by Shaun Clarke
‘Then I suggest we go in via the shore,’ Captain Hailsham said. ‘As their submarines have been moving in and out of there, we can assume they won’t have mined that area.’
‘Right.’ Parkinson turned to Ricketts. ‘Move the men down to the shore, Sergeant. Ensure that they don’t get trigger-happy. If the Argies emerge with their hands up – as I think they will – let them come out in one piece.’
‘Yes, boss. Will do.’
Ricketts called the men together and told them what was happening. ‘So keep your fingers off the triggers,’ he added, ‘if they come out with their hands up.’
‘Politics!’ Paddy said in disgust, then spat on the ground.
‘If I step on a mine going down there,’ big Andrew said, ‘I want you guys to take that settlement apart.’
‘That’s a British settlement,’ Danny reminded him. ‘That’s why the fleet didn’t shell it.’
‘Very kind of them, I’m sure. I bet the Argies are real pleased. We lost at least three men out on that sea while those Argie bastards sat down there laughing.’
‘Bullshit,’ Ricketts said, staring up at Andrew’s angry brown eyes. ‘The fact that we lost three men at sea isn’t an issue here. This isn’t the bloody Boy Scouts, Trooper – it’s the SAS – and any of you could cop it at any time, which is no cause for bitching. It’s just part of the job.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Let’s go.’
Led by Parkinson and Hailsham, they marched across hills pock-marked by scorched shell holes, high above the settlement, then went carefully downhill towards the shore, keeping their eyes peeled for buried mines. No mines went off, no one was hurt, and just as they reached the shore and were advancing on the tall radio towers in front of the settlement, Argentinian soldiers started emerging from the buildings, a few waving white flags, the others raising their hands in the air.
‘Looks like you were right, boss,’ Ricketts said.
‘Yes,’ Parkinson replied. ‘Surrender it is.’
Even as some of the SAS troop fanned out to surround the Argentinians and keep them under cover, others entered the buildings to check for snipers and booby traps.
‘Not too impressive, are they?’ Paddy mused, studying the unshaven, frightened men coming out of the buildings with their hands raised. ‘They look like a bunch of fucking schoolkids.’
‘They’re mostly conscripts,’ Andrew explained. ‘Not professional soldiers. Most of them didn’t even want to fight this war. The poor sods were forced into it.’
‘My heart bleeds for them,’ Paddy said.
‘Mine doesn’t,’ Danny said. ‘You don’t put Royal Marines on the ground and then take bleedin’ photographs.’
‘I shudder to think what this kid would be feeling,’ Paddy said to Andrew, ‘if those Royal Marines had been SAS troopers.’
‘If they had been,’ Andrew replied, indicating the prisoners with a nod of his head, ‘these poor bastards wouldn’t be alive right now. Danny Boy would have slaughtered them.’
‘Yeah,’ Paddy said, ‘I believe he would have.’
Parkinson and Hailsham, carefully covered by Ricketts, Andrew, Paddy and Danny, advanced to meet the Argentinian captain walking cautiously towards them beside a corporal holding a makeshift, wind-blown white flag. The officer wasn’t young and he carried himself with quiet dignity. When he reached Parkinson, his back stiffened and he saluted. Parkinson returned the salute.
‘Captain Bicain,’ the Argentinian said in good English, introducing himself. ‘As Commander of this garrison, I wish to formally offer our surrender.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ Parkinson replied. ‘I accept your surrender on a temporary basis. The formal acceptance will take place tomorrow when more British troops, including my superiors, fly into Leith. In the meantime, we’ll look after your men and treat you with respect.’
‘Of course,’ Captain Bicain said with some pride and a distinct touch of arrogance. ‘Why not? We have only been performing our duty in this little gesture.’
‘A little gesture?’ Parkinson asked. ‘This is a war!’
Captain Bicain smiled, shrugged, and shook his head in denial. ‘A war? No, Captain, it was merely a gesture. El gesto de las Malvinas – the Falklands gesture. That’s what we call it in Argentina, and that’s what it is. This is no real war, Captain.’
‘Call it what you will,’ Parkinson replied, his cheeks reddening with anger, ‘but please consider yourself a prisoner of war – as are all of your troops. For the time being, at least until the others arrive, we’ll return you to your quarters and keep you under guard. Hopefully you’ll be shipped out tomorrow.’
