Cabinet Office to Fleet HQ Northwood: 1/5/82. The War Cabinet consider the presence of a capital enemy ship close to the Falklands total exclusion zone a most serious and unacceptable threat to proposed operations. You are hereby instructed to engage the Belgrano with all available force at your disposal.
Damp, still cold and carrying eight days’ growth, the four troopers didn’t get to a shower until they were aboard Hermes. That meant as a group that they didn’t attract close company, either on the frigate that lifted them out, or on the chopper that ferried them to the command vessel, Fearless. Even Jamie Robertson-Macleod stayed well downwind as they were debriefed. That took over an hour, and by the time they’d finished telling him and his staff about the ground, the Argies, the airport and the weather, the whole cabin was full of the stench of the seriously underwashed.
The Green Slime posed most of the questions, his job of intelligence officer giving him the lead role in milking the returned troopers of information. But every time he paused to make a note, either the CO, the Operations Officer or the G Squadron OC, Major Sam Cullis, put their oar in. Plied with questions, tea and cigarettes in equal measure, they found themselves repeating the same answers over and over again.
Ground description; anticipated tabbing times as opposed to proposed; making and camming of hides; Argentine troop movement; establishment of vehicles; level of personal armament; unit complement of heavy firepower; location of anti-aircraft, radar, any missile batteries; mapping of troop concentrations, bunkers, equipment observed; morale; level of training; weather; effects of elevation; water tables; availability of food from natural resources; all put a dozen times. It wasn’t anything Blue and his boys objected to. These Headshed guys were just being careful, making sure they had the full monty, and not just a fleeting impression of what recce life was like on the Falkland Islands. When they put the next patrols in, their initial actions – and some of their targets – would be based on what was said in this cabin.
What would happen with the information wasn’t their concern. But Blue could draw some conclusions from the drift of the questioning. You could never quite trust a Rupert, men well schooled in keeping things to themselves. But it seemed to him that they were very seriously adrift on info about the Argentine Order of Battle. The things they concentrated on showed a need to correct this, and given the difficulties of moving on the Falklands it looked like some of their mates were in for a cold, hard time. The best way to gather intelligence was to pile in the numbers, get them into a good position, and keep them there to report back on a daily basis.
‘That satellite phone, Powell,’ said JRM. ‘Worked a treat. Gerry Tooks says it was as if you were standing right next to him.’
‘Christ,’ said Digger, under his breath, ‘what a bloody nightmare.’
‘Merveilleuse, boss,’ Graunch replied, throwing a glare at the Cockney. ‘But it’s une grande mère to hoik about.’
‘Then you’ll be glad to get shot of it?’
Graunch tried to look disinterested, but he didn’t manage it ve1y well.
‘Or would you like to keep it?’ The question was posed in a way that indicated such a thing wouldn’t happen.
‘Certainement,’ Graunch answered, in a tone of voice that appeared to be already saying goodbye.
‘Sorry,’ the Colonel said. ‘But we’ve only got two of the buggers. And there are a few ops coming up that will just suit that kind of kit.’
Graunch was all innocence. ‘Will they have time to learn how to use it, boss, that is before they’re put ashore?’
The Green Slime looked at Graunch suspiciously. Perhaps he was wondering how this Brummie boy with the terrible French had sussed the Headshed’s intentions. That was typical of Intelligence. They were so seriously short on brains, they assumed everyone else must be the same.
‘They can learn from the manual, Powell. You did!’
Robertson-Macleod must have known what was coming before Graunch replied. He was a good-looking man, who knew it, tall with that sort of blond hair that had natural streaks in it, bright blue eyes and the kind of smiling charm that had earned him the nickname ‘Sundance’. He didn’t look charming now. He looked like the hard-nosed bastard he really was.
‘Une prob boss. I don’t have a clue where it is. Might be aboard the sub, or peut-être it just got left in our hide.’
