The main role in the air battle belonged to the aircraft and pilots of the Royal Navy. From the earliest days, naval aviators had lived in the shadow of the Royal Air Force. In both world wars they had carried out their duties with the same dedication and skill as the RAF, but had not received their fair share of recognition or acclaim, perhaps because most of their activities took place out of range of public or media notice. Fleet Air Arm jets had conducted thousands of operations off light fleet carriers throughout the Korean War and its helicopters buzzed over the jungles of Malaya, operating against communist terrorists throughout the Malayan emergency. Navy fighters also provided fighter cover and carried out air strikes during the Anglo-French intervention in Suez in November 1956.
In all of these actions naval aviation had always been a junior player in an ensemble dominated by the RAF. The circumstances of the Falklands conflict gave the naval air squadrons a unique opportunity to take centre stage and they relished this chance. The theatre of war was at the other end of the world from the United Kingdom, with the rocky speck of Ascension Island the only friendly landfall between the two locations. As the Herculean exertions required for the Black Buck raids demonstrated, conducting protracted land-based operations would be impossible logistically. Fortunately, the Sea Harriers aboard the carriers – and the men who flew, directed and maintained them – were more than equal to the challenge of defending the Task Force in the air, as well as attacking the Argentinian enemy on land.
The first demonstration of their abilities was given on 1 May, a few hours after the Vulcan and Victors had departed Falklands air space. Once again the airfield at Port Stanley was the target, as well as the airstrip at the settlement of Goose Green. The task of bombing was given to 800 Naval Air Squadron, operating off Hermes, while 801 Squadron from Invincible flew top cover to protect them from attack by Argentinian interceptors. The raiders all returned safe and sound, a fact reported by Brian Hanrahan, the BBC reporter aboard Invincible and operating under censorship restrictions with a phrase that would lodge itself in the British folk memory: ‘I counted them all out and I counted them all back again.’
Throughout the day the Sea Harriers flew Combat Air Patrols (CAPs) around the islands. This was their staple activity throughout the remaining forty-four days of the war. The purpose was to intercept raids by the Argentinian Air Force, operating from airfields on the mainland, several hundred miles to the west. The Fuerza Aérea Argentina was not organized to fight a major military power. It was designed rather for war with its neighbour Chile, with whom it had a history of territorial disputes.
The British naval air squadrons mustered twenty-eight Sea Harriers between them. They were facing a fast jet force with a notional strength of about fifty McDonnell Douglas A-4 Skyhawks, thirty Daggers (the Israeli Aircraft Industry’s version of the French Mirage 5 multi-role fighter) and seventeen French-built Mirage IIIEAs. The Argentinian navy air fleet comprised eight Skyhawks, six Italian Aermachis and four French Super Etendards, equipped with the devastating Exocet air-to-surface missile. The Argentinian ground forces on the islands were also supported by two dozen Pucarás, powered by twin piston engines, which, although slow, were very effective ground attack aircraft in the hilly terrain of the Falklands.
The numerical advantage was not as daunting as it looked on paper. The Skyhawk fleet was in poor shape, suffering from an arms embargo imposed by the United States to punish Argentina for its protracted ‘dirty war’ against left-wing revolutionaries, dissidents, trade-unionists and students. A decision was made not to base fast jets on the islands – the wisdom of which seemed reinforced by the Vulcan raids. They operated instead from air bases strung along the coast at distances of between 660 and 430 miles from the islands. Most of the jets had no in-flight refuelling to extend their time over target and there were only two tankers to service those that had.
As to performance, the Sea Harriers had the edge. They were ingeniously designed to take off and land vertically – a requirement imposed by the decision taken in 1966 to scrap plans for a new generation of large aircraft carriers. The four vector nozzles on the ‘Shar’ meant they could lift off and land on small deck spaces. The Shar’s top speed of 700 mph was slower than the supersonic Mirages and Daggers. It was, however, considerably more manoeuvrable, and pilots used the nozzles as brakes to ‘Viff’ (Vector in Forward Flight), enabling it to dodge pursuing aircraft and missiles. It was also armed with the latest AIM-9 sidewinder missiles (the Argentinians had only the short-range version).
