by Shaun Clarke
‘No argument, Trooper.’
‘Who does what?’ Jock McGregor asked.
‘The Mountain Troop, led by myself and Captain Hailsham, will attack the planes, using LAW 66mm one-shot anti-tank rockets and small-arms fire. This will be done under cover of the Squadron mortars, to be handled by the Boat Troop, as well as a barrage from the fleet’s big guns. We’ll be guided from the LZ to the target by the members of the Boat Troop who performed the original recce …’
‘The Girl Guides!’ Paddy Clarke cried out, prompting an outburst of laughter and applause.
‘At least we know our way around,’ Gumboot retaliated with a grin. ‘We don’t get lost and return like a bunch of snowmen. We don’t melt in the heat.’
This time it was the members of the Boat Troop who laughed and cheered while the Mountain Troop hurled good-natured insults.
‘OK! OK!’ Captain Hailsham said, raising his hand. ‘That’s enough of the bullshit. Quieten down now.’
Major Parkinson waited until the noise had abated, then continued: ‘Let me repeat: the Boat Troop will lead us to the target, then man the mortars. A second troop will seal off the approaches to the airstrip, with a third troop held in reserve. When the planes are all hit, we retreat, still being covered by the mortars and the guns of the fleet. We don’t detour en route back to the beach – no unnecessary engagements with the Argies, no laying of booby traps. We just retreat to the beach and get lifted off. Is that understood?’
There followed much nodding and shrugging, disgusted looks and the odd, disappointed, ‘Yeah, yeah’.
‘So,’ Parkinson said, ‘any questions?’
‘When’s the insertion?’ big Andrew asked.
‘The day after tomorrow. Midnight.’
‘And the full briefing?’
‘Tomorrow. You’ll be at it all day. Intelligence from the green slime, kitted out by the REMFs, weapons-checking and practice all afternoon, a full inspection that evening. This procedure will be repeated the following day, with a final briefing just before insertion. You’ll be kept busy, chaps.’
This produced groans, the shaking of heads and much rolling of eyeballs.
‘Right, lads, class dismissed.’
The men pushed their chairs back and filed out of the briefing room, leaving Parkinson, Hailsham and Grenville alone by the blackboard.
A lot of bullshit was flying in the hold of the ship, where the SAS troopers were preparing for the raid by urinating, defecating, having a shower, shaving, resting on their cramped steel bunks, one practically on top of the other, writing last-minute letters – or, in Andrew’s case, some fine lines of poetry – smoking, drinking – though only non-alcoholic beverages were permitted before a raid – arranging their equipment in their bergens and checking their weapons. The hold was gloomy and sweltering, filled with sweat and the stench of farts, but this was the time they most enjoyed, so nobody cared – even though they certainly noticed the farting and used it for bullshit.
‘Christ, that stench is goin’ to kill me!’ Paddy said. ‘Who the hell farted?’
‘I’s innocent, Massa Abe,’ Andrew cried out melodramatically, doing his plantation-nigger act, rolling his brown eyes and flashing his teeth. ‘Lord have mercy upon me!’
‘I’d recognize that stench anywhere,’ Gumboot said, ‘and it doesn’t come out of a white man’s arse. Own up, poet – you did it.’
‘Leave him alone,’ Taff said, smiling dreamily into his bergen, trying to work out what to put where. ‘Being a poor black, he gets enough flak in Civvy Street. We don’t want him breaking down in tears here because we’ve been cruel to him.’
‘That’s what I like to hear,’ Andrew said. ‘A little bit of compassion. Especially when it comes from the bastard who started this whole filthy conversation. Own up, Taff! Only a Welshman smells like that, so no point in denying it.’
‘My arse isn’t black, Trooper.’
‘I’ve never seen mine,’ countered Andrew. ‘If you’ve managed to get a look at your own, I’d like to know when and how come. In your salty youth, was it?’
‘Now that’s wicked,’ Jock said. ‘That’s stickin’ it to him where it hurts. I’d be buggered before I’d wear that suggestion. So how did you see it, Taff?’
‘Why are you all picking on me?’
‘Because you fart like a camel.’
‘You do that every time you open your mouth, Jock, so don’t land on me. In fact, it was probably little baby-faced Danny Boy, now pretending he’s deaf.’
