Beyond Endurance: An Epic of Whitehall and the South Atlantic

by Nicholas Barker

  We also exchanged our film team for SBS and SAS troops, who were all set for reconnaissance incursions in preparation for the recapture of South Georgia. The sailors were somewhat in awe of these men as they sat on the upper deck in the sunshine, sharpening up their knives and garrotting wires and generally checking very anti-social bits of kit. We really did have the trained killers on board this time.

  But it’s a case of horses for courses. The Endurance soon sorted them out when the weather got rough. Indeed, the most violent thing we saw was the shade of green that some of them turned. Given a rough sea any stomach can turn to jelly, but it did help to reduce the awe factor. And I’m sure it added an extra incentive for them to get ashore.

  Early on the morning of 14 April we met our group. It was quite an emotional encounter. As we steamed up towards Antrim they ‘cleared lower deck’ for us. All their sailors manned the sides, hands on guard-rails, as we approached, and, as we passed them, they cheered us to a man. It was quite unexpected. Plymouth followed with a cheer that was less orchestrated but equally welcoming.

  For the next five days we plugged our way south, transferring men regularly by helicopter or boat for meetings. One new rôle earmarked for Endurance was that of landing craft. We were to run up the beach just off Grytviken with our ice-breaking bow to deliver M Company, 42 Commando. Plymouth and Antrim were to provide the covering bombardment with their 4.5 inch guns. We were also preparing to do a reconnaissance, and, if necessary, to take out Argentine positions ahead of the bombardment and landing.

  I was beginning to feel really useful. Part of this was to do with my ‘expert’ knowledge of conditions we were sure to encounter, and of course the island itself. But it was also to do with operating as part of a team. By definition almost, the Captain of Endurance has a more solitary job than most. In recent weeks it had felt like solitary confinement.

  Captain Brian Young of the Antrim, designated as the Group Commander, was a senior Fleet Air Arm Captain. He had been dispatched south to take over command of the area. This inevitably caused some resentment on our part. We felt we were the seasoned campaigners who were best placed to understand the situation and conditions. It was true that we did not have an anti-submarine capability, or anti-aircraft guns, or even all the communications required, but I still believe the best response would have been for Admiral Sandy Woodward to send two or three frigates commanded by commanders, or a captain junior to myself. This would have meant we could have led the recapture.

  The ad hoc arrangement that was hurriedly cobbled together was one that was difficult for Brian Young to co-ordinate. Of course we needed a company of marines led by someone of the experience of Major Guy Sheridan, and we also needed special forces to insert at an earlier stage. But they could have been better co-ordinated. The point is either Brian Young was in charge or he wasn’t. There were certainly times during the operation when it was hard to tell. Most of the directives came from a variety of sources in the UK.

  Whenever signals were made to the Ministry about the state of the operation it was always ‘Antrim this and Antrim that’. At times we felt Antrim was the only ship involved. This caused massive resentment among the other elements of the force, particularly as the signal traffic conveyed a great deal of uncertainty. We had learned the hard way that flying operations in the South Atlantic, even in relatively good conditions, are extremely dangerous and difficult. My pilots and I tried to explain that landing on South Georgia was like landing on the Alps in the middle of the sea and we should be prepared for this. But nevertheless the SAS insisted on two to three days’ reconnaissance in order to establish exactly where the Argentine troops were dug in, where they were based, and how they were operating. After all the previous delays I found this approach frustrating. But it was understood. There is nothing gung ho about the SAS. When they go in, they go in to win.

  On 21 April, as we arrived back again in the South Georgia area, the weather turned from nasty to perfectly bloody. We experienced blizzard conditions most of the time with wind speeds upwards of 30–40 knots. This did little to facilitate our reconnaissance programme, but we did manage to get a helicopter to Cindy and Annie at St Andrew’s Bay. Chief Petty Officer Scott, our Stores Chief, replaced Peter Stark as ‘chief minder’. We needed Peter for his detailed local knowledge. He also proved invaluable in advising me on the positions of the Argentines. That information was to be vital in deciding where best to insert our special forces.

