by Shaun Clarke
‘Yes, boss,’ Jock said.
‘And you did lay down a base-plate for the mortar en route back to the LZ?’
‘That’s Al as well, boss.’
‘OK, then, let’s move out.’
This time, when they embarked on their long march, there were no jokes about Girl Guides.
In fact, the bright moonlight made most of them feel vulnerable as they hiked across four miles of desolate, exposed moorland to the site chosen by the Boat Patrol for the mortar base-plate, approximately two and half miles from the airstrip. Each member of the squadron was carrying two bombs for the mortar, which they left with the selected mortar crew – Gumboot and Taff – by the steel base-plate earlier laid down by them in this clearing, within a handily protective circle of piled rocks.
‘Now I believe in miracles,’ Paddy said. ‘They actually remembered to lay it down.’
‘Fucking right, we did,’ Jock said. ‘When we do a job, we do it properly. You need lessons? Just ask.’
‘OK, troopers,’ Ricketts said. ‘That’s enough of the mutual admiration. Now go about your business.’
‘Good as done,’ Gumboot said, then he and Taff, observed thoughtfully by Major Parkinson and Ricketts, set up the LI6 ML 81mm mortar, which would be fired indirectly at a target identified by a forward observer placed with the assault group at the airstrip and using a PRC 319 radio system for communication with the mortar crew.
As the mortar had a range of three miles, it was well within range of the target airstrip, approximately two and a half miles distant. The forward observer would be Corporal Clarke.
‘Right, boss,’ Gumboot said, sitting back on his haunches and admiring the mortar now fixed to its base-plate. ‘We’re all set to go.’
‘Good,’ Parkinson replied. ‘We’ll be in contact as soon as we reach the airstrip. Tune that radio, Trooper.’
‘Will do, boss. No sweat.’
‘And keep your eyes and ears open for any Argentinian patrols.’
‘It doesn’t have to be said, boss. Good luck.’
‘Same to you.’
After a brief exchange of banter from their closest friends, notably Andrew and Jock, Gumboot and Taff were left behind while the other members of the Squadron continued their march through the dark, wind-blown, freezing night.
Two and a half miles on, having met no opposition from the enemy, Jock led them to positions that gave a clear, moonlit view of the aircraft on that narrow strip of land thrusting into the sea. The lights of camp-fires burned all around the airstrip and along the front of the ammunition and supply dumps, carelessly giving away the Argentinian positions where the uniformed sentries, though armed, did not appear to be too attentive. It was almost like being offered a gift.
‘Beautiful!’ Parkinson whispered, back in action at last. ‘Those Argie sentries look comatose. We’re going to take them out, gentlemen.’
Signalling silently with his free hand, he motioned the third, reserve group to take cover as best they could, then sent the first group off in various directions, as previously instructed, to seal off the approaches to the airstrip. When they had gone, he nodded at Jock, who signalled ‘Follow me’ by swinging his right hand into his hip, then led the assault group closer to the airstrip – not quite as far as his OP, but near to where he and the others had been forced to crawl belly-down on the ground.
Moving in for the attack, with speed more important than safety, the assault group advanced at the crouch, weapons at the ready. When they were less than 300 yards from the airstrip, which was within the firing range of their LAWS, M203 grenade-launchers, and other small arms, Parkinson signalled them to prepare for the engagement, then he contacted the fleet on the radio system. Using the designated code, he told them to commence the covering barrage without delay. Receiving confirmation, he handed the phone back to Paddy Clarke.
‘Get in contact with the mortar crew,’ he said, ‘and give them compass bearings. I want them to start firing immediately.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Paddy said.
Resting on one knee, Parkinson raised his right hand, preparing to give the signal to open fire. Behind him, the assault squadron were also kneeling and taking aim with their wide range of small arms. At the same time, the troopers with the 66mm LAWS extended the 90cm tube, removed the protective cap from each end of the launcher, thus making the folding sights pop up, held the launcher against the shoulder and prepared to press the trigger switch.
