Forward into Hell

by Vince Bramley

  Summing up, the most striking events to affect me throughout the war were obviously the deaths of my friends. In 1982, I regarded these friends as those in 2 and 3 Paras only. Now, after learning about others’ experiences and after watching and reading others’ accounts, I see that the whole task force was my friend. I watched a Marine sergeant in a TV documentary, his eyes showing the emotion of his story, and the sight told me we were all the same.

  I still feel a bit angry that the wounded went unnoticed. A propaganda film on the task force’s arrival home showed only the Paras and the Marines and a Navy homecoming. Can you remember seeing the badly wounded coming through the gates? I think not. Nobody wants to see the effects of carnage.

  I am a full supporter of Maggie and her decision to invade the Falklands, but I am very concerned at the massive censorship of all the material that has come through since the battles. One reporter said to me in Stanley, ‘I’ve got a one-hundred-page report here. What’s the bet the Home Office and the shits behind their desks let no more than ten pages through?’

  The whole campaign was handled with more of a ‘Big Brother’ approach than any before. You mustn’t say this or say that. I feel the government dug a tiny piece of their own grave with this policy, for all the truths will come out in the end.

  My personal attitude to life changed also. Never again will I think that war is just a game, like on TV. It is very different from how it is portrayed in books and films. We con ourselves into the killing game, don’t we? I remember very clearly watching from the window of my quarters five or six kids playing a war game. Some were even dressed in combat gear and carrying small toy machine-guns. I watched with interest their tactics in attacking a cardboard box that was meant to be an enemy-held position. The two kids defending rolled over and pretended to die when overrun by the goodies. After being ‘tigged’ by their friends, they got up to resume the game. From knee-high, we start to practise what is human nature, to defend and kill. The one big difference between their game and the real one is that you don’t get up after really being shot. War is the legal killing of people and can be very scary. War is kill or be killed.

  We must also remember that a lot of the command structure at junior rank level can be almost too difficult to maintain in the heat of battle. Then, what becomes a winning factor is the determination of the private soldier, his lone ‘get up and go and do’ attitude. We must take our hats off to the junior ranks of all services, for they are the backbone of the war machine in that they have to kill at close range. We are lucky to have what is perhaps one of the best fighting forces in the world, thanks to our system of training and to our discipline.

  Even today, I feel frustration about the war. I was so psyched up to carry on with the fight into Stanley that the Argentineans’ surrender made me disappointed as well as happy. I try very hard to keep out of fistfights now, as I wouldn’t like to lose my self-control. Am I alone in this feeling, or are there hundreds or thousands of other time bombs out there?

  Other experienced veterans may be sympathetic to all I’ve said. We can only wait for the next war now, to practise the art of killing again. I hope I’m there to help. Finally, I must quote a First World War veteran who told me, so many years before I joined up, ‘You’ll like the Army, Vince, but not the war, it’s ’orrible, boy.’ He was right. I didn’t like it. Then again I did.

  POSTSCRIPT

  Corporal Stewart McLaughlin (B Company, 3 Para) The imposing black bulk of Mount Longdon confronted the lads of B Company, 3 Para, as we prepared to advance. Were they true, the Intelligence reports of enemy reinforcements on our objective that very night? Were our tactics right – a silent night attack?

  Nervous fingers twitched on the trigger, stomachs were in turmoil. The battalion was now in position; H hour had arrived. The cold, frosty but clear night of 11 June 1982 was to change many lives, and to take lives too.

  One man among the ranks was more concerned about the lives of his section of men than the coming advance, for he was to control their actions. Corporal Stewart McLaughlin, twenty-seven and married with two young sons, was a true Paratrooper. He was stocky and of medium height, a tough leader, SAS-trained, highly professional and very experienced. A brilliant career lay ahead of him.

  Throughout the campaign, McLaughlin had pushed his men hard across East Falkland, the reality of war constantly in the forefront of his mind. He was helped in this by enjoying the hard-won respect of those men.

