by Shaun Clarke
‘Christ, what a hell-hole,’ Jock said that first evening as he drank beer with his mates in the Volcano Club, the American bar on Wideawake airfield, its windows giving a view of the rows of aircraft outside, including Vulcan bombers, Victor tankers, Starlifters, Nimrod recce planes and their own cumbersome Hercules transports. ‘It’s no more than a lump of scraggy rock in the middle of the bleedin’ South Atlantic. What the hell are we doing here?’
‘This is the nearest base for an amphibious assault on South Georgia,’ big Andrew explained. ‘That’s why we’re here, mate.’
‘And not alone either,’ Taff said, sitting beside Baby Face Porter. ‘Just look around you.’
He was referring to the other men in the packed, smoky bar, representing M Company, 42 Commando, Royal Marines, the RAF, the Royal Naval Aircraft Servicing Unit, Royal Engineers, and other members of the British Forces Support Unit. Though no more than a volcanic dust heap, nine miles across at its widest, the island had a BBC relay station, a 10,000-foot runway built by NASA, a satellite tracking station and a firing range. Now being used as a staging post for the Task Force, it was receiving an average of six Hercules flights a day, as well as a constant stream of men and equipment ferried in from the fleet anchored out at sea. As there was not enough accommodation for the personnel arriving daily, the men were forced to spend most of their time aboard ship, only being ferried to the island when it was their turn for weapons testing on the firing range, craft drills on the beach, other forms of training, or work. A lot of those men were here now, filling up the formerly quiet Volcano Club.
‘Fuck ’em,’ Gumboot said, polishing off the last of his inch-thick steak in garlic butter and washing it down with another mouthful of beer. ‘Them Argie bastards made British RMs lie face down on the ground. I say crash a couple of Hercules into the fucking runway at Port Stanley. Two C-130s filled with our men. We’d have the Argies running like scared rabbits before we were out of the planes.’
‘If you got that far,’ Ricketts said. ‘Rumour has it the airfield is ringed with 7000 Argentinian troops and an anti-aircraft battalion equipped with ground-to-air missiles. The C-130s, not fast at the best of times, would be sitting ducks.’
‘Right,’ baby-faced Danny put in, nodding emphatically. ‘We would not beat the clock, my friend.’
‘Well, when are we going to do something?’
‘When the diplomats fail, as they will. Only then will we move.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Gumboot exploded.
The special training began the next day and covered a wide variety of situations. Though the eighty-odd troops were already sweating in the tropical heat of Ascension Island, they were compelled to wear outfits suitable to the Arctic conditions of their eventual destination.
‘The Falklands are notable for cold weather and wind,’ Sergeant Ricketts explained as the men prepared. ‘The two together can result in windchill, which can freeze exposed flesh in minutes. So you have to get used to operating in this gear, whether or not you like it.’
The ‘gear’ to which he referred was windproof and waterproof clothing which covered the whole body and was based on the so-called ‘layer system’, whereby layers of clothing are added or taken away depending on the temperature and level of activity. If moisture is trapped inside garments, sweat cools very quickly in the Arctic and the wearer starts freezing. Most of the Arctic battle gear was therefore made from Gore-tex, which keeps heat in but allows moisture to escape.
Other items of kit distributed to the Regiment that first morning included mittens, face masks, ski boots, snow shoes and skis. Nevertheless, even kitted out like this, the kind of training the Regiment could do was fairly limited. Wearing their bulky Gore-tex weatherproof jackets, wool sweaters, Royal Marine camouflage trousers and heavy boots in the heat of Ascension Island was a distinctly uncomfortable way of undergoing so-called ‘special training’. As for the training itself, given that the Arctic climate of the Falklands had to be simulated in a very different environment, very little new, relevant training could be managed. They tested their weapons on the firing range, rehearsed in canoes and Gemini inflatable assault boats in the shallow waters just off the beach, and practised abseiling from noisily hovering Wessex helicopters. But most of it was fairly basic stuff and all too familiar.
