Scram!

by Harry Benson

  Following behind the Sea Kings was the Chinook, Bravo November, carrying a huge load of three light guns and ammunition. Two of the guns and twenty-eight troops were carried inside the huge helicopter. A third gun was slung underneath. Although the Chinook had been in action since its arrival four days earlier, this was its first really significant contribution to the war. In a single lift it had delivered the equivalent of four Sea King loads or three Sea Kings and two Wessex loads. Its success underscored what an immense blow losing the other three Chinooks had been. Bravo November’s mission was all the more remarkable for being flown in the dark using night vision goggles. Chinook pilot Dick Langworthy and his co-pilot Flight Lieutenant Andy Lawless had made great play of their previous experience, persuading Simon Thornewill to lend them his own goggles.

  Freed from the constraints of their ten-ton load, the Chinook became far more manoeuvrable at a mere eleven tons weight. Their mission complete, Langworthy and Lawless pointed the vast helicopter down the side of the mountain and set course for San Carlos, using the goggles to fly at extreme low level. Flying so low to the ground left very little room for error or misjudgement. Just after heading down the hillside, a sudden snow shower made it almost impossible to see out as they passed over the stretch of tidal water at Estancia Creek. One of the Chinook wheels clipped the surface causing the aircraft to rock violently. It threatened to somersault. A huge plume of spray flew up into the engines making them lose power. One of the cockpit doors dropped away as Lawless pulled the jettison handle. His maps and code sheets flew out into the wind. Both pilots hauled upwards on their collective levers to try to gain height. As the engines surged back into life, somehow the Chinook remained airborne. The two pilots recovered the situation but were now worried that they had lost part of their undercarriage altogether. The only way to get back and land safely was to find a slope on which to set down.

  Back at FOB Whale, Jack Lomas heard of the incident on the radio. The Chinook was coming in with a major undercarriage problem. He immediately radioed back that they had better land well clear of the other helicopters. A Chinook thrashing itself to death would wipe out any other aircraft unlucky enough to be parked nearby.

  Normally the distinctive beating of the helicopter announced its arrival long before it could be seen. This time – the pilots having dispensed with their night vision goggles – the unmistakeable waka waka sound was accompanied by a full set of landing lights. Coming to the hover, the worried ground engineers had a good look at the supposed damage from underneath. All seemed well, other than the missing cockpit door. The wheels were intact: the helicopter landed gingerly but safely, declining the invitation to continue with a second mission.

  To the amusement of other aircrew, the Chinook crew had survived the experience of ‘waterskiing’ in a helicopter. They deserved to keep their goggles.

  Out at sea, Argentine warplanes remained intent on stopping the British fleet in its tracks. Flush with success from sinking Sheffield and Atlantic Conveyor with their first two pairs of Exocet missiles, the Argentine navy was determined to use the final missile to sink one of the British aircraft carriers. The plan this time was to launch two Super Etendards, one of which carried the remaining Exocet, and then follow up the chaos and confusion with a sustained bombing run from four Skyhawks.

  The attack began as planned. Early in the afternoon of Sunday 30 May, the first of the Super Etendards spotted two targets on their radar during a low-level pop up. Assessing one of them to be the carrier HMS Invincible, the Exocet was released and sped away. What happened to the Exocet missile is not clear; it may have been splashed by a British missile, cannon fire or technical fault. Either way, it failed to hit any target and was lost.

  The four Skyhawks followed in low behind the missile, spotting the first British ship from ten miles out. In fact, neither target was Invincible. The two ships were the Type-42 destroyer HMS Exeter and the Type-21 frigate HMS Avenger. Two of the Skyhawks overflew Avenger, releasing their bombs as they sped past. Huge plumes of water next to the ship signalled that their bombs had missed altogether. One of the remaining Skyhawks was shot down by Sea Dart from HMS Exeter. The other sped onwards.

  Ian Bryant and Dave Ockleton were two of the frustrated Wessex pilots of 848 Squadron. Having observed the war at close quarters from the deck of a ship, at last they had an aircraft to fly. They had taken delivery of Yankee Delta – sole surviving Wessex from Atlantic Conveyor – from the carrier Hermes. With aircrewman Ginge Burns, they were now being used as a general taxi and load-lifting service. It wasn’t the most exciting job in the world, but it meant getting airborne and it meant getting involved in the role they were trained for.

