The explosions shattered the silence, sending great orange flashes and louds of smoke into the air. Robbie Knox dropped the muzzle of his machine gun into the frame and cocked it, kicking clear the ammo belt that hung down. Glynn Davies stepped out from under the guard platform, pulled back his arm and threw, repeating the action as he tossed two grenades into the roofed platform. He was back under, taking hold of and extending the belt, when they detonated, the sound accompanied by a long burst from the GPMG.
Tony D’Ambrosio and Dinger Bell looked up from their watches and fired off the first of their grenades, aiming for the front door of the accommodation block, the intention to deter anyone inside from venturing out. The tracer opening up from the roadside sentry post, aimed at the hangars, fixed their main target. That had them reaching for the 66mms that had been left behind in the guardhouse, these aimed at the guard tower. It didn't matter if they were spot on. They only had to take away the legs of the thing, aiming for the point at which they joined with the upper structure, something Dinger Bell managed on his second attempt.
That was just as well, since the explosive flash of rocket discharge had fixed their position, which brought the fire from the tower machine gun down on them. The tracer from that ceased abruptly as the structure leant sideways, creaking and groaning, before it toppled over, bringing down with it the large radio mast on the roof. That done, they engaged with rapid rifle fire on the other buildings, the offices and storerooms, first shooting out the window glass. Next, using the 40mm underslung grenade launchers, they fired through the gaps to start fires.
The exfil team, Marty Roper and Don Kavanagh, had their weapons trained down the road, having just come back from laying charges and tripwires. The explosions would be heard in the town, and every officer or jundie there would be rushing back to the base, either out of curiosity or to try and help out. Whichever, they were going to get a very nasty surprise.
Sam Clark heaved on the hangar door, the sound of Graunch and Luke Tuikabe firing loud in his ears as they sprayed the inside of the workshops. He had a day bag on his shoulders, full of pre-prepared charges, plastic explosives with enough of a kick to wreck an air-frame, plus destroy the engine and avionics it contained beyond repair. There would be no firing bullets at the buggers. They were designed to withstand that and more. The aviation fuel wouldn't go up even with an incendiary bullet, since it was of deliberately low combustibility.
Instead, he and his team ran around, barely registering the kind of plane they were working on, an almost impossible task in the dark anyway. The masking tape was used in long strips to fix the charges, each timer set, the whole operation taking half a minute. The hangar was crowded with craft, clearly a command decision that got them out of the elements during the hours of darkness. Sam, as he worked, felt a flash of anger as he contemplated what should have been. An all-out air attack by bombers would have caught these planes cold. All the RAF had to do was bomb the hangars to destroy their contents. Instead, lives were being risked on the ground to achieve the same purpose.
When Graunch pulled the door and Luke Tuikabe stepped through, everyone inside dived for safety. There were plenty of places to hide, and if they had weapons standing in the doorway was pretty stupid. Graunch hit Luke’s body as he came through the gap, careering into the Fijian and driving him bodily towards some kind of cover. The doorway behind them was suddenly filled with pinging bullets. Swearing and shouting, both men returned fire. But unable to clearly see their targets, they could not impose themselves in the way that they wanted.
‘I think we found the fuckin’ sentries, Luke,’ Graunch shouted, as the firing eased.
Blue marked the time as he gunned the engine hard. Beside him Digger switched on the lights. The jeep wasn’t built for speed, and on the open surface of the runway they didn’t seem to be making much. But they closed with the flimsy guard post eventually, to find the two goons in charge standing out in the open staring and pointing. Seeing their own jeep arrive they obviously felt no immediate threat. But something must have alerted one of them – perhaps four men instead of two, or the lack of the right caps – because he raised his rifle and started firing.
Digger was already standing, his Armalite pumping away, getting his retaliation in early. Blue, steering with one hand, was firing off his MI6 with the other, hoping that his fire would distract rather than hit anyone. The two guys they were carrying, Serious Sid and Tommy Seaman, had their weapons up too, trying to aim round the men in front of them. It could only have been a lucky shot that took Digger in the shoulder, because the two sentries looked nothing like marksman.
