Soldier B: Heroes of the South Atlantic

by Shaun Clarke

  ‘Shit!’ Ricketts exclaimed again.

  ‘There goes our transport,’ Gumboot said.

  ‘A British Harrier!’ Andrew burst out. ‘I don’t fuckin’ believe it!’

  ‘OK, men,’ Major Parkinson said, climbing back to his feet and wiping the earth from his Gore-tex jacket, ‘if we must yomp, we must. Pick up your kit and let’s go, No point staying here.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Danny said.

  Falling automatically into single file, in the usual order, they continued their march to Port Stanley. Now crossing the empty fields between Bluff Cove and Sapper Hill, they were seeing more aircraft, both British and Argentinian, as well as hearing the sounds of battle more clearly. There was smoke in the distant sky, boiling up from the horizon, and they knew that it was coming from Port Stanley, now being bombed daily.

  Later that afternoon, they were attacked by another aircraft, this time an Argentinian Pucara that roared out of nowhere, all guns firing, stitching the earth all around them, then flew off again and circled to come back. Now mad as hell, big Andrew removed his American Stinger SAM system from where it was strapped to his bergen, inserted a missile canister armed with a 3kg high-explosive fragmentation warhead, and stood up in full view of the approaching aircraft.

  As the Pucara flew low, already firing its guns and creating lines of spitting soil that raced dangerously towards Andrew, he coolly fitted the Stinger’s shoulder-rest into his shoulder, held the foregrip, squinted into the aiming sight and pressed the trigger located in the grip.

  Armed with an infrared seeker and sensors that could track its target by the heat of its exhausts, the Stinger’s surface-to-air missile streaked upwards and hit the Pucara as it was levelling out to ascend. The plane exploded with a mighty roar, turning into a spectacular ball of searing white flame and boiling black smoke, with its debris thrown far and wide, to rain down on the field. Andrew lowered the Stinger to his side and raised his free hand in the air, clenching his fist.

  ‘How’s that, fucker?’ he bawled.

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to answer,’ Ricketts said. ‘I think the cat’s got his tongue.’

  Andrew laughed and shook his head, as if bemused by Ricketts’s statement, then hugged the Stinger to his chest. ‘Sheer poetry,’ he said.

  Parkinson watched the ball of fire shrinking away in the sky, disappearing in the smoke being dispersed by the wind, ‘I think the closer we get to Port Stanley, the more exposed we’ll become. We’re going to have to restrict ourselves to night marches and hide out in the daylight. I think a long-term OP should be made right here. Get to it, gentlemen.’

  A rectangular OP was constructed in no time and the men, hidden under its camouflaged roof, became one with the barren earth.

  Chapter 15

  During the next ten days Parkinson and his men holed up in their OP and only ventured out on deep-penetration patrols or to ambush Argentinians on the snow-covered hills. Their unfortunate victims, mostly inexperienced conscripts, usually on foot patrol, invariably in small groups, were cut down with relative ease by a combination of Andrew’s GPMG, the M16s of the other men and the occasional fragmentation grenade.

  More than once, usually at night, Danny was called upon to despatch a guard, which he always did with his customary deadly skill. This was often the prelude to an attack on an enemy OP or radio station; once the attack was completed, the radio would be destroyed and the printed data removed by Major Parkinson, to be relayed from the SAS OP to HQ on the Hermes, still out at sea with the fleet.

  In their own small, anonymous way, Parkinson’s group – and the many other SAS groups spread out across East Falkland – caused confusion and fear among the enemy, while also disrupting their communications and practising psychological warfare, or ‘psyops’ against them, so making the advance on Port Stanley easier for the other British troops.

  When not thus engaged, the men hid out in their damp, claustrophobic, camouflaged OP, either observing and detailing enemy troop and aircraft movements or listening to the progress of the war on the BBC World Service. Through the latter they learnt that although the British now had air superiority, a briefly revitalized Argentinian Air Force was relentlessly bombing British forces on Fitzroy, Bluff Cove and Mount Kent.

  ‘That won’t last too long,’ Gumboot said with an air of satisfaction. ‘If they’re the same as the Argies we encountered at Darwin and Goose Green – the ones who didn’t have the nerve to climb out of their bleedin’ trenches – I’d say those pilots will soon be finding excuses to have themselves grounded.’

