Cabinet office to Flag Officer, South Atlantic: 17/5/82: Confirm receipt of final plans for Operation Surrey. War Cabinet will consider and advise.
For Blue’s patrol the next few days were like going through a revolving door. The signal on the morning Sked gave them their orders, plus the location of the pickup. They would be lifted out by heli and transported to Fearless. They spent the day doing the same as they’d done for the last ten, watching their enemy, then stood to as usual before nightfall. Having bugged out from the OP, they tabbed the ten Ks to the helicopter pickup point over a hairy two days. That meant moving in a situation where remaining secure was a hope not a certainty, at a pace faster than that which they’d used coming in. The patrol arrived in darkness, well before the agreed time, knowing there were going to be other troopers there, four of them, waiting for the same lift.
The approach to the RV was made with great caution, each man on edge because they knew how dangerous this part of the operation was. You always have to work on the principle that the enemy is improving, and just because you pulled off a stunt with ease before, you should never assume that you can do so again. There could be any number of ways to make life hard. Better radio intelligence might tell them more than they should know about Task Force operations. Or maybe, having sussed that the British Special Forces were operating, they would try to emulate some of their methods to catch the guys out. The impression everybody had was of an army poorly led and demoralized. But it only took one good officer, in the right place at the right time, with two or three keen soldiers, to bring on a rush of efficiency.
The other patrol had arrived first, and it was their job to sponsor the RV. That meant that their patrol leader decided on the defensive position, and whoever led that group was the main man when it came to decisions. Headshed had laid down the approach procedure, and it was Blue who went forward, both hands and his weapon above his head, so that those already in position knew he was friendly. Once identified he called in the others, and they took up positions on the extended defence perimeter.
No one talked as they lay in the long grass overlooking the silent South Atlantic. The SSM from G Squadron waited till the RV time. Then, using a torch with an infra-red filter, he started flashing a signal out to sea. This the heli pilot could pick up on his passive night goggles. The Sea King would not come in without the signal, it being too valuable to risk in a trap. It would be down to radio skeds to rearrange the RV. If the men who were supposed to be lifted out didn’t make contact, then another group might have to be sent in by boat to find out what had happened.
Everyone was ready, Bergens on and kit tight for what had to be a very swift bug-out. With some moonlight, they saw the silhouette of the heli not long after they heard the thudding of the blades. It was coming in so low over the water that it seemed to be floating. The pilot didn’t fuck about. He came straight in, hitting the grassy surface with a thud that was no good for the paintwork. Even if the troopers ran, it was done with discipline, having been worked out before, so that only two guys arrived at the doorway at one time. They didn’t clamber aboard, they jumped, sliding along the rough surface of the cabin floor so as to leave the entry free for the next pair.
Graunch and Digger were second last, too slow for the Woodentop Sergeant and his patrol signaller, bringing up the rear. He gave them the good news for being slow arseholes, Chelsea Barracks fashion. They would have heard the bastard in Buenos Aires if the Sea King hadn’t lifted while his feet were still outside. The dispatcher had already signalled to depart, and Luke Tuikabe had to grab and haul him in. As strong as an ox, he threw him behind them into the well of the cabin, an act that earned him not a hint of a thank you. But it did produce a pleasing ‘fuck’ that sounded like reaction to pain.
‘Typical fuckin’ B Squadron,’ he yelled, as he sat up. ‘Flash bastards on a fucking dance floor, greedy bastards at a scoff, but no fucking good anywhere else.’
‘Who’s got the swear box?’ shouted Digger. ‘This arsehole has just bought a regimental round.’
There was no laughter that Blue could hear to that remark. Why would there be? Digger was slagging off a leading light of the non-humorous tendency. The rest of the flight was made in silence, if you can give a name like that to the constant thud of the rotors. All of the guys, who’d been out like his for ten days sitting in the same kind of hole in the ground, were knackered, their heads lolling forward as they dozed. His boys were about to do likewise, but Blue nudged them to stay awake, then signalled that they should edge towards the door. Whatever question each of them wanted to ask, they knew better than to phrase them. If the patrol commander had a reason to be close to the door, that was good enough for them.