For a full minute, each second an eternity, the assault group knelt there in the darkness, wrapped in silence. The first sound was a high, keening wail that came from the direction of the sea, reached a climax right over the airstrip, and was cut off abruptly when the para-flares fired from the Glamorgan’s guns exploded noisily, spectacularly, to illuminate the airstrip below.
Major Parkinson instantly dropped his hand – and the assault group opened up on the Pucaras with their small arms.
Almost simultaneously, the first of the bombs from the LI6 ML 81mm mortar fired by Gumboot and Taff, two and a half miles away, from compass bearings given over the radio by Paddy, exploded between the Pucaras in a fountain of fire, smoke and bellowing, erupting soil.
Paddy was bawling a revised calibration into the phone as the troopers pressed the triggers of their LAWs, sending rockets racing like tracers into the same area. Other troopers opened fire with their GPMGs, peppering the area with 200 rounds per minute.
Explosions from all these sources erupted between the aircraft as the Argentinian sentries, taken by surprise, either ran for cover or instinctively fired back with rifles and other automatic weapons.
Hit by a LAW shell fired by Andrew, one of the Pucaras exploded, with pieces of metal and perspex flying in all directions and the cockpit engulfed in crackling, vivid-yellow flames.
Even as this spectacular strike illuminated the area, more air-burst shells were exploding overhead. Also, mortar explosions from the rounds being fired two and a half miles away were erupting between the aircraft to crater the runway.
In the silvery, flickering, artificial light, and with air-burst shells from the fleet, as well as the mortar bombs, causing further havoc, the Argentinians were forced to take cover, running back to their slit trenches at the edge of the airstrip, and aiming only occasional bursts of inaccurate machine-gun fire at the SAS.
‘Let’s go!’ Major Parkinson bawled, boldly leading his men on to the dispersal areas. There, even as they were being fired on, with bullets tearing up concrete in jagged lines all around them, they ran from one plane to the other, coolly rigged explosives to those not already being destroyed with LAW rounds and vicious bursts from the GPMGs, placing the charges to destroy front undercarriages and nose-cones housing avionic equipment.
When the charges exploded, the nose-cones were blown off and the undercarriages demolished, causing the planes to tilt forward with their smashed noses deep in the ground and smoke belching from them.
As the troopers were thus engaged, more shells from the fleet’s barrage were falling farther away, making the ground erupt in a series of explosions directly in front of the enemy’s defensive positions, eventually striking the base’s petrol store and ammunition dump.
Both buildings exploded spectacularly, with searing yellow, red and blue flames stabbing vividly through black, oily smoke. This billowed skyward, then was carried back on the wind to blanket and choke the Argentinian troops. While the Argentinians were temporarily blinded, the last of the charges rigged to the Pucaras by Parkinson’s men exploded one by one, causing more flames, smoke and flying debris as the men backed away.
Making his escape beside Major Parkinson, under cover of an arc of continuous fire from Ricketts’s SLR, young Danny glanced back over his shoulder, practically skidded to a stop – thus halting Parkinson – and turned back to the airstrip.
‘One of the Pucaras is still untouched!’ he shouted.
‘Damn!’ Parkinson exclaimed.
‘Bugger that for a jo
ke!’ Danny said, then ran back to the planes, ignoring the Argentinian troops, who, in their smoke-wreathed slit trenches, were recovering from their shock and clambering out to spread across the airstrip, firing directly at him. The ground was erupting around him in jagged lines of spitting earth as he raced back to the untouched aircraft, Parkinson and Ricketts right behind him, both firing their SLRs on the move.
Some of the Argentinians went down, spinning like skittles, collapsing, even as Paddy Clarke, still on the PRC 319 radio system, corrected the mortar being fired two and a half miles away and the next rounds, looping in with more accuracy, landed spot on, the explosions throwing the broken bodies of the enemy soldiers high in the air. They fell back like rag dolls, hitting the ground with dreadful force, sometimes practically bouncing off it and appearing to shrivel up where they lay, some visibly scorched and still smouldering, all with broken or crushed bones.