The experience of flying in a Sea Harrier was memorably described by an Argentinian aviator and writer, Maxi Gainza, who, seven years after the war, was taken for a flip over South Wales by 800 Squadron’s David Morgan. ‘It is quiet inside a Harrier,’ he wrote. ‘Even at 450 knots [517 mph], the engine sound coming through the helmet is faint – like that of a seashell cupped to the ear. The ride was velvet smooth, there being little turbulence, and for minutes at a time I could sit and enjoy the scenery unreeling through the haze . . . Then, suddenly wham! An invisible pile-driver would pound me into the seat, triggering the G-suit’s vice-like hold around my lower body, while my head turned to solid lead. Grinding my neck vertebrae in the effort of looking up, I would see ghostly green symbols dancing on the Head-Up Display and beyond it, the horizon tilting to near vertical and whirling away like a fruit machine – trees, streams, sheep, houses . . .’2
The initial contacts suggested the Argentinian pilots were fully aware of their disadvantages. The first came at dawn on May Day when the air defence controller on board HMS Glamorgan spotted two ‘bogeys’ approaching from the west. He notified the Combat Air Patrol being flown by Lieutenant-Commander John Eyton-Jones of 801 and Flight Lieutenant Paul Barton, an RAF pilot attached to the squadron. But as they approached the delta-winged Mirages the Argentinians turned away, apparently warned by the surveillance radar on the ground. The British pair returned to their back-and-forth patrolling, whereupon the Mirages crept back, only to turn tail when it looked like they would be confronted again. This feinting continued until the Argentinians finally seemed to commit to an attack. They swooped down and the Shars accelerated towards them. Just before they met, the Mirages broke away and turned towards land. The pursuing Harriers found they were flying straight into tracer from ground batteries. Whether it was a deliberate trap or happenstance they would never discover. They headed out to the safety of the sea before returning to relate their experiences to an eager audience of their fellow pilots, awaiting their turn to test themselves against the opposition.
The second pair, Lieutenant Commander Robin Kent and Lieutenant Brian Haigh, also ran into two Mirages, one of which appeared to fire a missile that passed by harmlessly, before heading for home. It seemed to 801 Squadron’s commander Nigel ‘Sharkey’ Ward that ‘the Mirages were obviously not too keen on mixing it, otherwise full combat would have developed. Their tactics appeared to be to enter any intercept from high level with a lot of energy or speed. When they were met head-on they would release ordnance, turn away and return to base.’ The tactics made him feel ‘a little frustrated. I wanted to see a result.’
Soon Ward himself was airborne, flying alongside Lieutenant Mike Watson, one of five pilots on loan from 899 Naval Air Squadron. Their CAP station was off Volunteer Point, a long peninsula north of Stanley.
‘As we set up the patrol in battle formation at 12,000 feet, we could see little of the islands with only one or two rocky mountain peaks jutting through a layer of low cloud,’ wrote Ward.
There was a flurry of excitement when the Glamorgan air controller vectored them onto some slow-moving aircraft, but they lost them in cloud. Then they were directed at some high-flying Mirages, but they, too, vanished before an interception could be made. It was not until the afternoon that the Sea Harriers drew blood.
By now the islands lay under a mattress of white cloud, but the skies above were a shimmering icy blue. Lieutenant Steve Thomas and Flight Lieutenant Paul Barto
n were cruising up and down, awaiting instructions, when the Glamorgan controller alerted them to two Mirages approaching high and fast from the west. Down below on Invincible, Ward listened in as the drama unfolded.
‘Initially the Mirages played the same tactics as in the morning, closing towards the CAP pair and then retreating when menaced,’ he wrote.3 ‘But the Argentine pilots must have become as bored as we were by these cat-and-mouse games, and must have been adding up the odds for and against them.’ They appear to have calculated that they held the tactical advantage, for ‘they were higher and faster and, when used to good effect, this extra energy of position and speed could be made to pay dividends in a dogfight. They also were looking down against a white, cloud-top background, which made it much easier for them to see their targets when in visual range – the [Sea Harriers] would stand out as distinct white dots against the cloud.’
