‘Good evening. This is the World Service of the BBC. First the headlines. The liner Queen Elizabeth the Second, converted for use as a troopship, left Southampton today bound for the South Atlantic. . .’
The Goose Green settlement, along with the Argentine garrison and airfield, lay beneath the position Blue and his patrol had taken up, the observation position in a hide so well cammed that the Fijian, who revelled in camouflage work, hailed it as a work of art. It had taken them four days to get here, across the awful, wet, exposed terrain of the island, moving at night, Blue out in front well aware that he had no time to search ahead for booby traps or minefields. He had to keep moving over the uneven ground in pitch darkness and hope that he would survive.
The first day on site had been rough, lying in a shell scrape with only their personal cam nets to keep them hidden. The hill they were on was used by all the incoming traffic, both fixed wing and helis, as a navigational approach marker for landing. Some of the aircraft flew so low over their position that it felt as though they were going to set down on top of them, especially the choppers, whose rotor downdraught threatened to dislodge their flimsy coverings.
But when darkness fell they’d been able to work on improving the internal layout and the external appearance over several nights to the point that an Argentine patrol could have come within ten feet of the place and walked straight past. Wire netting supported hessian, covered with tussock grass to blend in with the surroundings on what was a bumpy, rocky hill. Not that they were in any way safe, with aircraft so close they could smell the exhaust fumes.
They counted the troops on the ground: 600 men, a whole battalion in strength, and being reinforced by the very same transports that over-flew them. They counted the planes and choppers, both stationed and ferrying, then morsed that back to the Headshed, another hazardous operation since it was well known that the Argies had direction-finding equipment. But there were patrols all over the island, ten in all, several close to Blue’s, and the level of signal traffic must have caused confusion.
The first result of what they all sent in was a raid by four Harriers that blew up the shoreside fuel dumps and beat up on the garrison in their encampments around the airstrip. It was beautiful stuff to watch, as the planes swooped in over the flat sea of the inlet, the rocket trails clear in a blue sky, as they slotted their targets without once endangering any of the white-painted, red-roofed civilian properties dotted around on the flat peninsula. Smoke billowed up from the burning fuel, as well as the wrecked helicopters and wheeled vehicles. But they missed the planes, a couple of Pucara ground attack aircraft, which the enemy had sensibly camouflaged.
The damage slowed the air traffic for a while, and kept the enemy busy clearing up the mess. But they’d become more bustling, finally behaving as if there was a war on, and with good reason. They’d heard the news. The BBC World Service even told them in Spanish what the British were up to. And if they hadn’t mentioned 3 Commando Brigade by name, heading south to take them on, they’d covered the departure of S Brigade from Southampton. If the Argies hadn’t known things were serious before, they did so now.
Continually reinforced to two-battalion strength, they were digging in, each trench position and freshly arrived unit added to the map that, from information passed through the Skeds, covered the wall back at the Headshed. None of Blue’s team could see it. But they all knew how many patrols were ashore, and how good they were. You had to doubt if any army had ever been so territorially compromised as the Argies. And because of the care the men watching them were taking, it was clear the enemy had no idea of their presence. It was going to be a real shock to them when they found out just how much the troops attacking them knew about their defences.
Eight days went by in an environment far short of comfort. The cold air meant they couldn’t do much during the day, and the idea of animal interest meant they had to pass everything into a piss and shit bag. Food was cold, and washed down with carefully conserved water, though there was no shortage of that commodity in the Falklands. Indeed, if they wanted any, all they had to do was put their heads down, since despite the plastic sheeting that lined the floor, water seeped through to form a puddle at the bottom of the hide deep enough to soak their boots.
And it was cold, a deep form of chill that seemed to seep through every fibre of the body. The Gonk bags were soaked, so that when sleeping the shivering sometimes became uncontrollable. SOP said that you stayed inside the hide day and night. But Blue Harding was a great believer in that old adage that rules were what wise men listened to and only fools lived by. So at night, after the end of the stand-to, they would emerge in pairs, one man standing stag while the other worked to get blood flowing into stiff and cold limbs. After stand-to Graunch would check out his antennae, and if the frequency had been changed, add or subtract the prescribed distance of wire for what was required. The Sked would go off morning and night, detailing news of what they had observed that day.
