Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands

by Bleichert, Peter von

  Albert realized Donnan’s helmet was cracked. Blood streamed from the torn opening. Albert tried to raise his own head. Sharp pain forbade it.

  “Donnan,” he mumbled. The toxic air made him cough again, his breaths poisoned by the slow-burn of materials that made up the cockpit interior.

  Albert released the harness. While the movement was minor, it sent him spinning with vertigo. He threw up on himself. Covered in a cold sweat, Albert fought to move within the cockpit chair. He lifted himself from its confines. On the verge of falling unconscious, he slumped back again. Concussion. Albert worried about Donnan; he still had not moved.

  “Donnan,” Albert repeated. The he tried yelling: “Lieutenant Bruce.”

  The stabbing pain in his head told Albert not to do that again. He groaned as he tried to keep himself from vomiting again, or, worse, from blacking out. It would be up to him to get out and retrieve Donnan. Albert reached for the Apache’s canopy release.

  The mechanism’s red handle required more strength than Albert could summon. He fished a knife from his flight suit pocket and used its shiny blade as a lever, working the canopy release until it clicked free. Then, with dizzying effort, he rotated the release to the ‘Unlock’ position.

  The canopy lifted a few inches. Fresh salty air flushed the cockpit. Its warmth blew away the chemical-laden fumes from within. Albert’s head cleared, and his thoughts became less disjointed.

  “Donnan. Wake the hell up.”

  Only seabird song answered, accompanied by the howl from wind forcing its way into the cockpit. An acrid smoky smell came in, too. Albert turned and saw the column of black smoke rising above the crash site, emanating from one of the engine pods. He did not, however, see nor smell the fuel that had leaked out of the punctured tank.

  Albert strained his aching neck to look past his other shoulder. He saw that the Apache had broken in two; just where its tail boom had struck a big, immovable boulder. He looked up and saw that one of the helicopter’s composite rotors had snapped, too, and only the thin titanium strip at the leading edge held the blade’s frayed carbon fibers. His head movements did not bring spinning, confirming his vertigo had passed. With a grunt, he raised his arm to press a hand against the canopy glass.

  Pushing hard, Albert coaxed the canopy open a little bit more. This provided enough room for his aching body to squirm in the seat. He pushed himself up and, with his shoulder, pressed against the canopy. The canopy budged and creaked up to a new position. There was now a big enough space to crawl through. The wind entered full-force and delivered salty spray that refreshed Albert’s sweaty face. This provided the inspiration he needed to get free.

  Albert attempted to lift his legs out, but managed only to hook his ankles over the metal lip of the cockpit’s threshold. Progress, he thought, and shimmied his calves over the edge. Pushing with his arms, he launched his torso upward until he felt the sharp metal in his gut. Fighting nausea, Albert rolled and let gravity do its thing.

  He grunted as he hit the ground. The jagged rock that poked Albert’s side told him to focus. He rolled onto his back. The grass felt soft and cool against his face, and the morning sky: baby blue. Albert spied a fluffy cloud and focused on its abstract shape. He found an elephant there, and remembered how he and his brother Henry would lie on the lush lawns of Balmoral and find such puff-forms. He suddenly missed his big brother—a feeling he had not had in ages—and muttered his name: “Henry.” His big brother could not help him anymore, though, so Albert did his best to lift his body and stand.

  He managed to get to a crouched position and paused to fight the urge to throw-up again. His concussed brain spun with vertigo. Albert rubbed the big, black, knotted bruise on his forehead, and fell back into the tall, swaying grass. He lay beside the wrecked Apache that cradled the body of his closest friend. Albert heard nothing but his own deep breathing and fell asleep.

  The sun began to burn Albert’s face. His lips were dry and cracking. He awakened with a groan and lifted his throbbing head. He looked to his broken helicopter.

  Grey smoke rose from the Apache’s engine pod. It feathered on the wind and painted a trail in the sky that led right back to the crash site. Albert felt a sudden urgency to get away from the area. He saw that Donnan was still slumped in his harness. Albert knew his co-pilot/gunner—his friend—had died. Albert rolled onto his side and sat up. The world turned fast. He propped himself on the one arm that was not sore, and stood. He wobbled and leaned against the Apache’s bent fuselage and felt his way to Donnan’s side.