If ever an expression screamed lying bastard, it was the one on the CO’s face. That brought a little hope to Graunch’s own look. But that changed as Robertson-Macleod grinned, showing teeth that did nothing to dent the movie star image he was so very conscious of.
‘The wonders of science, Graunch. We got another one with a manual and access to a photocopier.’
‘Quelle chance,’ Graunch responded, trying to sound sincere. Never the chirpiest of guys, he now sounded like a man who’d forgotten to post his winning Pools coupon. Blue guessed that inside that ugly head of his, he was screaming ‘fucking Rupert’ to himself.
A quick discussion followed, while everybody made sure that they understood what favour or faults the new kit had. Graunch, for all his disappointment, described it carefully, adding that once the Yanks had additional satellites up, the link would become an absolute must. There had never even been a hint of malfunction, vital because nothing destroyed the integrity of an operation more quickly than· badly performing kit. That didn’t mean slagging off the PRC320. One operation, in which the movement had been minimal, was not a true test of the Satcom’s ability. Any radio that had a proven track record of working was better than a Star Trek gizmo that might play up.
When that finished, Robertson-Macleod broke the meeting up, turning to address Blue Harding, who was leaning back, so low in his chair that he looked smaller than Digger. He didn’t miss the slight flicker of annoyance. JRM wasn’t used to other ranks lounging in his presence, regardless of the time he’d spent in the Regiment. It was always a problem for Ruperts, who did specified tours then returned to their original units. The contrast between the standard Green Army bullshit and badged trooper attitudes was never quite resolved. Officers generally preferred men who stood to attention and saluted.
What Robertson-Macleod saw was the very opposite. Having been Blue’s troop commander when he passed selection he knew the subject quite well. There wasn’t a lot of traffic in the gossip department between officers and men. But there was some, and the soldier JRM was looking at now tended to generate quite a bit. Under the dirt there was a man who was as hard and good as he was himself. If Blue Harding didn’t have movie star looks he had the style.
Off base or operations he was Mr Cool. He spent the kind of money on clothes some guys spent on home improvements, bought the latest electronic kit when it hit the shelf and was the oracle on fashion and rock ‘n’ roll music. He was smooth on a dance floor too, and a lot of his fellow troopers didn’t like him for that. Blue was not the kind of guy to leave alone with any women you held in high regard. He’d been married three times, which showed he was better at the theory of pulling birds than the practice of keeping women.
But on an operation he was respected. Not only was he good at his own job, he had natural ability when it came to getting the best out of others. The trouble, for Robertson-Macleod, was that annoying air that Blue had, which told even someone as high ranking as him, in no uncertain terms, that he knew his strengths. But whatever he thought, this was no time and no place to pull rank.
‘Right Blue. I don’t know if you’ve been told. We retook South Georgia last Sunday, so all our ops are going to be on the main islands from now on. You lot are the only people from B Squadron here ...’
‘How’s that?’ demanded Digger. ‘B should have been on standby as soon as D became engaged.’
‘It was decided to deploy G Squadron instead,’ said JRM.
Digger was glaring now. There was a Guards Mafia in the Regiment, especially amongst the Ruperts, that definitely looked after the squadron the rest called Woodentops. G was sponsored by the Brigade of Guards, being the butt of many jokes, as well as much resentment, from the men who saw themselves as the three originals. The worst thing was the way they imported some of their bullshit. It didn’t take too much thinking to figure out that, with a real war to fight and glory on the table, the Mafia had bumped G up to the head of the tree. If there was any success going, the Woodentops would be desperate to hog it. No imagination was required, either, to guess how their fellow B Squadron members had taken this. They must be fucking livid!
Why they alone, of B Squadron, were here, was obvious. They’d been doing float on, float off when the shit hit the fan. And they’d been within a cough and a spit of a sub heading south. But Digger asked anyway, forcing JRM to confirm. He always did with authority, because, as he liked to put it, ‘You got to keep the fucking Ruperts on their toes.’
