We were equally surprised by the cool reception we received at Ushuaia. Our 21 gun salute was answered by the Argentine Naval Barracks, but the wind had increased and the cocktail party we were to give that evening had to be postponed. When conditions improved a little the party went ahead but very few Argentines attended. We thought perhaps this was because we were unable to get alongside and they had to come out by boat. In fact only one of their officers attended and he came as a private guest.
Later in the day the wind dropped to five knots and we were able to creep in alongside. But even this hardly encouraged an Argentine presence on board. They declined to play football against the ship and even refused the use of their ground for a match against a local civilian side. All this was completely against the pattern of cordiality we had experienced on previous visits to Argentine ports, even as recently as our visit to Puerto Belgrano two months earlier. There was a partial belief that this may have had something to do with the fact we were going on to Punta Arenas in Chile, but was this enough to explain such a complete snubbing? I did not think so and reported my misgivings in a signal.
When I went to call on Captain Russo, in the absence of Admiral Zaratiegui, I was informed that I was in the Malvinas War Zone. He was a large round fellow with seemingly cheerful disposition. I laughed and asked who the Argentines were going to fight.
‘You,’ he said without a flicker of emotion. Then he instantly changed the subject. ‘I’ m soon to go on my holidays to Mar del Plata,’ he said, ‘and believe it is in your programme to be there at the same time.’
‘How fortunate,’ I said, ‘then we’ll meet again. But when we are there you will be most welcome to come to our cocktail party with or without uniform. Or, failing that, please feel free to come on board at any time for a cup of coffee or a drink.’
‘Thank you, I will,’ he said.
‘And when you come will you please tell me what this is all about?’
‘I will,’ he said.
And that is exactly what he did. I remember him cradling a large brandy glass in his hand and smiling a little as he cleared his throat.
‘Captain,’ he said, ‘good health.’
‘And good health to you too, Captain,’ I echoed.
‘I will tell you,’ he said, ‘there is to be war against the Malvinas. I do not know when, but I think quite soon. This is very good brandy Captain.’
‘Then you must have some more.’
‘I will,’ he said.
Russo also admitted that he had orders not to fraternize with the British. He had also been told that in terms of the Endurance visit ‘since the British Captain is acquainted with Admiral Zaratiegui, it would be better if they did not meet’. In fact Admiral Anaya insisted Zaratiegui should attend a meeting in Buenos Aires. All this I reported to London.
From Ushuaia we sailed west up the Beagle Channel. Our Argentine pilot also warned me that ‘things were awry’. He confirmed that there had been rumblings over the Malvinas and in his view only the timing of the invasion was uncertain.
On our pilot exchange we picked up a ‘plain clothes’ Chilean submariner, Lieutenant-Commander Paul Ballaresque. His English was as perfect as his knowledge of the channels of Tierra del Fuego. The area, which brings the famous Darwin sketches to life, are very like the Norwegian fjords with towering mountains, occasional glaciers, and extensive birch forests. He too talked of the probability of a war over the Malvinas.
We were also briefly joined by an old friend, Commander Adolfo Cruz. Adolfo had been our next door neighbour in Tynemouth when he was second in command of a Chilean destroyer refitting at Swan Hunters. This was at a time when relations between the (then) Labour Government and the Chileans were at a low ebb and Prime Minister Wilson had instructed us not to fraternize. I had once said to him, ‘We’re going to the races today but I can’t give you any tips. Remember we are not supposed to talk to each other.’ He always played this story back to me. By this time he was Captain of the Piloto Pardo, the Chilean polar ship. He appeared in his small Bell helicopter and immediately following our reunion reminded me of ‘the silent races’. He told me that the fishermen would visit us and that a bottle or two of ‘old booze’ or a joint of meat would ensure a most cordial reception. We were anchored at the southern end of the Canal Ballenero when the fishing boats came to meet us. We shouted exchanges of greetings and handed over some liqueurs. Indeed this encounter soon developed into a profitable exchange of goods.
As we looked along the shoreline we could see the cooking fires. They had already given us 120 Magellan crabs. At two o’clock in the morning they returned, already very much the worse for wear, wanting to exchange more booze for another consignment of crabs. The deal was done, and for some days there were crabs on the march around the ship. The sailors thought this was great fun. One or two of them woke to find he was sharing his bunk with a monster crab.
When we were short of food during the early part of the Conflict we found a ‘loaf’ of crabmeat – just about the only thing left – which was a reminder of that visit and the difficulty we had in cooking them. They had a leg-span of up to three feet which meant the standard Naval cooking pot could not cope. They had therefore to be part dissected at the preparation stage, a task which, though a lifesaver later, was not particularly welcomed at the time.
At Punta Arenas we fired another salute. This began a round of hospitality from the Chilean Navy that was in stark contrast to that we had received from their Argentine counterparts, in spite of the fact that this was a low key visit, and indeed the first Naval visit for many years. Our Royal Marines went off for some training with the Chilean Marine Corps whilst the rest of us enjoyed a number of social and sporting events.
Adolfo had parked his ship alongside us. There was also an historic link here. Piloto Pardo had been Captain of the Chilean tug Yelcho that had rescued the crew of Shackleton’s Endurance.
