Big Fred, solemn and dignified, had the bearing of an MC at a Fijian kava ceremony. Kava is a narcotic drink prepared from the root of the Yagona tree and is drunk from coconut shells. It numbs the lips, gums and tongue and acts like dental cocaine, rendering the drinker high as a kite. An evening in the Volcano Club had a similar effect. Fred handed the first flaming Drambuie to Tommy, a tough Scot from the Highlands. Tommy was no stranger to the dangers of fire and flame. At the Embassy siege in 1980, during a desperate attempt to get access via a window into an already burning room, his gas-mask and gas-hood had got so badly burned they had to be discarded. In spite of having no protection whatsoever from the thick fumes, he continued to carry out his duties in the smoke- and CS gas-filled rooms. His bravery was later recognized by the award of the Queen's Gallantry Medal.
With a knowing wink, Tommy gripped the stem of the glass, tipped his head back at just the right angle, and with practised ease quickly drained the contents before the glass became too hot to handle. A group of REMFs in the far corner of the bar began chanting 'Napalm sticks to spics' as we each took our turn with the fiery liquid. Most of us were past masters in the art, and not an eyebrow had been singed, not a nosetip burned by the time the REMFs launched into the latest chant.
Then it was Paul's turn. He accepted the offered glass from a stillsolemn Fred, then glanced briefly at the flickering blue flame before raising the glass warily to his lips. The flame was now gathering momentum and Paul hesitated slightly before tilting his head forward to meet the glass. A dangerous mistake. As he gulped at the burning liquid, the flame licked around his upper lip and nose and singed his eyebrows. He spluttered and attempted a recovery, but to no avail; he was forced to spit the fiery Drambuie from his mouth, spraying a two-foot sheet of flame across the table, hitting Nish down his left-hand side.
With the smell of singed eyebrows in my nostrils, I settled back in my chair. Another Last Supper was drawing to a close and the REMFs were on an all-time high with their next chant, 'Jump-jet the Junta'. The troop was busy discussing Paul's facial burns. The whole room vibrated with jingoism. But I was far from happy.
As the alcohol in the cocktails and the flaming Drambuies began to take hold, it helped tranquillize the negative thoughts that had invaded my brain since our departure from the UK. They say history repeats itself, and it seemed that the Head Shed were about to prove it. Back in the briefing room at the Kremlin in Hereford, they had outlined a plan to crash two C-130s containing a heavily armed B Squadron onto the runway at Port Stanley with the aim of bringing the Falklands War to a rapid conclusion. It occurred to me they were making the same mistake as Monty when he sent the Paras into Arnhem in an attempt to short-circuit the Second World War. As in the case of Arnhem, the Head Shed wouldn't believe the intelligence reports presented to them. The airfield at Stanley was ringed by General Joffre's Tenth Brigade, 7,000 fighting men, and, worse still, the 601 Anti-Aircraft Battalion equipped with surface-to-air missiles. Coming in to land with a full load of men and equipment, the C-130s – not the quickest of planes at the best of times – would have been slow and lumbering, sitting duck targets for the anti-aircraft guns. The Argentinian troops may not have been of the same calibre as the four divisions of SS Panzers surrounding Arnhem, but they were well armed, with plenty of reserve ammunition, and they were dug in.
At the end of the briefing, the Head Shed had asked a stunned B Squadron for any questions. Give me a blindfolded tightrope walk in a Force 10 gale any time, I thought. I decided to take the bull by the horns and give them the solution. 'Put a conventional warhead on a Polaris missile, and send it onto the Argentinian mainland airbases that are servicing the Mirage III and the Super Etendards,' I offered. The Head Shed were not amused, although Colonel Mike Rose conceded it might be an option.