‘D and Gare on Hermes,’ Robertson-Macleod added, ‘so you can attach yourself to one of them for sustenance.’
Digger was still miffed, which gave what was meant as a joke a very hard edge. ‘That’s like asking me who I like to room with, Frankenstein or Dracula.’
‘Shut up, Dig,’ said Graunch.
Jamie Robertson-Macleod grinned again, not in the least put out by Digger’s interruptions. ‘I shouldn’t worry, cobber. You’ll hardly have time to wipe your arse before you’re off again.’
It was a measure of the respect that JRM generated that Digger didn’t respond with a put down. Normally, and as a dyed in the wool Londoner, if anyone called him cobber, hinting that he was an Aussie, he gave them a mouthful of abuse. He’d got his down-under nickname from a drunken nocturnal adventure in Hereford, during which he’d pinched and driven around in a JCB. It was not a good idea to steal a JCB digger in a quiet rural town. Fortunately he’d abandoned it before the local filth caught up with him, and the subsequent questions they’d put to the Boss had been fielded for lack of evidence. Mad as he was, JRM stuck to the rule: the Regiment looks after its own.
The main deck of Hermes was packed with stores: great cases of spares, trucks, Land Rovers and artillery. There were Sea Kings and Harriers too, some undergoing maintenance, others stripped near the workshops for serious repair, the sparks from welding guns creating an area of bright light in the otherwise poorly illuminated area. The ship was pitching and rolling, shuddering throughout its whole frame as the bows dug into the huge South Atlantic rollers. At least here, in this vast hangar underneath the flight deck, they were out of the wind, which had made their crossing hairy and the landing so tricky. And the blowback of spume from the bows had soaked them with spray before they made it to shelter.
Not that they were then entirely dry, given the amount of water dripping from the overhead metal. Hermes was an old ship and it showed, especially since the kind of painting and maintenance that was carried out on peacetime service had been abandoned for the duration. Bulkhead doors didn’t quite fit and had to be shouldered shut; rust was showing through where the thick layers of grey paint couldn’t contain it. It sounded ancient as well, creaking and groaning as though it was about to fall apart and drop them all into the South Atlantic. The crew looked just as grey, with sallow complexions and depressed spirits that seemed to match the ship they served in.
They didn’t have to ask directions. Anyone they met on the way down would wrinkle their nose and point to a companionway or a bulkhead door. That led them to the main deck, the heart of the ship, and finally to a screened-off area towards the bows where they’d rigged a heavy cable to hold tarpaulins, this set aside to accommodate the SAS ‘pongos’. Here, towards the front of the main deck, which stank with a mixture of oil, aviation fuel and seawater, the motion of the ship seemed exaggerated, each dip into a trough sending the men staggering towards the nearest thing they could hold on to. Behind the heavy tarpaulin screens there were two distinct areas with an avenue down the middle, both deserted, one for D Squadron and another G. There would be little traffic in between even when the guys were around. For Blue and his men the preference was simple. There was no way the smooth operators from B Squadron would volunteer to basha up with the Woodentops from G.
Just then, a voice, which seemed to come from the bottom of a sleeping bag, solved the problem. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Is that you, Grizzly?’ asked Blue.
The face that emerged was dean-shaven, but even in the dim overhead bulkhead lights Blue could see the parchment coloured skin and thick growth that had earned Billy Cook his nickname. He was wearing a woolly hat, and underneath that lay a mat of pepper and salt hair. His body, chest, torso, back and legs was coated in more hair, all jet-black. Billy also had a voice so deep he made Lee Marvin sound like a soprano. He and Blue had been in the Green Jackets, and had done selection around the same time, in the middle of winter. Not only could Billy sink ten pints a night and rise in the morning to do his tabbing, with all that hair he could have gone out naked in the snow and still got through. Blue liked him, and had hoped they would end up in the same troop. Why they hadn’t was a mystery, known only to the fucking Ruperts who ran the Regiment.
