I asked the receptionist if he could order a taxi for us and recommend a nightclub.
“You want with boys or girls?” he asked.
He looked a little surprised, even shocked, when we both exclaimed.
“Girls. Of course!”
He mentioned a couple of nightclubs and then added one which he said was good but “very expensive”.
“That sounds perfect,” I said as I stuffed a wad of pesos into his top pocket.
The name of the nightclub eludes me, but I do remember the flashing lights, thumping music and the scantily clad girls, happily helping us to reach our goal of spending what was left of our local currency.
The journey from Rio to Santiago was much further than I expected, almost two thousand miles. The flight taking more than five hours, which gave us plenty of time to sleep off our hangovers from the night before. I must admit I was beginning to get used to travelling business class with civilian airlines. It was a far cry from our normal form of air transport which was in the back of a military C130 cargo plane, affectionately known as Fat Albert. We were usually strapped for hours into a less than comfortable canvas seat with the deafening roar of the four turboprop engines reverberating around the cavernous fuselage and only a bucket in the corner to use as a toilet.
We checked into a small hotel in the Les Condes area of the city, not far from the incongruously named Prince of Wales Country Club. As we unpacked our meagre possessions in our shared room, a note appeared from under the door.
‘Hilton Bar, Avenado Vitacura. Tonight, seven thirty to meet a friend,’ it read.
We left in good time to take a stroll towards the San Cristóbal Hill Monument, having a ten-quid bet between each other as to who the huge statue overlooking the capital was supposed to be. Brummie chose Saint Christopher and I plumbed for Christ the Redeemer. It wasn’t until I was at Brummie’s funeral recently that I remembered that I had never coughed up what I owed him.
As we sat drinking our second glass of the local Chicca beer, the Commanding Officer Designate of 22 SAS Lieutenant Colonel Neville Howarth, came into the bar and joined us at our table.
“We don’t know each other. I just heard you speaking English and joined you for a drink,” he said without any of the normal friendly formalities. “I will get a message to you, at your hotel for the next meeting.”
I had not, then, been given any kind of training in clandestine operations or instructions on how to conduct meetings with agents. I later learned that the prescribed protocol for any meetings is to always start with the two principles. One, immediately verify how anyone at the meeting knows each other and two, confirm details of the next rendezvous.
Neville briefly brought us up to date with the situation in the South Atlantic. The Task Force had recently come under very severe attack, mainly from the Argentine Airforce. More than a dozen ships had already been damaged. The most serious being HMS Sheffield, which was lost on the fourth of May, HMS Ardent on the twenty-second of May, and he had heard, just that morning, that HMS Antelope had also been sunk. In the opinion of the Defence Chiefs, the main threat was, considered to be, from the Exocet missiles delivered by the Super Étendard jets flying out of the Rio Grande airbase on Tierra del Fuego. He made it abundantly clear that, unless something was done to curtail the success of the Argentinian Airforce, then the war was likely to be lost, in a very short time, and at a cost, possibly, of thousands of British lives.
“We will meet again tomorrow at about the same time. I will let you know where,” Neville said sternly. “In the meantime Red, I want you to look at the possibility of getting an aircraft to get us to Punta Arenas, lease it, borrow it, steal it. Just do whatever it takes.”
Before leaving he slid an envelope across the table containing a few hundred thousand Chilean pesos.
Early the next morning I turned up at the flying club at Tobalada Airfield with my mind firmly set on getting my hands on an aeroplane capable of getting us down to the area of the, precariously balanced, war.
I met a pilot, calling himself Jose, who operated a Beechcraft King Air, a twin-engine light aircraft, usually configured to seat about eight passengers and with, just about, sufficient range to get us the twelve hundred nautical miles or so I was looking for. I showed the operator my British Airline Transport Pilots Licence and told him that I needed to get a BBC crew down to Punta Arenas. He agreed to lease me the King Air provided he could fly with me to bring it straight back. The hourly rate was three hundred US dollars and the round trip was likely to take somewhere in the region of about twelve flying hours. A bargain, I thought, at less than four thousand dollars. Somewhat less of a bargain, however, when he added that I would also have to leave a deposit of fifteen thousand dollars, again in cash, before taking off from Santiago. I was in no mood for bargaining. I agreed on the deal and told him that I would call him the following day to confirm the number of passengers and what time we would like to leave.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
That evening we again met Neville, and again he was alone. We had still not set eyes on the missing, fourth member, of the team. He went through the, now familiar, agent meeting procedure, and then went on to tell us that a political decision had been made by the Chilean Government. British troops would not be allowed on the neutral territory of Chile whilst a state of war existed between them and Argentina and we were about to be interned. This meant that we should expect to spend the duration of the war in prison, in order to avoid the government any embarrassment. There was no way any of us wanted, or intended to, allow this to happen, so we hastily, put together a plan. It was agreed that we would not return to our hotel rooms that evening. We would, instead, stay out for the night and meet up at Tobalada Airfield as soon as the gates opened the following morning, and get away from Santiago as quickly as possible. Fortunately, Jose, who I had agreed to do the lease deal with, was one of the first to arrive and didn’t seem to be the least bit surprised to find us waiting for him. Unfortunately, Neville and the fourth team member where nowhere to be seen and we had, of course, no way of contacting them.
