I was in the ready position: right hand gripping the parachute static line, left hand resting on the top of my reserve. Far below was the grey wash of the sea. I moved closer still to the edge. The deafening roar of the aircraft slipstream made all conversation impossible. My head was raised and turned to the right, watching, waiting for the red warning light to turn green. My rear leg was braced, ready to launch me over the edge of the tailgate.
'Red on. Green on. Go!' screamed the dispatcher, slapping me on the back. Automatically I leapt into space, forcing my right hand down on the top of my reserve to improve my exit stability. For an instant I was carried violently forward in the blast from the Hercules slipstream. Then I felt the reassuring tug of the parachute harness and the profound relief that the canopy had deployed. Almost immediately, I looked up and carried out my main canopy check for malfunction, ensuring it was deployed correctly.
My hands began to feel for the release hooks of my reserve. I looked down, and for one wild moment I saw I was directly above the dull, blue-grey shape of HMS Andromeda. If I released the reserve now, it would hit the ship square on. I took avoiding action. I pulled down violently – too violently – on my steering toggle. This caused air to spill out of my canopy, upsetting the stability and trim of my flight. I began to oscillate through 180 degrees. I spiralled downwards, my rate of descent decreasing. I swung back and forth, but at least I managed to clear the ship. I pulled down on both steering toggles, and this had the effect of breaking the forward speed of the canopy; the swinging was reduced. I had unclipped the reserve hooks from the D-rings on my main harness and watched the reserve plummet into the sea below. Now I was conscious only of the water rushing up to meet me and of the constant buffeting from eddies of wind all around.
Judging distance in poor light when making a vertical descent into a high swell can be difficult. So I decided to jettison my harness without delay. I hit my cape-well releases and the shoulder straps fell away – but only just in time. I was suddenly immersed in water. At least the harness was free, there was no drag and the canopy did not envelop me. The parachute fell away at an angle, blown away downwind. I was now exhilarated, switched on. I struggled into my fins to help me tread water. Then I pulled down on the toggle and popped my lifejacket. I watched the full-green canopies of the other troop members, many of them kicking violently out of twists as they drifted slowly down and hit the water.
I looked up and saw the lone C-130, its cargo now bobbing about in the South Atlantic, disappearing into the clouds. The second C-130 had turned back earlier because of fuel resupply problems with a Victor tanker, and would now be sitting on the tarmac on Ascension Island, its occupants in the Volcano Club, seething with an imperial frustration that even the arrival of a gargantuan steak would do little to alleviate. I was lucky. My disciplinary misdemeanours were working in my favour again. The same fate that had put me in the Killing House when the balloon went up for the Embassy siege, and subsequently allowed me to take part in an uniquely glorious episode in the Regiment's history, had now ensured that I was on the first C-130 and not on the second one, containing my old troop, Eight Troop, which had had to turn back.
Bobbing about in the ocean, I could feel the adrenaline pumping. I was at the sharp end, heading for action. The Atlantic swell was tremendous. At the crests of the waves I could see all around me. In the distance I could just make out the grey superstructure of HMS Andromeda. Then I disappeared into a trough and there was no view, no horizon. I was surrounded by a vast ocean of grey, foam-flecked waves. I became aware of the cold. The dry suit protected my body heat, but my hands and face were exposed to the elements. I had to tread water with my hands held clear of the bitter, near-zero temperatures of the South Atlantic. Where was the pick-up? The light was failing and the frigate seemed a long way off. Having been the first out of the Hercules, I was furthest from the ship and would no doubt be the last to be picked up. Like a piece of battered flotsam, I rose back to the crest of the wave. In the poor light I could just make out the Rigid Raider about 250 metres away. A member of the troop appeared to be struggling over its side, then it headed back for the Andromeda.