‘We’re just wanking here,’ Gumboot said, summarizing the widespread feeling of frustration. ‘Just passing time. Those Navy choppers are cross-decking troops every day, so they can be shipped on to the Falklands – it’s just us being left here. I’m gonna go mad with fucking boredom if they don’t move us on soon. Completely out of my mind.’
‘Right on,’ young Danny said, looking yearningly at all the ships anchored out at sea. ‘I know what you mean.’
Pretty soon, just to keep the men busy, the instructors were resorting to the well-known torments of Continuation-and-Cross Training, including four-man patrol tactics, signalling, first aid, demolition, hand-to-hand combat and general combat survival. While most of it was of obvious use, it had all been done before, and after a few days the men were sick of it. To make matters worse, the Navy had placed many restrictions on what could be done on the island. This further displeased the members of the Regiment.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Corporal Paddy Clarke said two days later in the Volcano Club. ‘I’m fucking tired of playing amateur soldiers every morning on this bit of volcanic rock – just learning the terrain and repeating the lessons of Sickener One. Then listening to the green slime givin’ their boring lectures every bloody afternoon. Bullshit, bullshit and more bullshit. If we have to retrain, let’s do it properly – not all this basic REMF stuff.’
REMFs was the SAS term for the boys at the back – the ‘rear-echelon motherfuckers’.
‘It’s the Navy’s fault,’ Baby Face said. He was yearning for Darlene and looking lovelorn. ‘As the Head Shed said at the briefing back in the Kremlin, the Navy’s limiting the numbers of troops who can be ashore at any time – and that limits our training. It’s always the Navy.’
‘Right on,’ Gumboot said. ‘It’s always the Navy’s fault. They’re just tryin’ to take advantage. Those bastards want to keep us trapped here while they get all the glory.’
‘No glory to be had,’ big Taff Burgess pointed out mildly. ‘At least, not so far. The politicians are still farting around while we sit here sweating.’
‘Besides,’ Ricketts added, ‘it’s not just the Navy. It’s this damned terrain. We can’t train you properly in this place because we’ve nothing to work with – no snow, no ice crevasses, no mud. Here we only have featureless terrain and sea, which is not much use to us.’
They all knew what he meant. The main key to survival in an Arctic environment is to get out of the wind and defeat the cold. For this reason, all SAS troopers routinely receive training in the construction of shelters such as snow holes, snow caves and igloos, as well as instruction in ski techniques and navigation in Arctic conditions. Special training in those areas was clearly impossible on Ascension Island, where the ground was too hard to simulate snow holes and too flat to construct dry ski runs.
‘At least we’ve done some weapons training,’ Ricketts said. ‘Thanks for small mercies.’
In fact the only special weapons training they had done was in how to keep their weapons in working order in the dismal weather of the Falklands. Because in extremely cold conditions lubricants thicken, causing jams and sluggish action, all unnecessary lubricants had to be removed, with only the surfaces of the bolt being lubricated, and the rest left dry. Similarly, ammunition had to be cleaned of all oil and condensation. This required a little learning, but not much, so the men were soon bored again.
‘Small mercies?’ Jock said. ‘What fucking small mercies? I’m going mad doing nothing on this hell-hole while the task force sails on to the Falklands. I don’t think it’s right.’
‘It’s the Navy,’ Gumboot said, returning to their favourite punchbag. ‘Those bastards
sail on to the Falklands while we jerk off back here.’
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Paddy said, ‘if there was something to do here.’ He lit a cigarette, puffing smoke. ‘But there’s nothing but this miserable bloody club and a lot of rocks and the sea. It’s like being in prison.’
‘Not quite, lads,’ big Andrew said philosophically as he twisted a piece of paper into a tight ball and dropped it into his half-pint glass of Drambuie. ‘Just take a look at this place. Here we are, in the South Atlantic Ocean, on what’s essentially a piece of volcanic rock, only discovered on Ascension Day in 1501. There’s poetry in this primitive place, man. Sheer visual poetry.’
‘He’s talkin’ shite again,’ Jock said, shaking his head in despair. ‘He’ll soon set it to music.’