I introduced Brummie as a part of the BBC television crew, mumbling something about a camera grip gaffer, or some such nonsense, and explained that the rest of the team were on their way. Handing over the brown envelope, containing the twenty thousand dollars, which I had been given before leaving London, I asked if we could get ready to depart as soon as possible. We had no way of knowing if the other half of the team were already languishing in a Chilean prison so we decided that we would leave as soon as we were ready, regardless of whether they turned up or not. As Jose, or whatever his real name was, sat diligently counting out the money, a taxi pulled up at the door. Out jumped Neville and someone that we both, instantly, recognised – Bernie Lane. None of us needed any introduction, Bernie and Brummie had spent many years together in the SAS and I had known him for the past three years or so. I introduced Neville and Bernie as the last two members of the BBC crew, deciding this time to play it safe and leave out their job titles. Jose seemed to be completely unfazed by the fact that we had no baggage between us and just nodded when I asked if we could get on our way as soon as possible since the gaffer would like to get to Tierra del Fuego before last light if possible.
As my co-pilot filed the flight plan, I cast my eyes over the en route weather forecast, paying little attention to it, to be honest, since I intended to get away from Santiago regardless of what the elements had to throw at us. Quite a lot as it turned out.
There was a fairly strong wind blowing directly across the north–south aligned runway, over three thousand feet in length, so I elected to take off on runway One Nine in order to save me a one hundred and eighty-degree turn, before heading south towards the Antarctic. For more than a thousand miles the navigation could barely be easier. All I had to do was keep the Pacific Ocean on my right and the towering Andes mountain range on my left and we would be almost certain to stay clear of Argentinian airspace. But what benefit
s the mountains gave by guiding us safely to Punta Arenas they took away from us in the form of turbulence.
Turbulence so extreme that our little turboprop aircraft was in danger of being torn asunder.
When the wind hits the side of a mountain range – and the Andes is the longest mountain range in the world – severe, orographic, or mountain wave turbulence, can occur. Powerful up-draughts, known as anabatic winds, and down-draughts, known as katabatic winds cause enormous disturbances to the air, sometimes as far away as one hundred miles in the lee of the range. Throughout, just about, the whole of our journey, the turbulence was, what can only be described as, very severe. It was very distressing for everyone on board, including me, although the co-pilot seemed to be remarkably relaxed. I was acutely aware that structural damage could result and that light aircraft, such as the one we were in, had been known to have their wings ripped off, resulting in predictable consequences. All on board were hugely relieved when we landed safely at Punta Arenas, the most southerly airfield on the South American mainland and a short hop from Tierra del Fuego.
We were met at the bottom of the aircraft steps by a small, Latin American-looking guy, in a grey suit and brightly coloured tie. He shook hands with Neville, the obvious leader of our small team, who I guess must have displayed the airs of a lieutenant colonel, whilst the rest of us were mere warrant officers. Without introducing himself to anyone other than our leader, he led us across the dispersal area and into the small terminal building. After negotiating a series of corridors, we were escorted straight into the back of a waiting minibus with blacked-out windows, having circumnavigated any of the normal arrival procedures.
It was not until many years after the war, when I returned to Santiago, that I learned that Jose the Pilot had, shortly after our trip, been killed whilst flying his small turboprop aircraft. I have always suspected that he had been employed by the Chilean Intelligence Service, but any assistance we might have been given by the government had to be completely deniable and provided to us as covertly as possible.
We were driven through the town of Punta Arenas to a small port and then onto a ferry which took us across the Strait of Magellan to, an even smaller port, of Porvenir. Eventually, we arrived at an isolated farmhouse, where we were left and told to make ourselves comfortable for the night. The farmhouse was enclosed by a high fence and heavy wooden gates. There were several outbuildings, one of which housed the hefty, diesel-fuelled, generator, the only source of electricity for the house. It had quite a few bedrooms, all of them comfortably furnished with clean bedding and fresh towels. The kitchen was stocked with enough tinned food to keep the four of us going for months. There was a large cellar which was packed with more quasi-military equipment than you would be likely to find in your average quartermaster’s store. The kit ranged from clothing and sleeping bags to survival rations, cooking stoves and mountaineering equipment. There was even a RIB, rigid inflatable boat, with an outboard motor, and two cross-country motorbikes. In a small room, off the main hallway, was a satellite telephone system, already set up and working, and capable of providing secure communications back to our base in Hereford.
Although we now had enough equipment to survive the harsh winter conditions and operate across the rugged terrain of Tierra del Fuego, we were still more than one hundred miles from our target, the Airforce Base at Rio Grande. A long way if we had to make it by foot. Even if we drove to the Argentine border we would still be left with a walk of thirty or forty miles over very inhospitable terrain, all of it in enemy occupied territory. We all agreed that our best option would be to get our hands on a helicopter. But we had little doubt that the chances of that happening were extremely remote.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Our heads were buzzing as we settled down for the night, thinking how, just the four of us, could possibly inflict any damage on the enemy, let alone enough to make an impact on the war. We had to try to minimise or, better still, stop altogether, the Super Étendards and their lethal Exocet missiles from destroying any more of the Task Force ships before it was too late.
