by Shaun Clarke
‘Move out!’ Peters bellowed, using his right hand to give the ‘Advance’ signal.
The DZ was on the lower slopes of Hestesletten, a high valley located two kilometres south-east of the former British Survey buildings on King Edward’s Point, but separated from it by Brown Mountain. The sea surrounded them on all sides, flat and featureless from the heights, but the fleet was now clearly visible, with its aircraft carriers, destroyers, frigates, tankers and supply ships spread out as far back as the horizon.
The big guns of Antrim and Plymouth were still firing, laying down a barrage that would methodically move forward to within eight hundred metres of the enemy positions, the aim being to demoralize them rather than cause physical damage– a further ploy in the diplomatic war to recapture the Falklands. Plumes of smoke were still billowing up from the other side of Brown Mountain as the shells fell relentlessly around King Edward’s Point.
As the SAS troopers marched away from the DZ, the helos took off again, whipping up more soil, stones and loose snow, and soon were mere specks in the distance, heading back to the fleet.
Fanning out even more and starting uphill, the men were heavily burdened under their packed Bergens and their customary assortment of fire power, including assault rifles, submachine guns, handguns, mortars and fragmentation, white-phosphorous and smoke grenades, plus all the ammunition required for them. For this particular operation they had also brought with them laser rangefinders, thermal imagers for night viewing, a couple of PRC 319 tactical radios and, in the heavily loaded Bergens, food, drink, toiletries, and first-aid and survival kits.
As the guns roared out at sea and shells exploded at the far side of Brown Mountain, filling the air beyond the summit with billowing clouds of smoke that dispersed under sullen clouds, the men marched uphill with personal weapons at the ready.
Glancing back over his shoulder, down the lower slopes of the mountain, Marty saw half a dozen landing craft assault boats cutting a swathe through the sea as they surged away from the fleet, heading for shore under the protection of Sea King helicopters. Those LCAs were bringing the other two composite troops to shore. The three troops would advance on King Edward’s Point from different directions and meet up at the British Survey buildings.
Glancing left and right, to where his men had fanned out along the frosty, brown-grass-and-stone slopes, Marty saw Taff marching behind Trooper Will Simpson. Behind the big Fijian, Taff seemed very slight indeed, though that appearance belied his killer’s instincts and skills, which Marty had since witnessed in Civvy Street during certain, highly illegal, covert actions.
Not wanting to even think, at this particular time, of the activities of the Association, nor of Paddy Kearney’s reaction to them, Marty concentrated on the task at hand. The surrounding hills could be swarming with Argentinian troops, so this was no time for bleak thoughts.
Out at sea, the big guns of Antrim and Plymouth were continuing to pound. More smoke was billowing up from beyond the summit of Brown Mountain, obviously rising from the explosions in the area of King Edward’s Point and Grytviken at the opposite side of the bay.
Knowing that there could be landmines in the area, Captain Peters ordered his men to spread out even more as they advanced across open ground in diamond formation. They marched for another hour in a tense, watchful silence relieved only by the pounding of the guns out at sea and the explosions from the far side of the mountain.
The hills over which they marched seemed devoid of all life, though the wind was constantly making the sparse foliage shiver, keeping the troopers on edge and making them aim their weapons at anything that moved, ever ready to fire. Indeed, they often opened fire after mistaking the movements of elephant seals through the grass for the rise and fall of the balaclava helmets of enemy snipers. Automatically calling out a warning, these troopers would drop to their knees and let rip with bursts of gunfire from their rifles or submachine guns, the roaring of the weapons reverberating around the hills as they blew tussocks of grass apart and killed only the unfortunate seals.
Surprisingly, though many seals bought it by making a sudden movement and going down in a hail of bullets before the men finally reached their destination, no Argentinian troops were seen throughout the long march.