It knocked him right back into the jeep, his weight taking down the man behind him, Serious Sid. Blue was still firing, and the two Argies were busy trying to get away from him, pushing each other as they tried to find some shelter in their flimsy box. A grenade in the hand of Tommy Seaman suddenly appeared over his shoulder, accompanied by a hard tap. Words were superfluous. All the guy was asking him to do was to steer past the hut, and let him do the needful.
Blue swung the wheel hard, which didn’t help Serious Sid, as he tried to pull the wounded man’s morphine syrette off his neck. Digger was sprawled back, eyes closed, a great wound in his shoulder, moaning and cursing as the shock wore off and the pain took hold. Sid got the drug into him just as Tommy tossed the grenade. Blue was well past it when the L2 went off. When he spun round to look the hut wasn’t there. It was gone, only the two twitching bodies on the ground evidence that it had ever existed.
Robbie and Glynn had got into position and set up their weapon. They had no defined targets, just a job to do. They began to spray bullets around like there was no tomorrow, firing at height to avoid hitting their own men with friendly fire. They were second storey men, tasked to hit the upper floors of everything that had them. Windows were going out everywhere, but they couldn’t hear it. Only the sound of their gun was audible, as they shot the place up with gleeful abandon.
They came out on the ground floor eventually, the deterrence of the grenades that Tony and Dinger had launched wearing off. Frank Mills let them out, but only so far, and then he pulled the trigger. The arc of his fire went across the face of the building, so that even the bullets which missed ricocheted off the walls to cause wounds. The bright orange tracer split the darkness, bisecting that of the other GPMG as they laid down enough flying metal to suppress any desire in the Argentine breast to come out and fight.
Sam Clark had clocked seven minutes on his watch as he went in to rescue Luke Tuikabe and Graunch, which he did with grenades lobbed towards the aircraft under repair. He could chuck them from the door; they were pinned down and found it hard to get enough swing. But once they went off Luke was up and charging, diving into the smoke without the least regard for what might be on the other side. Graunch had no choice but to follow, Sam Clark’s voice ringing in his ears reminding him that nearly half their time was gone and they still had the anti-tank rockets to fire.
It really didn’t matter who fell back to engage with the 66mms, as long as the patrol were sticking to the timings. Out by the bunkers, Blue had jumped out of the now-stationary jeep, taking one of the tubes. He fired a flare to illuminate his target, a double steel door several feet below ground level. It was a chancy business, the elevation forcing him to stand closer than he would have liked while his finger located the rubber detent which formed the firing mechanism. As soon as he pressed the trigger, and felt the rocket depart the tube, he threw himself down and tried to crawl away. The blast, even though it went over his body, moved him several feet, as a great orange plume lit the night sky. He had no idea if it was an Exocet: he just knew that whatever that bunker had contained was no more.
Tommy Seaman wasn’t so lucky. He hit his target as well, but if he tried to avoid the blast he failed. Blue saw the 66mm go off, and heard the great bang that accompanied its firing. But the blast that followed dwarfed that. It also lifted a man just beginning to crouch off his feet and carried him thirty feet before slamming him down hard on the tarmac. Both Blue and Serious Sid got to him in seconds, but one look was enough to show that nothing could be done. There was almost nothing left above the shoulders on one side.
‘Fuck!’ Blue yelled, as first a flare exploded, quickly followed by a series of bangs that went off around his ears. He knew, by the sound signature, that they weren’t bullets but shells, and they were being aimed at the jeep. A lot can go through your mind in a second. The fire could only be coming from the Bofors firing over open sights. Who was firing the bastards if they were supposed to be unmanned? And were they trying to get them with HE designed to down aircraft, or did the guns have a supply of anti-personnel shells for a surface-to-surface role? Thinking was one thing, conclusions another. With Digger wounded they had to uŝ the jeep to get him out, knowing that if a shell from a Bofors caught them, regardless of what type it was, they’d be eviscerated.