A few of the lads laughed, but Andrew remained unfazed. He swirled the Drambuie in his glass, letting it thoroughly soak the crumpled piece of paper floating on top. ‘Where’s your sense of military history?’ he challenged them, staring at each in turn. ‘Did you know that this place was uninhabited until the British established a garrison when Napoleon was sent to St Helena in 1815? That makes a line of history from Napoleon to us, sitting right here. I think that’s kind of magical.’
‘Where’s St Helena?’ Jock asked. ‘The other side of the island?’
‘Seven hundred and fifty miles south-east of here,’ Andrew explained with a studied display of patience. ‘A mere drop in the ocean. And to there – we’re practically sitting in his ghostly lap – the great Napoleon was exiled. Now I think that’s real magical, man – and magic is poetry.’
‘I’m gonna puke,’ Gumboot said.
‘Don’t blame you,’ Jock agreed.
‘I salute the great fellow-soldier,’ Andrew said gravely. Then he flicked his lighter, set fire to the ball of paper in the Drambuie, put the flaming concoction to his lips and swallowed it.
It was the kind of sport the Regiment enjoyed and Andrew’s mates all applauded. When he had finished his drink, the ball of paper was still on fire. He put his lips over the glass and appeared to suck up the flame. When he put the glass down, the fire was out. The men clapped and cheered again.
‘Anyway,’ Ricketts said when the noise had subsided, ‘I think Parkinson should get on the blower and try to stir up some action.’
‘Talk of the devil,’ Paddy said, indicating the door with a nod of his head as Major Parkinson entered the bar and walked straight to their table.
‘Evening, chaps,’ he said. ‘Sitting here moaning and groaning, are you?’ The men jeered and howled melodramatically, until Parkinson pulled up a chair and sat down with them. ‘Contrary to what you bullshit artists think, our CO has been keen to get this squadron embarked. He’s therefore pleased to inform you, through me, that today he received a request for an SAS troop, the whole of D Squadron, to sail in the Royal Fleet Auxiliary Fort Austin for a proper assignment.’
Reprieved at last, the men roared their approval.
Some twelve hours later, in the grey light of dawn, the men of the SAS Squadron were driven away from Wideawake airfield, past planes, helicopters, fork-lifts, supply trucks, advance-communications equipment and stockpiles of fuel, rations and medical supplies, to the nearby beach, where Gemini inflatables were waiting to take them out to the fleet of battleships that would carry them on to the South Atlantic.
Chapter 3
The 22,890-ton RFA Fort Austin sailed under the Blue Ensign in company with the large destroyer HMS Antrim (6200 tons), the frigate Plymouth (2800 tons), and the large fleet tanker Tidespring (27,400 tons). Maintaining radio silence, the fleet soon left Ascension Island far behind to become surrounded by the deep swells and ominous grey waves of the forbidding South Atlantic.
Although normally unarmed, the Fort Austin was carrying improvised weaponry, including GPMGs, general-purpose machine-guns. It had also embarked four Lynx helicopters specially fitted for firing the Sea Skua missile, and it was loaded with 3500 tons of ammunition, stores and spares. With a length of 183.8 metres, a beam of 24.1 metres and a draught of 14.9 metres, she was an impressive sight, and, to the uninitiated, overwhelming inside.
Spending most of their days and nights in the dimly lit, sweltering hold, in tightly packed tiers of bunk beds and hammocks, surrounded by dangling equipment and clothes hanging from stanchions, in a tangle of bags, packs, bergens and weapons, with little to do except be patient, the SAS men passed the time by studying as much detail of the islands as they had been given by Intelligence, playing cards, writing letters in which they could not state their whereabouts, visiting the latrines out of boredom as well as need, and exchanging the usual banter and bullshit.
‘Here comes young Danny, just back from the head, getting his lovely Darlene out of his system by having a good wank. How did it go, kid?’
‘None of your business, Gumboot.’
‘Shot a healthy wad, did you? Enough to last you till tomorrow? Me, I can do it ten times a day and it’s still not enough. That’s why women can’t get enough of me – because I just keep on coming.’