Danny didn’t respond. He just blushed and checked his weapons, concentrating fiercely on the job and looking at no one.
‘Don’t pick on that boy,’ Jock said, trying to untangle his webbing, ammunition belts resting on his crossed legs, his kit littering his bunk. ‘Innocence is bliss. Baby Face is as clean as his dagger when it slits a man’s throat. His fart must smell like perfume.’
‘I agree,’ Gumboot said. ‘Let’s not upset Danny Boy. When it comes to the crunch tomorrow, when the heat’s on, he’s the one we’ll depend on. He has nerves of steel, that kid.’
‘And a rod of iron,’ Taff said.
‘Ah, jealousy!’ Andrew said. ‘I only know that when push comes to shove, it’s the kid who’s right in there.’
‘Thanks, Andrew,’ Danny said, checking his weapons, keeping his eyes down, speaking as softly as a girl. ‘I don’t want any bullshit from these bastards. I just want to take out some Argies and show them who’s boss.’
‘Quite right, too,’ Andrew agreed. ‘I like a man who knows his own mind. It’s nice to know you’ll be the boss in your own home when you and Darlene get married.’
‘When’s that, then?’ Paddy enquired.
‘Haven’t decided yet,’ Danny said. ‘We were just about to work something out when the Argies gave aggro.’
‘Most inconvenient,’ Andrew said.
‘Oh, I dunno,’ Gumboot put in. ‘I think Danny might be happier fighting Argies than banging his missus.’
‘She’s not his missus yet, Gumboot. They’re only engaged at this point. And naturally you’d be cynical about that, given the state of your marriage.’
‘His missus left him for a farmer,’ Paddy explained helpfully to Danny. ‘Gumboot won’t tell us why and we’re not about to pry, but we figure it’s that problem between his legs. It’s not a problem you’ll have, kid.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ Gumboot said.
‘I hear poetry!’ Andrew cried. ‘Paddy Clarke has just spoken. Won’t tell us why and we’re not about to pry. I have serious competition in the ranks. Irish genius is rampant!’
‘We’re a talented race.’
‘He’s a Scouse, not an Irishman.’
‘I’m whatever you farts want me to be, because I’ll need you tomorrow.’
‘What you need you may not get.’
‘I stick my neck out for no one.’
‘At least it’s a proper assault at last and not another OP.’ Taff finished packing his bergen and hung it from his bunk, then picked up his short M203 grenade-launcher to check that it fitted into the clip beneath his M16 rifle. It seemed to work all right. ‘I’m fed up sitting in mud, rain and piss in a hole in the ground. I want out and about again.’
‘So do I,’ Danny said, checking his weapons, thinking of Darlene, secretly shocked that it was hard to visualize her when he had work to do. ‘I want to shoot me some Argies.’
‘You’re like my own son,’ Gumboot said. ‘I mean the son I might have had. Judging by my missus he’d have been a lot like you – an innocent, sweet-faced little psychopath with a cutting edge to him. My fucking missus is barmy.’
‘I’m just a soldier,’ Danny said. ‘I take pride in my work. I mean, there’s nothin’ personal in it at all – it’s just a job to be done.’
‘Then do it tomorrow, Danny. Get in there and shoot some Argies. This time we’re going in for the jackpot and a nice bit of aggro. I’m sure you’ll be pleased, kid.’
Danny was holding an L1A1 self-loading rifle, inspecting the magazine release catch, slamming the magazine in, ensuring that the Trilux sight clipped on properly, then checking the foresight. Satisfied, he put the rifle down and pulled out his commando knife, turning it slowly before his eyes to let the dim light flash off it. ‘Yeah,’ he said, drawling like an American or a rock star, blissed out, distracted, ‘I guess you’re right there.’
‘That’s no bullshit,’ Andrew said.
Parkinson studied the empty chairs in the briefing room, trying to recall all the faces of his troopers, filled with pride at their courage, proud to be their commander, but also concerned at how much they were being asked to do in such a short time.
‘Thirty minutes,’ he said eventually, almost whispering, really talking to himself. ‘It’s not too long at all.’
‘No,’ Hailsham agreed, ‘it’s not … But perhaps it’ll work to our advantage. In and out while the Argies are still blinking, wondering what the hell’s happening.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Grenville said.