From the mountain’s summit, through a curtain of smoke created by the exploding shells of the fleet, the troopers could see only what looked like a deserted settlement with white flags flying from several buildings. The Argentinian flag, however, still flew from its mast near the headquarters, formerly the British Antarctic Survey settlement, on King Edward’s Point. Most of the naval barrage had been laid down with airburst shells, but other shells from the fleet’s guns had torn up the hills above the rocky cove, covering them with ugly black holes. The barrage had deliberately been stopped before reaching the cove itself, leaving the white-walled, redroofed buildings on King Edward’s Point intact, as was the old whaling station of Grytviken on the opposite shore.
The Argentinian submarine damaged by AS-12 missiles had indeed managed to limp into harbour and was beached there, right in front of the untouched settlement.
‘It doesn’t look very threatening from here,’ Captain Peters said to Marty.
‘The naval barrage might have done the trick,’ Marty said, ‘but it might be wise to check with the fleet first.’
‘My very thought,’ Peters said.
Making radio contact with the operations room on the Antrim, he learned that Major Sheridan had already been communicating with the Argentinian HQ in the Antarctic Survey building and learned that they were ready to surrender. Keen to accept their surrender, but aware from his intelligence briefings that there were minefields strewn around the Argentinian weapons pits, Peters decided to go in by the shore.
‘But please warn the men,’ he said to Marty, ‘to keep their fingers off their triggers. If the Argies come out with their hands up, as promised, I don’t want them harmed.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ Marty said.
Once the men had been duly warned, Captain Peters and Marty led them across the hills pock-marked by scorched shell holes, high above the settlement, then carefully downhill to the shore, keeping their eyes peeled for buried landmines. No mines went off and no shots were fired.
As they reached the shore and were advancing on the tall radio towers in front of the settlement, Argentinian soldiers emerged from the buildings, a few waving white flags, the others raising their hands in the air. While some of the SAS troopers fanned out to surround the Argentinians and keep them covered, others entered the buildings to check for snipers and booby traps.
‘These don’t look like the kind of bastards who could make Royal Marines lie face down on the ground,’ TT observed, keeping his SLR aimed at the unshaven, frightened men who were coming out of the buildings with their hands raised.
‘They’re mostly conscripts,’ Marty explained. ‘Practically schoolkids. Not professional soldiers. Most of them didn’t even want to fight this war. The poor sods were forced into it.’
‘I’d still like to waste them for what their mates did to those Royal Marines in Port Stanley,’ Taff said.
‘You keep your finger off that trigger,’ Marty told him, ‘and don’t start any nonsense.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Taff retorted, smiling tightly.
Carefully covered by Alan Pearson and TT, Captain Peters and Marty advanced to meet the Argentinian captain walking cautiously towards them, beside a corporal holding a make-shift white flag. The officer wasn’t young and he carried himself with dignity. When he reached Peters, he saluted, introduced himself as Captain Bicain, and formally offered his surrender.
Peters accepted the surrender on a temporary basis, pointing out that the former acceptance would take place tomorrow when more British troops, including his superiors, flew into Leith. In the meantime, he would ensure that his prisoners-of-war were treated with respect. Relieved, the Argentinian commander let himself be marched back to his quarters, where h
e and his men would be kept under guard until they were shipped out in a day or two.
The enemy weapons were collected and piled up in front of the HQ. The rest of the captured Argentinians were searched, locked up and kept under guard in settlement buildings. Then the SAS troopers settled down to await the arrival of the soldiers in the LCA boats.
When the replacements finally arrived, they brought good news with them. The three SAS men lost at sea had not been drowned or frozen to death. Instead, after being blown westward for a time, they had managed to wade ashore on the north coast of Stromness Bay, about four kilometres from their intended LZ. Building themselves an OP, they had remained there for the next three days, constantly following events on their tactical radio, but deliberately not making contact through it in order to avoid endangering the operation. Only when they learned through their radio that the SAS had captured South Georgia did they send a SARBE signal, asking to be lifted out by helo. Right now they were all back on the Antrim, having a well-earned sleep.