  The battle started when Corporal Brian Milne stepped on an anti-personnel mine. Bullets and bedlam swiftly followed, our commanders asserting control of the extended line of troops. Corporal McLaughlin’s section hit the ground within seconds of the enemy opening fire on them. Having checked that his lads were unwounded, he began to seek out a route along the slopes of the next position.

  Just as Corporal McLaughlin was about to give the command to move, a scream from Private Pete Hindmarsh told everyone that he had been hit. Each man froze, and young soldiers completely new to battle didn’t know what to expect. Pete cried out for help, which prompted the Argentineans to increase their fire.

  Corporal McLaughlin took control by firing a sixty-six-millimetre rocket at the enemy. Then, leaving good cover, he dashed to help the private, thirty or forty metres away. On reaching him, he shouted for covering fire, picked him up in full kit and still under fire carried him back to safety, where a medic attended to the wounded soldier.

  Private Grant Grinham, Corporal McLaughlin’s rifleman, pressed forward with his 2 Section more confident and relaxed after witnessing his leader’s actions. With renewed determination, they advanced up the mountain under a hail of bullets.

  B Company as a whole started to sustain more casualties, and slowed down. They advanced up the slope by darting from bunker to bunker until they reached a new static position. Their advance had caused the company and platoon to split up, so that Corporal McLaughlin found that he had new men attached to his section. He at once took command of them and gave them tasks, one of the first of which was to suppress an enemy point-fifty-calibre machine-gun. This they did rapidly.

  Lieutenant Mark Cox, the platoon commander, was one of a number of young officers who were under huge pressure. Corporal McLaughlin took the PC aside and tried to reason with him. Now, in effect, part of 5 Platoon was under the corporal’s command. Constantly in touch with his men, Corporal McLaughlin took the platoon to the top of Mount Longdon. All the while, 4 Platoon were fighting ferociously on their flank, advancing from bunker to bunker.

  B Company reached the enemy’s main line of defence, on the very summit. There the mountain dipped away into a crater, where bunker after bunker of defences confronted them. Immediately, the enemy opened fire, killing four or five men. Among them was Lance-Corporal Murdoch, who fell horribly wounded and died leaving his radio on permanent send.

  The lads had been fighting their way for three or four hours up the dark, craggy mountain, the Argies remaining hidden in their bunkers on every strategic crag and corner.

  Having seen many members of his platoon killed or wounded, Lieutenant Cox was distraught. Corporal McLaughlin reassured his men but could not calm the PC, and in desperation CSM Weeks punched the PC in the head.

  Quickly, 4 and 5 Platoons now worked their way into the crater, grenading, bayoneting and firing into bunkers as they went. Corporal McLaughlin, leading, shot any enemy in sight. No prisoners were to be taken. In any case, B Company, with many dead and wounded by now, lacked the manpower to deal with prisoners.

  The OC, Major Mike Argue, controlling from the rear from behind a rock, irritated his men by ordering them to go further and faster. But how could they, with the enemy snipers, equipped with efficient night goggles, shooting everything that moved? Corporal McLaughlin relayed messages requesting support through his sergeant, John Ross. In response, naval gunfire and artillery were brought in to soften up the enemy. Soon Argentineans were wandering about, dazed by the huge explosions all around them. They
were shot on the spot.

  B Company surged forward. Corporal McLaughlin, standing up in the face of enemy fire while his men were static on the ground, shouted and cursed at them to keep up the momentum. They responded by killing efficiently and without emotion. Under fire, they followed McLaughlin, destroying the enemy. Their training had been of the highest standard in the Army. Many NCOs were letting their men control themselves, realising that they were better off in pairs or small groups. The private soldier needed little encouragement, despite seeing his friends wounded and killed. It was the Toms and JNCOs who won the battle.