‘We’re on holiday, mate,’ said Digger, as Hermes slammed into another roller, the lifting of the bows causing those standing up to perform a sudden sideways dance to keep their balance. ‘Got a real cheap offer from a bucket shop.’
‘Well you certainly found the biggest fucking bucket in the world,’ moaned Grizzly, pulling himself free of his Gonk bag just as Hermes thudded back to drop into the subsequent trough. ‘I didn’t know the mavericks from B were on this job.’
‘I told you we wanted the South Pacific,’ whooped Luke Tuikabe. He followed that with a hard punch to Digger’s shoulder that produced a big frown. ‘That’s the last time I let you book my vacation, man.’
‘Somebody give this fuckin’ ape a tree to climb, please. That’s all he needs to feel at home.’
Hermes rolled suddenly as Blue replied, but the troopers had their feet spread wide now, and rode it out, though the sounds of metal bending and cargo straining at its bindings forced him to raise his voice. He was trying to sound normal, but it was clear from his complexion that he wasn’t happy with the motion of the ship.
‘We got a fast ball from Gib, mate. They knew you’d need some real soldiers around to make sure you lot didn’t fuck up.’
‘From the smell it was a shit ball, not a fast ball.’
‘We’re looking for une place à mettre la tête,’ Graunch added, tapping his forehead and beginning to slip off his Bergen.
Grizzly Cook flicked his hand. ‘The heads are that way.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Digger exclaimed, ‘D Squadron makes a fuckin’ pun.’
‘Seriously, Grizz,’ added Blue, dropping to his knees to ride out the new roll of the ship. ‘The Headshed told us to basha up with you lot.’
‘That’ll cheer a few people up,’ Grizzly replied, giving Blue a knowing look. ‘Still, there’s no birds around except seagulls, and nobody will mind if you fuck one of them.’
Digger couldn’t stay silent. ‘You ain’t seen this man chat up a lady albatross.’
‘Nope,’ Billy Cook replied. ‘But I’ve seen him carry the odd one around. I can never understand why you elbow the nice ones and marry the dogs.’
‘Breeding, mate!’ snapped Digger. ‘He can’t cope with it.’
Blue flicked his head to the other area, belonging to G Squadron, now more defined by the neatness of the layout. ‘So you’re goin’ to bang us in with them are you? And I thought we were mates.’
Grizzly Cook was on his feet now, swaying easily on well-attuned sea legs to contain the motion of the ship. ‘Naw. I wouldn’t do that to you. They might start talking to you about a career in the Army.’
‘They did that at Shorncliffe, old mate.’
Grizzly, with a complexion that was near to sallow and deep lines in his face, wasn’t long in the smiling stakes. But that name, and the association with the Woodentops, nearly made him look as though he was suffering as badly as Blue. No one remembered their first days in the Army with any affection. Eight weeks of being shouted and sworn at by moronic bastards, the instructors from the Brigade of Guards. It coloured the way you thought from then on.
‘Not that there’s many of them about,’ Grizzly added. ‘Most have heli’d to the frigates to go on ops. The four that are left are to be lifted out at sundown.’
Hermes did a corkscrew then, not only lifting but also sliding sideways so violently that not even Grizzly could quite handle it. He managed to stay upright, but only just, while the others, even on their knees, had to throw out a hand to remain stable. From some distant place they could hear the sound of something breaking, either crockery or glass.
‘Sundown!’ exclaimed Digger. ‘Have you put your barnet on deck, Grizzly? The sun’s never fucking come up.’
‘Where I come from the sun never stops shining,’ said Luke.
‘I know,’ Digger growled. ‘It’s such a fucking paradise you flew ten thousand miles to get to the UK.’
‘The women is easier, man, especially for a guy that’s got somethin’ to offer.’
‘Like a pineapple for a brain.’