Fearless put on some navigation lights to guide the chopper in. Blue got to his knees, Luke, Graunch and Digger doing likewise, still mystified but prepared to follow. As soon as the Sea King hit the deck, and before the suspension springs had hit the bottom of their travel, Blue Harding was out, his patrol at his heels running across the top deck for the companionway that led below. Within seconds they were dodging through corridors and bulkhead doors, Bergens slamming off the ship’s plating.
‘Where’s the bloody fire?’ shouted Digger, as he slid, two hands on the metal rails, down a companion ladder.
‘Let’s get to the debrief first. And make sure you take the chairs nearest the doors.’
‘What the fuck for?’
‘I’m not waiting till we get to Hermes to have a cleanup,’ Blue yelled. ‘And neither will the Woodentops. How many showers do you think they’ve got set aside for us on this tub? I want out of that debrief the second it’s over. I want to get to the hot water first. There’s no way I’m standing outside waiting for those dirty bastards behind us to get sluiced down.’
The Headshed was waiting for them, slightly put off their stride by the way the B Squadron guys charged in then sat at the back of the room. The Woodentops arrived a good two minutes later, giving an innocent-looking Blue a hard look, before making a point of sitting as close to the Ruperts as possible. When it came to questions, Green Slime led the charge, eager to put even more marks and lines on his maps. There didn’t look to be too much left in the way of space!
The Headshed had a list of their signals, and that formed the basis of the questions, as they sought to expand from the necessarily brief information they’d been given on the radio, and turn it into something with three dimensions. Neither patrol had much trouble in obliging. They’d been looking at the same piece of cold, wet terrain for over a week. The questions included tactical appreciations too, each trooper encouraged to speak out if he had any theories of how the defences could be neutralized.
A briefing winds down before it ends. You know the third time you’re asked a reasonably basic question that it’s getting near the time to quit. Blue began fingering his Bergen straps, a signal that was picked up by the others. Jamie Robertson-Macleod had barely begun to say, ‘Right, chaps, I think that will be all,’ before the back markers were shoving their way out the door. Shouted requests to sailors were met by jabbing fingers, and they found the crew showers within a couple of minutes.
All four went straight in, in their kit, except boots and weapons. The water was running good and hot before any of the G Squadron contingent made it. Happily they listened to the loud cursing and bad-mouthing as they washed their kit first, and their bodies second, the delicious feeling of clean water and soap on their bodies marred by the pain in their festering feet.
‘What are they on about, Blue?’ called Digger. ‘I can’t hear them over the sound of this nice hot water.’
‘I think they want to have a cleanup, mate.’
‘Woodentops don’t wash do they?’
‘No, mate. They just blanco the cunts up, doll them up in a furry hat and a bum-freezing red coat, then stick them in a box outside Buck House.’
It would have been nice to leave their boots off. Every one of them was suffering from feet kept wet for a week on end. And when they got back aboard Hermes, having been choppered over at first light, they soon discovered they weren’t the only ones. Graunch charged straight off to the medics to get them all some dry powder, only to discover when he got there that it was in very short supply.
Lew Stradler was aboard, looking very sleek. Obviously life on board ship suited him. Any questions regarding events in their absence had to wait until he and Digger had completed a long discussion about the chance of Spurs winning the Cup FinaL The most pressing problem was whether their side, simply the best team in the world, could play Ricky Villa, the Argentine World Cup star. The rest brought this to an end by taking their boots off.
‘Trench foot!’ exclaimed Lew, fingers up to pinch his nose. ‘Who’d fuckin’ believe it in 1982?’
‘You would, you no good arsehole,’ snapped Digger, all fellow feeling gone, ‘if you ever got out of your poxy slippers and got your feet wet.’
‘You should have kissed more arse, Digger, then you could have had my job.’
‘Is that how you get to be in signals then?’
‘Digger, you’re naïve. It’s how you get anything.’
‘Are we ever going to find out what’s been happening, Lew?’ demanded Blue.
‘Eight of your boys came through, Concorde Tucker and Craig Walker from Boat Troop. They were held up for three days. You only just missed them.’