  En route to HMS Exeter to drop off stores and messages, they were struggling to get any kind of response on the radio. As they approached the ship, there was a loud whooshing noise as a chaff rocket shot past the aircraft nose. At last the ship came on the radio, abruptly telling them to hold off to the stern. At first the jets looked like flying ants darting about on the horizon. One broke away and arced around to the left of Yankee Delta and to the south of the ship. As it got closer, the distinctive shape of a Skyhawk became more apparent. There was no time for any kind of fighter evasion. Without warning, the jet exploded in a ball of fire right in front of them. The raid was over as quickly as it had started.

  Bryant and Ockleton flew over to the explosion site where the water was now tinged turquoise. Bits of debris were slowly descending through the water. A grappling hook thrown down from the back of the Wessex by aircrewman Burns caught on a one-man dinghy. It was peppered with little black holes.

  For the British, the enemy mission was a total failure. For the Argentines, it was an amazing success. The Super Etendard pilots had fired their Exocet. Soon afterwards, they claimed to have glimpsed smoke coming from a very large ship that was clearly badly damaged. They returned to base victorious in the mistaken belief that they had successfully sunk HMS Invincible. Nor could this have been the remains of Conveyor. The burning hulk had sunk two days earlier, when the fire reached the store of cluster bombs. What they actually saw, if anything, remains a mystery.

  As well as the SAS patrol on Mount Kent, other special forces patrols were operating out to the east ahead of 3 Commando Brigade’s advance. Late in the evening of Sunday 30 May, a Royal Marine specialist Mountain and Arctic Warfare patrol spotted a group of Argentine commandos taking shelter from the worsening weather at Top Malo House, an abandoned house situated just north of the spine of mountains running across East Falkland. Three Para and 45 Commando were currently passing a little further to the north, through Teal Inlet and on to Estancia House, on a monumental thirty-mile trek. The Argentine troops posed an immediate threat to the rear of both units. It was too dark and the weather too poor for a Harrier air strike to be called in by the patrol. The best option was for a surprise assault.

  Early the next morning, a Sea King crammed with nineteen more specialist Royal Marines and their weapons flew in at extreme low level, landing almost a mile short of the house. By staying low in the small river valleys and landing out of sight in a dip in the ground, the assault team hoped that their approach would be unseen. However, the noise was unavoidable and the sentry briefly caught sight of the helicopter from an upstairs window of the house. The Argentine troops had been alerted.

  Snow showers had given the tussock grass a white dusting. In other circumstances, the remote scene with barren mountains rising up on both sides of the valley would have looked stunningly beautiful. However, against the white background the Royal Marines now stood out in their green camouflage. They crawled silently to their assault positions. One group was to provide covering fire, the other to run in and finish the job.

  Soon after dawn, a green flare signalled the beginning of the assault. The house was hit immediately by anti-tank rockets from the fire group. An Argentine sentry appeared briefly in the upstairs window and was shot by sniper fire. A second volley of rockets slamme
d into Top Malo. As the house started to burn, the Argentine troops ran out and took up defensive positions on the ground. The assault team charged towards them, firing and throwing grenades.

  The firefight continued for fifteen minutes. Two Argentines were killed and six others wounded before the troops reluctantly surrendered. Despite three Royal Marines being injured, the assault on Top Malo House was a resounding success.

  Back at San Carlos, Peter Manley was immediately ordered to casevac the wounded and dead of both sides back to Rick Jolly’s field hospital at Ajax Bay. Manley and Dave Greet were quickly airborne in Yankee Sierra, heading directly towards Top Malo House. The destination was obvious from the plume of smoke rising in the distance. Manley brought the Wessex in to land close to the still burning house. Greet helped two of the badly wounded fellow Royal Marines into the Wessex cabin for their return journey to Ajax Bay. Manley and Greet then set off immediately to bring back three of the wounded Argentine commandos, two of whom were seriously injured. En route, one of the soldiers died.