I had now been in the water fifteen minutes, and my hands and face were numb. I began to wish I'd only partially inflated my lifejacket, by mouth, rather than popping the automatic inflater. The bulky shape was straining my neck, pressing it back at an awkward angle. I cracked the plastic tube of the chemical distress flare attached to my wrist. The two chemicals mingled and the tube began to glow. I disappeared into a trough and realized it was pointless waving my flare – no one could see me. I couldn't even see the ship. I would have to wait till I was back on the crest of the wave. I kicked with my fins to gain height. I waved my flare arm, but to no avail. The Rigid Raider was returning to the mother craft with another full load. My vision began to go grey in the gloom. The camouflaged superstructure of the Andromeda disappeared from sight, and once more I became engulfed in the dark trough of a huge wave.
Anxiety began to gnaw at my insides. I had been in the water thirtyfive minutes and had begun to shiver. There were two dangers now: exposure and exhaustion. Already I was having difficulty keeping my hands out of the water. Perhaps fate was not so kind after all. I would have been better off in the Volcano Club with Eight Troop.
I seemed to be aimlessly paddling around, going nowhere, getting weaker. The South Atlantic was taking its toll on me; serious fatigue had set in. I rose again on the crest of another wave. At last, the familiar shape of the Rigid Raider crawled into view about a hundred metres away. I waved my flare arm wildly as the small boat surged forward. They'd seen me! They were heading in my direction, an olive-green shape bucking violently in the Atlantic swell.
'We'd thought we'd lost you,' said the big Marine boat-handler.
'So did I,' I replied. 'I'm starving. Got any scran?'
As they hauled me over the side, they burst my lifejacket with a diving knife to make it easier to get hold of me and pull me into the boat. The tension fell away, and as the Rigid Raider sped over the waves towards Andromeda, a surge of weariness and a longing to be on dry land swept over me.
No sooner had I got on board than it was realized that an air-drop pallet was missing. A radar scan of the immediate area proved fruitless. A Sea King helicopter was due to arrive any minute to cross-deck the troop to HMS Intrepid. The Navy called off the search for the missing pallet. It was decided that I and one other would stay behind and persuade the Navy to continue the search. We would then remain on Andromeda until its arrival in San Carlos Bay.
I went to the petty officer and requested a resumption of the search. I was told that no way was that possible. 'Fuck you,' I said and strode straight into the Captain's cabin.
I was struck by the homeliness of the tidy room. Going through the door was like walking into the warm, secure atmosphere of a comfortable study. The Captain, pen in hand, looked up from a desk cluttered with paperwork. With his steely-grey hair and steady gaze, he reminded me of a favourite uncle. When he spoke he had the dignity of a housemaster at a public school. His whole persona radiated power and authority. 'We have got to get under way, we must be in San Carlos Bay by the morning,' he replied quietly to my demand. His dignified features had taken on the expression of a patient negotiator handling a siege situation.
I took a deep breath. 'What's the point of putting the RAF to the trouble of bringing us all this way to do a reinforcement jump into the South Atlantic when we'll be a liability to D Squadron if we go into the field without the proper kit and equipment? We might as well have stayed on the piss on Ascension.'
For a split second the steady non-committal gaze was replaced by a far sterner look, as though the Captain was turning over some crucial piece of information in his precise naval mind. 'OK,' he announced, 'I'll give you a couple of hours.'
A period of intense activity followed. Time and time again I had to fight back fatigue and persuade the Navy to continue the search. I had to locate th
at pallet. We chugged on through the night, the radar search providing the eyes, Chalky – the other troop member – and I providing the concentration. Lashed by spray, freezing cold and near exhaustion, we stood with a group of naval ratings on the bow of the ship, peering into the starlit night. As Andromeda lumbered through the seas and the hours slipped by, I was becoming increasingly strained. The continuation of the search seemed to hinge on my resolve and determination to keep going. I shivered and looked at my watch. It was just past midnight. The naval ratings were looking towards their bunks, and I was expecting at any time to be called up to the Captain's cabin and given the bad news.
Then word came down from the bridge that something had been picked up on the radar. Suddenly, a rating on the starboard rail of the bows shouted that he could see something in the water. I grabbed the petty officer of the watch, who was in possession of a dragon light. We made our way over to the starboard side of the ship. As the powerful beam of the dragon light cut through the night Chalky shouted, 'There it is!' as the beam played on a set of rigging lines, a parachute canopy and a large, dull-brown packing box. It was the missing airdrop pallet.