The three officers smiled at one another, then left the briefing room, going their separate ways at the next hatchway, each with his own job to do.
Chapter 11
At 30 minutes before midnight on the night of 15 May, HMS Hermes was sailing under radio silence through calm, moonlit waters.
Not so calm was the immense flight deck, where, under brilliant spotlights, three Sea King helicopters were being prepared by Naval ratings to carry the many SAS troops milling about them. After two days of briefing by the green slime, weapons training on the open deck and repeated inspections of their weapons and equipment, the men were raring to go.
Grouped around the helos, they were surrounded by a vast array of weapons, including L1A1 self-loading rifles, or SLRs; L7A2 7.62mm generalpurpose machine-guns, or GPMGs; M72 light anti-tank weapons, or LAWs; M16 and M203 grenade-launchers with cartridge-launched grenades; L16 ML 81mm mortars with calibrated dial sights; white-phosphorus, smoke and fragmentation hand-grenades; and even the beloved Browning 9mm high-power handguns.
As the plan was to get in and out quickly, the bergens did not have to carry rucksacks and sleeping bags, but some still weighed up to 1401b because of the additional burdens of heavy weaponry, including the mortars, extra 200-round belts for the GPMGs, radio systems, batteries, binoculars, emergency rations and personal first-aid kits.
The heaviest equipment was being packed in net-covered pallets by the Navy’s flight-deck parties for transportation as underslung loads on the helos. But the rest of it had to be carried by the Troop in their bergens, which is why, combined with their bulky Gore-tex weatherproof battle jackets, the men looked bowed down and unwieldy.
Wearing ear protectors to combat the incessant noise, or headsets for communications, the Royal Naval Squadron ground crew and flight-deck parties – all with their ranks and names on a patch on their back for easy recognition – worked ceaselessly at checking and loading the helicopters. The Sea Harrier pilots – relatively slim and dashing in their G-suits and thermal liners, but with 9mm Browning automatic pistols on their hips – looked on, grinning widely, mixing encouragement with friendly banter.
The noise was atrocious. Even as the helicopters roared into life, with their rotor blades spinning and whipping up the air, some of the Sea Harriers lined along the edge of the deck were also revving up to make their way cautiously to the angled flight deck on the bow of the ship. Ignoring the planes, some of the SAS troops were running last-minute checks on their weapons by firing them off the edge of the flight deck at the stately white-capped waves. At the same time the bright-yellow jackstay rigs were moving equipment across the forward deck, before it was cross-decked to another ship later that day. Last but not least was the bawling of many men, trying to communicate with one another above the combined roaring, whining, screeching and clanging – not forgetting the moaning wind and the ceaseless bass rumbling of the sea as it hammered the ship’s hull.
‘Move it!’ Major Parkinson yelled, scanning the sky beyond his helo and seeing a pale moon and myriad stars in the vast night sky. ‘Let’s do it! Go!’
As Ricketts was urging his men into the Sea Kings, one of the Sea Harriers roared into life, belching flames and smoke, then moved along the deck, raced up the angled flight deck and soared into the sky. Ricketts felt the blast from the take-off, as well as a wave of heat, even as his helo roared even louder and its spinning rotors, increasing their speed, created a minor hurricane that threatened to sweep him off his feet.
After glancing at the sea far below the helipad, Ricketts followed Paddy Clarke into the helo, moved along the cramped, vibrating interior, and strapped himself in between big Andrew and Danny. He was adjusting his belt when another Sea Harrier took off with a mighty roar that seemed to fill the already noisy interior of the helo, before fading away far out to sea.
As Ricketts was last in, the RAF Sergeant Air Loadmaster in charge of the hold, wearing an olive-green flying suit, zip-up boots and a headset for communication with the crew and ground crew, slammed and locked the door. After saying something into the mouthpiece of his headset, he disappeared behind the pallets stacked up along the front of the SAS Troop. A minute later, with much shaking and roaring, the helo lifted off the helipad, swayed from side to side, ascended vertically, hovered for a moment, then headed for the shore.
Glancing over his shoulder, through the window behind him, Ricketts saw the aircraft-carrier far below, cutting through the grey sea, its immense deck decorated with white-painted guide lines for the aircraft, the ski-jump ramp curving gracefully over the bow, the yellow jack-stays a startling contrast in colour even from this great height. The second Sea King was ascending just below, coming closer, and the third was rising off the helipad on the carrier’s deck to follow the second. It was a sight worth seeing.