  The blood from Donnan’s head wound formed a black pool of coagulated ooze. Albert reached for his friend’s jugular and searched for evidence of life. The skin was cold and rubbery, and there was no telltale pulse. Donnan was free; had no more guilt or worries. Albert unclipped Donnan’s harness. He would lift the body out when he could muster the strength. For now, though, he just reached for the radio that still had power despite evidence of shorting. He tuned the radio’s dial over to an emergency frequency and clicked transmit.

  “Any British forces, any British forces, this is an army attack helicopter. We are down, and require rescue, over.” Careful not to give his call sign or location, Albert waited a moment before repeating the transmission. There was nothing. Not even static. Albert turned his attention to Donnan.

  “Okay, mate,” he said to his lifeless friend, and with a heave, pulled the body from the cockpit. Donnan’s foggy eyes seemed to look right into Albert’s own eyes. Their dull glaze frightened him. Donnan’s eyes had always displayed the glint of happiness and intelligence in them; had always shown his good soul in the black pits of his pupils. Although the brightness had faded a bit after Jugroom, his gaze always comforted Albert, and was full of life. Now, Albert could see, Donnan was truly gone, someplace far off, or, perhaps, nowhere at all. Albert had a sudden renewed love of being alive, and he felt very selfish for his long courting of dark thoughts. The certainty filled him that a man like Donnan could not be in Hell, that God could not judge a brave and upright person for one mistaken night on the battlefield. Calm settled over Albert.

  In that calm, a voice told him there was a purpose for everything. Even the worst days of life were precious, that they made us who we were, taught us lessons when we needed them, and reminded us of what was important. Albert even felt it possible that the nameless little girl who had perished at their hand had forgiven. That she, too, was free of the bounds of earth, of the hard mud floor she had slept on, the scant food and filthy water she had swallowed, and the dirty, torn clothes she had worn. Most of all, she was free of the men who had not cared for her, who had loved killing more than they did their little girl, and who had caressed the cold gun-metal of a Kalashnikov instead of her smooth, warm face.

  Sudden anger swamped such thoughts—anger at any father who could put ideology and death above the greatest gift God—any supposed God—could give: a precious child. Albert realized he must forgive himself. Even as a bird in a gilded cage, and handed the life-sentence of being a royal, there were those who were worse off and lived their own private hell. That moment, Albert realized, he needed to grow up.

  “Sorry,” Albert whispered into Donnan’s ear. Albert lifted and folded Donnan over his shoulder. He took a few steps before he had to lower the big man to the ground. He dragged Donnan close to the cliff edge from where his friend could look over Falkland Sound. It would be a good place for his friend to rest until British forces could repatriate the body, or, perhaps, should his parents wish it, have him laid to rest within the British military cemeteries on the islands. Albert took a deep breath of cool air. Or, even remain forever in its place, he pondered. The wind whipped at his cheeks. He closed his eyes and turned toward the sun. His face collected its warmth. You are alive, Albert thought. Then, he began to collect rocks.

  Even though he was still dizzy, Albert felt better. He sat for a moment to listen to the howl of the wind and the waves that crashing against the cliffs. He leaned over
the side and watched as the waves obliterated themselves against the rock and then reached up the cliff with foamy fingers. He smiled. He was, after all and despite his supposed or imagined importance, inconsequential in the scheme of things. This realization made Albert happy, if for just a moment. He lifted one of the rocks he had collected and studied it. It had been around for millions of years, a piece of mountain beaten down by wind and rain, broken off by the sea, and delivered to this field. I am inconsequential. This made things simpler. He looked to Donnan.

  Albert laid his friend out. He folded Donnan’s arms over his chest like an entombed pharaoh, and carefully placed on top the stones he had collected. As Albert piled them, he pondered: He, too, began as a mountain of greatness, was tempered and shaped by the wind of life, cracked into smaller pieces, and he would finally become a grain of sand on an endless beach. Albert placed a final rock, and then stabbed a stick into the pile. He balanced Donnan’s cracked helmet upon it.