Sleep. That was all I wanted now. The ship was extremely crowded, every berth taken. One of the Navy lads showed me a bed that someone had just vacated to go on duty. 'There's your bed for the next eight hours.' It was lovely and warm. I went out like a light.
* * *
The Falklands! Two small islands to the north-east of Tierra del Fuega, two specks floating in the sea, like tiny scales dislodged from the great curl of the scorpion's tail that is South America. With a coastline as long as Norway's circumscribing a land mass no bigger than Wales, the Falklands are subject to relentless winds and the hazards of wind-chill factor that accompany them. The islands are the same latitude south of the equator as London is to the north. They are doggedly British and are determined to stay so.
I was deeply impressed as I stood on the forecastle of the Royal Fleet Auxiliary LSL Sir Lancelot and surveyed the anchorage at San Carlos Water. There hadn't been so many ships around the Falklands since the days preceding the first battle of the Falklands in December 1914, when dozens of colliers arrived to fuel the battlecruisers HMS Invincible and Inflexible and the other ships that made up Admiral Sturdee's original Falklands task force, sent to root out von Spee's Imperial German fleet hiding around the islands.
San Carlos Water bustled with activity. Aboard the frigates, acting as goalkeepers at each end of the waterway, anxious eyes scanned radar screens for the expected air attacks. In front of me, across the bay, I could see RFA Blue Rover, SS Atlantic Causeway, MV Norland and, faintly ridiculous amid the camouflage grey, the brightly coloured Nordic Ferry. Anchored at the southern end was the assault ship HMS Fearless. On the high ground overlooking the water, the Rapier batteries formed a defensive ring of steel. Like hungry seagulls circling a freshly churned refuse tip, helicopters wheeled and dived as they carried out routine cross-decking sorties and undertook offloading operations. A Sea King 5 vet-repped drums of petrol swinging beneath its matt green belly.
It was just after 1600 hours and, with dusk gathering, I gave my belt kit, personal weapons and ammunition a final check, ready for the mission ahead. At that time of the year it would be dark at 1630 hours, ensuring a covert insert into enemy territory. We had to be in position by 1800 hours. The plan, like all good plans, was simple. We were to take a night flight to enemy-occupied West Falkland by Sea King helicopter. We would deploy a linear-type ambush on high ground overlooking the target area. Intelligence received had indicated that three Argentinian C-130s were going to do a reinforcement drop of an elite company of Paras at 0100 hours the following morning. Members of D Squadron, boosted by Six Troop B Squadron, would provide the DZ reception party.
The cocking handle of my XM203 snapped forward, chambering the first 5.56mm round. I applied the safety-catch. My fingers checked the smooth metallic cases of the 40mm bombs located in the pockets and the bandoliers criss-crossing my chest. Cradling the loaded rifle in the crook of my left arm, I stood motionless in the growing darkness. As my eyes adjusted to night vision, taking the inkiness out of the purple-black surroundings, my thoughts turned to the achievements of British forces over the last few weeks. In very little time, a task force of over a hundred ships had sailed 8,000 miles and landed between 9,000 and 10,000 men on an enemy-occupied coastline, and the men had fought to within an ace of total victory.
The overloaded Sea King helicopters of 846 Squadron took off at precisely 1800 hours. They flew low and fast, skimming across the darkness of San Carlos Water, heading for Falkland Sound. The Navy pilots wore passive night goggles – image-intensifiers enabling them to see at night in conditions of low light. In the cramped, blacked-out passenger compartment of the chopper, the noise of the rotor blades, specially coated to withstand the harsh weather conditions, was deafening. We swept across the undulating terrain of East Falkland and then enemy-occupied West Falkland. We hugged the contours and hedge-hopped the sheep fences; we dipped over hillocks and swooped down re-entrants. Finally, after a gut-lurching, hair-raising short dash up a pitch-black gully, we reached our objective. We put down on an area of high ground amid lumps of tussock grass and soggy peat. A blast of fresh, crisp air hit me as the loadmaster slid open the door. The clear, starlit night was bitterly cold as we struggled out of the helicopters, pulled on our heavy bergens weighed down with 7.62mm link, and went into all-round defence.