‘Where we’ve been is no fuckin’ paradise, that’s for sure,’ moaned Blue. ‘It’s so fuckin’ miserable we should pay the Argies for taking it off us. And water? Can you get your hands on any plastic sheeting, Grizz?’
‘What?’
‘Find some before you go ashore, man,’ Luke insisted. ‘We’ve just been over the Headshed telling them how fuckin’ wet it is.’
‘And cold, mate,’ added Digger. ‘Brass monkeys ain’t in it.’
Graunch chimed in, so passionately he used no flat-vowelled French this time. ‘If you’re in a hide on the flat ground, you need fuckin’ water wings.’
‘I know we ain’t got any.’
‘What about the matelots?’
Blue looked at the great tarpaulins that cut off this section of the deck. Grizzly got up and fingered them too, but he pulled them back to reveal the packed main deck. The metal floor was running with water that only got halfway to one side before the ship rolled to bring it coursing back again.
‘I bet half that shit there is packed in plastic.’
‘I make you right.’
‘Two ticks,’ he said.
The speed with which Billy Cook moved, and the ease with which he found what he was looking for, testified to one heavy fact: this was not the first time he had indulged in a little light-fingered acquisition. The plastic sheet he found was out of the packing case, folded and in his Gonk bag in minutes, a look of pure innocence as he turned back to face Blue Harding.
‘Can’t upset the matelots, mate. They are not a happy bunch.’
‘We noticed!’ said Blue.
‘Must be ‘cause there’s a war on,’ Digger replied.
‘Will you give us a full brief, Blue?’
The ethic of the Regiment said you didn’t enquire, you never asked a man where he was going or where he’d been. That was pure bollocks, typical Rupert-speak. They could be so tight-lipped they wouldn’t pass on the location of the bogs in a strange pub. Blue was a trooper, and would happily pass on what he’d learned even to the Woodentops of G Squadron.
‘I’d rather do it after a shower, mate.’
Grizzly rode the wave as he held his nose, making his deep voice sound Dalek-like. ‘I wasn’t goin’ to insist on it bein’ delivered before.’
Northwood was a place to make anyone schizoid, a pleasant house in rolling grounds, that once entered became like a set for Dr Strangelove. Below, in the underground Operations area, the air conditioning hummed quietly, giving a peaceful air to what was a war room. There were actually two rooms: the one used for normal operations, the other a special high-security suite that was designated as solely for the control of Polaris-carrying subs. But the Navy, forced to share their premises with the other services because of the combined nature of the operation, had commandeered that for their private deliberations. The lights in the main area were bright and fluorescent, and the numerous Wrens the pick of the Navy’s lovelies. Cornelius Hosier hated the place. Not because he didn’t like a good HQ but because he wasn’t running things.
In fact, with all the brass around he was a mite junior. Admirals abounded, tall beetle-browed Radcliffe and tubby little Onslow top dogs, a Shautzer and a pug, lording it over the mere mortals that surrounded them. Hosier had already nicknamed them the Kennel Club. But there were generals and air marshals too, all in best bib and tucker, wearing medal ribbons and thick lanyards. This caused him to wonder if his attachment to camouflage jackets and jungle boots made him look like a bit of a tit. Whatever, it was better than regulation uniform, which even with his red staff tabs, in these surroundings, would have condemned him to total obscurity.
There were other officers in his predicament, too high to be denied access, but too low to be consulted regarding operations outside their own specific sphere. From them, he’d accepted the congratulations for the capture of South Georgia with becoming modesty, even though he’d had no hand in either the planning or execution of the action. Indeed, the word ‘Rejoice’, so tellingly used by the PM outside 10 Downing Street, had begun to dominate his vocabulary in the last twenty-four hours.
Right now there was something going on that had the matelots on tenterhooks. Hushed conversations were taking place between officers as they exited the Polaris Ops room. Convention denied Hosier the direct enquiry. His hints had been ignored so comprehensively that he’d been tempted, just to wind up all these salts, to pick up a phone and loudly demand to be put through to General Galtieri.