To make matters worse, as a parting gesture prior to embarking on the coach taking us to Brize Norton, an Army Pay Corps sergeant, hovering like a death clerk, had been on hand to issue life insurance to anyone who didn't have it. 'Come on lads, this is your last chance. Sign on the dotted line.' Valdez, that tower of Fijian strength – along with Laba and Tak one of the original three Fijians I'd met at Otterburn in 1971, who were to inspire in me a lasting affection and respect for that friendly South Pacific people – proved the only light at the end of the tunnel. As we settled into our seats on the coach, squadron morale soared when he fished out of his battered Barbour jacket pocket a faded copy of Rules for War, written in the early 1950s. A mischievous grin cracked his dark features as his index finger traced Rule 762: SAS troops are not suicide troops. As he replaced Rules for War in his pocket, I kept my fingers crossed he wouldn't bring out a Ouija board to pass the time on the journey. I wasn't superstitious, but the Ouija board and the death clerk would have made an ominous combination.
That had been the morning of 19 May. By 20 May we had arrived on Ascension Island and were about to receive the worst Regimental news since the Second World War: a chopper had gone down, killing twenty of the lads from D and G Squadron. Crocker read out the list of dead – fine soldiers all of them, and irreplaceable in terms of experience and expertise. A total of twenty-one soldiers – senior NCOs, junior NCOs, troopers and signallers – had been killed when the Sea King they were travelling in had crashed into the sea off the stern of the assault ship Intrepid. In a small regiment like the SAS, one death in the family causes ripples. To lose so many was a major disaster.
The sound of the riotous assembly brought me back to the present with a jolt. The REMFs had finally gone over the top and were in fine vocal form as they offered a grand finale to the snake pit: a cannibalized version of 'Summer Holiday':
We're all going on a summer holiday,
We're all going to kill a Spic or two,
We're all going on a summer holiday,
We'll get them with our GPMGs…
As the singing reached a crescendo, I decided it was time to leave. Most of the troop had thinned out anyway.
'Cos there ain't no fucking trees,' screamed the REMFs as I levered myself into the upright position, pushed the table to one side and picked my way through the smoke-filled bar. Cliff Richard would be proud of us, I thought, pushing through the exit door into the warm night air.
* * *
'Come on boys, get your kit together. The trucks are outside. We're going for it.' The urgent voice cut through the alcohol-induced dream. I prised my eyelids open and attempted to focus on the blurred figure of the SSM.
My head thumped round like the centre hub of a helicopter's rotor blade. I now knew why I had done selection and had been tested to destruction. I felt as if I was back on Sickener 1. My body ached and my mouth tasted like a gorilla's armpit. The suicide mission had begun.
'Get all the weapons and ammunition onto the trucks. We're moving out immediately,' repeated the SSM. The room burst into life as the squadron began rushing around packing their personal kit and getting ready to load the Bedfords. The short, sharp, shock – it's one way of curing your hangover, I thought, as I glanced at my watch. It was just after 0500 hours.
We began checking weapons, priming grenades, breaking open liners of GPMG link, removing the M202s from their cardboard transit boxes. The thought of the 202 cheered me up –– four 66mm incendiary rockets, box-mounted, operating from one trigger mechanism. We were anxious, raring to go, eager to get the job done. We applied green and black camouflage cream to our faces and pulled on our fighting order, heavy belt kits weighed down with 5.56mm ammunition and 40mm high-explosive bombs for the XM203. This was an Armalite with a single-shot, breech-loaded, pump-action grenade-launcher attached to the underside of the stock – hence the nickname 'under and over'. 'Thank Christ we've got these; now I don't have to stand up to throw a grenade,' I thought as I checked the quadrant sight, then depressed the barrel-locking latch and slid the barrel forward to check that the launcher was clear. Happy with the safety-check. I snapped the barrel backwards, the tube latch locking the barrel and receiver
together.
I joined the line of squadron members moving purposefully towards the Bedfords parked on the road outside the basha. The REMFs singing 'We're all going on a summer holiday' turned around my brain like a pig on a spit, but I wasn't in the mood to burst into song. We pulled ourselves onto the Bedfords already jam-packed with kit and weapons, and made ourselves as comfortable as possible amid liners of 7.62mm link, bergens, cases of M202s and GPMGs. A famous First World War general once said that the machine gun is a much-overrated toy, but experience in the Dhofar war had taught us how vital it was. We made sure we took every GPMG we could lay our hands on. No wonder there was no room to move.
