C in C Fleet to Flag officer 20 Flotilla 3/4/82: A: Break off Exercise Spring Train: B: Proceed with all dispatch to RV Fleet Auxiliary & Carrier Group: C: Effect immediate.
Three weeks later the four-man team came ashore on the Murrell Peninsula. They crept into the rock-strewn inlet of a river, so small that nobody had bothered to even give it a name. After weeks banged up in a nuclear sub sailing at flank speed, with only one trip to the surface to pick up an air drop, even this hole was a welcome sight. The airdrop had delivered the kind of kit the huge military store at Gibraltar had been unable to provide. That was one of the joys of being a badged trooper. The Headshed never stinted you when it came to equipment. It was help yourself and sign here!
Their task had been outlined to them by the SAS liaison officer. They knew what they had to do and had chosen accordingly. As well as standard requirements they’d added pre-prepared cam netting that they had woven on to chicken wire; secateurs for cutting; two pocket scopes, plus high-power binos were added for long-range observation. Weaponry included a GPMG and 1000 rounds of ammo, plus their own personal weapons. Individual choice was allowed. But each man, when selecting what to take along, had to consider the needs of both himself and the patrol. And it all had to be carried. What they were engaged on was non-aggressive, but within that set of parameters they had to be able to hold their own in a fight. The four men had thought it through, and given themselves every option that they could think of to make the recce a success.
The pallet dropped from the Hercules had provided some very pleasant surprises. The latest cold weather clothing; duvet jackets and new on the market Gore-tex trousers, admired in shops and catalogues but not easily affordable. There was a whole pile of the latest American kit: a brand new Satcom telephone link, improved night sights and spare batteries to fuel them; two M203 Armalites with 40mm underslung grenade launchers, giving a lot of firepower at a low weight. The attached condoms were only a joke because of the note that came with them. It read, ‘For four of the biggest pricks I know!’ and was signed ‘Clarkie’.
HMS Scylla was a Swiftsure Class SSN, 4500 tons, capable of thirty knots submerged. It carried a crew of 116 accommodated in a space that would have been cramped for two-thirds of that number. The addition of four Pongos using up bed space, doing press-ups in the gangway, was not greeted with glee. A big boat, Scylla needed a lot of water under her keel. She wasn’t designed for work close inshore. And in an area where the enemy had complete air superiority, running on the surface was risky, even in the dark. Safety for a nuclear sub lay in deep water.
The skipper, after long discussions with Fleet HQ in Northwood, agreed to run in only far enough to make a landing possible. That meant inside an arc of ten miles. It was his call as to time and place. He would surface and open his deck hatches only if the conditions justified it and there was no risk of water from a heavy sea getting into his boat. That left the four-man patrol with one bugger of a trip in the Gemini, especially using 40hp Johnston outboards, engines that were well prone to breakdown.
The air had a hint of ice in it, made colder still by the stiff breeze. They’d come to the surface under a bank of heavy black clouds, tinged with silver where a strong moon illuminated the edges. The sea-state was what the Navy called good, which in the latitudes of the Falkland Islands meant ten-foot waves with crests a hundred metres apart, which had a big effect on the pitching, rolling deck, hard enough to work on when it was slippery, wet and stable. But even with that amount of unwelcome motion the huge mass of the sub’s hull created an area of less troubled water in its lee. It was this area into which the Boat Troop patrol would launch.
The inflatable and equipment came up through the torpedo room hatch, pushed up to the deck level by the matelots. The SAS troopers used the central hatch to get out and receive them. The sections of the Gemini base were swiftly laid, with Luke Tuikabe working furiously on the foot pump to inflate the surround, while his fellow troopers loaded the pre-packed Bergens and the outboards. Even after three weeks of inactivity the manoeuvre was carried out smoothly and with speed. It took less than ten minutes from the point at which the captain called action stations to the moment when Scylla blew her tanks. The huge cigar shape of the hull sank beneath the waves, the conning tower pulling away as the boat reversed.