They logged locations, weapons equipment and dress; tried to assess relative strengths and capabilities; noted tactics, training, leadership and morale; and sought out the source of any potential reserves. It was also part of their task to survey the ground, and complete a sketch map that would hopefully identify the vital points for both defence and attack.
The routine was hard and demanding, but there was no moaning. This was what they had trained for. It was a matter of personal pride that they should endure discomfort without comment. There was no need for Blue Harding to issue any orders. Luke, Digger and Graunch could think for themselves. They could work out at what part of the day each trooper would undertake other duties, like light cleaning of his weapon. It was simple stuff: check the magazine, chamber and the face of the breech-block. A quick pull-through oiled the barrel. As they undertook the drill for the morning and evening stand-to, they checked their belt kits, grenades and emergency medical kits. Then it was eat, drink and pack the few items left outside into the Bergens, ready for a quick bug-out. Stood down, they took turns at sleeping through the hours of darkness, dawn heralding another day of quiet, rotated observation.
It wasn’t quiet on the ninth day! There was little digging going on, and it seemed that the bulk of the Argies were out patrolling. Blue and Luke watched as they moved over the terrain beneath them, rifles up and swinging about as the point men searched the rises and dips, clearly looking for the very thing that the patrol was hiding in.
‘Some fucker’s woken them up,’ whispered Luke.
Even concentrating hard, you can’t help speculating. Blue was wondering what had happened. Had the Argies found just one hide on the island, and been alerted to the idea that there might be more? That would mean that some poor sod had been compromised. He just hoped if it was true that they’d got out alive.
On the other hand, it could mean that some of the guys from D had gone into action. Infiltration to gather intelligence was all very well. But that produced targets, some of which might be too tempting or mobile to leave alone. A flash of envy followed that thought, and in his mind he could see Grizzly and his mates going into action, guns blazing, grenades flying and Argies dying by the dozen. It was like an imagined movie, complete with a sound track by Vangelis, which made him smile. You had to be a bit of a big kid to do the job, and he was no exception.
But what the patrol had to worry about now was that they were in danger of being on the receiving end of that very thing themselves, and a decision had to be made. First, to go or stay! And, if the last, whether to hunker down in pitch darkness, hoping those searching would just pass them by, or keep watching through the thin gauze that fronted the hide, so that they could make a fight of it if their position was uncovered.
Imagination produces bad movies as well as good ones, and he hated the idea of being suddenly exposed. That might not happen anyway. If the Argies did find the hide, they might just drop a grenade in to pulp them, or blast away through the sod above their heads and .waste them that way. Without relating his daydreams, Blue consulted the others.
‘I’d rather go out standing upright, mate,’ said Digger.
Serious as it was, Blue couldn’t resist the joke. ‘But would they notice, Dig?’
With Luke and Graunch, the answer was in the eyes.
‘Double check we’re secure.’
Each man went through his own mental list, the same one they’d done twice a day since arriving. The kit was ready, they knew the location of the emergency RV. The latest heli pickup point, with times, had come in that morning and been decoded. Blue checked that everyone knew it. Graunch, having got the codebook to where he could destroy it in a second, hauled in his antennae and secured the radio. Blue didn’t open the piss and shit bag, but he did check the seal. Digger never took his eyes off the enemy.
There was no need to check the weapons. They were ready at all times. And they had enough with them to lay down some serious shit. The GPMG, even in a light role like this, could put down up to a thousand rounds a minute to an effective range of nearly 800 metres. Each man carried an M203, with eight mags containing thirty rounds. All the kit that wasn’t in actual use was already packed in the bergens. They were ready to move with everything they owned at a moment’s notice. This wasn’t done in a rush, but methodically. Not one of the patrol even got warm from getting prepared. They sat still, weapons ready to fire, with grenades on the belts that were easy to get at, feet planted firmly in the water at the bottom of the hide.