  The enemy withdrew again. Corporal McLaughlin, still in full control and not having lost a single one of his men, was now reorganising them. Short of ammo but their morale high, they relaxed a little. McLaughlin was emptying his bowels in a bunker when an Argentinean who had been hiding inside sprang up at him. Still squatting, the corporal shot him between the eyes. When he emerged and told the others, they at once saw the funny side of it. The imperative to kill or be killed was ever present.

  The CO ordered B Company’s OC to make a further push along the summit. The company was by now reduced to half its original strength and the remaining men were worn out. Yet they drove themselves on, engaging in hand-to-hand fighting among the crags. The reality of the frontline seemed not to matter to the higher-ranking officers, who were in the middle or at the rear.

  Enemy artillery fire rained on the summit, pinning down Paras and Argentineans alike. Amid this onslaught, Lieutenant Cox, now more in control of himself, with Private Kevin Connery, charged and destroyed three enemy soldiers in their bunker. Both men were later Mentioned in Dispatches.

  Suddenly, during another lull in the fighting, Corporal McLaughlin leaped up and charged forward under fire, hurling grenades and firing sixty-six-millimetre rockets at the enemy positions. His section joined him, and reached a new line of cover without casualties.

  Throughout the night, Corporal McLaughlin controlled A Platoon, whose men had come to respect greatly his leadership and courage. Every move he had his men make was carefully thought out, so that full momentum was maintained.

  As day broke, B Company had been reduced to about thirty men, a third of its strength only twenty-four hours earlier. Undaunted, CSM Weeks set about organising a new formation.

  Corporal McLaughlin rested with the other survivors, who took over an abandoned enemy bunker for a smoke. The next task was to secure their defences. As they rested, they listened to Argentinean shells landing all around the mountain, and rifle fire as A Company stormed along the summit, mopping up the last of the enemy resistance. Corporal McLaughlin came out from the bunker to see men from Support Company following up A Company’s advance and helping to secure their objective against any counter-attack.

  It had been a very long night and a bloody battle. Daylight revealed bodies lying everywhere, but also brought some relief for the survivors. The calm was abruptly shattered when there was a flash near the ground, followed by a terrific bang. A rocket fired from Mount Tumbledown across the valley had exploded almost among the B Company lads.

  Private Grinham, who at the time had been crawling backwards from the bunker, had a leg blown off. He screamed in shock and agony, only to be told to shut up by Corporal McLaughlin, who himself had received a wound to his back and lung from a large piece of shrapnel, and was still half-joking about what had happened.

  Nearby Paras rushed to their aid, and were told by Corporal McLaughlin to attend to Private Grinham first. The private was rushed to the field hospital and from there to the hospital ship Uganda. A little later, Corporal McLaughlin was being helped down to the first aid post by Private Hicks of D Company when a mortar hit them. Both men were killed instantly.

  Before long, the men of the battalion were to hear each other’s stories of individual heroism among their ranks. That of Corporal Stewart McLaughlin received particular recognition. Every private who fought alongside him knew of his daring actions throughout that night. His courage and initiative had helped save lives in both his section and his platoon.

  Medals and citations are customarily awarded to those who have deserved them. The ‘brass’ alone decide whose contribution should be rewarded in this way. It is not for the rest of us to say who should get a medal. Even so, the news that Corporal McLaughlin was to receive no posthumous award was greeted with dismay and anger by all the privates, the JNCOs and many SNCOs and officers. Let it be clear that, while no one expected a medal, not even the South Atlantic Medal, official recognition was held in high esteem. The many soldiers who received medals or were Mentioned in Dispatches, in some cases for an action lasting only thirty seconds, were proud, and rightly so.

  Among the men of 3 Para, there remains strong agreement. If a corporal can control for most of the night the major part of a platoon in addition to his own section, and do duty beyond his rank throughout a brutal, bloody fourteen-hour battle, that soldier deserves the highest decoration. Such a soldier was Corporal Stewart McLaughlin.

  AFTERWORD: NIGHTMARES

  It’s been a good few years since this book was first published. A lot has been said and done. Some people have said, ‘What a great book’; others have pronounced it, ‘Too raw for the public to understand.’ You will have your own opinion now that you have nearly finished these pages.