When Marty called his men together and relayed this story to them, they cheered wildly, threw their berets in the air, and excitedly clapped each other on the back.
The following morning, SAS and SBS teams flew into Leith and formally accepted the surrender of the garrison. The Argentinian flag was lowered and the White Ensign and Union Jack were raised once more, to flutter together over Grytviken.
South Georgia had been recaptured. Their next stop was the Falklands.
Chapter Eight
Marching over the snow-covered hills towards Port Stanley, past dead Argentinian soldiers and the burnedout remains of their OPs and slit trenches, with the acrid smell of cordite and smoke in his nostrils and British aircraft growling constantly overhead, Marty realized that, contrary to liberal thinking about the horrors of war, the past three weeks had been, at least for him, his final fling, the last of the days when he was likely to feel truly alive and filled with excitement.
Now, when he looked back on it, he could scarcely believe that so much had been crammed into so little time and that the SAS had managed to cover so much ground in so many areas.
It was hard to accept that it was only three weeks ago that he had been in the SAS HQ– actually the unused ladies’ toilet, which caused much amusement – aboard the 22,890-ton Royal Fleet Auxiliary Resource, with Lieutenant-Colonel Osborne and Captain Peters, planning the insertion of deep-penetration SAS reconnaissance patrols into East Falkland and West Falkland. Given the absence of aerial or satellite pictures, it was the task of the patrols to obtain as much eyeball intelligence as possible of those two areas and try to ascertain the exact deposition of the Argentinian garrison’s defences prior to the British invasion of the islands. The patrols would cover not only the two main islands, but also some of the smaller islands around the 15,000-kilometre coastline.
This, Marty knew, would not be an easy task. East and West Falklands between them covered a total area nearly equivalent to that of Wales, with a terrain like Dartmoor: windswept, barren pasture, with not even trees to offer protection from the elements or enemy surveillance. To make the hikes even more difficult, the hills along the northern side of East Falkland, though rising only 450 metres on Mount Kent, had a climate similar to that of English hills twice that height. Also, there were many bogs and rock-runs of slippery, mosscovered boulders that were difficult and dangerous to traverse.
Nevertheless, plans were drawn up for the insertion of four-man SAS patrols to recce both islands. Once inserted, the groups would disperse in all directions, marching by night to predetermined RVs for their individual OPs, where they would stay as long as necessary. Radio silence was to be maintained until they had done as much as humanly possible and required lifting out. Operation Corporate, the main assault on the Falklands, would commence only when the SAS intelligence had been gathered and fully assessed.
With Captain Peters now assuming that Marty was allowed to take part in patrols and, indeed, relying on him as an experienced sounding board, Marty was able to recommend himself as PC of a four-man patrol that also included Taff Hughes, Will Simpson and the recently badged Trooper Sammy McCulloch. When the men had been kitted out and supplied with a variety of weapons, a tactical radio, SARBE rescue beacons and passive night-vision goggles, they and the other patrols were flown in on two 845 Squadron Wessex Mark 5 helicopters and inserted two hundred kilometres away from the centre of East Falkland.
Using an illuminated compass and aligning landmarks and roads with a map to follow their preset route, they yomped throughout the night, along the frosty valley, over the snow-covered hills, on constant lookout for landmines and enemy snipers, the wind moaning around them. They marched in single file formation with Taff out on point, Marty second in line as PC, also carrying the tactical radio, and Sammy McCulloch bringing up the rear as Tail-end Charlie. So difficult was the terrain, however, that by first light the next day, though they had neither seen nor been in contact with the enemy, they had covered only sixteen kilometres.
Under orders to travel only by night, they used their short-handled spades to dig shallow scrapes and raise temporary LUPs with camouflaged roofs of wire strewn with local foliage and turf. They slept and kept watch in two-hour shifts throughout the wet, freezing day. They were made no more comfortable by the knowledge that they could not light a fire or use their hexamine stoves, instead sustaining themselves with cold rations of cheese, biscuits and chocolate. By nightfall they were on the march again across the dark, windblown hills.