If the days before had been long, this one was longer, the element of impending risk doing nothing to speed the daylight hours. Common sense made them abandon the use of binoculars. The risk of a reflective flash was small. But with the enemy coming ever closer it was too big to take and they could see anyway with their naked eyes just how much of a threat they were under. It was good to know they weren’t alone. Not too far away, above and behind them and within a visible radius of their position, lay two G Squadron hides. The men in them would be at full alert as well, ready to back them up if they were so badly compromised they couldn’t get clear.
They could see about four patrols, all under command of the first Argentinian officers they’d observed outside the trench lines, groups of ten nervous guys whose fear was almost visible, even from a distance. Everything they had seen of these people told them they were conscripts. The badly fitting, incomplete uniforms and the way they held themselves. Now, patrolling, they reacted to the slightest sound, most of which appeared to be coming from their own mates. As they made their way up the slope, what could be seen, in terms of numbers, diminished until there was only one group in their field of vision. No one spoke, but all four troopers knew that, should they try to break out, the other patrols, now lost to sight, would be on either side of them, causing as much anxiety probably to the other observation posts as the guys in front were causing them.
The gunshot took more than Blue’s patrol by surprise. The Argies they could see panicked to a man, diving in all directions. They took a tighter grip on their own weapons. Only the guy who’d fired seemed unaffected, but that was probably because he was dazed. He stood looking at his rifle as if trying to figure out who had fired the negligent discharge. His officer, a real hero, who’d hit the grass as soon as the gun went off, got to his feet screaming abuse. He knew he’d been made to look like a wanker. The gun was still in the hands of the poor bastard who’d fired it, and the officer raised his own pistol, pointing it at the conscript’s head and demanding in a high-pitched squeal that it be handed over.
Digger’s lips didn’t move as he hissed: ‘That’s what I call leadership. Typical fucking Rupertino.’
Blue was too busy worrying to respond with even a smile. He was thinking about the guys they couldn’t see. Just because they’d worked straight up the hillside didn’t mean they’d keep that up. They could, right now, be traversing across the slope, moving towards them. Then he relaxed. Even if they had been, that guy with the ND would have changed their minds. That was real ammo, and if they were anything like the ones he could see, they’d be traversing away from the hide and the gunshot, not towards it.
The officer was still yelling, and indistinct as the sound was they knew he was threatening the conscript. That must have been what triggered the reaction. His rifle still in his hands, the kid began to run, not down the hill towards the trenches, but up the hill, straight towards the hide.
‘Go another way, you stupid cunt,’ hissed Blue, squinting through his sights.
If the Argie officer was mad before, that reaction sent him loopy. Before he started off in pursuit, he fired a shot over the conscript’s head, which was a dumb thing to do to a youngster who’d already panicked. The kid picked up pace, still heading straight for them, unaware that he was staggering into more danger than he faced to his rear. They were counting off the paces, trying to decide at which point to drop him, because in his present frame of mind, blind terror, the soldier could run straight over their position and not know he’d done so.
Even if there were four guns trained on him, it was Blue’s call as patrol leader. The others would hold their fire as long as he did, which made him wonder if they shared some of his thoughts: that the guy was so terrified he himself presented no threat to them. If he uncovered their hide it would be by pure fluke, which was a lousy way to die. Blue kept his trigger finger still, prepared to risk it, his gaze now fixed on a face so close he could see the terror in the eyes. That’s when the officer started shooting. If he was taking aim he was a terrible shot, the bullets from his pistol thudding into the ground right and left of his running target, with one, which must have missed the kid by a millimetre, going right through the wire mesh just above their heads.
The kid then did, as far as Blue was concerned, the worst thing possible. No more than five metres from the front of the hide, he stopped dead in his tracks and stood, his shoulders pressed together as though by shrinking his body size he would cease to be a target, a trembling, gaunt figure in a uniform four sizes too big. Behind him, his officer was reloading his automatic pistol on the run, pulling out one magazine and replacing it with a fresh one.