‘It seeped out of course,’ he informed his wife over dinner. ‘These things always do. Had it from a young Wren, who just drooled over the old SAS monicker and insisted trying on my beret.’
Aware of the look he was getting from his wife, who knew perfectly well why he traipsed around in combat gear, he continued hurriedly.
‘Seems the Argies have a cruiser called the General Belgrano. Odd that, callin’ a ship after a soldier.’
‘Did we not once have an HMS Wellington?’ his wife asked.
‘I believe we did. Anyway, this tub is stooging about outside the exclusion zone. The Kennel Club had their knickers in a twist about the bugger. Got some kind of green light from the PM to take action, but they wanted it to be more specific. A clear order, no less.’
Miranda Hosier listened intently. She was a loyal wife, ambitious for her husband, quite prepared to be angry on his behalf even when there were doubts about the rightness of his cause. Had anyone accused her of a modicum of bias, they would have faced the full force of her not inconsiderable wrath. This would have been delivered in a voice that made field marshals take notice; one that had been honed by the fight to become head girl of her very good private school with no academic ability whatsoever. To her way of thinking, and a fact she imparted to all of her friends, Corny’d been treated abominably, appointed to a supervisory post just as all hell broke loose. The daughter of a general, she knew that opportunity was a fickle thing in the Army, and that reputations were rarely enhanced behind desks. Since most of her companions were also espoused to soldiers, they nodded politely, while plotting their own husbands’ advancement. But one thing they would all have agreed on. The Navy were stuck up, out-of-date fools, while the Royal Air Force were an absolute, spendthrift shower.
‘One wonders what the Navy is for, darling, if it’s not to sink ships. Surely with all the billions they’ve wasted on Polaris missiles, they have the means.’
‘Politics, my dear. The PM and the War Cabinet have to give the go-ahead. From what this Wren told me, it seems the bloody thing is not only outside the zone, it’s sailing in the wrong direction.’
‘Surely Maggie Thatcher won’t let nonsense like that deflect her. Good god, Corny, they’re the enemy after all!’
‘There are people around the PM without her cast iron pudenda.’
‘Really Corny, that is a bit barrack room.’ Miranda didn’t object to her husband swearing. After all, he was a soldier, of necessity masculine in habit. But she did like to remind him occasionally that vulgarity was a privilege that she bestowed.
‘Sorry, my dear,’ the Brig replied, with the automatic tone of the frequently guilty. ‘Anyway, I thought I’d nip back to Northwood and see what’s up.’
‘Stiffen the old sinews, what?’ his wife barked, swinging her wine glass.
‘That’s it darling. That’s it precisely.’
Miranda Hosier put the knife in with an ease born of long practice, her voice so low it was near to a masculine growl. ‘Or is it that pretty little Wren?’
All Brigadier Cornelius Hosier could manage, in response, was a slightly goofy smile.
He was still at Northwood, sharing a pink gin with the Wren lieutenant, when the news came in. He was then given cause to wonder at the cheering that erupted in the officers’ mess. As he pointed out to Miranda, ‘A brand new state-of-the-art nuke sub had clobbered a ship as old as the Ark.’
Mind you, he had to join in the celebrations, being in the company of a naval officer. But he did notice, as he sipped and flattered, that there were a few wiser folk around. Sailors who shook their heads at the loss of life when the news came in that the Belgrano was sinking. These were men who had lain in their own bunks sweating in terror at the prospect of drowning. They couldn’t ‘rejoice’ even when their enemies met that hideous end.
‘I have my car outside,’ he said to his Wren, who was showing interesting signs of a desire to celebrate this naval triumph. ‘Can I drop you off?’
‘Super,’ she replied, throwing up her arm, and sinking the contents of her glass in one throw.