  Our ultimate target was the main base which was now firmly established at Grytviken. One little snag was that between the spit of land from where we were operating and the Grytviken base there was a large glacier and very mountainous terrain. We either had to land our special forces on the other side of the glacier, which would certainly have given the game away, or land them on one side of the bay and boat them across in Geminis to the other side. This too was a risky strategy. It would be all too easy for small particles of ice to puncture the boats. Although we had some problems persuading the SBS, this was clearly the best option.

  While at anchor in Hound Bay trying to operate our helicopters in reasonably calm conditions, we got our starboard anchor very firmly stuck under a rock. After various attempts to release it failed we had to slip it, together with three shackles of cable. Despite even greater efforts to retrieve it later, we failed again. In mitigation I could point out that there were distractions. We were in an uncharted bay in blizzard conditions almost within bow shot of an enemy submarine. Souvenir hunters would be well rewarded by a plodge around those chilly waters.

  The Special Forces were divided into several different troops, all of whom had different tasks. Some were to cross the glacier at Fortuna, some to make an overland approach. Endurance’s men were the mountain troops under the command of Captain John Hamilton, a very fine man, who had earned a reputation as a particularly courageous officer. Sadly he was later killed.

  Although ‘our’ SAS were very popular, there was certainly the view that they were in the wrong ship. If these had been the amphibious group it would have made more sense. And we did have a special problem in getting our local knowledge across to Cedric Delves, the SAS Commander. He came across by helicopter to talk to us. I could tell right away we were not convincing him that the Fortuna Glacier was a rotten option. He even called his HQ in Hereford for ‘impartial’ advice: I have since learned he was talking to two Everest climbers. But it depends who you talk to and what you want to hear. He was convinced that the glacier should not be an impossible option. The truth is that it matters little if you are experienced or a novice. The weather that constantly changes the mood of the glacier is utterly indifferent.

  We pointed out that only Shackleton in 1916, and one other expedition in 1964, had made it across South Georgia and in both cases they had been fortunate with the weather. Crossing a glacier is always a risky business. This could be mitigated somewhat by pacing it steadily – he’d allocated four days – but with a further bad weather forecast the distance from the objective only added to the risk.

  Royal Marines Major Guy Sheridan, in overall command of land operations, was an experienced Himalayan climber. He was equally unhappy about the choice of Fortuna and discreetly tried to counsel Delves rather than risk appearing to undermine him. He should, I believe, have taken a firmer line and told Delves to forget Fortuna altogether. But Sheridan’s directive was straightforward – to determine Argentine strength and dispositions in Husvik, Stromness and Leith. How Delves achieved that aim was down to him, even if he declined to accept the opinions of those best placed to offer sound advice.

  In addition to the marines, SAS and SBS, we had two ‘forward spotting officers’. They were Bombardment Support Liaison Officers in the form of Colonel Keith Eaves (in the Antrim) and ‘Brum’ Richards (in the Plymouth). Their job was to be parked ashore in appropriate positions so that, when the ship’s bombardment came, they could direct the fire onto the target. Of course they could not do their job until the SBS a
nd the SAS had determined exactly what the targets actually were.

  The helicopters to be used for the insertions were 2 Wessex 5s (troop carriers from the Tidespring, whose pilots, used to insertions, were known as ‘Junglies’) Another Wessex, an anti-submarine helicopter, (normally based on Antrim without as much room for troop-carrying) was piloted by Lieutenant-Commander Ian Stanley.

  During the night of 20/21 April two ships, the Antrim and the tanker, were given the go-ahead from the back-seat drivers at North wood to move in to within 15 miles of South Georgia. As there was a gale blowing from the north-east and visibility was down to about two miles with a cloud base of about 400 feet they asked for a delay.

  At 09.30 the Antrim’s helicopter was despatched to look at the weather inshore which would determine if the operation was possible. This was the first time Ian Stanley and his crew had seen South Georgia. Maps give little indication of the way that majestic mountains leap straight from the sea. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ they asked later. We had told them with no little enthusiasm. It is just that the place is so spectacular nobody can ever be fully prepared for it.