  ‘The Argentinians on Pebble Island were courageous,’ Ricketts said, ‘and if their pilots are of the same calibre, they could fight on for ever.’

  ‘No way,’ Gumboot replied. ‘We’ve demolished half of their fucking planes. They’re now flying on a wing and a prayer, just waiting to come down.’

  ‘Meanwhile they’re doing a lot of damage,’ Andrew said, carefully oiling his weapons, ‘so it’s not over yet.’

  More encouraging was the news that the British were patrolling the mountains around Port Stanley. When, on 11 June, Parkinson learnt from HQ that the battle for Port Stanley was about to begin, with night attacks against the major mountains of East Falkland – Longdon, Two Sisters and Harriet – he decided it was time to move on.

  ‘We’ve done all we can do here,’ he informed the men lying, half frozen, on both sides of him in their dug-outs in the OP. ‘There’s no more need for reconnaissance or harassment in this area. It’s time to be heading for Port Stanley, where we’ll be of more use.’

  ‘When do we go?’ Ricketts asked him.

  ‘Why not right now?’ Parkinson replied rhetorically, having already made up his mind. ‘Let’s pack up our kit, fill in the OP and get moving. We can march throughout the night while the main attacks are being launched, arriving at Port Stanley some time tomorrow. That’s when we’ll be useful.’

  The men did as they were told, dismantling the OP, filling in the dug-out and carefully hiding anything that would reveal they had been there. Then they set off on the road to Port Stanley.

  Marching throughout the night, sticking close to the coastline, intending to come in south of Port Stanley, they were whipped constantly by heavy wind, sleet and snow. They were, however, encouraged by the sounds and sights of battle, most a couple of miles to the north where the attacks on Mount Harriet, Tumbledown and Mount William were being undertaken by Nos 4 and 7 Infantry Regiments, as well as the crack 5 Marine Battalion.

  The battle being engaged, the night sky was criss-crossed with dazzling white phosphorus tracers, coloured crimson, yellow and blue by fire, stained black by smoke. For most of the march they could hear 155mm and 105mm Argentinian artillery, the return fire of the 4.5in guns of the fleet, 105mm howitzers, 66mm anti-tank rockets, exploding 81mm mortar shells, chattering machine-guns and whining, growling aircraft, most of them British. Other explosions, Parkinson assumed, were being caused by enemy minefields, which reminded him to warn the patrol to watch the ground in front of them, as best they could, in the stormy, snow-whitened darkness.

  When dawn broke they found themselves in a rugged, hilly, mist-wreathed landscape devastated by war. The battle for the three mountains around Port Stanley had been fought with bullets, grenades and bayonets under cover of mortar, artillery and machine-gun fire. Now, in an area pock-marked with shell holes, some caused by mines, the enemy trenches and sangars camouflaged in rocky outcrops were scorched black and filled with corpses buried in debris.

  Luckier, but not looking appreciative, were the hundreds of weary, shocked Argentinian prisoners who were being marched at gunpoint to makeshift camps of barbed wire and canvas, where they would be held until the reconquest of Port Stanley, then almost certainly shipped back to Argentina.

  Making their way across the rocky ridges and rugged spines of the hills around Port Stanley, Parkinson and his group came into contact with battle-weary Scots Guardsmen, Welsh Guards, Marines, C
ommandos, Paratroopers, Gurkhas, REMFs, and even Forward Observers from 148 Commando Battery Royal Artillery.

  Port Stanley was now visible from the heights, though covered in smoke from the exploding shells of the Naval gunline bombarding the airport, the racecourse and Sapper Hill. As the port had not yet been taken, British and Argentinian aircraft were still flying to and fro, the former bombing Port Stanley and inland, the latter attacking the Fleet. Helicopters, all British, were landing and taking off in a race to transport the growing numbers of wounded to the Forward Dressing Stations of Teal and Fitzroy, or the Main Dressing Station at Ajax, further away on San Carlos Water.

  All of this could be seen from the desolate, mountainous region, south of Port Stanley, through which Parkinson and his men were resolutely marching. They were therefore surprised when they saw another farmhouse, isolated at the end of a track that snaked between windswept fields, being used by Argentinian troops. As the house offered a clear view of Port Stanley, it was clearly an observation post.