Conversely, the Shar pilots would find it hard to pick up the tiny shapes of the Mirages against the clear sky, now darkening as dusk descended. These factors seem to have made up the Argentinian pilots’ minds, for they tipped into a steep dive towards the CAP pair. As the Glamorgan controller called the diminishing range between the two pairs, Thomas and Barton climbed towards the attackers, straining to get them into radar contact so they could activate their Sidewinder missiles.
The Sidewinder was already a quarter of a century old, but its brilliantly simple and adaptable design meant that it was capable of endless refinements and it remains in service to this day, the most effective heat-seeking missile in aviation history. The Shars were equipped with the improved ‘Lima’ variant, which had an ‘all-aspect’ capability allowing it to be fired from any position, even head-on, while still managing to manoeuvre behind the victim to home in on its jet pipe.
Thomas was the first to pick up a contact: two thin blips on his screen showing the Mirages ten degrees high and seventeen miles distant. He took over from the Glamorgan controller, in the same way as his Fighter Boy forbears would have done from the section controller once they had sighted ‘bandits’ forty-two years before. He decided to approach the Mirages head-on. Barton steered to the left, so as to swing round behind them. This was a manoeuvre they had practised repeatedly. Everything was unfolding in instruction-manual fashion. The only question was whether the Argentinians would turn away. But no, on they came, closing on the Sea Harriers at a rate of a mile every three seconds.
At four miles the lead Mirage showed as a tiny dot on the Head-Up Display, projected on his windscreen, framed by the four arms of the radar-acquisition cross. Thomas switched on his missile. The signal that the Sidewinder had locked onto the heat of the target engine was a low electronic growl, but none came. The Argentinian pilots seemed to have throttled back to reduce their heat signature and stymie a head-on shot. Thomas began to worry that the Argentinian racing towards him may by now have locked his own radar-guided missiles onto him. Just as he flashed below the delta wings of the oncoming Mirages two trails of smoke streaked past his cockpit.
He pulled his Shar round to the right to make another approach. Now Barton was approaching the pair from the side. One was trailing the other, apparently oblivious to the danger he was in. The electronic signal told Barton his missile was primed. He pressed the firing button and called the NATO launch signal – ‘Fox Two away.’
According to Ward’s account, based on his debrief of his men, ‘the missile thundered off the rails like an express train and left a brilliant white smoke trail as it curved up towards the heavens, chasing after the Mirage, which was now making for the stars, very nose-high. Paul was mesmerized as the angry missile closed with its target. As the Sidewinder made intercept, the Argentine jet exploded in a vivid ball of yellow flame. It broke its back as the missile exploded and then disintegrated, before its remains twisted their way down to the cloud and the sea below.’4
Steve Thomas was now in pursuit of his own Mirage and managed to get his Sidewinder on target just as his quarry disappeared into the cloud below. He could not confirm a definite kill, but it seemed a probable. In fact, the missile had proximity-fused near the aircraft, which managed to limp to Stanley airfield, only to be shot down by ‘friendly’ anti-aircraft fire. The pair headed back to Invincible and ‘it was quite definitely a hero’s welcome when the two landed back on board’.5 There was more good news from Hermes. Flight Lieutenant ‘Bertie’ Penfold, an RAF pilot attached to 800 Squadron, had downed a Dagger which had been taking part in an attack on HMS Glamorgan and HMS Arrow off Port Stanley. In the early evening, 801 Squadron claimed another victim when Lieutenant Alan Curtis shot down one of a group of three Canberra bombers over the sea.
The score at the end of the first day of air combat was four Argentinian aircraft shot down and four aircrew killed. There were no British losses. The pattern was set for the remainder of the war. Argentinian fighters did not manage to shoot down any of their British opponents. The six Sea Harriers and three GR3s lost were brought down by gun or missile fire or were lost as the result of accidents.