That left them floating on an empty sea. But they didn’t hang about. Almost as soon as the hull of the inflatable hit the water the engine was fired up and they were moving. The big green compass, which Blue used, glowed strongly. Taken from an old Spitfire fighter, it was strapped on the inflatable just in front of where he sat on the port side. The luminescence rose and fell through twenty feet as they crested each smooth-topped wave.
No one spoke, first because it wasn’t good practice. Even if this was a manoeuvre they’d carried out a hundred times, it only worked when everyone concentrated. There was another factor. Each man knew this was no training exercise: it was for real. They were hyper-alert, and that went especially for Blue Harding and Luke Tuikabe, who’d fought a real enemy in Operation Storm.
Digger and Graunch had seen no battle action since joining the Regiment. But they’d faced danger many times. And all four had trained hard, aware that in doing so they made fighting easy. Yet no amount of talk or encouragement can encompass the feeling of going into action, for the first time or the tenth. These troopers were so alert and fired up that, underneath their dry suits, their skin was tingling.
They’d only covered half the distance when the outboard packed up, spluttering and coughing before finally giving up the ghost. Raiding the stores at Gibraltar, and able to out a spare Johnston, they’d elected to take it. This foresight was celebrated with quiet expressions of ‘Thank fuck!’ In the dark, bobbing about in the water, it was no time to undertake running repairs. But neither could they just dump the bastard over the side. The fault could be simple, easy to repair given time, and there was no guarantee that the second one was any more reliable. With the minimum of movement they carried out a procedure that they’d all had to manage too often, and changed over to the spare engine.
Even an eight-man boat wasn’t spacious when it ·was loaded with four troopers, a spare engine and fuel, plus heavier than ideal Bergens. Necessity demanded they bring in a hell of a lot of kit, this for a multi-tasked job that was of an unknown duration, landing on a part of the shore so far from anything that only shit luck would put them close to any patrols. They’d discussed the idea of a permanent coastal guard, but one look at the map showed that was not an option. The shoreline of East and West Falkland must have run to over a thousand miles. They’d been gifted scant info about the Argie forces. But it was enough to establish that they didn’t have the men to cover all that terrain.
With so much time to talk it through, the plan the team decided on covered all the foreseeable risks. Without elaborating, Hereford had let them know that for days, if not weeks, they would be the only reconnaissance patrol on the island. Any information was valuable, but particular attention was to be paid to the standard of Argentine troops. Numbers and locations were the priority. Equipment levels, both unit and individual, were required, as well as relative strengths and capabilities. What additional radar, and what range might it provide? Were they a complete garrison, settling down to just hold their gains, or still in the process of being reinforced, an army preparing for battle? What about morale and readiness, and the skills of their officers?
Heavy armaments came next, artillery and ack-ack strength, coupled with accurate data on the defences round the airport. Were they digging in around the main population centres, adopting a defensive posture, or looking mobile? Minefields were a certainty, their location a strong indication of preferred tactics. Were they laying booby traps, and what was the state of their training when it came to an air threat? But if the observation was passive, the intention clearly remained aggressive. They were tasked to make an appreciation as well, based on that same information, and that included the answer to a key question: what were the prospects for a sudden, medium-force landing close to Stanley?
No four-man patrol, forced to move only in darkness, adopting observation posts that might have a very limited view, could find all this out. The Headshed were well aware of that! They were working on the principle that if you don’t ask you don’t get. Blue Harding, as patrol commander, knew the score. It was broad-brush stuff. Get in, get around, find out what you can; give us who come in behind you something to work on.
The trip, even without the need to replace the outboard, was too slow. They were under scudding clouds, some moonlight, heading into a blustery west wind and tricky currents. That added an hour to the time they allotted to get within earshot of the coast. Not that they could hear much with a half gale whistling around their lobes. But that was no bad thing since it applied equally to anyone on the flat and silent shore.