  One big sorry saga that erupted from these pages came when a police inquiry was launched into the conduct of troops in the Falklands. Today, the findings of this inquiry are sitting on some shelf, collecting dust and rightly so. I was as horrified as the next man when it was launched back in 1992. However, as always, there are two sides to every story. Ironically, during the whole saga, I never named names.

  Following assassination in the media by people who have never been on the frontline and after being hounded, pestered, followed and bugged, it all ended as quickly as it started. With nothing further to write, the media just filed the story away as if nothing had ever happened. The only newspaper that kept out of the inquiry was the Sun, always the troops’ favourite and supporter. Why couldn’t other newspapers follow its example?

  If anyone thinks fifteen minutes of fame is fun, I’m here to tell you it is not. Forget money, don’t go anywhere near it – I never did. For eighteen months, I had a procession of hacks in my face as the inquiry kept popping up on the news. When the inquiry first began, one newspaper offered me a lump sum that would have paid my mortgage off, for an exclusive with all the dirty details. Tempting, wasn’t it?

  But I do have morals, and strong ones at that. Today, I can look in the mirror and honestly say, ‘I never sold out.’ I never betrayed the Regiment, or my colleagues who fought on that mountain. I do think about the three ex-Paras from my old battalion, whose names I could mention, who tried to sell their stories and now stand alongside comrades at reunions and smile. I wonder what they see every time they look in the mirror.

  At the end of the day, selling your story may be a money-spinning adventure but I found it was a nasty backstabbing, cut-throat business. I’m not here now to name names (except one or two) because I ended up taking the blame for something that was not what I wanted to say in my book. In certain media circles, I got treated worse than a serial killer.

  For years, I have been the man who ‘wrote that book’. Yes, it’s true I wrote a book, but did I name names or sell out? No. That still pisses me off today, and to date no one has ever returned to say ‘sorry’. But I’m not bitter about it. I just sat down and wrote a second book, had it published and carried on my simple life as just another Joe Bloggs living out his days. I’m happy with that. But I will tell you, although I still have enough material to write another book on this subject, I never will. All the material is collecting dust, just like the government files are.

  Back in the early summer of 1992, a political journalist asked me for a coffee at Westminster. Was he wanting a story or just sounding me out? The chat was friendly enough: a copy of my book sat next to him; it had bee
n out for over a year.

  I had no problems with this; everyone I knew enjoyed the book. He informed me that certain politicians were pushing for questions to be asked about the conduct of some troops during the war. I was surprised. He told me of the existence of letters of complaint from an ex-Para, who wanted the matter dealt with at a higher level.

  ‘What letters? Which ex-Para?’ I asked.

  He said, ‘Be wary, Vince. You could be a possible scapegoat.’

  I hadn’t a clue what he was on about; I was certainly confused about his meaning. Weeks passed, I thought no more about this meeting. I went on holiday. It was while I was on holiday that, smack, bang, wallop, I saw the headline news: the government had launched an inquiry under Malcolm Rifkind to investigate allegations (featured in this book) into the conduct of 3 Para on Mount Longdon. My face was there on TV for all to see. Scotland Yard were to do the dirty work. Suddenly, I found myself screaming, ‘What the hell do the suits think they’re doing?’ The race was on in the media to find out more; the hyenas were let loose in search of a scoop. On my arrival home, I found my answer-machine was overwhelmed with messages. The press, TV and everyone else kept knocking at my door.

  ‘No comment, no comment,’ I replied. Cheques were waved: No! No! No!, I replied. One paper started ringing at two o’clock in the morning, until I unplugged the phone. Eventually, it died down. I was in an utter state. Plus I was getting paranoid. I had to climb over my back fence every day on the way to work. I was picked up by my work partner Martyn Benson, who throughout this ordeal remained as solid as a rock. He was, and remains, a diamond to me.