‘What’s the story here?’ Digger protested. ‘Are we arriving at this war in drips?’
‘Were they doing anything interesting?’ asked Luke.
Lew dropped his voice. ‘They’re on the mainland.’
‘Fuckin’ Ada,’ said Digger.
‘Hey! From what I’ve heard they’re not going to be alone. No details, but that cunt Hosier put B up for an Entebbe on one of the Argie air bases. Your guys, nine of them for Christ’s sake, were supposed to recce it before the C130s went in.’
‘Nine men? Was there a Rupert?’
‘Heering.’
‘God fuckin’ help them,’ Digger moaned.
‘Lofty Glynn was there too.’
‘What a combination,’ said Blue. ‘Happy families do not immediately spring to mind.’
‘What else is happening?’ asked Luke.
‘The good news is you’ve got the day off.’
‘And the bad?’
‘You’ll probably be going on a squadron operation with D.’
’I want to go home,’ said Digger.
‘Don’t let me get in your way. In fact, if you can take me with you I’ll buy your Cup Final ticket.’
Graunch returned, nose wrinkling, bearing the scrapings of foot powder that he’d cadged off some of the other sufferers. He sat down heavily. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go near Grizzly Cook.’
‘They’ve been out to play?’ added Lew.
‘Had a great time,’ Graunch continued. ‘While we’ve been sitting up to our arse in water, they’ve been charging around like boy scouts blasting every target the infiltration teams have marked.’
‘Over the moon are they?’
‘Like roosters who’ve just rogered the flock.’
There could only be one reason for that, but Blue asked anyway. ‘Have they done a bit of special?’
‘Took out a satellite airstrip, then they hit an Argie airfield on Pebble Island.’
‘Is the name the size?’ asked Digger. ‘Like where the fuck is this place?’
‘Somebody told me it was in the Falkland Islands,’ Graunch replied. ‘But a berk like you couldn’t be expected to know that.’
‘Why don’t you two get married?’ snapped Blue, finally tired of their sniping.
‘You sound just like my Mum and Dad,’ added Luke.
‘We’ve got to be better looking,’ said Digger, his face adopting an innocent look. ‘Did you have parents, Graunch, or did they put you together with the left over bits in the ward?’
That nearly earned Digger a clip on the jaw, and he knew it because he weaved backwards in his chair. But Graunch, after making a feint, just grinned. It was one of his saving graces. He was an ugly bastard but at least he knew it.
‘So what happened at this Pebble Island?’ asked Blue.
‘One for the regimental book. The flyboys thought there was a radar station there so they sent in Boat Troop D to have a look-see. What did the bastards find? Not a radar station but a fuckin’ airfield with guys just waiting for our mob to land so that they could blast them, short range.’
‘That ain’t fucking fair,’ said Digger, his mouth now full of bread and jam.
’So they laid on the full monty. Boat Troop to guide them in, landing site holding party, and assault teams.’
‘Half the silly bastards got lost, I heard,’ added Graunch.
‘Typical D,’ Digger said, spitting out crumbs.
‘Anyway. Turns out the fuckin’ place had a five-hundred-strong garrison. Useless sods who woke up to find our guys happily torching the planes. They got eleven all told, Pucaras and Skyvans.’
‘Argies not pleased?’ Blue grinned.
‘Very upset. Our guys are doin’ the biz, and just getting out, when the cunts set off command-wired mines.’
‘How many?’ asked Blue, seriously.
‘Would you believe it, only one of the bastards got a wound and that was in his foot.’
The slagging off was like a round robin, every oar in. But there was a wee bit of envy too – that added to genuine relief that none of the Ds had been slotted. Then it was sort out your kit time. They were going on an op, and if they left that bit to the last minute, it was always a bastard. It was the same as before: clean the weapons, check the ammo and grenades, ensure the right number of trauma kits, draw rations and part-pack your Bergen. Then you could go to a briefing, and at the end, you didn’t have to stub out your fag in a rush. You could watch all the other tossers legging it, and puff away happily.