The drone of the Sea Kings spiralling upwards into the moonlit night signalled the move out. In the distance, the relentless pounding of 4.5inch shells from the Type 21 frigate could be heard bombarding the Fox Bay area. We moved off silently on a preset compass bearing. Because visibility was good we travelled in staggered file, well spaced out. We carried a formidable array of weapons: GPMGs, XM203s, L42 sniper rifles with night sights, 66mm LAWs and the new, Americansupplied Stingers – lightweight heat-seeking surface-to-air missiles. For a while, we followed the gently rising spur running north. The brilliant full moon bathed the jagged rocks on the high ground in front of us. We made good time on a steadily climbing, steepening slope, picking our way quietly and patiently through the semi-frozen boggy hillside strewn with unyielding rock.
Shortly after 2030 hours, we began to drop off the high ground to avoid the slab-sided razor-back edges that formed the crest lines of most of the unmarked ridges of West Falkland. A slight right hook took us below the craggy crest. As we gained the lower slopes, we began to cross extensive stone runs, cursing under our breath as we scrambled across huge slabs of rock covered with wet, slippery lichen.
We reached the final rockfall that overlooked our objective at 2130 hours. It was a perfect position for a linear ambush. The high ground we were standing on was covered in quartzite blocks in all shapes and sizes, running in narrow parallel lines hundreds of metres long. The bleak hillside fell away sharply into a grass-covered valley bottom. The huge open space was ideal for a drop zone. It was also ideal for a killing ground.
After a short, silent pause for a tactical shake-out, forty heavily armed men wormed their way into ambush positions in the rock run. The only noise was the occasional clink of stone, the rustle of equipment, a stifled cough. No orders were given. We had all studied the plan. We all knew that each man was preparing his firing position, choosing his arc of fire, unsplaying grenade pins, going over the 'ambush sprung' signals in his mind.
We hid silently in the security of the rocks: bodies and minds alert, eyes and ears straining for the slightest sign of movement, trigger fingers resting along trigger guards, safety-catches off. Moonglow clouds scudded soundlessly across the night sky while the icy chill crept slowly through the camouflage material into our immobile limbs. The silence in the valley was intense, overpowering, as still and deep as the voiceless hush of a post-explosion shock. The long cold wait took us well past midnight, past the estimated drop time, past the point where the moonlight was at its brightest before beginning to fa
de. I unzipped my Gore-Tex jacket, pulled out the para-cord necklace around my neck and looked at the luminous dial of my G10 watch. It was 3.30am.
Time passed slowly through the hours of uncertainty. Gradually the moon and stars disappeared and the cold, clear darkness gave way to the grey damp of dawn. And still we waited, tense, shivering, the tiredness clinging to our limbs, like ivy entwining a dying tree. The first misty glimmer of daybreak broke into a bright, frosty morning. We lay motionless for a further hour until finally the 'ambush scrubbed' signal was passed down the line, Tommy, a part-time poacher, was totally in his element, lying a few feet away looking as if he was sizing up a salmon pool on the River Dee. He seemed disappointed, depressed almost, as he made a cutting motion across his throat with the index finger of his left hand. Another lemon!
Throughout the long day we remained hidden, with only our GoreTex bivvy bags as protection against the bitter cold. Above us, unidentified high-flying jets sliced through the tight blue of the sky trailing thin vapour scars, red-edged and inflamed in the rays of the low-lying winter sun. We were all conscious of how exposed, how cut off from the rest of the task force we had become. We were on hard routine: no eating, no brewing, no talking, no nothing. We went to extreme lengths to ensure that no small sound or movement would betray our presence to the enemy. Our exhausted minds lengthened the seconds into minutes, the minutes into hours. There were periods when even the turn of the globe seemed frozen still. Finally darkness came, and with it – the relief was immeasurable – the clattering sound of the Sea Kings coming to take us back to base.
Soldier I Page 28