  Parkinson signalled his men to go belly-down, then he studied the house through binoculars.

  ‘No doubt about it,’ he told Ricketts. ‘It’s being used as an OP. There’s a temporary aerial on the roof and a telescope thrusting out of one window. They’re observing the movements of our troops around Port Stanley. Passing the info to their aircraft and big guns. We must have wandered into one of the few areas still not held by our own men. This is an Argie stronghold.’

  Ricketts glanced about him, at the bleak, rolling hills, seeing nothing but swirling snow, wind-blown gorse, and the boats of the British Fleet, some bombed, still smouldering and sinking, in the grey sea beyond. ‘The only Argies I see are outside that house,’ he told Major Parkinson.

  ‘Which means there are more inside the house.’

  ‘So I suggest we take out the house and then be on our way – in fact all the way down to Port Stanley, to meet the rest of the Regiment. What say you, boss?’

  ‘I say we don’t have a choice, Sergeant. We go around it or through it.’

  ‘Let’s go through it, boss.’

  Doubtless because this OP was close to Port Stanley and surrounded by an advancing British army, instead of a single sentry distractedly studying his own feet, it was guarded by a pair of three-man trenches, one on each side of the dirt track leading up to its gardens. Both slit trenches had machine-gun emplacements, which made them formidable.

  ‘A short, sharp shock,’ Parkinson whispered.

  ‘Fragmentation grenades to clear the trenches,’ Ricketts suggested, ‘then smoke grenades to cover our run up to the house. That should just about do it.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Parkinson said.

  Signalling with his hands, he sent Danny and Andrew in opposite directions, both crouched low and advancing on either side of the dirt track, offered slight protection by the fall of the land in the frost-covered fields. As they were doing this, Parkinson, Ricketts and Gumboot, still flat on their bellies, covered the house with their M16s and SLRs. Danny and Andrew then also dropped down, both in protective furrows, and crawled forward, each on opposite sides of the dirt track, until they were in line with the slit trenches, just behind the line of vision of the sentries. They were out of sight for a moment, as if they had never existed, though some snow was then seen to move where they were obviously contorting to get at their webbing. Then two hands appeared, one on each side of the trenches, swinging in deceptive slow motion, releasing the smoke grenades.

  One of the sentries glanced sideways, hearing the noise of Danny’s throw, and shouted a warning – too late – as the smoke grenade fell into the trench. Danny’s grenade exploded noisily, followed immediately by Andrew’s, then the fragmentation grenades also looped into the trenches, even as smoke was billowing up to choke the panicking sentries. The second explosions were catastrophic, devastating the trenches, with soil and debris spewed at the sky on billowing mushrooms of black smoke.

  The screaming of the sentries caught in the explosions was drowned out by the sudden, savage roar of the SAS small arms.

  ‘Go!’ Parkinson bellowed, jumping up and running forward, followed closely by Ricketts and Gumboot as Danny and Andrew, also jumping to their feet, ran in towards one another to check the trenches. Ignoring the trenches, Parkinson, Ricketts and Gumboot raced straight for the house, firing from the hip, hidden by the smoke from the grenades and further protected by the element of surprise. As they plunged into the smokescreen created by the grenades, Danny and Andrew were closing in on both sides of them, converging on the trenches, and putting paid to the survivors, if such there were, by automatically peppering them with deadly bursts from their SLRs.

  Oblivious, Parkinson, Ricketts and Gumboot were bursting out of the clouds of smoke, still firing from the hip, to race over the gardens in front of the house where the enemy troops were bellowing, screaming, quivering like bowstrings, and collapsing in the hail of bullets from the three semi-automatic weapons.

  Reaching the front of the house, where trucks and a jeep where parked, Parkinson quickly scanned the area, noted the dead and dying – no threat posed here any more – then pressed his spine to the wall beside the front door, which was open. A savage burst of gunfire suddenly came from the windows as Ricketts and Gumboot, ducking low and diving forward, reached the other side of the door, from where the latter hurled a grenade into the house.