Luke Tuikabe and Digger slipped over the side. The other two troopers used their Armalites to cover the beach in front of them. Protected by their dry suits, they swam in to the shore. On land, a few minutes were allotted to orientation. Then they headed along the shore to check out the area to a total width of some two hundred metres, first to the left, then to the right, staying together to provide mutual support. Satisfied that the area was secure, they sent a torch signal to Blue.
The outboard made little noise as they eased in, the beach party over the side again, getting ashore to set up a defence. The priority was to find a cache, and that had to take account of the ground and the threat. This was not densely populated land, regularly patrolled. It was the middle of nowhere. They had no information to say that the Argies had patrol boats. But that was a possibility that had to be taken into consideration. The danger came from the air. The Headshed had told them that the main supply to the islands was by flights from the mainland, with distribution by helicopter. So finding a spot that was free from air observation, one that they could return to with speed if necessary, was task one. A slight overhang, not visible from land, was perfect, even if it took a while to find.
Removing their dry suits, they emptied the dry equipment bags and donned cold weather kit. It took little time to unload the inflatable. Everything was pre-packed and in their Bergens. These weighed nearly 120 pounds. The heaviest individual item was ammo. But there was food too, water bottles, medical kits and dry clothes. They had their normal patrol radio, a PRC320, carried by the patrol signaller, Graunch Powell. But Hereford having gifted them the new Satcom, that too had to be transported.
Neither featherweight nor small, taking up almost the entire space of one whole Bergen, it was gifted to Luke Tuikabe. Distribution was as fair as possible, taking into account individual capabilities. The Fijian also had half the belt ammo from the machine gun. Graunch had fussed like a mother hen when the Satcom was loaded. He’d spent so much time playing with it on the way down that Blue Harding gave him some of the condoms, so ‘they weren’t left carrying the kids!’
Even with a total of sixteen hours of darkness they had to move fast. They hid the deflated Gemini, folding it flat and stuffing it under the overhang, following that with the cans of spare fuel they would need to get away. Both outboards were sealed into the custom-made Allison bags and placed on top. That completed, Blue called them together. After a quick map appreciation, he ran over the main points of their orders. He established the direction of march and detailed the stops they would make, designating this beach as their primary emergency rendezvous. Then it was Bergens on, weapons at alert and an eight-kilometre tab to their primary LUP. They needed to make up some time, which just added more to what, given the weight they were carrying, was going to be a ‘bad trip’.
Standard operating procedure usually put the patrol commander at number two, ahead of the signaller and medic. But John Harding never worked that way. He liked to be out ahead, using his own five senses instead of someone else’s. Why wait to be told you were compromised, when you could see or hear it for yourself, and save valuable seconds by taking the appropriate action?
The wind was cold and strengthening. The wet peat bog that ran along behind the shoreline sucked in their boots, a situation made worse by the rough tussock grass when they reached a drier surface. They halted every thirty minutes, and stood rigid, listening hard, each weapon covering a different arc, eyes searching the darkness for any sign of movement. Compasses were checked and distances aggregated. Each two-hour stop was designated a rest halt, a chance to ease the straps on the Bergens, as well as the pain they were inflicting on the skin of their shoulders. They didn’t remove the heavy packs, just fell back to sit against them so that the pressure was relieved. At no time were they any less alert. Blue, without lowering his weapon a centimetre, sipped some water, gave the patrol another ERV to replace the distant beach, carried out all the standard checks, then stood up and set off again.
In one way it got tougher as they hit the foot of Mount Round, the wind seeming to gain in velocity with every step that took them higher. But at least the ground was better: loose scree mixed with big boulders – noisy if you slipped, but a faster route to where they needed to go. It was the patrol commander’s decision to basha up or go for distance, his job to decide where the maximum safety lay. That was helped when the wind dropped completely on the inner side of the hill, making tabbing a lot easier. Blue chose to go on, and the four men pushed up a blind valley full of rocks, the site chosen for what they hoped would become a defendable, well concealed patrol base.