JRM had choppered over to do this one personally, having pulled most of the teams off the island for the purpose. Long pointer in his hand, swaying as the ship rose and fell in a really heavy swell, he looked like a man who was enjoying himself. And so he should. So far his men had performed brilliantly. And in the only hitch so far, on the Fortuna Glacier in South Georgia, they had been in a place no other troops in the world would have tried to go. He was an ambitious soldier who craved higher rank. But that didn’t bother his troopers, since he was very open about it.
‘Right, fellas, the landing of 3 Commando Brigade is on.’ Robertson-Macleod threw back a blanket, which had been covering a map, jabbing with his pointer. ‘They are going to sail the whole shebang, Canberra, Norland and half the bloody fleet into the Falkland Sound at dawn on the twenty-first, and put the boys ashore in San Carlos Bay. We have a job to do, and that is to make the Argies think that, even if they spot it, it’s a diversion.’
That first map was flicked back to reveal another, showing the targets the Headshed had chosen for Special Forces. ‘So, we go in sixteen-man teams, attack our selected enemy positions, and hit them hard and LOUD.’
That shout got everyone sitting forward. ‘We want to make them think that they are the ones. That the whole bloody British Army has decided to slot them. That means we take plenty of ammo, plenty of grenades, plenty of mortar and anti-tank shells, and we don’t bring them back. This is deafen yourselves time.’
Robertson-Macleod paused, then called off the names of the unit commanders. ‘I will brief you; you will allot detailed tasks to your teams. We chopper over to the assault ship Intrepid at 14.00 hours, and we take all our kit with us. She will take us into our landing spots and we go ashore in Rigid Raiders or Geminis. Our job is simple. I don’t even want the Argies to think about shifting out of their trenches, never mind the idea that they might move to the beachhead at San Carlos.’
The rest of the morning was a blur, since they’d learned the Regiment was leaving Hermes and very likely not coming back. That meant taking along gear that was not meant for this job, but had to be handy enough to get hold of for follow-up operations. The rest would follow later. One thing you can say about the Regiment, you’re never stinted for kit. They will give you as much gear as you want, and never ask for an invoice. But no trooper in his right mind indulges in waste, because you’ve got to carry every pound you draw on your back, and that’s a bummer.
So it was the usual trade-off between weight, food and firepower, only this time they were being ordered to carry more ammo than usual, spread between sixteen guys. Blue and his team, assigned to the same group as Grizzly, worked hard to make sure the divisions were equal. Not that Grizzly was trying to top them up. They were no good to the rest if they were knackered. But he couldn’t resist the wind-up, and there was no end of slagging and blagging going on, as the B Squadron’s Bergens grew so heavy that even the giant Luke Tuikabe would have struggled to lift them.
As they came on deck, late in the afternoon, humping masses of gear, it was obvious that the swell had increased and so had the wind. The sky was unrelieved grey, low clouds that swirled and chased across the leaden sky. The chopper pilots sat in their machines, the masters of cool, like this was a good day out for them, sunny and warm, totally unfazed by the way Hermes was pitching and rolling, occasionally staggering and jarring through its whole superstructure as it hit a wave. Grizzly, as well prepared as Blue had been, got them on the first and second lift, so that they cross-decked to Intrepid in time to nick what little accommodation had been left free by the men of 3 Commando.
If Hermes had been rolling and pitching, then Intrepid, a fifth of her size, was bouncing about like a cork, the bows heaving thirty feet in the air before crashing down to send up a huge cloud of spume. And being an assault ship, hollow in the middle, she added a corkscrew motion to that which was seriously uncomfortable. You couldn’t take a step unless you were holding on to something, and half the gear they tried to stow dropped right back on their heads.
‘Fuck this,’ said Blue, ‘leave it on the poxy floor.’
‘You feeling a little green, mate?’ asked Digger.
Blue hated the first hour on a new boat. He was never actually sick, but he couldn’t rid himself of the notion that he was going to be. That made his stomach churn in anticipation, with his jaw clenched as well. The guys always spotted it, and always took the piss.
‘Let’s go back up on deck for bit.’