During the second night, as they neared Port Stanley, they began to see the Argentinian troop positions, their campfires glowing eerily in the distance. Each time they saw such fires, they recced that area and kept a record of the information gathered. Also, they began to see an increasing number of foot patrols moving past them through the misty, moonlit darkness. As their instructions were not to engage with the enemy but only to gather intelligence, they did not open fire of these patrols and instead lay low until they had passed.
During the second day, they rested up again in camouflaged shallow scrapes, enduring the rain and freezing wind, eating cold rations, and moving on again only as darkness descended over the brooding hills and the sea beyond. During that third night, they passed through areas patrolled constantly by Argentinian troops and, again not firing upon them, took note of their movements, numbers and weapons. They also took note on the movements, now more frequent, of Argentinian helicopters and aircraft.
Eventually, just before first light the following day, they reached the high ground overlooking Port Stanley and located the ridge chosen for their OP. Being high and exposed, the ridge offered little natural cover from the elements, enemy patrols or aircraft. Marty therefore made sure that the rectangular OP was camouflaged with a roof and turf that would, if nothing else, hide their presence from the thermal imagers of Argentinian reconnaissance helicopters.
The OP had a narrow aperture that offered a good view of Stanley Airport and the Argentinian positions in the surrounding hills, so for the next three days Marty’s team gathered invaluable intelligence with the use of hand-painted, camouflaged binoculars, telescopes and night-vision aids. Visual information was also photographed and the details overdrawn on maps and aerial photos taken from previous recces. However, even more vital intelligence was gathered by making foot recces down the hill, near to the enemy positions in Port Stanley.
As Argentinian helicopters made frequent reconnaissance sweeps over the hills and enemy patrols constantly eyeballed them from the ground, the SAS foot recces were particularly dangerous. Nevertheless, they were undertaken, usually under cover of darkness, the men guided to the enemy positions by the glow of their fires or the lights shining from occupied buildings.
Sometimes Argentinian soldiers marched past mere metres away from where the SAS men were lying, pressed tight to the earth.
Although the foot recces were risky, they were at least preferable to the boredom of spending all day and night in
the OP. When forced to do that, their only distraction was either entering notes in the logbook by torchlight or listening to the BBC World Service through muffled headphones. Through this they learned that the Falklands situation was reaching crisis point.
A day after Marty’s patrol had been inserted on East Falkland, the British submarine HMS Conqueror sank the Argentinian heavy cruiser, Belgrano. Two days later, an Exocet missile fired from an Argentinian Super Extendard warplane sank HMS Sheffield, resulting in many British dead and wounded. During the same period, three British Harrier jets were lost, one shot down, two colliding over the sea. The war with Argentina was thus truly engaged with Port Stanley’s airport being bombed from the air and bombarded from the sea every night.
Ironically, the bombings and bombardments eventually became another form of distraction for the SAS men who, through the narrow aperture of their OP, were offered nightly the spectacle of dazzling, silvery explosions and blazing buildings in the dark port, with clouds of crimson sparks and black smoke boiling up to blot out the stars.
When, after five days in the OP, Marty was convinced that they could learn no more by staying there, he told Trooper McCulloch to radio back to base and ask for a chopper to come down and lift them out.
As Marty collated his intelligence, McCulloch and Simpson dismantled and filled in the OP. Taking point as sentry, Taff was lower down the hill behind an outcropping of rocks, overlooking the lights of the otherwise darkened port.
Fifteen minutes before the helicopter was due to descend for the lift-off, a three-man Argentinian foot patrol made its way up the hill, the soldiers in triangular formation, weapons at the ready.
Realizing that the Argentinians had located the approximate whereabouts of the OP from the radio call made by Sammy McCulloch to the fleet, Marty indicated that McCulloch and Simpson should lie low and let Taff deal with the enemy patrol. This Taff did with his customary cool-headed efficiency.