Picking a spot to lay up, in the dark, had all the usual risks. First they made a Bergen cache, guarded by Luke and Digger, while Blue and Graunch searched out an LUP. Perfection was possible but unlikely, and really it came down to experience as to which point was chosen. They required cover from ground or aerial view, cover from enemy fire, and a clear exit to dead ground, all that in limited time.
They had to stick with the notion that the Argies were spread thin, hopefully more concerned with preparing defences around the main strategic positions on the islands. It was unlikely they’d be out patrolling all night to look for infiltration teams they had no idea had arrived, especially in an area in which little of value could be observed. What they chose in the dark could be improved upon once seen in daylight, or they could move altogether. The stag was reduced to one man while the others worked to provide a hide.
Having got warm from tabbing to get here, it would have been nice to light a fire and to stay that way. They might be out of the wind but the air temperature was close to freezing. But heat, hot food or drink was out of the question. This was a hard routine operation. Blue and Graunch Powell, using the one-time pad, encoded the Sitrep. Then Graunch set up the comms and sent off the morning Sked on the radio to confirm they were ashore and in their primary position. By the time that was completed, it was near 07.00 hours. Under a sky tinged with grey, the four troopers stood to and watched as daylight came to reveal one of the most miserable landscapes any of them had ever seen. They stayed in position till half an hour after full dayiight.
From the side of the hill they occupied the land stretched towards Mount Low, at near 900 feet the dominant feature of the Murrell Peninsula, grey rock capped with a light dusting of snow. The valley was green by contrast, but it was the colour of ground too wet, not gentle pasture. Hemmed in by hills, they couldn’t see much to the north or south. What was in view was either that flat bog-like grassland, or bare hills dotted with rocks. Knots of sheep grazed intermittently, filthy grey fleeces doing nothing to brighten up an outlook that even in full daylight was made oppressive by lowering grey skies.
There were times when you stayed silent, when even if there was no apparent danger, it might just be around the corner. Not here! They could see for miles.
‘Who in the name of fuck would want to live here?’ demanded Digger when they stood down. ‘It’s a pisshole.’
His already thick London accent was heightened by his disgust. Digger was a small bloke, compact, with a round face and bright blue eyes. His disrespect for anything called authority was legendary, and the natural Cockney wit seared into those he chose to take the piss out of. He also owned the dirtiest mouth in B Squadron, the greatest number of expletives reserved for any football team that dared to play his beloved Tottenham Hotspur. Digger was cagey about how he’d come to end up in the Regiment. He claimed to have once been a jockey. If his ability to stay on a horse was anything like the way he fell off bar stools after a few beers, he must have been a godsend to anyone wanting to fix a race.
‘Just thank Christ it’s empty,’ said Luke Tuikabe.
‘It ain’t empty, mate,’ Digger replied, grinning at the huge, stocky Fijian. ‘There’s a cochell of Argies out there who all like a bit of black. They’re just dying to fuck your arse.’
‘Cochell? Is that a betting term, Digger?’ asked Graunch.
Graunch considered himself the resident egghead, much inclined to use French words instead of English. He never had a chat but a ‘petit bavard’, and when he went to the bog it was for ‘un piss ou un merde’. Given he had a Brummie accent as flat as a saltmarsh, it never quite came off. Normally he avoided it on an operation, but he knew it annoyed Digger.
‘You must be thick if you don’t know it’s Cockney.’
‘Sounds vaguely French to me.’
‘Pie and mash sounds French to you.’
Graunch farted. ‘How does that sound?’
It was Blue who replied. ‘Let’s get out of sight.’
‘Too fucking right,’ said Digger. ‘But if you don’t mind I’d like somewhere away from that dirty-arsed bastard.’