Their job was done and the clock was running. By now they should have been well on their way back. Both men ran for the jeep. Blue thanked God that the engine was still running, and that he was able to slip the clutch and get moving. That meant they’d need a deflection shot to get them. He was just congratulating himself when he realized that anti-aircraft gunners were specifically trained in that department. That made him brake, then accelerate again. Behind him, the top layer of the tarmac was ripped off like paper.
Blue slewed the jeep to a halt and jammed it into reverse, well aware that he was never going to outrun that gun. Serious Sid had the good sense to chuck out the remaining 66mms before they came to a halt. It was only luck that saved them, either some malfunchon on the Bofors or the gunner taking his finger off the trigger for ten seconds to adjust his aim on a target moving at variable speed and in the wrong direction. Digger, full of his own morphine, probably felt nothing as Blue and Serious Sid dragged him clear of the vehicle. The shells began to rip into it before they’d gone five feet, Sid dropping to one knee as a piece of the wing took him on the back of his knee.
The firing stopped as the jeep blew up, sending a huge flash of orange light that was visible for miles. Sam Clark had been in the process of falling back, obeying his own orders. Ten minutes from first bang time to the point at which he’d begin to withdraw. It made absolute sense, because no matter how good they were, sixteen men could never fight the number they had on the base. He and Paul Hill had just retrieved the stashed 66s, and rounded the building, planning to take aim in the direction of the smashed control tower.
One look showed that to be unnecessary. Though not utterly destroyed it was at an angle, clearly out of commission, with bullets from one of the gun teams slamming into it just below the already shattered windows. The earlier booms from down the runway were what he’d expected. The flash from the second flare hadn’t distracted him, since he assumed it was from the team attacking the now-burning bunkers, making sure the job was complete. But the thud of the exploding jeep made him concentrate; the orange ball, like a huge expanding flower, ballooned into the night sky. He knew it was Blue, but the sinking feeling he had in his gut was removed by the sight of the three struggling figures in the glow from the flare and the burning vehicle. The Bofors opened up again. Even if it had a conical flash eliminator, firing low it still sent out pinpricks of light. With the 66mm already at his shoulder, Sam took a quick aim and fired.
Frank Mills felt the tap on his shoulder, and looked into the watch Tommy Laidlaw had pushed towards his face. It was hard to stop firing, but that was the deal. And they might have the furthest to travel, with the option of making for the ERV or the Bergen cache if they could get across the river. They were just about to be up and off when the Bofors opened up on Blue Harding. There was light from the bunkers as well as the flare and the gun position was visible. Frank was back on his belly right away, firing off the last belt of ammunition. It wouldn’t do much against the protective shield, but it might distract them.
Robbie Knox had another two minutes to go, but was running short of ammo. He was firing bursts rather than long arcs, trying hard to keep up the suppressing fire until he was out of time. The scene in front of him was changed now, and not just by the succession of massive blasts from the other end of the field. Most of the buildings, including the control tower, were alight. The upper storeys of the offices and admin blocks were ablaze. Just then the taped PE charges went off, sending huge fingers of flame out of the narrow space left by the open hangar doors.
That blast nearly did for Graunch and Luke. The Scouser had to haul off his woolly hat, because it had caught fire. Luke lost half his hair because he didn’t wear one, and both of them were thrown to their knees by the blast. Graunch had been pushing Luke, who was so fired up for battle that he wanted to personally kill every spanner in the workshops. Now that was changed. The huge Fijian hauled him to his feet and half dragged, half carried him towards the exfil point in the fence, until a signal from Sam Clark told them to get down behind him.
Sam’s anti-tank rocket had missed the target by yards, though the sight of it passing must have given them pause. Frank Mills’ GPMG fire was different; pinging off the protective shield it must have concentrated their minds, since the barrel swung to aim at them. With no ammo left they were on their feet running for the perimeter fence when the shell cut Tommy Laidlaw in half. Frank Mills stopped in shock, tasting the blood in his mouth as he hit the ground, feeling at his own body for a wound until he realized it was Tommy’s blood he was licking.
