Scram!

by Harry Benson

  On board Hermes, the 846 Squadron Sea King detachment now had seven sets of second- and third-generation night vision goggles. To work properly, the goggles needed a minimum level of light from the moon or stars, so they couldn’t be used in the pitch-blackness of heavy cloud cover. In most weather conditions, the goggles enabled the pilots to fly their aircraft visually, almost as if it were daylight, albeit in monochromatic green. However, it wasn’t quite as easy as flying in daylight. The image presented was two-dimensional, not allowing any perception of depth, and making distance and closing speeds very difficult to assess. Bill Pollock compared it to peering through a tube of bog roll underwater.

  Using the night vision goggles and the Sea King’s automatic height hold, linked to the radio altimeter, pilots could keep their aircraft just twenty feet above the land and fifty feet above the sea. The stop at Ascension had given 846 Squadron a chance to show off their new skills to some very interested observers from special forces. A night flight around the island followed by a landing in total darkness told them all they needed to know: flying at night and at extreme low level was the ideal way to get the troops in and out of the Falklands covertly.

  Getting the troops to the right place was another matter. The Sea Kings were equipped with a Tactical Air Navigation System that could be aligned with the ship’s own navigation system just before take-off. Without a satellite or beacon to provide constant updates, the system relied on what the instruments within the aircraft were telling it. Over time, tiny errors would creep in and the system would drift, becoming less and less accurate. But by cross-checking several aircraft systems against each other at periodic intervals of flight, it was hoped that the errors would average out. Flying in from the sea as a formation, the plan was to aim to hit land, offset to one side of a known point. That way they knew which direction to look for it, updating their systems as they coasted in. The formation would then split up and each Sea King would complete its individual mission. Concordia Rock was chosen as the known point, because of its distinctiveness and remoteness.

  Pollock realised that he was going to have to work hard to keep his pilots and aircrew alive. The training on the way south had shown that crews could cope with long periods of flying at extremely low level over the sea using the night vision goggles. But the extra hour, and often much longer, of flying and navigating over the featureless terrain of the Falklands was going to increase the workload in the cockpit dramatically. Keeping crews rested and aircraft serviced meant his four night-flying Sea Kings would not be available for flying during the day. Dealing with the many frustrations this posed meant keeping good relations with Admiral Sandy Woodward’s staff who were running the campaign, the captain’s staff who were running the ship, and the aviation staff who were running aircraft operations.

  Planning was also complicated, split between the 3 Brigade command on board Fearless, still parked off the coast of Ascension Island, and the planning team on board Hermes, some 4,000 miles south. Wardroom Two on Hermes was closed off for special forces planning. None of the aircrew or troops actually involved in the missions was allowed inside so as not to compromise other missions if they were captured and interrogated. But coordination was needed to make sure each individual mission was achievable and that aircraft wouldn’t suddenly run into one another in the dark.

  Somebody also needed to make sure the returning helicopters weren’t going to get shot down by their own side. Low-flying aircraft unexpectedly approaching the fleet at night from the direction of the Falklands were likely to have a brief and unpleasant encounter with a Sea Harrier or a Sea Dart missile. The fleet needed to know when the Sea Kings were going out and when they were coming in. Somebody had to negotiate this complex chain of command and make sure everybody knew what they needed to know. Only Lieutenant Commander Bill Pollock knew all the details. It meant he wasn’t going to get much flying done himself.

  On the evening of Friday 30 April, the British carrier group entered the 200-mile Total Exclusion Zone (TEZ) now declared around the islands. Any non-British ship or aircraft entering this zone could expect to be fired upon without warning. The Falklands War kicked off for real approaching midnight as Lieutenant Nigel North’s flight of three junglie Sea Kings lifted off from the deck of Hermes.

  North had started his preparation four hours before launch time with a briefing of all the crews, followed by the individual brief for his particular mission. It was a pleasant night as he walked out across the flight deck of the carrier. The dark shapes of the three Sea Kings with their drooping blades awaited their occupants. As mission leader, his first job was to lead the formation of Sea Kings across the eighty miles of South Atlantic now separating Hermes from Concordia Rock.