That lacked his usual humour, carrying an element of real dislike. Digger and Graunch had a feud going, to do with a woman they’d both tried to get hold of in Hereford. It didn’t help that Graunch was one of the ugliest blokes any of them had ever seen. He had a flat face, with huge, hairy, lobotomous lumps above his eyes, a broad nose and thick red lips that were forever cracked and dry. The idea that he’d pulled a bird anyone else fancied was bad for the ego. And Digger had one the size of Wembley. They’d nagged at each other all through training, then for three weeks in the sub. They’d keep it up here probably. But Blue wasn’t concerned. They were pros, so it wouldn’t interfere with the job.
They were static, so each man looked to his own needs. If you operate on foot, then common sense tells you to look after them. A lot of things can make you uncomfortable, but sore feet must rank amongst the worst. It was socks off and wrung out, sprinkle with dry powder and make sure it gets between the toes. Re-dress and put your boots back on - all that before they even thought about water or food.
Normal procedure – in fact the SAS rule – was to stay out of sight during daylight hours. But life wasn’t like that. None of them was happy about the state of the LUP. They wanted it to be a secure patrol base, one where they could leave half their kit, going out and returning with a very good chance of finding it uncompromised. So, mainly toiling on their bellies, with a pair stood to all the time, they worked hard to cam it up. It was Blue who called a halt, deciding it wouldn’t work. He ordered a rest, knowing that they could find a better spot when darkness fell. They stood to an hour before, ready to leg it if threatened, and only relaxed two hours later.
Given the number of rocks and boulders, it seemed as though they were spoiled for choice. But if the Argies, patrolling, started getting aggressive, this would be just the kind of place they might examine. Better to dig out an observation post. It was paramount that what he decided on could not be seen from the floor, overlooked from the hills behind, or spotted from the air. It needed to be dry, and likely to stay that way when it rained.
Sure that no human life threatened their position, they moved up the hill to dig, choosing a point where the ground bobbled slightly. That meant the roof – supported by wire, and fronted by fine netting – would not show up as being strange. On the slope, most rainwater should run past, rather than flood the place, though sniffing the air it seemed as if snow might be more of a problem than rain. The ground was rock hard from the continuous cold, and it was a calculated risk, given the noise it created, that had them hacking at it with entrenching tools to break it up.
Underneath the crust it got easier, and a careful distribution of the spoil left no trace of the digging. Luke rigged an extra poncho inside that he’d borrowed from the submariners – no mean feat in a ship so crowded that the crew had to hot bunk to get any sleep. It lay half along the deck, the rest lifted over to cover the chicken wire roof. That in turn was layered with cam netting then covered in the same rocks they’d shifted to start their dig. Graunch mixed some water and soil to colour the front net so that it too blended in.
Once completed, Blue checked it out, above, below and from the sides, aware of the imperfections. This wasn’t like the jungle where you could build a hide so well cammed that a man two feet away couldn’t see you. There was no way on such a bare slope it would hold up under too close a scrutiny. But they had a clear view of the approaches, and if the enemy got that near, the team would be long gone. If not, they’d be engaged in a firefight they’d expect to win.
Another bout of sleep was called, difficult for four restless individuals. They were all still hyped up, alert in every fibre, burning energy at a terrific rate. One trooper stayed on stag while the others slept, but no one got much rest. The following morning was a repeat of the previous night: all stood to again half an hour before sunrise, everything packed for a quick bug-out as they examined the empty landscape. The sky was a grey, overcast slate colour, the air cold and damp, with the wind now gusting from the south, which made the landscape look even less inviting. An hour later they withdrew into their hide, where the morning Sked was composed and, using the standard patrol radio, fired off into the ether. Graunch finally got to set up his Satcom in the middle of the afternoon, calibrating the angle of the dish with great care from the grids on top of the container.