  There was to be a great deal of casevac work for the Wessex crews that day, Monday 31 May. It is especially true for the Wessex that the burden of looking after the wounded is entirely borne by the aircrewman in the cabin. The pilot up front can see the casualties coming into the aircraft behind and below him. But thereafter it is the aircrewman who must handle the bloody aftermath of battle at first hand. Junglie aircrew deal with these encounters in their own way. Black humour plays an important role. It is never a sign of personal disrespect, merely a way of coping with terrible situations that human beings should never have to face.

  On the same day, two days after the surrender of the Argentine forces at Goose Green, Jack Lomas and Arthur Balls were sent over to the Ajax Bay field hospital. Assigned to Rick Jolly and his medical team, much of the day’s tasking was spent shuttling wounded servicemen of both sides from the field hospital to the hospital ship SS Uganda where over 130 medical staff awaited.

  The converted cruise liner, white with big red crosses painted on its sides, upper deck and funnel, sat exposed in the open water halfway across Falkland Sound. Landing across Uganda’s deck was a sheer pleasure for the aircrew. Helicopters were not allowed to shut down on deck, but while waiting for the stretchers to be removed from the aircraft, a nurse or deckhand would invariably bring out a cup of fresh coffee or a bag containing sausage or bacon sandwiches for the crew. After a prolonged diet of curried mush and Mars bars, it seemed like nectar.

  But this day’s pleasure was not to last long. Lomas and Balls were told to take Yankee Charlie over to Goose Green to collect bodies. It was the first time they had seen the area. The landscape around the isthmus was bleak and grassy with water on both sides. To the south were the neat settlement houses of Goose Green. A little further to the north, the smaller settlement of Darwin. With its stunning flat light it should have been so peaceful. Yet Lomas could see that Goose Green had very obviously been the scene of a brutal battle.

  Approaching from the north, lines of gorse were still smoking from the ferocious firefight of the previous days. Separating the two settlements was the airfield. Several of the fearsome light green Pucara aircraft lay abandoned or damaged near the grass runway. One aircraft was almost unrecognisably burnt out and destroyed in a blackened circle. Lomas felt a jolt as he noticed the pieces of wrecked Sea Harrier near the edge of the field. But it was the slew of abandoned equipment that dominated the scene. Hundreds and hundreds of helmets and rifles and bits of webbing lay in long lines, guarded by the occasional British soldier. Around the outskirts of the field, Paras were walking around clearing the battlefield site.

  Lomas landed nearby and sent Balls to find out where to go. Shouting to make himself heard above the noise of the helicopter, Balls told a Para soldier: ‘We’ve come for the bodies.’

  ‘There’s loads of bodies here mate. Help yourself.’

  Balls turned and moved his hand across his throat, signalling to Lomas to shut down the rotors.

  Together with the Para soldier, Balls, and four Royal Marines who had flown out with them, loaded half a dozen bodies into the back of the cabin. It was done silently and perfunctorily, without emotion, almost as if they were loading logs. The only noise was the whine of the port engine that Lomas had left running. There was nothing disrespectful about the way the bodies were loaded, but both of the crew were surprised at the lack of formality. Lomas started up the starboard engine and rotors and took off to return to Ajax Bay. A formal reception party was waiting for them when they landed. ‘This is a bit more like it,’ said Lomas.

  After shutting down, Rick Jolly walked over to the Wessex and looked at the scene in the back of the aircraft. He turned to look up at Lomas in the cockpit: ‘These are the wrong bodies.’

  They were Argentine dead.

  ‘We were told to get bodies. Would you like us to take them back?’

  Jolly said he’d look after them.

  Lomas and Balls set off again, this time flying to a very formal welcome almost into the middle of Goose Green settlement. They were met by Chris Keeble of 2 Para. With the Wessex shut down once again, two lines of soldiers prepared to say goodbye to their mates. Unlike the Argentines they had just taken, the British dead were not in body bags. Instead the hoods of their camouflaged jacket smocks were zipped up over their heads. The soldiers carried each body one by one out to the aircraft on a stretcher and rolled them carefully into the cabin. Each body was a friend. ‘Right, that’s … This next one is …’.

  Lomas and Balls started the helicopter up for the return journey with the solemn faces of undertakers. They returned to Ajax Bay with the right bodies.