The convoy was now ready. It was just a matter of driving across the airfield and loading the waiting C-130s. The squadron fell silent, each man left to his own thoughts. This was the biggest operation the Regiment had been committed to since the Second World War. If B Squadron pulled this off, we could name our own medals. We were anxious for the success of the operation itself. Would we manage to land on the airfield at Stanley or would we be blown out of the sky by surface-to-air missiles? And if we did indeed land, would we be annihilated on the runway by the radar-controlled 35mm anti-aircraft guns used in the ground role?
I blocked the negative thoughts out of my mind and looked at my watch. The minutes ticked by. Five, ten, fifteen agonizing minutes. Come on, let's get going. I looked up and down the stationary convoy. Where the hell was Crocker? We were supposed to be on operation immediate. The waiting was getting to me; it was a bad fifteen minutes. A murmur of conversation had broken out in the rear Bedford. One or two of the fitness fanatics were standing on the mountains of kit, stretching their stiffened limbs and looking bored.
I looked at Tommy, who was sitting quietly on a box of smoke grenades. His grey face looked like how I felt. He shrugged his shoulders and went back to the oily flannelette he was using to clean the 5.56mm rounds before easing them into the thirty-round magazine of his 203. As I settled back once more I could feel the slow regular thump of a headache beating across my temples. It was 0630 hours.
Crocker suddenly appeared from the direction of the signal shack. He had a scowl on his face. He looked at the convoy but said nothing. He walked over to the lead Bedford and spoke quickly and with calm authority to the SSM. The message flashed down the full length of the convoy: scrubbed! The operation had been scrubbed. 'Thank fuck for that,' I said to Tommy. 'Good old SAS common sense has prevailed. Come on, let's hit the Volcano and get stuck into one of those steaks.'
* * *
The synchronized flash of the navigational lights of the USAF Starlifter cut into the grey of the overcast dawn as we plodded in silence across Wideawake airfield, dressed in camouflage OGs and each carrying a diver's dry suit, a set of fins and a lifejacket. It was 0430 hours. After the previous day's reprieve, we had been re-tasked and re-briefed. We were to fly south towards the Falklands in two C-130s, rendezvous with HMS Andromeda, a Type 21 frigate, and carry out a para-drop into the South Atlantic. Pick-up and delivery to the ship was to be by Rigid Raider. Andromeda would be our host until we reached San Carlos Water, where we would rendezvous with the depleted ranks of D Squadron.
This was to be a reinforced jump, so it was classed as operational. I briefly entertained the idea of asking the Brigadier on our return to the UK if he would endorse the Second World War rule on parachuting, which stated that any squadron member who has made an operational jump is entitled to wear his SAS wings above his medals, rather than on the shoulder where they are normally worn. The recollection of the look of horror on the Brigadier's face when I'd asked him at the opening of the new Pal-U-Drin Club back in Hereford in 1981 about a bar to the General Service Medal commemorating Princes Gate quickly changed my mind.
The early June morning was cool on Ascension as we picked our way through the clutter on the airfield, past rows of aircraft, Vulcan bombers, Victor tankers, American Starlifters and Nimrod recce planes, towards the two C-130s. Everywhere the ironmongery of war choked the tarmac: stockpiles of rations, fuel, medical supplies and ammunition, advance communications equipment, forklift trucks – thousands of pieces of equipment. Wessex and Scout helicopters droned like bees overhead. The Royal Corps of Transport were working flat out organizing the movement of war material, the servicing of airlift pallets. War fever was in the air.
After what seemed like an age, we finally arrived at our C-130s. I noticed with interest the in-flight refuelling probe over the flight deck. The transporter would be one of sixteen models converted especially for the Falklands War as in-flight refuelling tankers/receivers. Inside the cargo and passenger holds of these converted planes were two longrange fuel tanks. Apparently one of the converted C-130s created a world record for duration of flight by remaining in the air for twentyeight hours during an operational flight.