Intrepid was a twin-funnelled boat with troopship accommodation and a storage deck that could be flooded to let the landing craft float out. It was no longer like those old World War Two movies, with marines using rope netting to get into their bobbing and unstable landing craft. Now they loaded under cover, and moved out for the assault under their own power. There seemed to be less tension on board – hardly surprising, since it was less of a primary target. Also, the carrier had been in the forefront of the battle, a busy component in the Task Force operations, with constant comings and goings, the noise of repairs and aircraft maintenance added to the din of planes and choppers taking off and landing.
The sailors, too, had the relaxed air of men well used to having visitors on board, working aboard a vessel in much better nick than the old stalwart, Hermes. Some of them actually smiled. For all the tossing and battering from the heavy seas, Intrepid was quieter below decks, better at absorbing the hammering waves, riding them rather than ploughing in. On deck it felt much the same, the superstructure streaked with salt, the grey warship paint showing signs of serious wear.
The fresh air and strong blustery wind helped settle Blue, along with a sky and sea that were such a uniform shade of grey, little or no horizon showed. The waves were large and rolling, miles across, showing almost nothing in the way of spume until they hit a ship’s bows. Then they broke with a vengeance, throwing up great clouds of white water that was caught and carried away at an angle by the half-gale that seemed a permanent feature of life in these waters. It was fascinating in an elemental way, a scene that the men lining the lee rail seemed content to watch for hours.
The choppers were cross-decking away throughout the short afternoon, as first twilight came then night fell, dropping off the teams and the masses of gear on the after deck before scurrying back to the mother ship for another load. A lot of guys obviously felt a bit like Blue, and had decided to stay topside. They were hanging on to the rail as Intrepid went through her corkscrew gyrations. You had to admire the pilots for the way they were able to judge the rise, fall and pitch of the deck so accurately that, even with only floodlights to work with, they could have landed with eggs on their wheels without cracking a shell. Blue, still watching, now accustomed to his environment, saw one of the pilots make a sign to the landing controller that there would be one last trip, before he lifted off and headed back to the carrier.
Hermes was floodlit too, and at no more than half a mile apart, Blue could just make out the tiny figures scurrying like ants around the chopper. He watched it lift off and head out over the black sea, its navigation and floodlights bright. There’s always a split second between something going wrong and noticing it, and Blue thought that when the heli’s lights jerked it had just been taken by the wind. But as soon as it spun and began to drop he knew it was in trouble. Suddenly the deck was full of guys shouting and pointing, as the Sea King dipped sideways and, from a height of four hundred feet, dropped into the water.
A chopper on the deck immediately revved up and took off, scooting at wavetop height towards the crash site. The Navy had a lifeboat in the water so fast that Blue hadn’t seen them launch it, and that roared through the huge swell, almost jumping clear of the wavetops as it sought maximum speed.
‘Holy fuck!’ said Digger, in what was his only form of prayer.
It was agonizing to watch. Hermes had launched boats too. But they, like Intrepid’s, were having a hell of a time keeping upright as they circled the site underneath the chopper’s lamps. They’d got some of the guys inboard, but the way they were continuing to search didn’t bode well. None of the troopers trans-shipping had bothered with survival suits for such a short journey, and there was no reason to suppose that the final party had either. The water they’d landed in was icy, and in normal clothing, which would weigh them down anyway, the time they could last was short.
The Navy was brilliant, and the helicopter crewmen even better, dropping from their Sea Kings into the water time and again to search for survivors. Initial success kept them at it, but there came a time when it was only bodies that could be found. Blue, just like everybody else, was down by the side ready to haul the men who’d made it out of the returning lifeboats. They too had bodies to lift out. The final toll, which included attached personnel, only came much later, to a subdued and silent audience, as they were informed that, of the thirty-one men from the Regiment who’d clambered aboard, only ten had survived. The rest had drowned, along with the pilot and co-pilot of the heli.