They didn’t cheer wildly on Hermes either, the crackling announcement from the skipper greeted with excited, but subdued murmuring. Men were expiring in the same water that was under their heaving keel, a thousand freezing fathoms. The crew, nearly 1400 strong, were sailing into battle, a conflict made more real by the destruction of the Argentines’ most prestigious ship. Hermes was the command vessel for the Task Force! She had prestige too, enough to increase the likelihood of a retaliatory strike by an enemy sub.
Blue and his team paid little attention. Now washed, shaved and smelling of carbolic they sat in the galley, eating and talking, surrounded by the men of the two active squadrons, answering questions, fielding the endemic inter-unit insults, and baiting Digger about the chances of Spurs winning the FA Cup. Grizzly, in the more serious moments, told them that most of his guys were on the way back from South Georgia, and since that had been partly a Boat Troop operation for D, they discussed it at length.
‘Hi, shitface!’ said Grizzly, looking over Blue’s shoulder.
Turning round, Blue was faced by Lew Stradler. A scaley, Lew worked on the Regimental Signals. He’d set up the SAS comms link on Hermes, causing much resentment by the way in which he’d bagged himself a cabin in the process. Grizzly’d already mentioned it, and told them about the Whitehouse and Fiesta pictures that covered the walls.
‘How are things in the wank parlour?’
‘Don’t you start, Grizzly,’ Lew replied, his dark-skinned face breaking into a grin. ‘I’ve had the skipper at me to stop you lot on the flight deck. Says he can’t hear the rhythm of the engines for you lot pumping away.’
‘Use it or lose it,’ said Blue, who’d recovered from his original bout of discomfort on coming aboard.
‘You should know, slippery,’ Lew replied.
‘What do you reckon on Spurs, Lew?’ asked Digger, knowing the scaley was a fellow supporter.
‘Can’t lose, Digger.’
‘If I promise to be nice to you,’ said Digger in a fey voice, ‘can I share your cabin? Then we can talk about tactics.’
‘You’d have to wear a skirt to get in my cabin.’
‘You hear that, MacLoughlin?’ Digger called to a huge man who sat at the end of the table. ‘If you’ve got your kilt with you, shit-stabber Lew here will let you into his bunk.’
When it came to a sense of humour, the Army barmy guys of G were not well supplied. And of all the people in G, MacLoughlin was one of the worst. Huge, ginger-haired and an ex-Scots Guardsman, he was a bad man to tangle with. And since he had a voice that was too high for his massive frame, he was very sensitive to remarks regarding his manhood. That was, of course, to Digger, like a red rag to a bull.
‘Ya wee Cockney shite,’ he barked, his already red face deepening in colour. ‘Shut yer gob or ah’ll claim ye!’
‘Lew,’ said Digger, looking puzzled. ‘You do comms. Can you do a bit of decoding and tell me what that ginger-haired Jock bastard said?’
‘I think he says he wants a kiss,’ said Graunch. ‘He must have heard about you fuckin’ ex-jockeys all being poofs.’
‘After you,’ snapped Digger, ‘’cause if he plants one on your ugly mug we’ll know the bastard’s blind as well as dense.’
‘Children,’ hooted Blue.
‘Tosspots the lot of you,’ said Lew, as he waved a piece of paper in his hand. ‘I came to tell you what this said, arsehole. Grizz, you’re stood down for at least twenty-four, since the South G lot won’t be back till then.’
‘I’m heartbroken,’ growled Billy Cook.
‘Blue, you and your team are on the same standby as G. They’re sending through orders for you later. The good news is you’ll be going by chopper this time.’
‘At night?’
Grizzly saw Blue’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘You’d better eat some fuckin’ carrots.’
‘Don’t let him wind you up, Blue,’ said Lew. ‘Some of the heli pilots got hold of PNG kit before they sailed.’
‘Brilliant,’ Blue responded, recalling the trip he’d had in the Gemini. Just thinking about the way they’d been tossed about made him feel slightly sick again. ‘That means we’ll arrive dry.’