  When Ian Stanley got to the Fortuna he decided that there were no enemy troops there. He reported back to Antrim that the terrain was very much as described by the Endurance Officers. Delves and Hamilton (the SAS leader on the ground) asked for a flight in to have a look ahead of their troops. When they went in, they asked the helicopter be put down on the glacier. Apart from kicking up so much snow they had a virtual white-out, and a great deal of buffeting, they had no horizon to judge the inclination of the helicopter. The ice, snow and cloud all blended into one and they put the wheels down into a crevasse. From there they led in the two Junglies. The visibility was poor, but the helicopters went down exactly where they were wanted. The troops jumped out, got their gear and set off roped in groups of four. When the pilots returned to their ships they said they hoped they'd never have to go back to that ‘hellhole’.

  That night the weather conditions were extreme. The wind had got up to Force 11 or 12, increasing the chill factor enormously. The ships were bounding all over the place. The helicopters were in a perilous state. In the case of Tidespring, one was in the hangar and the other lashed on the deck.

  On the glacier the SAS made themselves as comfortable as possible in the small crevasses. Some late indecision had meant a delay in putting them ashore and they had made little progress before nightfall. The night took its toll on SAS morale. By morning John Hamilton was forced to accept that any advance or operation in a military context was going to be difficult. A bitterly cold and wet start and very little progress forced him to bow to the inevitable. Another night in these conditions would mean his men would face enemies more feared than the Argentines – hypothermia and frostbite. So, bitterly disappointed, he told Cedric Delves that he was going to pull out. Three dismayed Wessex helicopter pilots prepared to bring the SAS back again.

  We tried hard to find flat seas to provide a stable platform for the helicopters. Given the conditions ‘flat’ could only mean ‘feasible’ in terms of take off and landing. But for the urgency of the situation no helicopter would have flown that day. But the rescue attempt had to go ahead. The pilot of the first Wessex, Mike Tidd, told Captain Young that, while he was hovering, he saw a snow squall sweeping towards him half a mile away on the crest of the glacier. But apart from that it was clear. As any kind of visibility could not be guaranteed for long he asked permission to lift off ahead of the other helicopters. The snow squall overtook him, he suffered a white-out and he lost the horizon. This was something almost familiar to Endurance’s pilots but it was a ‘pleasure’ he had not experienced before. During the white-out he began losing altitude very fast and hit the ground at about thirty knots. All this was observed through the snow by Ian Stanley, who said Mike was doing well up to the moment he lost visual references. The loss of altitude proved critical; one of the rotor tips hit the surface of the glacier and the helicopter slewed round on its side and came to rest on the far side of a dip. But miraculously there were no discernible casualties apart from a cut above the eye of one of the staff sergeants. They climbed out of the stricken Wessex, were divided into two groups and loaded into the remaining helicopters. Once again Ian Stanley led the way out. His ASW helicopter had the right sort of instruments, including an altimeter, to help take him over the ice ridges. He was, in effect, the ‘shepherd’. The other pilot was flying visually as close to the ASW as he dared.

  It went pretty well until they were buffeted by another snow squall. The white-out had the same effect as before and the Wessex 5 started losing height. The inevitable followed. The Wessex 5 hit the ground too heavily. A wheel was caught in a small crevasse and she went over on her starboard side. Again there was a pile of entangled legs trying to become disentangled. Ian Stanley landed again and, after picking up another bruised crew, took his haul of survivors back to the ship. This was achieved successfully and Ian reported that the two Wessex 5s were damaged beyond repair. In military terms the whole operation had become a monumental cock-up.