Reaching the untouched Pucara, Danny expertly rigged the explosive charge, under the protective fire of Parkinson and Ricketts. He then waved them away and dropped back to the ground just as some Argentinians rushed at him. Resting on one knee, ignoring the bullets whistling around him and thudding into the Pucara, he fired his SLR with cool, murderous accuracy, downing the four men advancing on him. He then jumped up and fled from the aircraft.
It exploded behind him with a deafening roar. The shock from the blast punched him forward, throwing him face down on the strip. A wave of intense heat swept over him, momentarily suffocating him, then mercifully faded away. He jumped back to his feet and continued racing back to his own men, who were keeping up a relentless barrage of fire as they backed away from the airstrip.
When Danny reached them, stopping between Parkinson and Ricketts, he studied the airstrip and counted eleven blazing, smouldering aircraft.
‘Terrific,’ he said.
Parkinson checked his wristwatch. The attack had lasted fifteen minutes. He raised his right hand above his head and bawled, ‘That’s it, men! Move out!’
Still keeping up a protective wall of fire, the men backed away from the Argentinians advancing across the airstrip, weaving left and right between the blazing aircraft and the many explosions from the mortars. In the brilliant, silvery light from the air-burst shells they looked faceless, insubstantial, almost ghostlike.
Suddenly, from the direction of the blazing petrol and ammunition dump, a truck filled with Argentinian troops raced at the retreating men.
Jock appeared from nowhere, running back to the strip. He dropped to one knee, raising a 66mm LAW to his shoulder. The ground nearby erupted, hit by a mortar shell, and he was thrown down, rolling over a couple of times, as the smoke swirled about him.
When he sat upright, shaking his head, slapping his own face to help himself recover, his clothes were torn by shrapnel, with blood leaking from wounds to his face and body.
The truck was still racing at him. His fellow troopers poured fire at it. Grimly determined, Jock wiped blood from his face, adopted the kneeling position, removed the protective cap from each end of the launcher, held the weapon against his shoulder, then aimed along the pop-up sights. When he pressed the trigger switch, the backblast made him jerk violently, but the rocket shot straight to its target, creating a stream of flame, and the truck, which was almost on top of him, was hit and blew up. Careening sideways with a squealing of brakes, it crashed into a blazing Pucara, which also exploded.
Though covered in blood, Jock climbed to his feet and made his way unsteadily back to his mates.
Argentinian soldiers jumped out of the truck, some on fire, screaming hideously, flapping at their own burning bodies with smouldering hands. Some of the SAS troopers were undecided what to do about these unfortunates, but young Danny stepped forward, his angelic features highlighted ethereally by the flames, and cut them down in a hail of withering fire from his SLR.
‘Put ’em out of their misery,’ he explained, turning back to his mates. ‘Only thing to do.’
‘Yeah,’ Andrew said. ‘Right.’
‘Pull back!’ Parkinson shouted, waving his right hand. ‘Let’s move it! Go!’
As the assault group withdrew from the blazing, smoking airstrip, still under cover of mortar fire and naval support from the Glamorgan, some brave Argentinians attempted another counterattack, emerging from the smoke swirling across the strip and firing their weapons. Still kneeling on the ground behind his powerful GPMG, big Andrew let rip with a 200-round burst that cut some of the men down and forced the others to beat a hasty retreat. Then Andrew jumped up, slung his heavy weapon over his shoulder and followed the rest of the Troop back towards the sea.
A sudden explosion made the ground erupt violently in their midst, hurling one trooper high in the air. Crashing back down in a shower of debris, he hit the ground with a bone-breaking thud. His body actually bounced off the earth before rolling over, the bloody bone of a smashed kneecap thrusting out through torn pants, a white rib exposed through shrapnel-slashed flesh. Mercifully concussed, he made no sound.
‘Damn!’ Ricketts exclaimed. ‘The bastards set off a remote controlled land-mine.’
‘Medics!’ Parkinson yelled.
As the troopers near the concussed man shook their heads to clear their ears, the medics, who had just been waved away by the bloody Jock, rolled their patient onto a stretcher and then hurried off. The troopers closed in behind them to form a protective wall.