  Albert stood over the grave for several minutes. He pocketed the items he had collected, items that would identify the body: a Velcro patch with LT. D. BRUCE from Donnan’s flight suit, as well as the dog-tags that hung from his neck. Albert rubbed the dog-tags. He felt the raised letters and numbers. He clicked his thumbnail on the small notch used to jam the tags between a corpse’s front teeth for identification purposes. If Albert could get off this island alive, he would personally deliver these small things to Donnan’s closest relative. With duty to his comrade complete for the moment, Albert shifted his focus.

  Evening came fast. Albert would need a place to shelter and inventory his supplies. Before this, however, he had one more duty to one other fallen comrade: his loyal mount.

  Broken, Albert thought. My sweet machine is broken. Albert opened an electronics bay on the cheek of the Apache’s fuselage. I am sorry. He lodged a grenade within, and then pulled the pin before retreating to the protection of a boulder, to await the explosion. A few seconds later, it happened, though the sound was muffled by the gusting wind. Black smoke rose from the helicopter’s electronics’ compartment, and Albert felt assured that the sensitive communication and other classified components would not fall into enemy hands. However, he felt as though he had just punched an old friend. Albert rubbed his eyes with exhaustion and stood again.

  The smoke from the helicopter’s engine pod had finally stopped its spewing. Albert spotted the holes where the enemy’s bullets had ripped through the Apache’s armored skin and destroyed its vital systems: electronic, hydraulic, and mechanical. He felt lucky and amazed that he had been able to nurse the helicopter down in one piece, and that he had survived. A gift. From whom? He wondered. Then he reminded himself that Donnan had not been so lucky. Donnan… Albert ran his fingers over the jagged edge of one of the bullet holes. The torn metal cut his fingertip, and he realized he had been lucky that the enemy fighter did not turn in to deliver a strafing run—a coup de grâce—on the crash site. Albert looked around for a place to hunker down.

  He found a small grotto at the top of a cliff that provided some protection from the blast of wind. Albert shimmied inside, sat on a relatively flat shelf of rock, and emptied his supplies from his rucksack. Among the collection, he examined two knives, two Glock 17 pistols with extra magazines with several boxes of nine-millimeter ammunition and three L109A1 anti-personnel grenades. Non-combat supplies included a compass, several foil packets of drinking water, a small bottle with a built-in filter, a first-aid kit that included packets of quick-clot to slow hemorrhaging, a sewing kit, several MREs—meals ready-to-eat— some tins of biscuits, a signal mirror and a signal flare. He also examined a small pair of binoculars; a foil heat-retaining blanket; a Bible, Koran and Torah bound in a single miniature book; a notebook for keeping a journal; an inflatable splint that doubled as a pillow; a packet of five cigarettes; some waterproof matches; and a bar of phosphorous to start a fire in any weather. He finally noted a card with the Royal Army’s coat-of-arms on one side and a request for proper treatment of the bearer under the terms of the Geneva Convention on the other. Albert chuckled when he saw this request was written in—besides his native English—Arabic, Farsi, and Pashtu; an obvious leftover from Afghanistan and Iraq.

  Albert opened one tin of biscuits and a packet of water. When he was done eating and drinking, he began to inflate the splint/pillow. Each puffed breath reminded him of the mild concussion he had suffered. He spread the foil blanket across the rough floor and lay upon it. Resting his head on the pillow, the events of the last few days played in his head like a newscast. As the sun began to set, golden light pierced his grotto and illuminated the dust he had kicked up. Albert fell fast asleep.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Thumping echoed in the grotto, the sound entering Albert’s restless dreams. Awake now, Albert felt the sound in his chest. He looked outside.

  The stars still sparkled, and the night air was cold. Helicopter, Albert realized, and tried to discern the blade-count among the repeating noise. He decided he was hearing a two-bladed machine, though the echo made the direction of approach difficult to ascertain. With the prospect of being rescued, Albert got up and went to the grotto’s entrance. The sound drew closer and a spotlight glinted off the sea that surged below. Caution quickly replaced excitement, slowing his actions. Albert checked that the magazine was well seated in the handgun, and then racked the slide, chambering a round. He crawled to the grotto entrance. He squeezed against the rocks, and peeked to where the Apache was sprawled over the ground. A helicopter burst from behind the opposite cliff-face.

