

  Stuart began to feel he was getting nowhere. There was now a mountain of intercepts to deal with, but he felt that even if he successfully scaled its heights, the view from the top would be no clearer than it was for him now. How could it be when the mountain was made up of just questions, suppositions and concerns but no real information whatsoever?

  However, just as he’d become hopelessly despondent about not being able to discover anything of any use at all, he read an intercept that had originated in Madrid and that referred to a number of fires. It appeared that somewhere in that huge, inscrutable country, there were blazes that were visible from space.

  He reread it, and he reread it again. And what struck him was that it didn’t appear to be just supposition or rumour. There were references in it that seemed to confirm that it was a factual report based on genuine intelligence. It even gave the locations of some of the blazes. They were in Shanghai, Hangzhou and Nanjing. That, of course, w
as significant – and alarming as well. These weren’t forest fires or scrublands ablaze, but presumably huge conflagrations within urban centres. And if so, why weren’t they being put out? What were those cities’ fire brigades doing?

  This had to warrant a report to HQ. Even though Stuart was absolutely certain that if anybody in Madrid knew about these fires, then there was no way that they wouldn’t also be known to ‘the family’. Indeed, it was inconceivable that it wasn’t a family satellite that had first picked up these inexplicable conflagrations. Nevertheless, he had to do it. Protocol would not allow him not to report it. Just as his curiosity would not allow him to do other than buy a couple of wraps and a bumper bottle of water in order that he could eschew the canteen and stay at his post. And that wasn’t just his professional curiosity. It was a deep sense that he should find out everything he could as soon as he could to satisfy his own personal curiosity. After all, in his mind, life so far – as in the life of the entire human-dominated planet – had been a series of non-events and damp squibs. And despite the odd conflict and the odd insurrection, nothing of any great import had ever happened. There had been absolutely nothing to set his own pulse racing, or indeed to upset the monotonous self-satisfied rhythm of a deeply self-satisfied world.

  Well, maybe something was going on that might finally cause the onset of some serious arrhythmia. Maybe he’d at last know what it was like to witness something so far out of the ordinary that it might give the human world the sort of shock that it had never experienced before.

  Or… there again, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that spending all this time marooned on a bleak and desolate outpost, with only soldiers, airmen and sheep to keep him company, was finally getting to him. One intercept about some flames in a far-off land, and he’d let his imagination run wild. In fact, he began to have second thoughts about putting in that report, protocol or not. And maybe he should just see whether anything else developed. Eat his second wrap and just monitor the chatter. And maybe later this evening, try and come to terms with mundane reality again with the aid of a late pint of beer…

  ten

  Alex and Debbie were learning about flags. They were having breakfast with Roy, and Roy had just enlightened them on the use of colours in national flags, and how only one nation on Earth has a flag that features neither red, white nor blue. This nonconformist, he told them, was Jamaica; and clearly he was not going to end his lesson there. To start with, he reminded his audience that the Jamaican flag consisted of a gold saltire dividing it into four sections, two of which were black and two of which were green. (As any cannabis enthusiast would probably know.) He then went on to explain that the black was supposed to depict the strength and creativity of the Jamaican people; the gold, sunlight and the wealth of the country; and the green, its agricultural resources, and hope.

  However, his lesson in vexillology was not over yet. Because Roy then informed his audience that before August 2017, Jamaica had had to share its title with Mauritania. It seemed that, before that month, the Mauritanian flag had consisted of a gold star and crescent on a green background, and was therefore similarly deficient in red, white or blue. However, following a referendum, a change was made to the flag to sandwich the green and gold between two red stripes, to symbolise the blood shed by the country’s patriots in its struggle against its French colonisers. That struggle had resulted in independence back in 1960, which, suggested Roy, did indicate a degree of tardiness in recognising the patriots’ heroic efforts. But, he went on to say, given that Mauritania is a country which still embraces slavery and still imposes the death penalty for atheism, maybe this failure to move very quickly – on anything – was only to be expected.