‘Thank you,’ Captain Bicain said, kicking his heels and saluting again. He was then marched away by Captain Hailsham and two SAS troopers, disappearing into the building from which he had just emerged as Parkinson’s men surrounded the other, less proud Argentinians.
‘A gesture!’ Parkinson exclaimed in disgust. ‘I suppose that will ease the national conscience – not war: a mere gesture. Pretty neat, yes?’
He was addressing Captain Grenville, who merely grinned. ‘Come on, Captain,’ Parkinson said, ‘let’s investigate this settlement thoroughly. Our job isn’t finished yet.’
‘Yes, boss, let’s do that.’
They were just about to march off when a Lynx helicopter descended, whipping up a wind that beat wildly at them and filled the air with flying pebbles. It landed on the shore near the radio antennae.
Jock, Taff and Gumboot jumped out of the helicopter, whooping gleefully and raising their M16s above their heads. The rest of the troop, getting over their surprise, let out a mighty cheer.
‘Drowned at sea?’ Gumboot said, standing with Taff and Jock, surrounded by his mates, and studied mournfully by the defeated Argentinians. ‘You gotta be joking, mate!’
‘After being blown westward for a bit,’ Taff explained, ‘thinking we’d end up in Antarctica, we managed to wade ashore on the north coast of Stromness Bay, about four kilos from our intended landing point.’
‘We’ve been there for the past three days,’ Jock added, ‘freezing our nuts off, but maintaining radio silence so as not to fuck up this operation. Then, when you lot landed, we sent out a SARBE radio signal and got picked up by the helo.’
‘I know you lot were secretly hoping we’d copped it,’ Gumboot said with a wide grin, ‘but unfortunately for you, here we are, fit and rarin’ to go.’
‘And still good with the bullshit,’ Ricketts said, grinning. ‘OK, men, let’s get back to work. I want all the Argentinian weapons collected and laid out here on the ground. Then search the Argies and bed them down for the night. We’ve no time to listen to Gumboot’s tall tales. We’ve got a long wait ahead of us.’
Laughing, unable to hide their delight, the men either patted Gumboot, Taff and Jock on the back or more formally shook them by the hand, before going back to the job in hand.
The enemy weapons were collected and piled up in front of the HQ, the Argentinians were searched, locked up and kept under guard in the settlement buildings, and the SAS settled down to wait for the arrival of the men from the landing-craft.
Next morning, when the replacements had arrived, SAS and SBS teams flew into Leith and formally accepted the surrender of its garrison.
The Argentinian flag was lowered and the White Ensign was soon fluttering alongside the Union Jack, over Grytviken.
‘South Georgia’s been recaptured,’ Major Parkinson announced proudly to his men. ‘Now it’s on to the Falklands.’
Chapter 7
While D Squadron, under the temporary command of Captain Hailsham, were finishing off their task in South Georgia, Major Parkinson and Captain Grenville of the Boat Troop were flown out on a 772 Naval Air Squadron Wessex Mark 5 to join G Squadron on the fleet replenishment ship, the 22,890-ton Royal Fleet Auxiliary Resource.
The RFA Resource had a helicopter flight deck from which troopers could be flown to other ships, incl
uding HMS Hermes, now leading the naval battle group towards the Falklands. It was not unusual, therefore, that when the Wessex Mark 5 came in to land, other matt olive-drab helicopters were circling above, also waiting to land, while the Royal Naval Squadron ground crew and frantic flight-deck parties busily loaded the helos, either by hand or with jackstay rigs.
After disembarking onto the noisy, seemingly chaotic flight deck, high above the stormy sea, Parkinson and Grenville were met by Navy Chief Petty Officer Ken Brown who guided them through the ship’s labyrinthine corridors and hatchways to the surprisingly large briefing room. There they partook of tea and sandwiches while Lieutenant-Commander Chris Holdfield of Naval Intelligence and Lieutenant-Colonel Adrian Granthorpe of SAS Intelligence, the much-maligned ‘green slime’, discussed their plans for the invasion of the Falkland Islands.