The kid was crying. They could see the tears coursing down his thin cheeks, streaking across the grime that had accumulated since he set out that morning. Occasionally he sobbed loud enough for the sound to carry to the four troopers, and Blue heard Digger hiss, under his breath, ‘Walk away son, walk away.’ But he didn’t even tum round as the officer caught up with him, grabbing his limp arm to pull him round, the pistol following through to whip the soldier round the ear.
That dropped him to his knees, using his rifle for support, the officer standing over him screaming abuse, jabbing at the boy with the pistol barrel. Digger was cursing under his breath, his emotions shared by all four troopers judging by the tightness of their breathing. The desire to slot the Rupertino was almost overwhelming, as the conscript sunk lower and lower under the weight of the blows. It was a mistake for the kid to lift his rifle. Blue could see what he was doing, trying to either show why it had discharged or to hand it over completely so that he was no longer responsible.
His officer saw it very differently. Typical of the coward he was, he couldn’t face the muzzle. He jumped back, raised his pistol and fired in what was clearly panic. The bullet took the kid in the side of the head, jerking as it entered, spewing forth a great lump of blood and brains as it exited from the other side. Four trigger fingers closed a fraction. But training kept them from the pull they so wanted to execute, stopped them from putting in the Argentine Rupert’s head a four-for-one payback for what he’d done to an innocent kid.
The officer stood rigid as the body slowly fell over. They could see his features too, observe the shock in his own eyes at what he had done. He started shouting and cursing again just as his victim’s body hit the wet grass, where it twitched once before becoming still. To the rear, the rest of the patrol were moving forward, not at a run and not in line, their weapons no threat to anyone as they concentrated their gaze on the body of their dead comrade. Their rifles stayed that way as they gathered round, unaware that the first one to look up the hill could very likely join him. In fact, Blue Harding knew that not one of them would still be alive ten seconds after a firefight started.
But that hadn’t happened yet, and even in a situation this dangerous Blue still hung on to the belief that it could stay that way. You sort of stop breathing when the enemy gets close enough, and you hope that your body, which you know smells like shit, suspends excreting oil through the pores for just a few minutes. They could see their breath misting as the scrawny conscripts exhaled, see the drawn, tense faces of men tired from a day spent marching, a day that had ended in an informal execution. But Blue could also see the lack of real interest on the soldier’s faces. It was as if their officer was more shocked at what he had done than they were.
The concentration inside the hide was immense, every sense alert to a sudden twitch of movement that would mean discovery. Being on the inside, you had an opinion, not a view, of what it now looked like from the outside. Luke had hailed it as perfect, but there was no guarantee it had stayed that way. All it took was for something to seem slightly out of place to make any one of the Argies look a bit harder. They could be ten dumb fucks but it only took one with sharp eyes to do the trick! They wouldn’t shout and point. Conscripts they might be, but there would be enough of a feeling of self-preservation to stop anyone who spotted the hide from reacting. No cunt in his right mind would do that. It was a sure way to get slotted by the first shot!
Was Blue alone in praying that they’d fail? Seeing that kid gunned down had affected him. The officer apart, he had no desire to kill the rest of these kids. And to be compromised would count as a defeat, even if they got away intact and left the whole Argentine unit dead. This was a non-aggressive patrol. It was a real pisser, when you’d gone to all the trouble of creating an observation post, and staying there for a week, to be flushed out. And the biggest bummer was, if they found one, they’d put out a maximum effort to find all the others.
A whistle blew. A long blast but distant. That seemed to concentrate the officer’s mind. He holstered his pistol then ordered two of his men to pass over their rifles. They took hold of the boots of their dead comrade, dragging him back down the hill, his broken head leaving a trail of blood and gore in the long wet grass as it bounced over the tussocks. His comrades seemed determined to look anywhere but into the sightless eyes. But the officer was marching with his shoulders square, like a man who’d won some kind of victory, unaware that there were four weapons pointing to a spot right in the middle of that arrogant back.