  The subsequent explosion filled the house with flame and smoke, letting Parkinson slip in through the front door, already firing his weapon in a wide arc taking in the whole room. He saw vague figures in smoke and dust, rising up, falling down, then Ricketts and Gumboot were right there behind him, also firing their weapons. The room reverberated with screaming, but no shots were fired back. Parkinson went in further, shooting anything that moved, and only stopped when the smoke escaped through the open door and smashed windows, letting him see that the house was devastated – and that all the Argentinians on the floor were either dead or dying.

  ‘There’s their damned radio,’ Ricketts said. ‘Fuck that for a joke.’ He let rip with a burst of fire from his M16. The radio, which had been receiving British broadcasts, exploded and burst into flames. ‘Adiós,’ Ricketts said.

  Parkinson was already rifling through the Army documents littering the kitchen table, which had been used for a desk, when a mortar shell exploded in the front garden, shaking the whole house, spewing dust and soil through the smashed windows.

  ‘Christ!’ Parkinson exclaimed softly, not even ducking, but looking out through the front door, ‘was that us or them?’

  Before Ricketts could answer, Danny raced through the open front door, practically pirouetting to a halt, to gasp: ‘We’re surrounded by Argies! They were dug in all around the house, as far as four or five hundred yards out. They’re moving in on us, Major.’

  ‘All around us?’ Parkinson asked as Andrew followed Danny into the house.

  ‘Yes, boss!’ Andrew said, his eyes as bright as diamonds. ‘We’re completely surrounded, boss.’

  ‘Damn!’ Parkinson hammered his fist on the table, glanced at the door and windows, then focused his gaze on the charred, bloody, dead men in the room. ‘They’re not about to take prisoners after this. They won’t have time for small talk.’

  ‘We have to leave,’ Ricketts said. ‘It’s get out or be done in.’

  ‘Two-man teams,’ Parkinson said. ‘One man looking after the other. Out the back door and run like the clappers, trusting in God or luck. You and Danny go first, Ricketts, then Andrew and Gumboot.’

  ‘What about you, boss?’

  ‘Two-man teams,’ Parkinson said. ‘Each man depending on the other. It’s the best – the only – way in these circumstances. Get going, Ricketts.’

  ‘That leaves you alone, boss.’

  ‘Two and two, Ricketts. Go!’

  ‘You’re the CO of the Squadron,’ Ricketts said, ‘so I can’t leave you here.’

  ‘I’m responsible for my me
n,’ Parkinson said, ‘and they have to take orders.’ Another mortar shell exploded out in the front garden, shaking the house, showering more soil and dust through the open door and smashed windows. When the explosion had done its worst and subsided, the hoarse shouts and firing weapons of the Argentinians could more clearly be heard. ‘Time’s up,’ Parkinson continued. ‘And an order is an order, Sergeant Ricketts, so get the hell out of here.’ He turned to Andrew. ‘Leave the GPMG, Trooper Winston. Goodbye and good luck.’

  Andrew unshouldered the heavy GPMG, laid it carefully on the floor, then stood up and took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘who goes first?’

  ‘You and Gumboot,’ Ricketts said. ‘And don’t waste any time.’

  ‘Yeah, boss,’ Andrew said.

  ‘I’m staying behind,’ Gumboot said to Parkinson, ‘and that’s all there is to it. This Squadron needs its damned CO. With your permission, boss, I’m saying get the hell out the door with that handsome black bastard.’

  Parkinson glanced at Ricketts, who nodded his approval. ‘As you wish, Gumboot,’ Parkinson said, sounding a little choked up. ‘Good luck to you.’

  ‘Good luck, boss.’

  Holding his M16 in the Belfast cradle, Andrew marched through the shattered front room, kicking furniture aside, letting it fall over the dead men, and didn’t stop until he reached the back door. Leaning sideways, he glanced out of the window, saw nothing immediately threatening, so checked that Parkinson was behind him, then took a deep breath. He grabbed the door handle, jerked the door open, screamed ‘Go!’ and hurled himself out.

  Parkinson followed – and was followed almost immediately by Ricketts and Danny – just as a mortar shell exploded in the back yard, spewing fire and smoke, tearing up more soil and debris. The four men, breaking into two groups, raced hell for leather across the broad field, aware only of the roaring, erupting earth and the need to be free of it.