We boarded the two cramped aircraft and prepared for take-off. Practised eyes and hands went through a familiar routine. I checked the main and reserve parachutes for serviceability. Happy with the brake ties, elastic bungees, cape-well releases, static-line stowage and leg-strap adjustments, I placed the two parachutes and the diver's dry suit on the floor between my legs, strapped myself into the uncomfortable web seat and awaited the roar of the four Allison turbo-prop engines. The crew carried out their final flight checks, and at 0500 hours the two C-130s began taxiing rapidly across the airfield. The constant-speed, fully feathering props were revved up to take-off speed, and without another minute's delay we thundered down the runway and lumbered into the dawn sky.
As I felt the lift of the aircraft wheels, I settled back in the cramped seat and removed my seatbelt. I was feeling exhilarated but somewhat daunted by the change in plan. My first operational jump into a war zone. Alongside me in the womb of the aircraft sat several newly badged members of the Regiment. I thought of the slick precision and ruthless timing required by our plan. I looked at the fresh faces of the new recruits, the young men who had so enthusiastically applied for selection, who had passed with flying colours but who, as yet, were untried in battle, and I wondered…
'Actions stations. Prepare equipment.' The parachute-dispatcher's voice was quick and urgent, barely audible over the noise of the aircraft engines and the added roar of the slipstream rush now coming from the rear, where the tailgate door was being lowered. 'Here we go,' I said feelingly to no one in particular. I reached for the diver's dry suit under my seat and climbed into the zipped opening. I swore under my breath as I pulled on the awkward rubber garment, bending my ears painfully as I forced my head through the skintight neck seal. 'Zip me up, Tommy, and make sure you fasten the last quarter of an inch.' In about half an hour we would be in the South Atlantic, where a man could freeze to death in a couple of hours. Even an unzipped quarter of an inch could prove fatal.
A few minutes later, with arms outstretched and convulsing like a cat coughing up a fur-ball, I had cursed and struggled my way into my dry suit. I stowed my fins where they could be easily accessible for fitting once I was in the water. Next, the parachute. It was already adjusted to my personal measurements, so it was simply a matter of hoisting myself into the harness – not an easy task in the cramped passenger space of the Hercules. Finally, I strapped the distress flare to my wrist.
I began to sweat as I pushed through the crowded fuselage towards the chaos of the tailgate area. Someone had stitched the RAF dispatcher by telling him there was a missile on its way and that we must eject chaff immediately. He was panicking, desperately trying to contact the pilot and find the chaff button at the same time. The tailgate ramp of the Hercules was now fully down. I gazed out over the air-drop pallets crammed onto the ramp, over the edge of the ramp itself curving away into space and into the Atlantic swell 800 feet below.
Up in the cockpit of the C-130 the pilot pressed the button. A green light pierced the sparsely lit cargo hold. The RAF dispatcher, who by now had regained his composure, and two corporals from the RCT dispatcher team, all three fully kitt
ed out for an operational jump (zipup flying boots, olive-green flying suits, DPM jackets, white leather PGI gloves, and safety harnesses attached to the fuselage), began moving the heavy air-drop pallets containing our personal kit, weapons, bergens and advance-signalling equipment over the edge of the tailgate. There was a clatter as the pallets moved over the rollers fixed to the tailgate floor and a twang as each one dropped off the end. I watched fascinated as the parachutes' static lines ran clear and the canopies deployed. The plane bucked in slight turbulence, and I realized with a palpitating heart that this was the moment of truth. I took a deep breath, clipped on my reserve and moved into position.
I was number one in the stick, standing on the edge of the tailgate, adrenaline-charged, aching for release. It's fearsome, being number one: you see everything in front of you – and worse, everything below you. When you are number three or four in the stick, all you see is the pair of shoulders and 'chute of the guy in front of you. You can shuffle forward almost with your eyes closed, as easily as a blind man being led off a cliff.
Soldier I Page 27