  As the crews prepared each of the Sea Kings for startup, heavily laden SAS and SBS troops boarded the aircraft with their huge bergens. With rotors turning and a final fix of their position from the ship, the formation lifted off and disappeared into the blackness. The Sea Kings flew low across the sea. Without goggles, the world outside was black and unmoving. With them, a green sea scrolled beneath the aircraft as the pilots headed towards a green horizon. After a couple of position checks from the other aircraft, North was satisfied that he was to coast in on track at the right place.

  The sea transit in formation went well. Even so, North felt mighty relieved to hit landfall within a mile of Concordia Rock. The navigation system was working. The formation then split to go their separate ways and North now concentrated on his own individual mission. Apart from flights around Salisbury Plain and Ascension Island, this was the first time any of the crews had flown at low level over land at night. Throughout the journey south, all of the crews had spent hours poring over maps of the Falklands to try to memorise the main features and get a mental picture of what was to come. What North and his co-pilot Lieutenant Alan ‘Wiggy’ Bennett had not expected was that the ground seemed to be covered in snow. Cursing the ‘met’ man on Hermes for failing to forecast accurately, they continued on.

  The drop-off point for the SAS team was just north-west of Estancia House, a collection of farm buildings some twelve miles from the capital Port Stanley. Depositing their troops on the ground with surprising ease, the crew were convinced the roar of the helicopter would be heard throughout the entire Falklands. But shielded from the capital by a line of hills, it was doubtful whether anyone would have heard them. After lifting off, aircrewman Colin Tattersall leant forward to say he had cut a piece of Falklands heather for the pilots to take back to the ship, but he had seen no sign of snow. It was just how the grassland looked through the goggles. The met man was reprieved.

  Still feeling nervous about the noise they were making the pilots focused on getting back to the sea and relative safety as quickly as possible. In the back, Tattersall was pointing a radar-warning receiver in all directions. There were no emissions. The Argentines didn’t even know they were there.

  Having set off in formation, the three aircraft dropped their teams and returned to Hermes individually. Bob Horton and Paul Humphreys in one of the other Sea Kings had seen another aircraft, most likely Argentine, but evaded successfully. The first covert mission of the war had been a remarkable success.

  Later on board Hermes, Bill Pollock went to debrief Captain Lyn Middleton, and presented him with some heather: ‘A piece of the Falkland Islands for you, sir.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ replied Middleton. ‘If we’re going to take the Falklands bit by bit, it’s going to take a long time.’

  * * *

  Just before dawn on 1 May, an RAF Vulcan bomber from Ascension Island, 4,000 miles to the north, conducted an extreme long-range bombing raid on Port Stanley airfield. This mission was the first of seven codenamed ‘Black Buck’. As an exercise in logistics it was genuinely impressive and remarkable. Eleven Victor tankers and two Vulcans took off from Wideawake airfield at midnight in order that one Vulcan could drop its load of twenty-one 1,000-pound bombs diagonally across the runway.


  The effectiveness of the mission itself was rather more questionable. Only one of the bombs hit the runway, with negligible effect on Argentine operations. Subsequent bombing missions missed the runway altogether. Even if they had hit, the crew forgot to arm the bombs on their second mission, according to the commanding officer of 801 Sea Harrier squadron. It was an unbelievable error after all the effort to get them there. Later missions launched Shrike missile strikes against radar installations. For this, the radars had to be switched on in order to allow the missile to home in. Realising the threat, the Argentine operators simply switched their radars off. The missions achieved little.

  The RAF publicity machine subsequently tried to talk up how the Black Buck raids demonstrated their ability to bomb the Argentine mainland. However, a single unescorted Vulcan bomber would have been easy meat for an Argentine Mirage fighter. It was an empty threat. The credit claimed for the Vulcan raids demeaned the actual RAF contribution of pilots, engineers and aircraft, which, even if relatively small, was both important and significant. This was neither. The entire Black Buck mission turned out to be an expensive and ineffective exercise in inter-service politics.