  * * *

  More trips to Goose Green followed, with more bodies loaded into the Wessex. All were treated with reverence. Just as the last body was being loaded, Lomas was approached by 2 Para’s chaplain David Cooper: ‘I’ve got to get back. I’m supposed to do the service.’

  ‘You’re welcome to come back with us.’

  ‘But there aren’t any seats.’

  It seemed appropriate that one of his Para comrades should turn to the chaplain: ‘Just sit on top of them. They won’t mind.’

  Seventeen British dead were buried later that day in a moving ceremony on the hillside above San Carlos. Paras lined the sides of the grave in the evening sunshine. Cooper’s voice rung out crisply over the scene, listing the names of the dead. Six bearers carried each soldier on a portable stretcher into the grave and laid him carefully next to the previous one. Each body was covered with a union flag. The six stretcher bearers were the only ones to wear their red berets. After laying down each body, they saluted and turned to collect their next colleague. Throughout the service, the buzz and drone of helicopter activity across San Carlos Water formed a continuous backdrop. The war went on.

  Before leaving Ajax Bay, Arthur Balls turned to Jack Lomas and asked: ‘Do you think they have a brush, boss?’

  ‘What do you need a brush for?’

  ‘I need to brush out body parts.’ He didn’t want to leave the mess for the maintainers.

  As pilots, we definitely had the easy job.

  Back at the camp after dark, Jack Lomas grabbed a bottle of whisky and wandered over to the aircrew’s tent. ‘Drink and talk?’ he said, handing over the bottle. It was the other main way of coping, when black humour just wasn’t enough.

  * * *

  The flight out to the British hospital ship Uganda was to become a regular trip for the Wessex and Sea King crews throughout the war. But in a strange turn of events, Steve Judd, Ric Fox and Arthur Balls found themselves heading towards a very different hospital ship on the morning of Monday 31 May.

  This time it was Bahia Paraiso, one of three hospital ships operated by the Argentines. Since the sinking of the Belgrano, they were the only Argentine ships anywhere near the Falklands. The British were keen to ensure that they were not breaching the neutrality given to them under the Geneva Convention and being used t
o bring in arms. During the war there were at least two unarmed inspections of Argentine hospital ships using British Lynx and Wasp helicopters, while the Argentines insisted on a reciprocal (though armed) inspection of Uganda.

  Judd, Fox and Balls began the trip by taking Yankee Tango over to the assault ship HMS Fearless to collect an inspection team comprising a Royal Navy commander and six Royal Marines. The brief was to fly at low level down to the far south of East Falkland, across Goose Green and over the flat boggy land known as Lafonia, board the Argentine ship and conduct the inspection. It was a fifty-mile transit over land still occupied by the Argentine forces who had been helicoptered in to the south of Goose Green towards the end of the battle.

  There was a very real risk of bumping into a Pucara. It was only three days since Pucaras had shot down the Royal Marine Scout. The British were still uncertain whether Pucara were operating or not from other airfields. In fact they were now only operating from Stanley. But the risk and the fear remained real. Pucaras dominated conversations in the aircrew camps each evening. Mark Evans had already escaped one head-on encounter. An encounter over the open terrain of Lafonia would be unlikely to turn out so well.

  My 845 Squadron colleagues – Arthur Balls (left), Ric Fox (middle) and Steve Judd (right) – look rather more relaxed than they felt after taking an inspection team on board the Argentine hospital ship Bahia Paraiso. They had no choice but to shut down because their Wessex was chained to the deck as soon as they landed.

  White with a large red cross painted on it, the Bahia Paraiso was easy enough to spot from a long way off in the sea beyond the flat Lafonia landscape. The ship appeared to be a converted icebreaker, capable of carrying two Puma helicopters on its large flight deck. Judd hovered alongside the ship until a flight-deck director came out to wave him across. As soon as Yankee Tango landed, the Argentine flight-deck crew rushed out to lash the helicopter to the deck with chains. It was a completely normal procedure, but it gave Judd no choice but to shut down. Uncertain what to do next, Judd, Fox and Balls got down from the aircraft and asked a flight-deck crew member to take a photo of the unusual scene. They were then ushered into a crew room.