by Stuart Slade
“Which one?” Hargreaves was trying to watch the air plot. The Argentine aircraft were coming through in a thick stream. That meant more and more were escaping the missile fire. He was also watching Hotspur’s missile inventory. Her Seadart battery, already depleted by the fight against the coastal defense missiles at Stanley was now running critically low. She was firing Seawolfs at the passing bombers, hoping to get lucky. The small missile was intended as a point defense weapon and its ability to handle crossing targets was limited. She hadn’t scored with Seawolf yet, although she’d made the Argentine bombers duck and weave.
“Sir Lancelot. She’s burning. Thank God she got the troops she was carrying ashore.” The Surface Warfare Officer was interrupted by another whooping cheer from the bridge wing. “Sounds like Fatso and Tragic are doing well. That’s their second kill up there.”
Hargreaves nodded. Nobody had had much faith in the Outfit DEC laser dazzle sight that had been put on Hotspur for trials. It sounded the sort of idea a mad scientist would come up with; a laser that would blind incoming pilots and cause them to lose control of their aircraft. But, if it had Tragic Tunney cheering, there had to be something to it.
“Sir, Intrepid and Cleopatra have been hit.”
Hargreaves reacted very sharply to the news. Cleopatra was an old air defense destroyer that had been rerated as a frigate. Armed with Seaslugs, she wasn’t much of a contribution to the air defense effort. She was considered mostly an anti-submarine asset these days. Intrepid was another matter. Being one of the two amphibious warfare transport docks in the squadron made her mission-critical. “How bad?”
“Cleopatra is finished. She’s turning turtle. Intrepid reports minor damage. Two one thousand-pounders hit high in her superstructure. Messy, but watertight integrity is being maintained despite being shaken up by near misses. She’ll survive.”
“What’s the raid count?”
“So far, thirty aircraft. We’ve got eighteen of them, most of the rest have been damaged. It’s a long way home for them. Make that thirty-three, another group coming through.”
These aircraft had either tried to surprise the ships anchored in the bay by flying over the hills or had seen the carnage in the flak trap at the mouth of the inlet and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. The result was that they crossed the bay high and fast. They were over the fleet before their bombs could arc down and hit the ships below. The bombs overshot and crashed into the beaches and hills beyond. How much damage they did there, Hargreaves couldn’t tell but no secondary explosions erupted in their wake. The three Ciclones got away clean, they’d done little or no damage but they’d taken none in return. A good deal for the crews Hargreaves thought although what their commanders will say to them when they get back is another matter.
“Two more coming through!” The Air Warfare Officer’s voice was shaking slightly as the never-ending stream of Argentine aircraft made their runs.
Hargreaves looked back to the inlet entrance to see two more Ciclones running the gauntlet of missile fire. His electro-optical sight showed them to be slightly different from the earlier aircraft. Their fuselages were longer and their noses were differently-contoured. Hargreaves realized they were fighters; either trying to draw fire from the bombers and give them a chance to get in or pilots who felt they couldn’t leave the bombers to make the near-suicidal runs on their own. He took a quick glance at the missile counter. Hotspur had only sixteen Seadarts left. “Leave those two, they’re fighters.”
Gossamer was already engaging them, she brought down one with a Seawolf shot but the two fighters were strafing her with their cannon. They’ve got good guns, Hargreaves thought, Swiss-designed 25mm Oerlikons. Fast-firing and lots of punch. The sea around Gossamer was boiling with the spray of fire from the fighters. One went down but the other got a long, raking burst into the ship’s bridge. As if to make good on Hargreave’s high opinion of the guns, Gossamer unexpectedly went dead. All her radar systems suddenly ceased to work. Beyond her, the Ciclone fighter was weaving through the fleet, firing bursts at any ships that crossed its path. Suddenly, without warning, it just exploded in mid-air. From its position, Hargreaves guessed a six inch shell from one of the cruisers had scored a direct hit.