  What Black Buck One undoubtedly achieved was to wake up the Argentine defences in time for the surprise dawn raid on Port Stanley airfield by the Sea Harriers of 800 Squadron. Launched from Hermes a hundred miles north-east of Stanley, nine Sea Harriers attacked the airfield at low level. Two toss bombs hit the runway scarring it; others bombs left the airfield facilities in smoke and flames. The other three jets attacked the grass airstrip at Goose Green, to where all of the twelve Argentine Pucara twin turboprop attack aircraft had been moved. One Pucara was destroyed in the attack by a direct hit and two others were damaged.

  Meanwhile, out at sea, Jack Lomas was at the controls of his Wessex, Yankee Hotel, oblivious to the drama unfolding ashore. In the rear cabin was his crewman Petty Officer Steve MacNaughton. After dropping off passengers and stores on the deck of Hermes, he now received curt orders over the radio from Hermes’ ‘flyco’. ‘Yankee Hotel, clear the deck immediately and hold as close as you can on the starboard quarter. Expedite.’

  Lomas lifted off straight away and circled round to bring the Wessex to a hover just to the rear and to the side of the carrier. After a wait of ten minutes or so, Lomas called flyco for an explanation.

  ‘You’re planeguard. Confirm you are equipped.’ They were to act as search-and-rescue cover in case any of the returning Sea Harriers ditched into the sea.

  ‘I have one winch and one crewman. I’m also short of fuel. Request a quick suck.’

  ‘Negative, hold.’

  Almost immediately Lomas heard the first of the Sea Harriers call up on the radio as the ship began a turn into wind to assist their recovery. Lomas was more concerned about his fuel state to think much about the sailor wandering a few yards in front of him towards the triple chaff launchers just behind the Hermes bridge superstructure. Chaff comprises thousands of tiny strips of aluminium foil that form a bloom. This then creates a big false target on radar to an attacking missile or jet.

  With a giant whoosh, one of the chaff launchers suddenly fired its rocket up through Yankee Hotel’s rotor blades before bursting high above the helicopter. Lomas’s heart leapt in his mouth at the shock. ‘Fuck me. What the fuck was that?’ he shouted to MacNaughton before transmitting to Hermes: ‘You’ve just fired chaff through my rotor blades.’ His message was ignored.

  He was also almost too shocked to notice the Sea Harriers landing on the deck, one by one, just a few yards to his left. The historic event was reported later on the BBC news by correspondent Brian Hanrahan: ‘I counted them all out and I counted them all back.’

  ‘OK you can leave now,’ a seemingly unconcerned Hermes told a still stunned Lomas.

  Of course Hermes was correct to prioritise the Sea Harriers. Without them, there would be no task force. A single Wessex was well down the pecking order. But the brusque way that the situation was handled seemed unnecessary. Barely coaxing Yankee Hotel back to land on Resource with well below minimum fuel left in the tanks, Lomas told Steve MacNaughton, ‘My God, that was frightening.’

  The other half of Jack Lomas’s flight, Oily Knight, Noddy Morton, Petty Officer Aircrewman Arthur Balls, and Royal Marine Colour Sergeant Tommy Sands, had deployed the previous afternoon to the County-class destroyer HMS Glamorgan, sister ship of Antrim which was operating in South Georgia. Tommy Sands had been embarked with the flight as military trainer. But for reasons of practical operational efficiency, he had been trained up by Arthur Balls and Steve MacNaughton to act as an additional aircrewman.

  It was a tight squeeze landing Yankee Tango on the flight deck of Glamorgan with the ship’s own Wessex folded and stowed in the hangar. To Oily Knight, operating two Wessex from one deck looked like an accident waiting to happen, should one aircraft be stuck on deck with the other needing an urgent suck of fuel. Still, he thought, close cooperation between crews should minimise the risk.

  Two helicopters parked on a single spot flight deck. These ones are actually on HMS Antrim, sister ship of Glamorgan. Ian Stanley’s Wessex 3 is on the left next to Mike Crabtree’s Wessex 5 on the right.

