Soldier B: Heroes of the South Atlantic

by Shaun Clarke

  ‘Excellent. Any sign of the second lost inflatable?’

  ‘No, boss. Either it sank or it’s been blown clear of the island, into the southern ocean.’

  The OC just nodded, revealing little emotion. ‘And the Argentinian submarine?’

  ‘According to Argentinian radio signals monitored by the Endurance while she was anchored in Hound Bay, the submarine recently landed reinforcements on the island, bringing the Argentinian garrison strength up to about 140 men.’

  ‘That’s useful information, Major Parkinson, but not too encouraging.’

  ‘Then let me encourage you, boss. Not long before dawn, Pedler’s helo spotted the submarine on the surface as she sailed over the shallows of Cumberland Bay, heading out to look for the British fleet. He straddled her with two depth-charges. Soon afterwards, she was attacked by the Endurance’s Wasp and the Lynx from the destroyer HMS Brilliant. Those helicopters forced the submarine to run for King Edward’s Point, with her conning tower damaged and listing after being hit by missiles.’

  ‘That’s good news, certainly. A real setback for the Argentinians. Let’s hope the blighter sinks before it reaches King Edward’s Point or at least is incapacitated when it gets there, which will set them back even more.’ The OC sipped some coffee, put his cup down, then glanced at the map pinned on the wall, showing South Georgia and the surrounding area, with Leith Harbour, Stromness Bay and Grytviken clearly marked. Twenty-four hours ago,’ he continued, ‘just before our ships scattered north, Major Sheridan gave his final orders for an immediate landing to seize Leith and Stromness, even though our recces there are incomplete.’

  ‘A bit early, I’d have thought,’ Parkinson said.

  ‘And what do you think, Sergeant?’ the OC, grinning slyly, asked Ricketts. ‘I want to hear from the lower ranks.’

  ‘I think he’s keen to get his men ashore.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘Probably because there’s been pressure from London to take the islands quickly.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘As a further indication of Britain’s political resolve. I think it makes sense, boss.’

  ‘It’s good to know that the lower ranks are well informed. Yes, Sergeant, it makes sense.’ The OC smiled again, then glanced at the map of South Georgia. ‘With the Tidespring still replenishing her tanks, M Company is six hours or more away from the coast. A landing force will therefore have to be improvised if we’re to exploit the Argentinians’ setback. In fact this has already been arranged between me and Major Sheridan. We’re forming a quick reaction force of three composite troops aboard this very ship. Major Parkinson will lead the Mountain and remaining Boat troops; 2 SBS and the recce sections of 42 Commando will form a second composite troop; and the third troop will be made up from commando mortar-men and the ship’s Marines.’

  ‘That only comes to about seventy-five men,’ Major Parkinson said. ‘Scarcely more than half the strength of the Argentinian garrison.’

  ‘You think the odds are too great?’ the OC asked.

  ‘Who dares wins,’ Ricketts said.

  After three days in his OP overlooking Stromness, Captain Grenville was virtually buried in snow, feeling as miserable as his SAS troop looked, but refusing to give in to self-pity and resolutely sending back to the fleet every scrap of information he had picked up on the movements of the Argentinians, both on land and out at sea, including the frequent submarine patrols out of Leith Harbour. This information had come from a combination of radio interception and visual observation, the latter either from foot patrols which went dangerously close to the Argentinian bases, to spy on them at close quarters, or by using binoculars to scan the sea from the hills. Either way, it was meticulously recorded and radioed back to the fleet under the most uncomfortable, dangerous circumstances.

  The men, though now buried in snow, smelling their own shit and piss, increasingly frozen and exhausted, would hold out to the bitter end.

  Like his men, Grenville was able and willing to hold out as long as necessary, but during the early afternoon of that third grim day, with the snow still falling on him, he was finding it difficult because of his concern for the three men still missing: Corporal Jock McGregor and troopers Taff Burgess and Gumboot Gillis – good men all, now almost certainly drowned because of the weather. Given the nature of the Fortuna Glacier fiasco, the way in which the other men had been lost was dreadfully ironic.

  Determined not to give in to morbid thoughts, and to uphold the precepts of the SAS by sticking it out as long as possible, Grenville gazed over the piled-up snow of his OP to observe Grass Island and, beyond it, the vast, grey, empty sea, now dimly, eerily lit by early afternoon’s pale sun.