  Well, there were no Mauritanians in the restaurant to take Roy to task on his defamatory comments, and there was no way that Alex or Debbie would take on this role themselves. Instead, Alex suggested that Jamaica was highly unlikely to add even one red stripe to its flag, unless it wanted to symbolise its favourite beer. Debbie didn’t understand what he meant by this until Alex informed her that Red Stripe was the name of Jamaica’s very own home-brewed lager, and even when he had done so, she was less than impressed. Indeed, wasn’t it about time, she suggested, that, rather than exploring any more vexillological matters, it might be better if they brought their meal to an end and prepared themselves for the first presentation of the day? This was not on flags, but on the conduct of the Falklands War. Mike, the ex-Marine, was going to give an account of his experiences in this conflict. When he was just seventeen…

  It was a packed house. The lounge was completely full. Everybody, it seemed, was more than eager to hear what had happened in that campaign – from the mouth of someone who had actually been there, from someone who had been one of those heroes who had ‘yomped’ his way to Stanley. And to start with, what they heard was how a mere child had undergone the rigours of Royal Marine training to be turned into one of the youngest soldiers to be dispatched to that faraway war. Although, as Mike recounted, when the news was delivered to him and his equally youthful peers, at least one of them wasn’t quite so sure of just how far away the Falklands actually were. This became immediately apparent when he asked their sergeant why it was that the Argentinians had mounted an attack on some of those islands off the coast of Scotland.

  After that there wasn’t much fun in Mike’s presentation – as he moved on to talk about his arrival in the Falklands, and the reality of what fighting in a war must inevitably involve. Needless to say, that included injury and death, and huge disappointments, such as when the Argentinians attacked and sank the Atlantic Conveyor with the loss of twelve of its crew. This was the large cargo ship that had been requisitioned by the military to bring to the Falklands much of the heavy hardware that the fighters would need to confront their adversaries. So, to the bottom of the sea went not just hundreds of tons of heavy equipment and fourteen Harrier jump jets, but also a mix of eleven Wessex and Chinook helicopters. This was really bad news. It meant that the Marines and their Parachute Regiment counterparts had now lost their means of overland transport, and, with only one operational helicopter at their disposal, they soon realised that they would not be flying to Stanley but instead they would be walking there. That, of course, was where the bulk of the Argentinian forces were disposed – in positions around the town – and to engage them, the Marines and ‘Paras’ would now have to march (or yomp) fifty-six miles in three days, carrying on their backs loads weighing an incredible eighty pounds.

  Alex had often thought about this feat, and could barely imagine it was possible. And now that he had seen for himself the Falklands terrain, he was convinced it really was impossible. How could anyone carry that weight for that long, and in such demanding circumstances? Well, it seemed that after all these years, Mike was still having similar thoughts himself. Even though he was one of those who had performed this remarkable deed. And when he embarked on the detail of the march, one could understand why.

  The weather was foul; a constant blast of wind and plenty of rain. The conditions underfoot were dreadful and everywhere was wet. So much so that Mike’s army-issue boots were incapable of keeping his feet dry, and his entire Falklands campaign was fought with wet and very cold feet. And swollen feet. He said he knew that he could never take his boots off, because he would never have got them back on again. Indeed, even now, he reported, he had problems with his feet, as well as a degree of permanent numbness in his fingers from their long exposure to cold. These were the sort of injuries, thought Alex, that don’t attract the same attention as the loss of limbs or other forms of trauma, but for those who have to live with them for a lifetime, they must be a real burden to bear.

  The burden to bear in the form of that eighty-pound bergen was something else that Mike talked about. Because this – on top of as much as forty pounds of other equipment – was what made that fifty-six-mile hike barely credible and what reduced many of his comrades to tears of d
espair. They collapsed. They had to be helped by their mates before their mates then collapsed in turn. And this had happened to Mike. He had reached the end of his power and endurance and he had blacked out with exhaustion. When he recounted this aspect of his story, the proverbial pin could have been heard dropping onto the lounge carpet, as everybody was clearly trying to imagine how bad it must have been to have felled this hulk of a man before them. There was a palpable sense of relief in the room when he then went on to explain that eventually he was able to carry on and in due course participate in the successful action against the Argentinian forces. Although his description of this engagement – and the mix of skill and bravery it entailed – again reduced the audience to absolute silence. It wasn’t often, thought Alex, that one is in the presence of someone who has demonstrated such courage and who has lived to tell the tale. Even if he might not have perfect feet or fingers any more.

  Inevitably, Mike’s presentation ran over its allotted time. But nobody complained and nobody left the lounge before Mike had answered a whole raft of questions, the answers to which served to underline just how daring the whole Falklands operation had been. And how daring had been those young men in uniform who were charged with performing the operation. And how lucky were those who had survived it…

  Lunch provided an opportunity to digest all that Mike had talked about, and on Alex and Debbie’s table this opportunity was made the most of by two Scots. They were the male members of two Scottish couples with whom Alex and Debbie were sharing the table, and they both talked at length about what it must be like to go to war; something that neither of them had ever done. Occasional contributions to this exchange were made by the others at the table, but it wasn’t until Alex asked what, if any, dangerous situations his dining companions had encountered that the conversation became one that was properly shared by them all. Everybody, it seemed, had something to say.