Digger’s head dropped when they read out Lew Stradler’s name, a silent tribute to a man he had had something in common with. There’d be no ‘Spurs Win The Cup Final’ for Lew. Not that he was indifferent to the rest, mostly the guys who’d hit Pebble Island. There wasn’t a man listening who wasn’t thinking ‘there but for the grace of God . . .’ Natural warriors they might be, but they all wanted to ‘beat the clock’, to be the people who mourned those names on the metal plaques that adorned the time-keeping obelisk in Stirling Lines, rather than one of their number.
Loss was always hard to take. This time the sheer number compounded the misery of a disaster greater than any they’d ever suffered in combat. But every man knew that the Regiment lost troopers. On exercises mostly, especially river crossings; in Ulster sometimes, and very occasionally on dodgy foreign ops that suddenly went pear-shaped. The only thing you could do was say a prayer in your own head, then get on with the job. There would be a service at the regimental plot in Hereford, and a piper to lead the funeral parade. Maybe, if one of the dead was a good mate, you’d get pissed that night and, maudlin drunk, shed tears for the loss.
Two days with little to do didn’t help. Going over attack scenarios only reminded everyone aboard of who was missing. They’d lost a good portion of the squadron in the cold South Atlantic water, so it was with great relief, mixed with natural anxiety, that they made for the boats and the helis to start going ashore. The rumour was that a big bird might have brought down the Sea King. It should have survived that, but it was just carrying too much kit and too many men.
‘You can stop looking at the sky now, Digger,’ said Blue, as the Sea King began its shallow descent.
The Cockney had kept his gun pointed upwards, and his eyes, all the way from the ship, determined to shoot any bird that came within a mile of the blades. How he planned to do that in pitch darkness he never explained.
‘I was just communing with God.’
‘Don’t tell me he effs and blinds too,’ scoffed Graunch.
‘He does, mate,’ Digger replied. ‘He swears to me that you are a no good bastard. And since he’s dressed in a black and white football strip I believe him.’
‘Can it, girls,’ said Blue.
That wasn’t necessary: both men knew what they had to do, which was get out and secure the landing site. The routine was the same: quick in, quick out for the heli, with each man tasked to either get out and cover the arcs, or throw the kit out of the helicopter, in seconds. A long silence followed, before the Rupert in charge called for them to close up. The tasks were re-hashed, maps checked, then they formed up and moved out. Positions, stop times and signals had all been worked out on the ship, so they tabbed out from the LS quickly, each man having to come to terms with his own very heavy pack.
With such a weight, it would have been nice to drop closer to the target, but since half the idea was to make the Argies think they were under a main assault, taking the choppers too close might have alerted them to the actual numbers they were facing. They de-bussed at an unmarked location, the first task to orientate themselves and establish their position. It was a cold night, with that nip and dampness in the air that promised snow. The sixteen-man troop, spread across eighty metres, plodded on, backs straight despite the 130-pound weight they were carrying, eyes now adjusted to the dark and peeled for the least sign of danger.
It’s a great feeling, when you have mastery. You know where your enemy is and he doesn’t. You’re sure that when you hit him he is going to be useless for anything up to half a minute. The guys they were going to give the good news would be mainly asleep, the sentries so used to nothing happening after weeks on the island that they would be looking for a spot out of the wind rather than incoming danger. And it was coming, in spades, from some of the very people who’d been watching this position for a whole week. The B Squadron team knew the layout like their own backyard.
And what they didn’t know they got from the other patrols who’d overlooked this spot, like the fact that the Argie HQ commanding the Darwin/Goose Green garrison was in the triangular schoolhouse at Darwin. That the trench systems radiated from that with the primary positions in an arc, with re-entries and fire zones that ran from one part of the shore to the other with the Darwin Harbour at their rear. The whole was effective if the attackers got close, and tried to cover the mined and barbed wired approaches, since they had good fields of fire. But to the men on the hills, hidden from view, staying out of the arc of the machine guns, they were no threat at all.