  Suddenly a series of fiery flickerings illuminated the horizon. Then the distant roar of the fleet’s big guns made the whole OP shake. The first shells exploded far below, sending smoke billowing up from the lower slopes of Leith Harbour and Stromness Bay.

  The assault had begun.

  Chapter 6

  With the thunder of the Antrim’s two 114mm guns pounding in their ears, Major Parkinson and his men, including Captain Hailsham and Sergeant Ricketts, all in full battle kit, filed into the helicopters clamped to the ship’s landing pads. Taking his seat between big Andrew and Baby Face, Ricketts strapped himself in, then glanced out through the rain-streaked window as the ship swayed and tilted to one side. The sea, which was full of deep swells, seemed very far below him. When he looked in the other direction, back towards the ship, he saw the big guns jolting each time they fired, wreathing the whole deck in smoke.

  The combined bedlam of the helicopters and the guns was like the end of the world and became even worse when, with more noise and much shuddering, the holding clamps were released and the helicopters lifted off the deck. They ascended vertically, hovered above the landing pad, moved sideways to hover right above the sea, then headed for shore.

  ‘About time,’ Danny said, clutching his high-velocity M16A2 assault rifle and instinctively running his fingers over his webbing and 30-round box magazines. ‘I’m dead keen to go and take out those Argies.’

  ‘We’re not taking anyone out,’ Ricketts said. ‘We’re just trying to scare them. We want their surrender.’

  ‘They made Royal Marines lie belly-down on the ground,’ Danny replied, with the dulcet tones of a choirboy. ‘What we want is their balls.’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ Paddy said.

  Even as the helos headed for the shore, the big guns of the Antrim and the Plymouth were continuing to pound in a relentless onslaught that would ensure the landing area and Brown Mountain, which dominated it, were clear of Argentinians. Looking across that short stretch of mottled sea, Ricketts saw the billowing columns of smoke where the shells were exploding.

  ‘What a fucking noise,’ Paddy said. ‘We should have plugged up our ears.’

  ‘Those guns sound like music to me,’ big Andrew replied as he jotted down more words in his notebook. ‘I take heart from that sound.’

  ‘More poetry, is it?’ Paddy asked. ‘More shite for the Imperial War Museum?’

  ‘The true artist is rarely appreciated in his own time,’ Andrew said, closing the notebook and slipping it into one of the zipped pockets of his jacket. ‘My day will come.’

  The shore was now rushing at them, pebbled, streaked with snow, with the shells exploding further inland, on the hills of Brown Mountain. Ricketts glanced westward, beyond the other two helicopters, to where sea and sky met, thinking bitterly of how Taff, Jock and Gumboot had been lost. Either they had drowned or were still drifting helplessly towards the Antarctic, in which case they would almost certainly freeze to death, after suffering hypothermia and frostbite. A hell of a way to go.

  When he looked down, he saw the shore whipping out of view, to give way to the inland hills and valleys, mostly barren and brown, though brightened here and there by snow and frost. The ground was rushing up at him.

  ‘We’re comi
ng in!’ Major Parkinson shouted from up front. ‘Prepare for the landing!’

  The men unclipped their safety belts and stood awkwardly in a metallic jangle of rifles, hand-grenades, bayonets, ammunition belts and water bottles. Burdened with bergens, bulky in their Gore-tex jackets, they resembled strange, hunchbacked animals. The helo shuddered as it slowed down, hovering right above the ground. The door opened with a screech as it descended, letting the cold air come howling in.

  Major Parkinson was at the opening, standing beside Captain Hailsham, a radio-telephone held up to his ear, his free hand firmly gripping a support as the wind beat wildly at him, threatening to suck him out and spin him away like a twig.

  As they approached the ground, the rotors whipped up dirt and snow, made foliage dance and bend, creating a minor hurricane that shook the whole helo. ‘Go! Go! Go!’ Parkinson bawled – and the first man disappeared through the opening before the helicopter had touched down. It did so as the second man went out and the queue inched towards the door. The helo was still bouncing lightly on its landing skis as Ricketts followed the others out, landing safely on the snowy, frosted ground.