  Albert recognized it as UH-1 Iroquois…the ubiquitous ‘Huey’ of American origin. The Huey swept its spotlight. The bright oval moved over the ground, paused at Donnan’s grave, and then washed over the Apache, fixing its stare to study the crash site. The yellowish eye then began to scan the nearby terrain. Albert fought the urge to run out and declare his presence with waving arms. Then he spotted a light-blue and white roundel on the helicopter’s side. Argentinians…

  Albert ducked back into his hideout. The enemy aircraft flew about, and then it chopped hard at the air and settled to a hover. Albert placed the second Glock and grenades on a rock near the grotto opening. They can knock, he thought, looking at his meager weaponry, but they cannot come in. The sound of the helicopter changed as it configured for landing; the sonic booms at its rotor tips becoming sharp and loud. They will be on the ground in any moment, Albert realized.

  Albert needed to see what he was dealing with. He placed a grenade in one of his flight suit’s many pockets, drew his primary pistol again, and crawled a few feet outside. Sneakily, he peeked from between two pillars of rock.

  The Huey landed near the Apache and several uniformed men emerged from the cabin door. As they deployed, Albert recognized the soldier’s weapons as FN FAL battle rifles, completely outgunning Albert and his little Glock. An Argentine officer jumped out. He had a submachine gun slung from his shoulder. Pivoting and pointing, he directed his men to spread out and search. Then, frighteningly, he seemed to look straight at Albert. A hot, prickly rush shot throughout Albert’s body. He ducked behind the rock and held his pistol close. He caught his breath, and, looking again, saw he had not yet been spotted.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Major Ezequiel Vargas swept his flashlight around the wreck of the downed British helicopter. He walked as his subordinates ran about. Vargas stopped at Donnan’s grave and lifted the cracked flight helmet off the stick. Looking inside, he read the owner’s name: Lt. D. Bruce written on a piece of masking tape; a mark Albert had not been aware of, and had neglected to find and remove. Vargas knew this name, had heard it in an intelligence brief. He also knew with whom this particular co-pilot/gunner had shared the helicopter.

  “Albert Talbot,” Vargas snickered. “Crown Prince of the United Kingdom.”

  As a member of the forces that had occupied Argentinian land and killed Argentinian sons, Albert was Vargas’s chief quarry for the campaign. That the Prin
ce was on Las Islas Malvinas proved that Argentine preparations for war had gone unnoticed, that their deceptions had worked, and that the British considered another attempt to seize the islands by force as highly unlikely. Capturing the Prince would be Vargas’s royal prize, the ultimate leverage, a tool of barter worth the return of Las Islas Malvinas to the republic once-and-for-all. However, Vargas’s mission did not include desecration of graves. He was, after all, a soldier. Carefully, Vargas returned the British pilot’s helmet to its perch. One of his team approached and reported.

  “Mayor, no se encontró ninguna señal de el piloto.” There was no sign of the pilot that had obviously survived the crash.

  “Extenderse,” Vargas ordered his men to spread out.

  Vargas spotted a boot print in the dirt. His trained eyes then scanned a circle around it. He saw a pressed tuft of grass where a man had lain. Vargas moved to it and crouched. He looked for the next telltale, and found it in a rock that had been kicked over, moved from the depression within which it had sat for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Vargas picked up the rock. He lifted his flashlight beam to float over a nearby crag. Defensible, protected from the wind. That is where I would be, Vargas thought. He signaled to two of his men, who ran over. Vargas swung his Star Z-84 submachine gun up to cover the two Argentinians advanced toward the cliff.

  ◊◊◊◊

  “Shit,” Albert muttered. He could feel the approach of an enemy in the primitive stem of his brain. The fatigued, though otherwise rational part of his mind, wondered wishfully if Argentine prisoner camps were as famous for steak as the rest of the country. He chuckled mirthlessly. He looked to his pistol, and then to the grenades. He had an idea.

  Albert found a small slab of rock, placed it in the entrance to the grotto, and wedged a grenade beneath it. He pulled the pin, but made sure to keep the weapon’s safety lever from springing. He quietly collected his items and placed them in the rucksack. As he did so, he carefully avoided his little trap. He scurried out of the hole.