This lack of success was not due to any failure of resolve or skill on the part of the Argentinian pilots, who still managed to inflict devastating damage on the British fleet, despite being armed with unguided and incorrectly fused bombs. Their courage was magnificently in evidence on Friday, 21 May 1982, when the Task Force at last went ashore. I watched from the deck of the P&O liner Canberrra, which had been pressed into service as a troop ship, as Skyhawks and Daggers flashed into San Carlos water at what seemed like mast-height, pursued by missiles twisting up from the navy ships moored around us. Among the attackers that day was Captain Hector Sanchez, the Skyhawk pilot who survived the battle which opens this book, when Commander David Morgan downed two of his comrades. Like most of those who were involved in it, he fought his war in the air without hatred.
‘I have nothing against the British,’ he told Maxi Gainza in 1989. ‘We shot at one another, but we were both doing our job and I respect them for it.’6 Later he would meet Morgan to share a drink and exchange memories, in much the same way that RAF and Luftwaffe veterans of the Battle of Britain had met to shake hands and reminisce. Such human encounters belonged to an era that had already passed. The Falklands conflict saw the end of the tradition established over the trenches of the Western Front when men matched their machines and their flying skills in mortal combat. Inexorably, technology was coming to dominate the practice of aerial warfare and a future beckoned in which human beings would play an ever-diminishing part.
Chapter 18
Per Ardua ad Astra
In the late summer of 2008 soldiers of the Parachute Regiment led an operation to clear the way for the delivery of a generator turbine needed to boost electricity supplies to southern Afghanistan. They were tasked with securing the route along which the convoy carrying the machinery would be driven. The last stretch of the journey to the hydro-electric station at the Kajaki Dam in Helmand Province was bandit country, a web of irrigation ditches, fields and compounds, thick with insurgents. Several hundred Paras were moved into the area. Even so, air power was essential if the ground was to be secured. The operation that followed provided a demonstration of the nature of aerial warfare in an age where highly advanced technological societies clash with a primitive enemy.
On the morning of 30 August 2008 the convoy had safely crossed the desert and mountains and was ready to move onto the rock-strewn, dusty track that led through the cultivated area to its final destination. The night before it had seemed that an attempt by the Paras to secure a ceasefire with the local Taliban by means of bribery might succeed. When they arrived at an agreed rendezvous to formalize the deal, however, there was no sign of the rebels. The deal was off.
The commanding officer of 3 Para, Lieutenant Colonel Huw Williams, still felt that a show of force might persuade the insurgents to lie low. At his request, a fighter-bomber made an ear-splitting pass at 250 feet over the lush fields, dotted with baked mud compounds.
Th
e demonstration had little effect. When the soldiers moved off down the road, they soon came under attack. Artillery, rocket and mortar fire was called down on the Taliban positions. Despite the bombardment, spasmodic shots still sounded from one compound. It was time to call in the air force. Accompanying the soldiers was an RAF officer, Flight Lieutenant Adam Freedman, a slim, lively Londoner, who was serving as a Joint Tactical Air Controller. His job was to call in the locations of enemy positions so they could be dealt with by bombs or missiles, delivered by fast jets or helicopters.
Freedman relayed the co-ordinates over the radio. A few minutes later a 500 lb satellite-guided bomb erupted on the insurgent position, followed minutes later by another. The shooting stopped. Of the American B-1 Lancer that had dropped the bombs there was no sign. It was flying far too high to be seen by the naked eye, let alone be threatened by any weapon to be found in the Taliban’s armoury.
The RAF does not feature much in the iconography of the Afghan war. It is the army which seems to be doing all the work. The public imagination is dominated by images of lines of patrolling troops moving cautiously through mud-walled villages and the rattle of firefights in maize fields. Air power is unseen and perhaps unappreciated. Without it, however, the army could not function. As the Chief of the Air Staff, Sir Stephen Dalton, pointed out, the patrolling soldiers on the TV news are totally reliant on air power, ‘depending on situational awareness provided by unseen and unheard surveillance aircraft, the assurance of firepower support from on-call fighter aircraft and unmanned systems over the horizon; the mobility and resupply capability provided by tactical air transport’. As they gingerly put one boot in front of the other, constantly bracing for the boom and blast of an exploding IED, they will also be ‘bolstered by the knowledge that, if necessary, medical evacuation helicopters are on hand to ensure that battle casualties will be delivered to first-class hospital care within the critical “golden hour”’.1
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