  He fanned out with the men already advancing, leaning forward to escape the drag of the whirlwind created by the helo’s spinning, roaring rotors. The men all had their weapons at the ready, but there was no sign of enemy troops – only that desolate, rolling landscape, blanketed in snow and frost, viewed hazily through a white-gauze curtain of loose snow whipped up by the spinning rotors.

  ‘Let’s go! Move out!’

  They were on the lower slopes of Hestesletten, a high valley located about a mile south-east of the former British Antarctic Survey buildings on King Edward’s Point and separated from it by Brown Mountain. The sea surrounded them on all sides, flat and featureless from the heights, but the Fleet was now clearly visible, with its aircraft-carriers, destroyers, frigates, tankers and supply ships spread out as far back as the horizon.

  The guns of the Antrim and the Plymouth were still firing, laying down a barrage that would methodically move forward to within 800 yards of the enemy position, the aim being to demoralize them rather than cause physical damage – a further ploy in the diplomatic war to recapture the Falklands. Plumes of smoke were still billowing up from the other side of Brown Mountain as the shells fell relentlessly around King Edward’s Point.

  ‘That’s it,’ Paddy said. ‘Pound the shite out of the bastards. Make ’em blind, deaf and dumb before we get there. Give them all diarrhoea.’

  ‘Shut up, Paddy,’ Ricketts said without malice. ‘Come on, men, let’s move out!’

  The helos were already taking off again, whipping up more soil, stones and loose snow, as die men fanned out and started uphill, burdened under their bergens and carrying an assortment of firepower, including Heckler & Koch MPA3 sub-machine-guns, M16A2 assault rifles, 7.62mm self-loading rifles, Browning 9mm high-power handguns, 81mm mortars, fragmentation, white-phosphorus and smoke grenades, plus all the ammunition required for them. Also taken along were laser rangefinders, thermal imagers for night viewing, a couple of radios and, in the heavily loaded bergens, food, drink, toiletries and first-aid kits.

  As the guns roared out at sea and shells exploded on the far side of Brown Mountain, filling the air beyond the summit with billowing clouds of smoke that dispersed under sullen clouds, the men marched uphill with weapons at the ready.

  ‘We’re being followed by the other composite troops being landed by boat,’ Major Parkinson explained with the suppressed glee of an ageing officer who was having his last fling. ‘The plan is to meet at the British Antarctic Survey buildings on King Edward’s Point, so let’s fan out and head for that very place.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ Ricketts said, glancing back over his shoulder, down the slopes of the mountain, to see half a dozen landing-craft cutting a swathe through the sea as they surged away from the fleet, heading for the shore, under the protection of Sea King helicopters.

  Glancing left and right, to where his men had fanned out along the frosty slopes of brown grass and stone, Ricketts saw the monolithic Trooper Andrew Winston – the only man who didn’t appear dwarfed by his bergen and other equipment – striding fearlessly towards the crest of the mountain. Beside him, Baby Face Porter seemed very slight indeed, though he looked distinctly energetic, as he always did when properly engaged.

  Proud of his men, Ricketts was also intrigued by them: touched by the poet hidden in Trooper Winston’s huge body; just as he was amused by the gap between young Danny’s naivety when it came to his beloved Darlene, whom Ricketts thought was a tart, and his finely honed, assured killer’s instincts when it came to warfare. ‘Baby Face’ indeed!

  Then there was Corporal Paddy Clarke, who, barely educated and far from sophisticated, had never been known to make a mistake in action. He was one of the best of the SAS.

  Ricketts studied them with pride, glad to be one of them, but inevitably they made him think of the men missing at sea – Gumboot Gillis and Taff Burgess, and Jock McGregor – and those thoughts, which were depressing, were also dangerously distracting and therefore had to be expunged ruthlessly from his mind, so that he could concentrate on the job at hand. The surrounding hills could be filled with Argentinian troops, so this was no time for mournful thoughts.

  Out at sea, the big guns of the Antrim and the Plymouth were pounding away. More smoke was billowing up from beyond the summit of Brown Mountain, obviously rising from the explosions in the area of King Edward’s Point and Grytviken, on the opposite side of the bay.