‘How can we be sure that we won’t reach an agreement with the Argentinians?’ was Parkinson’s first question. ‘Now that we’ve recaptured South Georgia, they just might capitulate.’
‘No, they won’t,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Granthorpe replied. ‘They’re now in too deep to back out with dignity. Neither the recapture of South Georgia nor any kind of diplomacy will be enough to get the Argentinians to voluntarily hand back the islands. We’ve checked this with Whitehall and they agree. It’s just not going to happen.’
‘I see,’ Parkinson said, surprisingly guilty at how pleased he felt to know that conflict was coming. ‘So what are you planning?’
‘First, we use the whole fleet as a threat to the occupation forces,’ Lieutenant-Commander Holdfield informed him, ‘then we put a landing force ashore.’
‘Which is where we come in.’
‘Correct,’ Granthorpe said. ‘However, before any landing can be made, we need to know the exact disposition of the Argentinian garrison’s defences. So far we’ve assessed most of them to be dug in around Port Stanley, with the heaviest concentration facing south-west to prevent an advance along the road from Fitzroy. Unfortunately, that’s about all we’ve managed to confirm so far.’
‘No aerial or satellite pictures available?’ Parkinson asked.
‘None. And most of their defences are well camouflaged. For this reason, what we now require is good, old-fashioned, eyeball recces, for which we think the SAS and SBS are ideally suited.’
‘Deep-penetration raids.’
‘Exactly. These should cover not only the two main islands of East and West Falkland, but also some of the smaller islands around the coastline.’
‘That’s a lot of coastline,’ Captain Grenville pointed out. ‘Approximately ‘15,000 kilometres.’
‘The SBS has spoken,’ Granthorpe said with a smile. ‘Was that an observation or a complaint?’
‘Purely an observation.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ Granthorpe turned to Major Parkinson. ‘What are your problems?’
‘The two main islands,’ Parkinson replied, ‘have a total area nearly equivalent to that of Wales, with a terrain like Dartmoor – windswept, rough pasture, no trees. However, there are many bogs and rock runs of slippery, moss-sided boulders, which in some runs are a metre or more across. To make matters worse, although the hills along the northern half of East Falkland rise to only 450 metres on Mount Kent, their climate is like that on English hills of twice that height. I think even the Special Forces will have a considerable problem in surviving in such conditions for lengthy periods of time – let alone doing so without being detected by the Argentinians.’
‘This won’t be made any easier,’ Grenville added, ‘by the fact that the Argentinians, at least according to our intelligence reports, are still in fighting spirit and have effective radio direction-finding equipment. They could use those to pick up our signals and locate the whereabouts of our OPs.’
That’s a chance you’ll have to take,’ Granthorpe replied. ‘It’s imperative that we reconnoitre all areas dominated by the enemy on East Falkland. We also have to maintain close observation of the garrisons on West Falkland.’
Lieutenant-Commander Holdfield jabbed his finger at the large map pinned to the board behind him. ‘The latter lies 20 kilometres to the north, across Falkland Sound from the eastern island. Not too great a distance between them. In broad terms, therefore, the plan is to land on East Falkland sufficiently far from Port Stanley’s airfield and large garrison, to enable a beachhead to be established before it can be heavily counterattacked. From there, the main thrust of the attack will cross the mountains, where, as we believe, the Argentinians won’t be expecting any major force. Once across these uplands, the back door to Stanley will be open.’
‘Then let’s kick it open,’ Parkinson said. ‘I’ll arrange to fly my men out from South Georgia to the fleet and then land them from here.’
‘Thank you, Major. Good luck.’
Chief Petty Officer Ken Brown led Parkinson and Grenville to the radio room, where with visibly mounting enthusiasm, Parkinson got in touch with South Georgia and issued instructions for the Squadron to be flown out. After receiving personal confirmation from Captain Hailsham, he switched off the microphone, turned to face Captain Grenville, and raised his thumb triumphantly. Grenville did the same, grinning lopsidedly, then he and Parkinson were led out of the radio cabin by Brown who, once he had them in the corridor, turned back to face them.
‘So where do we make our HQ?’ Parkinson asked him.
‘Well, sir …’ Chief Petty Officer Brown tried to hide a helpless grin by coughing into his fist. ‘Actually, the only location I could find was the presently unused ladies’ toilet?’