The Chileans also warned us that Argentine intentions were hardly friendly. Whilst perhaps we might have expected them to say this – there was little love lost between the countries – there was an urgency in the tone of the warnings. In the event these warnings were sustained. Indeed the Chilean intelligence machine proved rather more useful to us than our own sources in Argentina. They were, for instance, the first to rumble Anaya’s invasion plan.
By the time we sailed on 30 January I no longer had any real doubt that there would be an Argentine invasion of the Malvinas. Equally, however, there was only circumstantial evidence to suggest that it may be imminent.
We retraced our steps through the Straits of Magellan out into the Atlantic and wove our way through the oil rigs towards the Falklands. At Stanley we changed our survey party and made a patrol of the area. We had heard that an Argentine Lear jet had overflown some of the beaches. Indeed we later learned that these were the same beaches near Stanley Airport on which the invasion forces landed.
Chapter 8
TENSION MOUNTS
It was a quick turnaround of survey parties and a brief conference with Rex Hunt before a return to Mar del Plata for our fortnight’s ‘half term’ break. For me this meant the usual round of calls and, refreshingly, a friendly reception for Endurance. Many of the Round the World yachts were berthed in the basin ahead of us. Anthony Williams was present, and Rear Admiral Charles Williams and other officials from the RNSA Committee were also there. The contrast in the attitude of the Argentines here was most marked. Here we were, close to their one and only submarine base, receiving some very traditional hospitality.
Following a short break in Buenos Aires, I joined some friends and drove across the border to the Uruguayan resort of Punta del Este. This resort had for a long time been popular with wealthier Argentines and Anglo-Argentines.
Before we left Mar del Plata we embarked another film team. This was headed by Mr Tippey, but in the charge of Commander Francis Ponsonby who was responsible to the Director of Public Relations Navy. Their task was to produce a Naval documen
tary on the ship’s activities in Antarctica. In the light of the debate over Endurance’s future the scheduling of this programme was, to say the least, extraordinary.
We called at the Falklands on the way to the Antarctic where we were delighted to embark Lord and Lady Buxton. They were to be our guests throughout a third work period which was destined to end at South Georgia. Their daughter, Cindy, was still filming on the beach. I knew they were looking forward to seeing her at work. It was a special bonus to have Lord Buxton on board. I knew that during his three weeks in Endurance we would all learn a great deal about bird life; it would be an understatement to say he was an authority on the subject. I knew too that for Aubrey and Maria Buxton the opportunity to see the Antarctic at first hand would be a wonderful experience. I was determined to make sure they would enjoy it as much as possible. It was the least I could do.
Maria Buxton was also going to leave a lasting impression on us all. She was a lovely lady with a kindly word for, and a genuine interest in, everyone. She wrote to me later saying that her weeks on board Endurance had been one of the highlights of her life. A small book, a personal account of her trip, was later published for limited circulation. It was based on the letters she wrote at the time to her large family. It provides a uniquely gentle and humorous account of the Antarctic seen through the eyes of someone who truly knew how to observe. The copy I received contained the personalized inscription:
With so many thanks, not only for your very charming ‘comment’ but for giving us both the holiday of a lifetime.
With love,
Maria.
In the light of what happened this ‘diary’ assumes a wider significance. A matter of days after the Buxtons left us to face a deeply worrying return trip through Argentina, en route to Rio, the Argentines invaded the Falkland Islands.
Six months after writing her account Maria Buxton died from stomach cancer. This shocked us all deeply. She had been on fine form during the trip, but her health deteriorated rapidly soon afterwards. We were all immensely saddened, but took some comfort from perhaps helping to make her ‘Antarctic Adventure’ memorable.
Maria’s diary includes the following warming insights of her first few days aboard.
The welcome we had was unbelievable and we had a very nice cabin with two bunks, one above the other, a wardrobe and some drawers. What a lot of room sea boots take up. We also have a day cabin with a desk and chairs, a somewhat hard sofa, and a bath.
The motion of the ship is moderate and the ship’s officers are charming. They look very smart in white shirts and black trousers and scarlet cummerbunds in the evening.
I am trying to take in as much as I can about the very involved goings on between Argentina and Britain, but Papa really has the picture much more clearly. There is more to this journey, and every other one that Endurance has made, than I ever imagined. There are also some rather interesting, but alarming, bits of information regarding the other country’s activities. But it is all very confidential.…
We will be following the Captain’s rounds, which always happens on a Saturday at sea. Papa and I were not looking forward to this but it turned out to be hilarious.
Endurance has no stabilizers so we are rolling in the swell. Boy are we rolling. Everyone grabs anything they can and holds on tight. Chairs shoot across the cabin and everything is stowed away.