It was intended really as just a repeat of the Morse transmission they’d already sent, a chance to test out the kit and see if it was as good as the Yanks claimed. But it turned out better than that, the voices from Hereford clear and precise. The Headshed dropped heavy hints about the airport, behaving as if the guys didn’t already know it was the main target for observation. There was no chat, just hard information, quickly dispatched. Whatever else, the kit worked brilliantly, which made it a pity that it was too heavy and bulky to transport easily.
The Satcom would be left here, and used sparingly, since all the overlinks in outer space were not yet in situ. Apart from that it was too bloody big. The main news sent, on both transmissions, was that they would stand to half an hour before darkness, and prepare to go out one hour later. No Skeds would be sent until they were in a new position, unless they were on the emergency frequency. And that would only be used if they were in deep shit.
Blue Harding was cold, even in his thick Gonk bag, designed for the Arctic. Having the cover on didn’t help much. The sleeping bag seemed to suck the chill in from the surrounding earth. And two hours’ sleep didn’t feel like much – about as satisfying as the cold rations and water he consumed. The four ate as they drank, each man mentally checking his own list. They would carry water and food for three days, plus emergency rations, medical kits and the equipment to construct another hide. Added to that they would load enough ammo and grenades to make them a very hot prospect in a contact. No one could ever be sure they got the balance right between eating, trauma kits, fast moving and heavy firepower. That too was about experience.
‘Right!’ Blue said. ‘O Group.’
As patrol leader he was employing Standard Operational Procedure. Go through the main aims of the mission, time after time, detailing tasks. Make sure everyone knows his own job, as well as that of the other team members. These were the orders he’d issued on board Scylla. But everyone present had contributed to them, in a Chinese parliament that, trapped on the sub, had lasted a long time. That was the Regiment’s way. Orders were agreed, not imposed. He had the map in front of him, using a half concealed torch emitting just enough light to give vision.
‘We don’t even try for the airport on this jaunt. We’ve got to find out what kind of stunts the Argies are running on their patrols. Are they numerous and are they serious or relaxed?’
His finger traced the line of march, watched by three pairs of eyes.
‘We will route through between Beagle Ridge and the Murrell Heights. Task, to look at Argie positions on the northern approaches to Port Stanley. I want to establish a forward LUP as close as possible to a point agreed between the two beacons covering Blanco Bay. Artillery and anti-aircraft positions a priority, minefields and ground troop locations a secondary. Remember, all that high ground we’ll put behind us overlooks Port Stanley on a clear day. Contact to be avoided, no shooting unless whole operation is compromised. Stay away from the locals as well as enemy.’
Blue looked up to check in the dim torchlight the eyes of the others – little blobs of white in their heavily cammed faces. They knew the problems – not surprising the way Hereford had pratted on about it. If compromised, they’d kill the enemy. But they all knew that the locals might well pay the price for their aggression. The Argentine Army had a poor record when it came to civil disobedience. There had been a so-called ‘dirty war’ going on in their own backyard for years, the Army on one side and the Peronistas on the other, with thousands of men, women and even children just disappearing. One of their favourite tricks, it was rumoured, was to drop people who disagreed with them out of helicopters into the sea, so far from land that their smashed, drowned bodies would never be washed ashore.
And they also knew they were working without any knowledge of how the info would be used. But that was standard too, and not worth worrying about. Only the guys in the Headshed, collating the news and views, could decide what to do with anything sent back. There might be a para drop planned; a rigid boat attack by marines; even a high-altitude low-opening drop by the Regiment. As Blue had been saying for weeks, ‘We send it in quick and send it in right.’ Digger always added a dirty rhyme.
It made no difference what Hereford said: Blue reckoned he had to kill the sentry. Never mind his orders, he was left with no choice. Silencing the Argentinian soldier would have done no good. The guy would just wake up later and yell the place down. There was no way to take him with them as they withdrew. What could he do with a prisoner? Right up to the last second, Blue had hoped that the gloom would keep him hidden, which it would have done if the stupid sod had stopped a few feet off.
It is possible to scream silently, which Blue did inside his head. ‘You dumb, fuck, bastard!’