‘They can’t get enough of you,’ big Andrew corrected him, ‘because you pay them too much. The whores of London have never had it so good – at least not since your missus ran off and sent you on the prowl around King’s Cross. At least Danny here doesn’t have to pay for it. He has youth on his side.’
‘Hey, look, he’s blushing! Danny’s face has gone all red. If he had as much heat in his dick, we’d all be in trouble.’
‘Shut up, Jock,’ Ricketts said. ‘You’ve got a mouth like a sewer. Go and pick on someone your age – another geriatric.’
‘I’m the same age as Danny. He just looks younger than me. That’s because I’m a man of broad experience and it shows in my face.’
‘Dissipation,’ Andrew said. ‘Your mug certainly shows that. Now me, I’m often mistaken for Muhammad Ali. Black is beautiful, friends.’
When feeling trapped or claustrophobic in the crowded, noisy hold, a man could make his escape by touring the immense ship and observing the constant activity that went on in its other holds and on the flight deck. Most of this revolved around the transfer of stores and equipment, either to smaller ships alongside or by jackstay rigs or helicopters to HM ships. The noise both above and below decks was therefore considerable nearly all day, and sometimes went on through the night.
‘Fucking Navy,’ Jock said. ‘You’d have to be mad to join it. I mean, trapped on this floating factory for weeks on end with only the sea all around you. You’d have to be psycho.’
‘That’s what they say about us,’ Andrew replied, ‘and maybe they’re right.’
‘They’re just a bunch of poofters,’ Gumboot said, leaning against the railing and spitting over the side to baptize the sea. ‘We’ve all known that for years. That’s why they like life aboard ship, packed cosily together in their bunks. Why else would they do it?’
‘Three days we’ve been at sea already,’ Taff said, ignoring Jock’s base observation and instead watching another helicopter taking off with a roar, silhouetted by a pale, cloud-streaked sun as it created a wind that whipped their faces and pummelled their bodies. ‘One more day and I’ll go mad.’
‘Won’t we all?’ Ricketts murmured.
Luckily, they managed to survive the next day – and on the fifth, 9 April, Antrim’s fleet linked up with the ice patrol ship the Endurance 1600 kilometres north of South Georgia, and, escorted by it, began closing in on the island.
‘Thank God!’ Danny exclaimed softly, again leaning on the railing and gazing hopefully at the distant, as yet featureless grey horizon. ‘Now let’s see some dry land.’
However, as approval for the operation had not yet been received from London, another ten days passed before Major Parkinson could announce its commencement.
‘How are the men holding up?’ he asked Sergeant Ricketts.
‘Not bad, boss, but they’re obviously getting a bit frustrated. There isn’t much to do down there in th
e hold except listen to the hammering of the engines, play cards, write letters, trade bullshit and take the piss out of passing sailors.’
‘But no trouble so far?’
‘Not so far – but their remarks to the sailors are becoming more saucy by the day, so there could be some punch-ups in the near future. There’s a lot of energy needs squandering down there, one way or the other.’
‘We’d better distract them.’
‘I think so, boss.’
‘Let’s keep them extra busy, Sergeant. Every minute of every day. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll be right and they’ll start popping sailors. Let’s burn up all that healthy, excess energy before they release it another way.’
‘Good thinking, boss,’ Ricketts said.
Within each of the four Sabre Squadrons of the SAS – A, B, C and D – there are four kinds of 16-man specialist groups: Mountain Troops for mountain and Arctic warfare; Boat Troops for amphibious warfare; Mobility Troops for operations in Land Rovers and fast-attack vehicles, as well as on motorcycles; and Air Troops for freefall parachute operations. However, during their training, the men must serve with every group, to make them adaptable to any of the four main forms of warfare.
Given the nature of the Falklands, the SAS men on Fort Austin were divided into the two groups needed for this particular operation: the Mountain Troop, led by Captain Hailsham and including Sergeant Ricketts, Corporal Clarke and troopers Porter and Winston, which would be used for land-based reconnaissance and engagements; and the Boat Troop, led by Captain Grenville and including Corporal McGregor and troopers Burgess and Gillis, to be used for any required amphibious landings.