The training intensified once B Squadron were on Ascension. Hosier was in the background, harrying Vere Symington to ever greater efforts. By now the squadron could do the whole debus procedure blindfold, and deploy in a dozen different ways to meet endless unknown scenarios. He must have known that they had to keep the men busy, known that if they had a chance to sit and talk to each other for any length of time he might well have a mutiny on his hands. Not that there wasn’t open dissent. Every time he came close negative remarks were aired in a way that he couldn’t fail to hear.
But the Director of Special Forces seemed immune, and just stared at some distant object, like his field marshal’s baton. But not even he, with his well-known ability to avoid dangerous responsibility, could leave the Squadron Commander to do the final briefing. As he stood up to address B Squadron, he could almost physically feel the animosity emanating from the men before him. There was a table in front of him, with various bits and pieces on it, models of buildings and hangars that would have made up a diorama. That is, if anyone had known where to put them.
‘Right, pay attention!’
It was unnecessary, and treated as such by a totally silent response from the men facing him.
‘Our recce patrol is in place, and will be going ashore from Hermes as soon as it is dark. The method of entry is by Sea King, and they are carrying with them not only one of the new Satcom radio telephones, but a hand-held radar detection device that will tell us precisely how long our window of opportunity is. They have to fly a long way, so the ship has been stripped down to the very bare essentials to allow for extra fuel. As soon as they are on the ground, and have confirmed our window, we will lift off for the target. Any other information they provide will be signalled through to both aircraft on RAF comms, up to the point at which it threatens to compromise the security of the operation.’
‘Surprise, gentlemen,’ he added, after taking a deep breath. ‘The element that makes what we do successful.’
‘I certainly got one when this was dreamt up, boss,’ said Marty Roper. Sitting on the aisle seat, it was obvious who had spoken. Nor was it a secret that Marty was one of the most negative troopers on the payroll. Symington glared, but Hosier ignored him.
‘We must balance risk against gain,’ Hosier continued loftily.
‘All risk, chancy gain.’
‘It can be put like that. But it is my nature, and I believe the ethic of Special Forces, to accentuate the positive. It is my job to get you to the runway without incurring initial casualties that might jeopardize the whole attack. I believe that, once our recce patrol has reported back, I will be able to do that.’
None of them was happy, and part of his being could understand why. The job they were being asked to perform was a bugger. All he knew was that it was necessary, and that if he had been in their shoes, he might have shown the same doubts. But crucially, he would never have given the impression that he was reluctant to go. In recalling the two men he had dismissed, and in repeating something he had said to them, Hosier knew he was taking a calculated risk. But these men had to be made to understand.
‘Gentlemen, I had occasion to say this to two EX-members of the Regiment who should be with us now. I will repeat it to you! The SAS cannot be seen to be in the position of not taking casualties, when other elements of the British Army are. We are the elite, and that implies responsibilities as well as benefits. I know that what is proposed is dangerous. But that is our job. All told, adding it all up, I say the odds of getting you in will be fairly good.’
A voice from the back called out. ‘Is there a William Hill about? I’d like to put on an ante post bet.’
The laughter, even if it was gallows humour, lightened the atmosphere.
‘I know, men, that once you get in, you will, as usual, excel yourselves.’
Hosier looked at his watch, in an elaborate gesture that was typical. ‘Shall we say 16.00 hours? I want everyone, and their equipment, loaded onto the trucks 18.00 hours. Vere, I will be over at RAF HQ confirming the flight arrangements, if you need me.’
Symington didn’t blink at that; didn’t let on what only he and Hosier knew. That the RAF aircrews were just as nervous about this op as the men in the briefing room. One navigator had already refused point blank to go, and had been stood down and replaced. At all costs that had to be kept from his men, since it would only add to their reluctance. But he had to know if matters had improved or deteriorated.