The Captain emerged from his cabin. Whistles blew. We were all awaiting the start of the tour when the ship gave a tremendous roll. Papa lost his balance and put his hand out to save himself, managed to knock the guard off the fire extinguisher and his hand landed on the button. The foam flew out in a terrific gush like an oil strike and went straight onto my feet. I jumped back into the cabin and was, to my shame, convulsed with laughter. For one frozen second no one moved. The foam gushed out with increasing strength. I have never laughed so much. Poor Papa was marvellous and everyone else remained pokerfaced as a marine rushed forward with a small mop to deal with gallons of foam which was by now happily sloshing up and down the back corridor.…
When entering any particular room during the rounds you either flew rather uncontrollably if the roll was in the right direction, or were held bent at an angle against the roll before being jet propelled to the side as the roll started coming the other way. All in all this was an interesting experience which I doubt I shall ever repeat. At the end whistles blew, congratulations were given, and beer was awarded to the especially hardworking areas. But just then the ship gave an unexpectedly vicious roll and everyone flew forward some through open cabin doors, some through stairways, and the rest were forced to cling to whatever they could find.
Despite the shambles in the galley that had been caused by the rolling of the sea lunch was produced which we ate on our knees in chairs firmly wedged, mine in a doorway. …
We tried to have a few people in for drinks that evening but most of the drink was consumed when glasses went hurtling through the air. Papa had a nasty fall when the chair he was sitting in shot across the cabin and he fell half on my lap and half on the floor. He banged his shoulder very hard and I’m afraid his G and T landed in Francis Ponsonby’s lap …
but never have I had such a wonderfully exciting day. After lunch we were all togged up in the most remarkable gear known as goon suits. These were orange rubber with welded seams. They have no shape except for two arms and two legs; they are rather like a rubberised baby-grow, and as difficult to put on because they go over your parka, fur-lined jacket and sea boots. A draw string pulls it tight round your neck. Over all this you wear a U-shape life jacket as hard as a horse’s collar with straps between your legs. You can imagine what I looked like. Add to this a pair of metal ear muffs to deaden the sound and the mind boggles. Even the chopper pilots were convulsed with laughter and the photographer had a field day. Rather annoyingly for me Papa looked perfectly at home, if rather bewildered.
Getting into the chopper was equally hilarious. There are no doors and only two seats – one for the pilot and the one I had. It’s about three feet from the ground and you all know how agile I am. Once I was strapped in, poor Papa and Nick were unceremoniously dumped on the floor. The navigator perched nonchalantly on the ledge opposite me, one foot dangling, trying to stifle his laughter. But I have never enjoyed a flight so much. It was breathtaking. There were snow-covered mountains and pack ice in the sea below us. A few minutes later we were put smoothly down on the snowy shore by the BAS station of Rothera on Marguerite Bay. This is the furthest south we’ll ever get, a thousand miles from the pole itself and about a thousand miles south of the Falkland Islands.
Maria Buxton’s account of the effect of bad weather in Endurance is very close to the mark. This was not a vessel built for comfort in high seas. My steward, Deacon, had very forthright views on this. Leading Steward Deacon, a salt of the earth character, looked after me for three years. He was normally a model of equanimity, whatever the weather, but his safety valve was the humour of exaggeration. He claimed that the Endurance would roll in a dry dock. His most frequent complaint was that the bridge never warned the sailors of approaching bad weather. This, he believed, was a plot to keep the men on their toes. He wrote this account of having to cope with dire weather and me at the same time:
Working for the Captain, as I did, was the hardest job of all. He’s a man who likes his home comforts. The problem is that home comforts liked to slide and crash about in rough seas and get broken. I’d lie awake in the mess till guilty conscience roused me.
If the weather was really naughty the first thing I’d do was dodge the port decanter as it went whistling by my head. The Captain never noticed. He’d be too busy trying to save his effects. He always seemed to wear the same pyjamas in foul weather – the ones with the battle of Trafalgar murals printed on them. I got to know those murals well. I’d see them from practically every angle. That was because the Captain, likely as not, was turned upside down and sliding around with all the furniture and ornaments.
&nb
sp; My job was to lash things down with string or masking tape. He’d be sitting on a pile of magazines. His left hand would be holding a picture, his right arms and leg would be wrapped round a well-anchored chair, and his left leg pushed against the most valuable item of furniture – the booze cabinet. In that unlikely, and dare I say undignified posture, he would fearlessly direct operations. Once things were sorted out he went back to bed. I then repeated the rescue operation in the pantry and guest cabin. If I was lucky, I’d then be allowed to catch a couple of hours kip on the mess floor.
Deacon was equally perceptive when it came to describing the general dining arrangements in foul weather:
To be fair there wasn’t a lot of work to do during the day. How can you work when you can’t stand upright? The poor chefs would have a bad time of it. The ship’s company were a demanding lot. They’d want feeding even in very unpleasant weather.
Breakfast was usually boiled eggs and maybe a grilled sausage if we were lucky. Lunch and dinner consisted of the age-old nautical delicacy – ‘pot mess’. This was stew made up of anything edible scraped from tins. Handy with the can opener our chefs were.
But our lads loved it. Mind you most of them thought of pot mess as a gourmet meal. The crew would eat it from bowls, or even mugs. Tot mess’ was not only spectacular, but hot. Plates were too dangerous. A serious spillage could easily ruin your next run ashore.
Beyond Endurance: An Epic of Whitehall and the South Atlantic Page 14