Grizzly Cook had been given charge of the heavy stuff, 81mm mortars with a range of over three miles. That was the central position from which firing would commence. It was also the RV that everyone could fall back on, being in a good defensive position should things go pear-shaped and the Argentines come out to fight. The other hot factor about the 81mm mortar, and the reason they’d transported such a heavy weapon, was its accuracy. It had a well-engineered barrel, plus a plastic ring to seal in the propellant gases. Getting them here, given their weight, had been tough. But the shells would land where Grizzly wanted them, well away from the settlement buildings. There were civilians in those, they supposed, and there was no way that they could be brought into danger.
The rest of the patrol had crawled forward, closer to the Argentine defence line but still outside the entrapment zone. Blue’s section was carrying a GPMG as well as M203s with underslung grenade launchers. They were tasked to pepper the trench system at will, speed of delivery the primary object, rather than accuracy. The same went for the section with the lighter, forward-based 51mm mortars and those with the general purpose machine guns. Dead Argies were a bonus. Scaring them shitless was the real intention. Plenty of HE and phosphorus around their positions; flares fired low so that they lit the trench system without exposing the size of the attacking force; bullets and tracer whizzing past, and every indication of a major assault in the offing.
Blue lay flat, watching as the hand moved inexorably towards the number six, and as soon as it touched he was on his knees and firing. The guys to the south, carrying Milans with which they targeted on the vehicle park, beat them to the first explosion, which brought a curse from Digger. Suddenly there was stuff going off all over the place, the odd screams and shouts of the defenders drowned out by the sudden whoosh of the mortars. The whole Argentine line was under attack, the machine guns firing in strictly controlled arcs of fire, the lines of tracer bullets scything through the black sky.
Mortar-fired flares exploded to the rear, illuminating the chaos that the SAS troopers were imposing. Orange and red explosions mushroomed up as the mortar HE shells struck a target. Grizzly Cook had a grid reference provided by the patrols who’d overlooked this very spot, and with a good fix on his own position and an accurate weapon he wreaked havoc on the Argentine defence system, aiming particularly for those pressure points where trenches crossed. In the ethereal blue light cast by the numerous flares they could see the enemy running from one place to the next, trying to avoid death, achieving nothing but to sow confusion on their own side.
‘Eat your fucking heart out, Guy Fawkes!’ yelled Digger. That was followed by a whoop from Luke Tuikabe.
Blue kept his eye on the Fijian, who’d stood up, cradling the Gimpy in his massive arms, stepping forward as he did so until Blue leapt forward to restrain him. They were some of the best guys in the Regiment; strong and cheerful, men who, in battle, would never say die. Laba, who’d died at Mirbat, was a regimental icon. But they could also get excited, and Luke was no exception. With all this mayhem going on it would be just like him to stand up and charge the enemy trenches, sure he could end the whole fucking war on his own.
He might be right. Standing up it was obvious the Argies were in total panic, firing off wildly, the tracer evidence that they were more danger to their own than to the attackers. It encouraged him to move in a bit closer, right to the edge of the wire, to create the idea that ground troops were corning in. He knew there was a defence position close to the shoreline, a small redoubt that showed just as a shadow against the silver of the still inlet water.
Without yelling he directed all his patrol fire onto that, chucking in phosphorus to light up the target. A sandbagged position, it would have been a tough nut in the hands of a determined defender. But these were the same kind of kids as that conscript the officer had shot near the lip of the OP. The idea that his type might be around fired Blue up, and regardless of what other casualties they were inflicting he took a savage interest in watching as the HE grenades exploded close enough to begin to demolish the redoubt.
They totally suppressed any form of response. Luke sprayed the Gimpy fire across a line of the firing slots, while Graunch, Blue and Digger vied with each other to land the grenade on the installation which would blow it wide open, no easy task with a weapon that fired its projectile horizontally. All three had L2 grenades on their belt kit, and a deep desire to go in and lob a few. But that was not the job.
It couldn’t last. Panic-stricken as they were, the enemy held good positions and a hundred-to-one superiority in numbers. Surprise was a finite weapon, which pushed beyond the limit could get you killed. The SAS trained for that as well. You had to know when to pull out as well as when to go in. There was a time on this operation just like any other, and when they reached it Blue shouted to his guys to fire off their last grenades and withdraw, before the enemy could put down any concentrated fire on a four-man patrol that was well within range.