Reaching the summit of the low hill that overlooked the airstrip, Parkinson glanced back to take stock of the situation.
In the still flickering, eerie light of the air-burst shells from the Fleet, all of the eleven Pucaras were either burning or smouldering. Craters littered the runway and the ground between the burning planes, ensuring that the airstrip could not be used in the immediate future. There were many dead bodies.
Satisfied, Parkinson was about to turn away when he heard the steady roar of other GPMGs and small arms from the sea road on one side of the airstrip.
Obviously the SAS troopers in the second group, sent there to seal off the approaches to the runway, were stopping the advance, or flight, of Argentinian troops trying to get along the sea road.
Even as Parkinson was gazing in that direction, a series of explosions sent smoke pouring into the sky in the vicinity of the GPMG and small-arms fire, indicating that someone in the group had called in for support from the Glamorgan’s big guns. A few minutes later the sound of battle died away – an indication that the second group had stopped the Argentinians and was now also heading back to the LZ.
‘Good men,’ Parkinson whispered.
The two-and-a-half mile march back to the location of the mortar base-plate was uneventful. There, they picked up Gumboot and Taff, then proceeded back to the LZ. The Sea Kings returned in time and the Squadron was lifted back to the Hermes, where the men had a warm welcome from Captain Grenville. Though disappointed that he had not been on the raid, he was delighted that the invasion could now commence.
Chapter 12
Jock was the first to be shipped back, but not the last. When the shrapnel had been removed, he was a quiltwork of scars, some left to heal on their own, others stitched up, and no matter which way he turned, he lay on a bed of pain. This did not stop the mocking comments from flying thick and fast when he was visited in the ship’s sick bay by other members of the Regiment, shortly before being shipped back to Ascension Island and from there on to England.
‘I hear your arse is a hot-spot,’ big Andrew said, flashing his teeth.
‘Don’t worry about the shrapnel in your prick,’ Paddy said, ‘I’m told that if you can manage a hard-on, the wounds open and the pieces just fall out.’
‘That’s if you can get one,’ Gumboot clarified, ‘which in Jock’s case is an issue of doubt. Can I lend you a hand, Jock?’
‘Ha, ha,’ Jock responded stiffly, lying there like an Egyptian mummy, wrapped from head to toe in bloody bandages, but refusing to show his pain.
‘You loo
k pretty good, all told,’ Taff informed him, studying the head-to-toe bandages with an experienced eye. ‘Like a babe in swaddling clothes. Red and white becomes you.’
‘It’s just a pity,’ Andrew said, ‘that the shrapnel missed your mug. You could do with some rearranging there, so a good chance was missed.’
‘Still, you’ll get a rest,’ young Danny said, being more concerned than the others. ‘A nice little trip back to Blighty.’
‘Right,’ Gumboot said. ‘Where they should have pretty nurses instead of these blokes. That should perk you up, mate.’
‘Then you might get it up,’ Andrew added, ‘and the stitches will fall out.’
‘Fuck you, Andrew,’ Jock said. ‘Fuck you all, come to that. I don’t have stitches in my arse or dick, so go screw yourselves.’
‘Even I can’t get mine around that far,’ Paddy said. ‘Though if I could, I’m sure I’d have a good time.’
‘Christ,’ Jock said, rolling his eyes, ‘do I have to endure this?’
‘You need visits from friends to cheer you up,’ young Danny said solemnly. ‘That’s why we’re here.’
‘I’m cheered up,’ Jock said. ‘Thanks a lot. You can all piss off now.’
‘He’s so ungrateful,’ big Andrew said, glancing around as Sergeant Ricketts entered the sick bay and approached the bed. Ricketts glanced dispassionately at Jock, noting the bloodstains on the bandages, then studied each of the other troopers in turn.
‘So what are you pisspots doing here?’ he asked.
‘Cheering him up,’ Andrew said.
‘Offering sympathy,’ added Gumboot.
‘Letting him know we all care,’ Taff explained.
‘I’ll bet,’ Ricketts grinned, then turned back to Jock. ‘Giving you a hard time, are they?’