Why had the Argie moved when he should have stayed on station? Had he seen or heard something and come to investigate? The other sentry close enough to cause them trouble was moving away, and this arsehole should have done the same. Instead he walked towards the beach. Was he stupid or just being butch? It didn’t matter now, because the guy ended up standing right above Blue, his cock out, sighing as he opened his glans to piss.
Blue Harding knew he would look down, if for no other reason than the strange sound of the stream hitting his clothing. Having made his decision, he acted quickly. When the muddy shape, barely visible, moved, the guy’s body and head jerked forward. Shock stopped him from producing an immediate shout. Blue’s speed, as he jammed a hard fist into his windpipe, brought out a terrified gasp, but that was all. The knife was already halfway to his ribcage as Blue hit him again, this time a sweeping forearm blow that half-turned the victim. He was trying to yell, emitting a rasping sound through his smashed voice-box, as the arm took him round the throat. Blue’s knee was in his back, arcing him like a bow. The knife was aimed down, hitting the point just below the rib cage, then it was pulled up to slice into and through the heart, as well as the blood vessels and arteries that supplied it.
Digger was coming from the side in a fast crouch to slam the butt of his Armalite into the man’s ear, no doubt hoping the combination of weight and blows would drop him like a stone. He was too late, but he caught the body. Both men dropped the sentry slowly, to control the noise, then turned towards the huts that lined the back of the beach, weapons up and ready to rake the doorway, with Blue to the front, over the sentry’s head.
‘Fuck!’ whispered Blue, after a few seconds.
‘Not right now, thanks,’ Digger hissed.
Weapon still pushed forward, the Cockney’s free hand reached out to the sentry’s neck, feeling for the pulse by the carotid artery, the smell of stale tobacco and wine, tinged with the odour of skin and fresh urine, filling his nostrils.
‘We’ve got about a minute to get out of here,’ he whispered.
‘A bit more,’ muttered Blue.
They’d timed the guard routes along with the routine of the NCO for a long time before crawling forward. Unless he or the second sentry did something surprising they had more than that. The NCO was inside the hut, the other guard along the path that ran behind the beach. But that still begged the question.
‘Leave him or take him?’
‘Either way he’d cause a search,’ hissed Digger.
Blue looked towards the door of the huts that lay behind the unlit beacon above Blanco Bay – a possible landing site if the force wasn’t too numerous. There were several dozen men there, part of the teams laying mines along the exits from the beach below, one of them the NCO they reckoned to be in charge, since there was no sign of an officer. They could try to take him if he did his rounds, which would increase their evade time. But that might just compound the sin. Likewise the second sentry, who must have reached the end of his designated route by now and be beginning to turn. Two bodies instead of one. And even with what he’d just done, Blue knew that silent killing was not as easy as it looked in the movies. There was always the risk of noise.
That would be bad news, since they’d slipped through an artillery position to get this far, one that was right on their route to safety. All Blue’s training told him not to panic. He knew he had to make a decision, as well as approximately how long he had to do it. He’d been trained to take his time, better that than make a mistake. And since Digger had benefited from the same instructors he stayed silent, leaving his patrol leader to think it through.
‘Dead,’ was all he whispered in Blue’s ear, as he took his hand off the sentry’s neck.
Blue reckoned just leaving him was the worst thing he could do. That NCO would see he was off his beat. It was odds on the body would be found before they had a chance to put any distance between this spot and the secondary LUP. The first thing the Argies would do was send up flares. In this flat, featureless landscape that was a major bummer, even if they got clear of the gunners on the way. It virtually guaranteed he and Digger would have to stay away from Luke and Graunch, hiding up waiting for their return, for fear of compromising them.