“Message from Gossamer, Sir. By signal lamp. Strafing took out her main databus and electrical supply circuit. Nothing electrical on the ship works any more. They’re trying to fix it but until they do, she’d defenseless. The only weapons she has are her 35mm firing under manual control.”
Macchi Ciclone 4-S-311, Over San Carlos Water, Falklands Islands
The sky was criss-crossed by tracer fire streaming from the gray ships that sheltered in San Carlos Water. Long gray streams of smoke went straight up from the destroyers. They climbed for a hundred feet or so, then arched over to lunge at the Argentine aircraft in the center of the interlocking mesh of fire. Amidst it all were the great clouds of black, oily smoke from the ships that had been hit and the burning patches on the sea where the Ciclones had gone in. Lieutenant Manuel Devin had taken the whole scene in within a split second of rounding the point that marked the start of his bomb run. He’d also seen something else. The closest destroyer wasn’t firing or, indeed doing anything else. Behind him, his weapons systems operator had come to the same conclusion. “Mickey, the nearest ship, her radars are dead.”
Dead radars. That means no missiles from her and her guns firing in manual. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. Devin made a slight adjustment in course and watched his continuously-computed impact point racing over the water towards the silent ship. “Give her the six belly bombs. We’ll hit another ship with the wing load.”
He assumed that his WSO had made the necessary arrangements and touched the controls slightly. The CCIP square moved towards the center of the target ship. Just as it touched the ship’s side, Devin released his first salvo of bombs. His WSO hadn’t let him down. Six five hundred kilogram bombs detached from the racks under the belly and arched down towards the destroyer. Their tail fins split open to delay their impact until the Ciclone was clear. One landed just short. Four plowed into the vertical launch system that occupied the center of the ship. One fell well beyond its target. That didn’t matter; Devin saw a massive explosion devastate the destroyer. A great cloud of white smoke billowed upwards, surrounded by great white streamers that soared upwards before arcing back down to earth.
Devin had already turned his attention to the ships in front of him. Priority targets were the fat-bellied amphibious ships but his turn to take out the destroyer had put him in a bad position to make a run at them. Only one was in a good position for an attack and it was already beached and burning. Beyond it was a big warship; a cruiser with a strangely blackened aft superstructure. Devin selected her and brought his Ciclone around to line up on her. Once again, he watched the white square of his bomb sight racing across the water. Once again, he thumbed his bomb release as he flashed over the cruiser. Tiger Class he thought, recognizing the twin turrets fore and aft. Then he was gone and climbing away to clear the hills at the end of the inlet.
“You got her Mickey boy.” His WSO sounded triumphant over the intercom. “At least two hits dead amidships. Two ships down with one pass, the brass will be pleased.”
And so they should be, Devin thought for there are few enough aircraft coming back to make their claims.
Argentine Headquarters, Teal Inlet.
“These orders do not make any kind of sense.” Colonel Ruiz Maldonado read the message flimsy again and crumpled it between his fingers. “Menendez wants us to attack the British holding Mount Kent with the cavalry regiment while sending our infantry to block the advance from San Carlos. He obviously knows nothing of the ground out here. Mount Kent is almost eight hundred meters high and it dominates all the ground for tens of kilometers around. The British knew what they were doing when they took that place, as long as it remains in their hands we can do nothing…. Yet it is rocks and outcrops without as m
uch as a dirt track to help us get to it. Our cavalry can do nothing there. To take Mount Kent is the job for our infantry. It is only a few kilometers march for them. To hit the British columns advancing from San Carlos, that is a much longer march and a battle of maneuver at the end of it. That is the place for our cavalry.”
“Shouldn’t we consult with General Menendez?” Captain Arturo Russo was a good aide and adept at filling in the blanks for his commander. Already, he could see a potential disaster for Maldonado looming if Menendez learned that his orders had been changed. “And are the British advancing from San Carlos? The Air Force is claiming they have sunk more than a dozen ships.”