I have no idea how Neville was able to arrange it, but the next morning we managed to get on to the local Defence Force Base, which was equipped with a selection of fixed-wing aircraft and helicopters, most of them being of American design. Not only that, but we also finished up in the office of the base commander, who was very friendly and spoke English with, what I can best describe as a rather educated Oxbridge accent. He made it abundantly clear to us that he had complete authority in this part of the world and that talks of internment, or just about anything else, from bureaucrats in Santiago were of no consequence to him.
Neville told the commander that I was a pilot and asked if it was possible to lease a helicopter from a civilian company on the island.
“It is not possible to lease a helicopter from anywhere on Tierra del Fuego,” said the Commander thoughtfully. “However, I may be able to help,” he added as he looked across at me.
“Mister Riley, please go with my Head of Training and show him that you can fly. In the meantime, I would like to chat, over a cup of coffee, to Colonel Neville about my time at your wonderful Royal Military Academy Sandhurst and the nightlife of Camberley.”
The helicopter was a ‘Huey’, which was, and still is, the nickname for the UH1, American Utility Helicopter. Then the most ubiquitous and prolific helicopter in the world. It became famous in the sixties when thousands were built and used in the Vietnam war. The Huey was a remarkably simple aircraft to fly and I had no trouble impressing the instructor with my inherent flying ability.
Back at the office, there was, almost, a party atmosphere with the commander laughing and reminiscing about all the great times he had as a young officer in the UK, when The Beatles, mini-skirts and free love were all the rage.
He poured us all a small glass of some local grog and stood to attention behind his desk to propose a toast.
“Gentlemen… comrades,” he said, raising his glass. “To Her Majesty the Queen and the success of your mission.”
“The Queen,” we all harmonised, knocking back the grog.
“Mister Riley. We are very happy with your flying, but you need to consolidate your training. You may use the helicopter to improve your skill and, of course, that is best done flying solo,” continued the commander. “You may also take your friends along with you for the ride, but you must not, under any circumstances, fly into Argentinian airspace.” “Well of course not, sir,” I lied. “And thank you.”
Flying around in circles for me to improve my flying skills on the Huey was not an option. We felt that we had to do something and do it without wasting any more time, and that would mean not only flying into Argentinian airspace, but we would also have to get as close as possible to the enemy airfield. Crossing into enemy territory from a neutral country in a stolen helicopter was going to be fraught with danger. Getting to within a mile, or so, of the Rio Grande Airbase, with its low-level air defence systems and airfield perimeter protection forces was going to be perilous in the extreme.
It was decided that only Brummie would fly with me, armed with nothing more than an SLR, – a single lens reflex camera. That way if, or, possibly more likely, when, we were shot down, at least only half of the team would have been lost.
We sat down together studying the maps and considering what we were aiming to achieve. We had both been in the Army long enough to know that before undertaking any action it is essential to define an aim which should always be clear and unambiguous. Our aim was to take aerial photographs of the airfield and aircraft dispersal areas at the Rio Grande Airforce Base and return with them to our Forward Operating Base on Tierra del Fuego. Apart from the main aim, we felt that there was a reasonable chance that we may pick up some bonuses along the way. We could possibly find out at what range the low-level air defence system would become effective and, as we got closer, we might discover when the small arms fire of the perimeter protection forces came into pla
y. Perhaps needless to say, but we were not looking forward to either of these bonuses. There was no doubt in our minds that this was going to be a very high-risk undertaking but we took a minute to consider the positives. There was a chance that we might not get picked up on radar or be seen by anyone on the ground. There was also the possibility that, even if we did get seen, then we could be mistaken for Argentinian Airforce, since they also flew Hueys and it seemed likely that they were not an uncommon sight in that part of the world.
We were both fully aware that the odds were stacked against us, but the stakes were so high that we felt that we were left with no other alternative. The risks had to be taken.
My operational tours in Northern Ireland had taught me how best to avoid small arms fire from the ground. Fly ultra-low-level, as fast as possible, and follow an unpredictable track. We packed a small rucksack each with a basic survival kit in case we had to abandon the aircraft and tab it for thirty or forty miles back to the safety of the border. A walk across the country is referred to as a ‘tab’ in the Army, a ‘yomp’ in the Royal Marines and, I’m not sure, but possibly, a ‘sashay’ in the Royal Airforce.
I explained to Brummie the risks we were about to face and how the level of danger was likely to increase as we got closer to the target.
“Is there anything I should do if we do get hit?” asked Brummie with a worried look on his face.
“Oh yes,” I replied. “There is a standard emergency procedure which you need to carry out, which I happen to have written down here,” I said looking through my imaginary notes as if I wanted to make sure that he knew the procedure exactly.
“Yes, here it is,” I recited, pretending to read it to him verbatim. “In the event of being struck by enemy fire the co-pilot should: One – immediately release his shoulder straps. Two – place both hands behind his neck. Three – bend his head between his knees and kiss his arse goodbye.”
Kisses From Nimbus Page 7