Not that they would be safe, stay or run! There had to be some kind of field communications here. The Argies would put out an alert that might make it impossible for any of the four-man team to sidestep a firefight. It was bad enough at night. By morning, the whole place would be crawling with troops, and the helicopters they’d seen earlier that day ferrying supplies would be out hunting them. Taking him along, even for a short while, lengthened the time, the mystery of a disappearance acting to slow down the reactions. But carrying the body would slow him and Digger even more. It was a fair guess that a torch would show not only the mess of his bowels, but also the trail of blood they’d leave as they dragged him off.
They had been in the act of measuring the layout of the minefield, crawling on their bellies trying to build up a picture they could transfer to paper at a later stage, showing the location of the mines themselves, plus the dimensions of the safe corridor the Argies had left so that they could make their way to and from the beach. They were crouching in that corridor now, one that should have been taped off at this stage for reasons of safety. It was the fact that the Argies had failed to do that which gave Blue the idea of making the approach.
‘Has he got any grenades?’ Blue whispered.
Digger didn’t ask why, he just went on to his belly and crawled to the side, his fingers feeli!1g under the still body, the swear words soft, filthy and constant under his breath.
‘Got one. Christ, it’s an L2!’
‘Give.’
‘What’s the plan?’
‘Roll him over.’
‘An explosion?’
‘No fuckin’ choice.’ Blue gasped. ‘Get ready to leg it.’
Digger got to his feet and stepped well away. He was moving as Blue began to haul on the pin. Blue looked once, to check that Digger was at the spot where the safety corridor turned at an angle of ninety degrees. Then he dropped the L2 beside the body, hauling on the cadaver’s greatcoat to pull him on top. He knew he had four to seven seconds to get clear, but allowed himself two long paces back on to what he knew was mine-free ground.
It’s amazing how much ground you can cover in seven seconds 1 even in heavy, muddy boots. He made the angle in five, was abreast the hut when he finished his count, and on his belly when the grenade went off. The explosion was muffled by the corpse, but still loud enough to crack in their ears. Digger had got behind the hut, and Blue joined as the blast subsided.
Both men crouched as the door on the opposite side flew open, throwing a shaft of light across the minefield. They didn’t look at it directly, but obliquely, the need to keep night vision intact paramount. But it was easy to imagine the scene – the shattered body, the great plume of settling dust that should cover any trace of the killing, the fear and precautions of the others who would take great care in their approach, thinking one of their number had mislaid an anti-personnel mine. Would it occur to any of them to look around? Even if they did, coming from a well lit interior, they would not see Digger and Blue, on elbows and knees, crawling away.
And in daylight they’d realize it was probably a grenade. These things did happen, and that was what Blue was counting on. No matter how often you told soldiers not to play with their dangerous toys, they did so. Accidents happened! With no evidence of outside involvement it should just suffice. If it didn’t, they’d just have to deal with it.
Graunch and Luke were waiting at the secondary LUP, a mile from the explosion, on a slight rise that gave them some view across the bay towards Stanley airport, eyes searching the darkness for any sign of their mates. Already hyped up, the dull thud of the exploding grenade had the adrenalin operating at maximum, providing heat to cold limbs and an extra dimension to the sharpness of their senses. They had a routine for this, to stay in place until a threat was perceived. And in a situation where any one of a dozen explanations was possible, there was little point in speculating as to the cause of the explosion.
There was little ambient light looking south, just enough to show the figure standing with his rifle held up and horizontal in both arms as a shade darker than the background. No one spoke, or issued any call signs. It wasn’t necessary. The shape was the agreed signal that allowed Blue and Digger to enter the LUP, a quick pat all that was necessary to let them know how happy Graunch and Luke were. Once in and secure it was question time again. To stay, or bug out of what could now become a very hot area. They lay waiting for a full hour to check on any pursuit. If there were one, they would try to evade it without compromising the mission. If they couldn’t do that, they’d fight.
Faint in the distance they could see lights moving, including those of a truck that had been brought up to illuminate the area, But the enemy didn’t come any closer, and the hairs on the back of Graunch’s neck, which had been standing up for the last hour, began to subside.