“Divide by three, Arturo, always divide by three. They claim twelve so we can assume they have sunk four. And, yes, the British will be advancing. The bombing of their ships makes it all the more necessary for them to do so. They will have lost supplies so they must finish this thing quickly. So must we. With those airborne troops holding every key point of terrain in the island, they will paralyze anything we attempt to do. We should discuss this with General Menendez, yes, I agree, but we do not have time. We must move now. I am the commander on the spot and I must conduct this battle as I see fit. Now, order the infantry regiment to advance south to Mount Kent while the cavalry regiment moves west. The infantry will assault and retake Mount Kent. The cavalry will locate and repel the advance of the British overland force.”
Van Huis’s Platoon, Hills West of Mouth Kent, Falkland Islands.
“Now these are orders I like.” Captain Shumba Geldenhuys was almost chortling with delight. “I like Colonel Rigsby. ‘Pick your own ground and fight your own battle in support of the main column.’ A commander like him I can live with.”
As if in agreement with him, there was a hiss as the sleek Boomslang lowered itself on its suspension so that it was completely covered by the ridgeline in front. Then, its front elevated slightly so that its Mamba anti-tank missiles would clear the ridge when fired. It and the other three vehicles in the platoon commanded by Lieutenant Bastiaan van Huis were positioned so they could rake the Argentine advance with missile fire. The other two platoons and the headquarters section of two vehicles were also concealed in folds of the ground, waiting to take advantage of the Argentine moves as the battle developed.
Van Huis opened his commander’s hatch and looked carefully outside. His Boomslang had been positioned just so; far enough behind the ridge to make sure its concealment was as perfect as possible, far enough forward to allow the two missile gunners to see the battlefield with a minimum of dead ground. Behind him, he heard the whine as the two cylindrical missile launchers rotated, shifting the empty tube into the hull so that it could be loaded from the magazine beneath. The loaded tube rose from the hull into the ready-to-fire position. He swept his binoculars around him, checking out the two alternate positions he had scouted. One lay behind his present position, ready to be occupied if the Argentines advanced on the Boomslang. The other lay in front, ready to receive him if the Argentines fell back. He didn’t know, yet, which one he would use but he was aware that if he had the decision to make, he would have seconds only to make it. The answer to tank destroyers lurking in ambush was artillery fire on the positions they occupied.
“The observation positions on Mount Kent say the Argentine cavalry regiment is advancing on the British column’s position, broer.” Geldenhuys was on the radio again. “Estimated strength is fifty one M92 tanks in a single battalion and two battalions of infantry in armored carriers. Their artillery battery is moving to support the infantry attacking the Britse Mariniers so we will not have to worry overmuch about them. This will be a fight to tell your children about, broer.”
Headquarters Section, Mobile Column, West of Mount Kent
Fifty tanks. The number rolled around Colonel Rigsby’s mind. And I have fourteen in my main line plus another 14 in the ambush position. Plus the fourteen South African tank destroyers. Do they even things up a bit? And was I right to give that Griqua maniac his head?
“I hope the Afrikaaners come through Sir.” The comment from his aide echoed the thoughts running through Rigsby’s mind perfectly.
“You’ve talked to Shumba. He actually enjoys fighting; says it’s the only thing the Griqua do well. God knows, they have the experience we lack.” Keen but green. The words rolled through Rigsby’s mind in a dank echoing dirge. We’ve never done anything like this before. At least, not since That Man took our honor away.
He had his own tanks arranged in a reverse L-shaped ambush. They would engage the Argentine M92s and then fall back. As they did, they would lure the enemy tanks into a fire trap made up from the flanking squadron that was angled off to his left. The Boomslangs were off to his right, he wasn’t quite sure where. That sounded strange, even to him, but Geldenhuys knew what the plan was and what his part in it had to be. How he did it was up to him. Off to his right and left were his two infantry companies, providing far-flank cover. Rigsby was gambling that the Argentine officer would make the standard mistake of all novices at warfare and load all his strength into a single punch. Argentina hadn’t fought on the Russian Front and they wouldn’t have had the fundamental flaws in the ‘expanding torrent’ nonsense hammered home to them. God knows, the frozen hell of the Kola Front had to be worth something, didn’t it?