Parkinson stared steadily at him for a moment, then asked, as if deaf: ‘Did you say the ladies’ toilet?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brown replied, now grinning openly. ‘Sorry, but it’s the only available room.’ He spread his hands in the air in an expansive gesture. ‘It’s big, sir, believe me. Lots of space in there. We’ve already installed radios, and tables and chairs. Even a hot-drinks machine – soup, coffee and tea. If you need anything else, just ask. I think you’ll be happy there.’
‘You think this is funny, Petty Officer?’
‘Absolutely not. No, sir!’
‘Then get that grin off your face and take us to see it.’
‘Of course. This way, sir.’ Still grinning, the Chief Petty Officer led them through a hatchway, down a couple of flights of stairs, and through a dimly lit, smoke-filled hold filled with half-naked troops resting on tiers of bunks, in a tangle of clothing and equipment, to another corridor. The ladies’ toilet was located at the end of it. ‘This is it, sir,’ Brown said, opening the door and waving them in.
Parkinson stepped in first, followed by Grenville and Brown, and thoughtfully studied the room. It was indeed surprisingly large, with a row of cubicles along one wall, a radio system resting on a bench against the opposite wall, a couple of portholes to one side, giving a view of the sea, and three folding tables, placed together in the middle, surrounded by hard chairs. A blackboard on a stand had been placed equidistant between the portholes, with a map of the Falkland Islands and tide charts already pinned to it.
Parkinson nodded. ‘I’m impressed, Petty Officer. I think this should be sufficient unto our needs. So where do we sleep?’
‘In cabins in the officers’ quarters, sir. Back where we came from. You’ll find your name on the door and the key in the lock.’
‘You have thieves aboard this ship, Petty Officer?’
‘Nothing is perfect under the sun or moon. In truth, the odd item goes missing, sir.’
‘The SAS don’t steal from each other. Perhaps you should join us.’
‘That’s a very kind invitation, sir, but I’m not as young as I used to be.’
Parkinson smiled at that. ‘Very good, Petty Officer. I’m sure we can find our way back to our cabins. Your responsibilities end here.’
‘Thank you, sir. My pleasure.’
Still grinning, the Chief Petty Officer departed, leaving Parkinson
and Grenville alone in the room. Now also both smiling, they studied the room, then faced one another.
‘So, what do you really think?’ Grenville asked.
‘I think it’s fine,’ Parkinson said. ‘If nothing else, it should feed a few fantasies. Let’s go up on deck.’
Leaving the ladies’ toilet and closing the door, they made their way back along the corridor, through the hold filled with troops, and back up a series of ladders to the helicopter flight deck, where other troops were being cross-decked and helos being loaded with the aid of bright-yellow jackstay rigs. Other ships, including destroyers and aircraft carriers, were spread across the stormy sea to form a great armada, with aircraft taking off and landing constantly, flying between the airborne helicopters with breathtaking precision.
‘Modern warfare,’ Parkinson said to Grenville, ‘is truly spectacular.’
‘They don’t make movies like this any more,’ Grenville replied. ‘Their budgets won’t wear it.’
‘I’m going to miss it, Laurence.’
‘Yes, boss, I’m sure you will.’
Gripping the wet railing, letting the beating spray soak his face, Parkinson surveyed the scene with a helpless feeling of loss, remembering that his time with the SAS would soon be up, putting an end to the most exciting and challenging days of his life.
Coming to the SAS, like his father-in-law, from the Durham Light Infantry, he had taken part in the assault on the Jebel Akhdar in Oman in 1959, when he was only 22; organized a series of cross-border raids in Borneo in 1964, served in Northern Ireland throughout the troubled 1970s, and even helped orchestrate the daring rescue during the Iranian Embassy siege of 1980. Those were adventures a man didn’t easily forget.
A military man by inclination as well as upbringing, he had a restless personality, needed constant distraction and could imagine no life outside the Regiment. Yet at 44, age was catching up with him, his time with the Regiment was running out, and unless something unexpected turned up elsewhere, this would almost certainly be his last engagement. With luck, he might be given a desk job back in England, in the Intelligence Corps at Stirling Lines, but even that wasn’t guaranteed – and other options were limited.