  ‘Spread out even more!’ Major Parkinson shouted, trying to make himself heard above the thunder of the big guns and the roar of the explosions. ‘There could be mines in this area, so keep your eyes well peeled.’

  They marched for another hour in a tense, watchful silence, relieved only by the booming of the guns out at sea and the explosions from the far side of the mountain. The hills they were crossing seemed devoid of all life, though the wind was constantly moving the sparse foliage, keeping the men on edge, aiming their weapons at anything that moved, ever ready to open fire.

  When another hour had passed, Ricketts was practically yearning to engage the enemy, if only to find relief from this nerve-racking non-event of a march. Sometimes, when in action, he thought of his wife and children – as he was now doing occasionally – but mostly his thoughts drifted to previous engagements, the good and bad experiences they had given him – successful raids, disasters or the death of friends, like Lampton in Belfast. Such recollections were, at least, a way of staying focused on all the skills he had been taught, reminding him that the enemy could be all around him, watching him right now.

  Glancing to his left, Ricketts saw the quick movement of tussocks of grass, followed by what appeared to be the rise and fall of a balaclava helmet. Without thinking twice, he called out a warning, dropped to his knees and let rip with a burst of gunfire from his M16A2. The noise was shocking, reverberating around the hills, and the tussocks of grass he had seen moving were torn apart by the bullets, exploding into the air.

  A blood-curdling screeching was heard as the other men also opened fire. Ricketts jumped up and ran towards the enemy position, followed almost immediately by the other men. The inhuman sound continued, but no fire was returned as Ricketts and the others advanced, weapons at the ready, to where the remaining grass, now thrashing wildly, was soaked in fresh blood. They all studied the victim.

  ‘Shit!’ Andrew exclaimed.

  ‘So that’s what an Argie looks like!’ Paddy said, grinning mockingly at Ricketts. ‘Good one, Sarge!’

  They had just shot an elephant seal, which was still screaming and writhing in agony in its own blood, its white ribs smashed and exposed through torn, flapping skin, its eyes wild with shock.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Ricketts said.

  There was a sudden, short burst of fire from an M16 assault rifle and the seal shuddered violently, then was still.

  Baby Face, who had fi
red the shots, stepped forward, gently kicked the seal with his boot, checking that it was dead, then stepped back again.

  ‘Just putting it out of its misery,’ he said, calmly checking his weapon. ‘Only thing to do.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Paddy said after too long a silence.

  ‘Let’s move on,’ Major Parkinson ordered, leading the way, now in sight of the summit of the hill and keen to get there. ‘And if anything else moves, shoot it,’ he added. ‘We can’t take chances, lads.’

  In fact, though more than one elephant seal copped it by making a sudden movement and going down in a hail of bullets before the men finally reached the summit, no Argentinian troops were seen on the mountain range.

  From the mountain’s summit, through a curtain of smoke thrown up by the exploding shells of the fleet, they could see only what looked like a deserted settlement with white flags flying from several buildings – though the Argentinian flag still flew from its mast near the headquarters, formerly the British Antarctic Survey settlement, on King Edward’s Point.

  Most of the barrage had been laid down with air-burst shells, but other shells from the fleet had filled the hills above the rocky cove with ugly black holes. Nevertheless, the barrage had, as planned, been stopped before reaching the cove itself, leaving the white-walled, red-roofed buildings on King Edward’s Point intact, as was the old whaling station of Grytviken on the opposite shore.

  The Argentinian submarine damaged by AS 12 missiles had indeed managed to limp into harbour and was beached there, right in front of the untouched settlement.

  ‘Those are white flags we’re seeing, are they not?’ Major Parkinson asked rhetorically.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Captain Hailsham said. ‘Looks like the big guns did the trick.’

  ‘Let’s find out,’ Parkinson said. ‘Signaller! Get in touch with Major Sheridan on the Antrim, then give me that phone.’ The trooper in charge of the PRC 319 did as he had been told, then handed the telephone to Parkinson. When he had finished speaking to Major Sheridan, Parkinson handed the phone back and turned to Hailsham and Ricketts. ‘Excellent. Sheridan’s already been in contact through the Antrim’s radio with the Argentinian headquarters in the Survey buildings and they’ve confirmed that they’re eager to surrender. However, they also warned that there are minefields laid in defence of their weapon pits.’