‘How’s it going, troopers?’ he asked. ‘No pissing in the pants? No diarrhoea?’
‘Lots of uncomfortable smells down here, boss, but all of them are coming from the Boat Troop.’
When the laughter died away, Gumboot replied: ‘The only diarrhoea down here, Trooper Winston, is the bullshit coming out of your mouth. It flows fast and free.’
Andrew yelped with pleasure, his teeth gleaming white. ‘Oh, man, we got a gilded tongue there. These Girl Guides are so fast.’
‘Fast and efficient. Competent and cool. You want poetry, Mr Poet, there it is. You can always call on the Boat Troop.’
‘They always come when we call,’ Paddy said deadpan.
‘They come at the very sight of us,’ Andrew added. ‘They’re so desperate, the poor dears.’
‘Glad you’re all still awake,’ Ricketts said, ‘I like my Girl Guides and Boy Scouts to be alert, even if just with bullshit. It keeps my pulse beating at a normal rate – but that’s enough for now, children. Keep the lid on it.’
‘Yes, boss, we hear you.’
The banter, which was competitive, was also good-humoured, relied on not only to pass the time during the flight, but to ease the tension felt by even the most courageous, experienced troopers before going into battle.
Ricketts had known a similar kind of banter when on the North Sea oil rigs, where the constant danger and daily isolation had created the same kind of camaraderie. It was exactly what held the SAS together and made it such an effective fighting unit. Ricketts liked being part of it. Married though he was, good father that he was, he now knew he could never live a normal life outside the Regiment. For him, it all began and ended here, no matter what the danger.
‘Keep your arses on your seats,’ Gumboot said thirty minutes later. ‘Here comes the Navy!’
‘Actually, I’m RAF,’ the Sergeant Air Loadmaster replied with an easy grin, returning to take his place by the exit door, ‘and we’re the guys that always get the ladies – we don’t need you toy soldiers. Now unhitch yourselves and stand up, boyos. We’re coming in for the landing.’
The repart
ee stopped immediately as the men concentrated on the job in hand, first unclipping their safety belts, then standing upright with a noisy jangling of weapons and turning into line, ready to leap out one by one when ordered to do so. The Loadmaster opened the door when the helo was still descending, letting the air rush in and howl through the hold, beating and tugging furiously at the men and their colliding weapons. Ricketts saw the sky outside, a stretch of darkness filled with stars, then a darker, tilting length of coastline as the helo changed its direction, heading for the LZ.
‘Ten, nine, eight, seven,’ the Loadmaster called, counting down. ‘Three, two, one, zero … Go!’
The troopers jumped out one by one as the helo hovered in the air, swaying dangerously from side to side, mere feet off the ground. The first men down formed a protective ring around the helo, their weapons at the ready, while others released the underslung loads containing the heavy equipment. The helos remained in the air, creating a storm directly below, with sand and shrubbery spinning wildly, but the troopers fought against the swirling wind to spread out even farther.
When the men were all on the ground, either spreading out in a defensive circle or opening the underslung loads, the helos rose vertically, hovered briefly, in salute, then flew back towards the Fleet, leaving the LZ in a calmer state and letting the men get to work.
The helos had touched down on an LZ marked by the Boat Troop and located approximately six miles from the airstrip. Once the pallets had been broken open and the equipment dispersed, Major Parkinson quietly briefed the other officers, then divided the Squadron into three separate groups.
‘Group One will seal off all approaches to the airstrip,’ Parkinson explained, ‘to ensure that the Argies can’t get in or out. Group Two, led by myself, will blow up the Argentinian aircraft. The third group – and I know you won’t like this – will be held in reserve.’
When the men in Group Three started beefing, Parkinson silenced them with a wave of his hand.
‘Sorry, men, but that’s the way it has to be. I just can’t commit all of you. Now where are the men who went on the original recce?’ Jock, Gumboot and Taff raised their hands. ‘Right,’ Parkinson said. ‘It’s up to you three to lead us off the beach and guide us to the airstrip, stopping at the previously laid base-plate to set up the mortar. You do remember the route?’