  By mid-afternoon the weather conditions improved slightly. At 16.30 the one remaining Wessex was again flying in over the top of Cape Constance and approaching the Fortuna ice cliff. But conditions proved to be worse inshore: the wind was stronger and there was a lot of cloud. So instead of going up the glacier at low level Ian climbed to 3,000 feet to the apex of the cloud bank which gave him about 600 feet clearance over the glacier itself, but nothing to spare over the peaks. It was then that he saw the orange dayglo life rafts below. These had been inflated partly as a visual marker, but also, when inverted, they provided a refuge for the men to huddle together. Ian Stanley managed to land his helicopter without incident close to where the troops were sheltering. He decided that there was no option but to sardine all sixteen of them into an aircraft which would normally have room for about six. The normal laden weight of a Wessex 3 is about 13,500 pounds. When Ian departed from the glacier, still in appalling conditions, he did so with a weight in excess of 15,000 pounds. To our terrific relief he got away with it.

  The own goals which led to the loss of two troop-carrying helicopters were more than an embarrassment. They threatened the future of the operation. And all this had been achieved without firing a shot in anger. It was a sickener, but who says ‘I told you so’ to the SAS?

  But the fundamental problem remained. How were we now to put the SBS ashore? Our Wasps were uncomfortable and barely equipped to carry three in the back. They were simply not the right tools for the job. And Tony Ellerbeck was still suffering regular doses of the katabatics – enough to put the wind up even the most experienced pilot.

  So far our helicopters had achieved the landing of twelve SBS in appalling weather conditions – no mean feat. With their ‘Morris Minors’ Tony Ellerbeck and Tim Finding had achieved what the Rolls Royces had failed to do on Fortuna. This was largely a reconnaissance mission, although they were also preparing to attack the Argentine base half a dozen miles away across the bay.

  We had seen Tony Ellerbeck’s problems and were extremely anxious. Late that night we too decided to call off the operation, and, as darkness fell, we recalled the troops. So we had a different troop of SAS and some SBS on board, all itching to get ashore and get on with their job.

  There were more meetings. Cedric Delves and Guy Sheridan accepted that Fortuna was a dead loss, and the next plan was to use the SAS amphibious troop, putting them in pretty close to the base, hopefully without being spotted by the Argentines. To the best of my knowledge, at this stage the Argentines didn’t know we were at sea outside the bay, although there had been several overflights by Argentine Boeing 737s and also by Russian radar satellites. We knew the times of the Russian satellites and so we would ‘close up the ships’, which we hoped had the effect of making the four ships appear as a single contact, probably an iceberg.

  I’m sure the damage done by Keith Mills’ anti-tank mortar to the Guerrico was
passing through Brian Young’s mind as he crept forward in Antrim on 22 April. The intention was to drop the SAS amphibious troops and their Geminis overboard about 3,000 yards short of Grass Island, which was itself some three miles east of one of the Argentine bases. As the later Geminis were being dropped, the first ones were already having trouble with their outboard motors. One boat had to be taken in tow.

  Again the weather conditions began to deteriorate. The boating skills of the SAS also left something to be desired. At one point two boats were being towed by a single source when the engine died. So three were tied together while the troops paddled like hell for Grass Island. Then they decided to cut the lines and let each boat fend for itself.

  By 07.30 on the 23rd Antrim had a pretty clear picture of the night’s events. Only three of the Geminis had made it to Grass Island and these had now been deflated and hidden in the tussock grass. As far as we knew they were undetected. Of the other two inflatables nothing was known. Wonderful troops though they are, the way the first two operations had gone was hardly filling us with confidence. Happily the other two boats were soon found safe and sound.

  Plymouth and Endurance were operating together, as were Antrim and Tidespring. Unfortunately relations between the two groups were deteriorating. I believe there was a certain amount of parochialism and jealousy creeping in as we, the ‘experts on the spot’ were being led by Antrim. There were certainly times when I felt like the experienced hand being coached by the rookie. I was sure that more notice should have been taken of my aviators and seaman officers.

  Although I liked and admired her Captain, he was making decision after decision with which we disagreed. We still felt that our local knowledge was being undervalued and that if they had only listened to us the mistakes of Fortuna Glacier and Grass Island could have been avoided. And yet Antrim and her helicopter pilot were being hailed as heroes from a situation that arose out of a débâcle. Such is the nature of war.