  It wasn’t entirely clear to any of the crew what their task was as they arrived on board. Their confidence did not improve when they woke up the following morning within sight of land. Glamorgan and two sleek Type-21 frigates, Arrow and Alacrity, had been tasked to provide naval gunfire support for the raids on Stanley with their 4.5-inch guns.

  Their first mission, requested by Glamorgan’s captain Mike Barrow, was to fly up to 3,000 feet and drop a few blooms of chaff at decent intervals so that they looked like ships to any attacking aircraft’s radar. Armed with AS12 missiles on either side of the aircraft, Arthur Balls sat in the left seat behind the M260 missile sight as Oily Knight drove from the right seat. Noddy Morton and Tommy Sands sat in the back as stand-in crewmen. Next to them was a supply of brown paper parcels containing chaff.

  Oily Knight was not at all impressed with the idea. First, all junglies hate heights. Staying at low level avoids the perceived problem of high-altitude nosebleeds, a common junglie concern, and the rather more real danger of having to descend blind through cloud. Second, it seemed obvious to Knight that chaff might fool an incoming missile, but it wouldn’t fool an attacking aircraft. The pilot would see the sudden magical appearance of several big echoes behind a small slow-moving echo on their radar and draw the obvious conclusion: they’re not ships. Third, opening the parcels through the open door of a windy helicopter inevitably meant that half of the thousands of tiny bits of foil would fill the cabin rather than the sky below. Nonetheless, having restrained himself from the temptation to express these concerns, Knight set off to complete the task professionally, as ordered, before returning to Glamorgan to refuel.

  The second mission of the day was to conduct a surface search along the coastline. There had been talk of a possible submarine sighting near Port Stanley. This would be where the AS12 missiles might come in handy. Flying south of the capital, the crew of Yankee Tango had a good view of the bleak Falkland Islands coastline. The plan was to fly close enough to keep land in sight but not too close to come within range of any shore-based Argentine positions.

  The low-lying land brought them closer in to the coast than they had intended. Through the long-range setting of his missile sight, Arthur Balls could see a column of smoke way out to the west, most likely a result of the earlier Sea Harrier raid on the airstrip at Goose Green. But if he could see so far inland, others much closer on land could also see them. Knight and Morton both spotted the missile launch out to the right side of the aircraft at the same time. A very bright white light source left the coastline and gradually climbed towards the Wessex at what seemed like a slow pace. Inside the aircraft there was a short pause as the situation sunk in. ‘Fuck, we’re being shot at.’ Knight’s immediate reaction was to apply fighter-evasion techniques. He pushed the nose of th
e Wessex forward dropping low and fast towards the surface of the sea, trying to stay at right angles to the incoming missile.

  When practising fighter evasion, the trick that always seemed to fool fighter pilots expecting an easy win was for the helicopter to achieve a maximum crossing rate. As the fighter closes with the helicopter at high speed, the attacking jet has to tighten its turn progressively. This would affect the targeting system enough for the jet to overshoot. I’ve seen how effective this can be at first hand, having sat next to a frustrated and surprised fighter pilot in the cockpit of a Hunter jet as we overshot a formation of low-level Wessex helicopters beneath us. At least this was the theory as Knight pushed the Wessex down to sea level. He hoped the same principle would apply against an attacking missile.

  With Yankee Tango now powering across the line of the missile, the crew realised the missile was wire-guided. The flame from the missile produced a white light that was now bobbling about as it sped towards them. After a few further jiggles, the missile splashed harmlessly into the sea well short of its target. But there was no time to relax.

  Almost immediately a second missile launched. This time, the white light angled straight upwards until it disappeared into the cloud base at 1,000 feet. This was far worse for the crew who were now becoming distinctly unnerved. ‘Shit, I can’t see it any more but I know it’s still heading our way,’ exclaimed Knight trying to extract as much speed from the Wessex as possible. A few seconds later, the missile emerged from the cloud much closer. From the back, Morton called out distance even though there was no real way of being sure how far away it was. ‘Two miles. One and a half miles and closing. One mile. Shit.’