“First Troop reporting Argentine tanks in company strength with infantry support moving on them.”
Here we go. Rigsby turned to his map and marked the position carefully. First Troop was out on the extreme right, its four Cavaliers dug in to cover the ground beyond with their long 20 pounders. To Rigsby’s eyes, despite claims that it was descended from pre-Second World War cruiser tanks, the Cavalier still bore marks of German heritage. It looked like a Panther and the 70-caliber 20-pounder reinforced the impression. The question was whether the gun would match up to the fast-firing semiautomatic 76mm guns on the American-made M92s. If it didn’t, then it would be up to the Boomslangs and their missiles.
First Troop, 14/20th King’s Hussars, West of Kent Mountain.
The five M92s were pushing forward towards his platoon positions with the rest of their company in overwatch. Captain Roland Stanford mentally wished himself the best of luck, recognizing that with four tanks against seventeen he was going to need it. “Open fire!”
The 20-pounders cracked. Their high velocity made the sound a high-pitched slap at the ears rather than the deeper rumble of artillery. The 84mm gun was small by the standards of the 120mm-armed Russian and American main battle tanks, but it was still adequate to deal with the light armor the Argentine Army deployed. His gunners had time to aim carefully and pick their shots. The results showed immediately. Three of the Argentine M92s stopped. Two belched black smoke as the crews bailed out; the third was left still and silent. The other two Argentine tanks had the muzzle flash from the 20-pounders to aim at. Their guns cracked rapidly. The barrage was joined by the tanks on overwatch. Stanford winced; a boiling cloud of black smoke told him that at least some of the rapid flurry of 76mm shots had struck home.
That was when something else also struck home. Stanford had the impression of something streaking across his vision, then a ripple of explosions along the Argentine overwatch positions. For a moment he thought he was getting unexpected air support. Then his mind clicked into gear and he realized what was happening. The Argentine overwatch position had been flanked by expertly-placed tank destroyers that were going about their business with grim efficiency. The first salvo of eight missiles had taken out five of the M92s and caused the rest to start firing smoke in an effort to avoid the destruction that was engulfing them. Perhaps the smoke had saved some. The second salvo of missiles took out only four of the survivors.
Up on the ridgeline used by the Argentine armor, the overwatch position was in utter chaos. Nine of the twelve tanks had been knocked out in a few seconds. Two of them were the company headquarters vehicles. Stanford watched with something close to glee as the two surviving
tanks that had been probing his position backed up under cover of their smoke clouds and tried to rejoin their parent unit. They were finding that difficult. The shattered remnants of that unit were also retreating fast.
Van Huis’s Platoon, Hills West of Mouth Kent, Falkland Islands.
“Get out of there broer. Go to the forward position.” Geldenhuys’s voice over the radio was urgent.
“Ahead of you.” Van Huis was as good as his word. His Boomslangs were already accelerating backwards, sliding through the rocks as they abandoned their firing positions. The roar of the diesel engines and the whine of the missile launchers reloading was suddenly joined by the howl of inbound artillery fire. The positions they had just evacuated were swallowed up in a mass of white smoke, interlaced with the black clouds of shell bursts. Van Huis heard the rattling as fragments of rock and steel bounced off the Boomslang’s armor. “Artillery inbound.”
“Mortars, broer. If it was artillery you would have known it. Those are mortars from the infantry. That the crews are laying smoke to protect the tanks instead of supporting their infantrymen tells us much.”
The four Boomslangs moved off to the right, heading for their pre-scouted advanced position. From there, they would be able to fire into the rear of the Argentine attack force as it surged forward. Van Huis recognized the pattern that was developing as a classic encounter battle. British and Argentine forces, both moving forward, had collided. The honors would go to the force that could use the ground best. With their long-range anti-tank missiles, the company of tank destroyers were a vital part of the British battle plan. As befitted one of the heirs of South Africa’s largest arms producing conglomerate, van Huis felt quietly confident that his initial volley of missiles alone would guarantee a large follow-on order for his company. Of him actually living to see that order, he was far less confident.