‘I’ll walk part way with you, if I may,’ he said.
Hosier nodded to him, and they departed, leaving a buzz of unfriendly conversation in their wake.
‘I don’t flaming well believe him!’ said Lowry. He was talking to Sam Clark as he watched the retreating backs, the Director’s head bent in deep conversation with Vere Symington. ‘The SAS must be seen to be taking casualties!’
The voice suddenly became very hard, the expletive unusual from a man who, normally, didn’t swear. ‘He’s not fucking going, is he?’
‘He would, though, Davey,’ Sam replied grimly. ‘Ours is not to reason why.’
‘Am I letting them down, Sam?’ he asked, a pained expression on his face. ‘Should I do the same as Gerry Tooks? Would another officer refusing orders make them see sense?’
Sam patted him on the shoulder. ‘That’s the great thing about the Regiment, Davey, there’s nobody to make up your mind for you.’
The timing of the operation meant that the squadron had to be ready to go the minute the patrol radioed back on the radar ‘window. The signal would come from Hereford, since that was where the Satcom patched through to, then passed on to Ascension. The routine was established and followed. Everything was checked, both personal and unit weapons and loads. Plans were re-hashed, with targets and timing repeated so that every man knew his place and task. The operation was a secret, so no loading would take place until the signal to go was confirmed. Fast loading had been trained for as well, so that they could be aboard the Hercules and airborne before anyone knew what the aircraft were carrying.
Each man had an individual way of expressing it, but they were fantastically keyed up for action. Never mind that they’d have to spend hours in flight. Even the troopers who wondered if they should be here at all were buzzing. It was what they had trained for. They had written their last letters home, enclosing whatever instructions they wished to leave behind should they be killed. That was like detaching yourself from the reality of normal life, a cutting off point that once you’d crossed made you a whole different being.
Some laughed at silly jokes, and took the piss out of each other. A few prayed, while most ran over in their minds the list of scenarios that they’d practised, determined to do well. Even if they hated the idea of going, not one of the men sitting in the trucks or Pinkies wanted to let himself down. True, there was the Regiment and its reputation to think of as well. But push come to shove it was a man’s feelings about his own behaviour that counted. So nothing was worse than, having got so wound up, to be told to stand down, get some kip, and then be ready to do another training exercise that afternoon.
It was hard to appreciate, running around sweating buckets in the benign climate of Ascension, what was holding matters up. They didn’t know that, down in the South Atlantic, it was blowing a gale, a westerly headwind that would so slow the Sea King it might not make its landfall. The radio told them that no more ships had been hit by Exocets, and that General Al Haig was in a place that John Cole, the BBC reporter with the thick Ulster accent, called ‘Burrnos Airs’. It didn’t tell them, and neither did their own superiors, that D Squadron had just hit Pebble Island.
They went through the same routine a second night, packing Bergens and going over plans, before climbing aboard again to sit throughout the hours of darkness, waiting. The signal came again after midnight. Operation postponed!
The same the next night, with some of the guys praying it would be third time lucky; that they’d bin the whole operation. Sam Clark wavered back and forth. He was Mr Positive during the day – not because he was absolutely sure it was going to be that way, but because of the need to maintain morale. Never mind the moaners; they were going in. Any guy that had wanted to pull out would have done so in the UK. Even if they were still miserable, it was an expression of feeling, not a prelude to resignation.
But it was hard, sitting in the dark with nothing else to do, to avoid examining the worst-case scenario: that they would take incoming Roland missiles while they were still short of the field; that one of the eighty-five small warheads that Serious Sid had told him about would come blasting through the thin aluminium skin. In that case, all you could hope was that death would be quick, that the bugger would explode right underneath your arse.
He could hear the others talking quietly. Sam got a slight lump in his throat occasionally, as he thought of the people he was with, how much he respected all of them. And what he’d said to Lowry was right. Hosier would have come if he had been at Tooksy’s rank. There would have been no stopping him. The mad cunt would have been first off the plane.