Sam Clark had seen his rocket miss, and was waiting for the Bofors to turn on him, given that the gunners could not have missed the fire signature on the 66. By aiming away, it allowed him time to move and to think. He could still see Blue in the dying light from the flare, crouched over one inert body and another half on his knees. Only three meant that one had already been lost. The decision Sam had to make was what to do about the survivors.
‘Where the fuck did those gunners come from?’ Graunch demanded, raising another 66mm. He had to duck back quick as shells started to rip into the front of the building shielding them. Even worse, the explosions to their rear had started several fires, all of which were rapidly forming into one huge blaze. The aviation fuel was alight now, set off by the sheer heat from the burning planes.
‘God only knows,’ Sam replied. Maybe Robbie had been wrong, or perhaps they’d been returning from the town when the balloon went up and just crashed through the fence to man the weapon. It really made no difference. They had to be taken down. He had no way of knowing how acute was their angle of fire. But if the Bofors could traverse to the exfil point, with the amount of light being created by the fires, they’d never get away from here. He knew he had five 66mm tubes left, and four guys to fire them. Part of his plan had been to save some to discourage pursuit. That would now have to be just one.
‘Don’t aim for the gun, aim for the ground just in front. We shoot at the next traverse.’
The Bofors gunners sent another set of shells towards the building. This time they had to be HE, with fuses set at the lowest point, since when they hit they exploded, sending brick and roof sections flying. Sam didn’t yell they’d only get one shot. He didn’t have to. The four rockets went off within the space of a second, their flash bringing the Bofors swinging back on its traverse so quickly that they had to dive for cover. They didn’t see the effect of their shot, and if they had it would have been impossible to tell which of the rockets had struck the ground and ricocheted into the gun position. By the time they looked it was no more, just a twisted heap of burning metal, with some of the remaining shells exploding harmlessly.
‘Paul, back to the exfil. Tell them we are going after Blue and we want some covering fire to keep the jundies’ heads down.’
If there were rules in the Regiment, then this was strictly against them. You didn’t risk three men’s lives to rescue three others. But that was Blue out there, a good mate. Graunch and Luke didn’t even hesitate to follow Sam. They ran, firing to their left from the hip – not aiming just hoping to suppress. Blue saw them coming, and he helped Serious Sid to his feet. One leg was gone, cut at the back of the knee, but he stood on the good leg, his weapon up, ready to keep fighting. Digger was mumbling to himself words that were jumbled but clear enough to let Blue know that he was alive.
There was no talking when the guys arrived. Luke just lifted Digger while Blue and Graunch got an arm each under Serious Sid. Sam Clark had a simple job now, and that was to get all of them inside the guns of Marty Roper and Don Kavanagh, who had control of the exfil point in the wire. The battle, as far as Boat Troop was concerned, was over. Now it was pure survival.
The bulk of the accommodation block was in the way, a place full of what defenders were returning fire. In fact it seemed like half the Argie garrison was in the front of that building, aiming at anything that moved, and since they were moving more than most they began to draw a lot of fire. It was the concentration of the rest of the troopers that made the difference. Five men in all, they still managed to lay down the kind of suppression fire that kept the Argies’ heads down, even putting the last of the 66mms into the ground floor. That created just enough of a window to get them past and, careful to stay out of the arc of friendly fire, they closed on the exfil point at a staggering run.
‘Right,’ shouted Sam Clark, looking around at the burning buildings, ‘let’s get the fuck out of here.’
Marty Roper hauled back the fencing to make it easy for the guys to get through. Just then a huge blast came from outside the wire, as a vehicle coming along the road from the town ran into his booby trap. As the Troop staggered across the road they saw the blazing lorry, on its side, blocking the route. It was only then that John Harding realized that any notion of taking out the vehicle park had been a myth. It was the one thing they’d missed in their briefing. All the transport was used at night to take the jundies to town. They were on foot, and likely to stay that way.
‘Holy shit!’ screamed Marty Roper. ‘A fuckin tank!’
The roar of the huge diesel was clearly audible as it ploughed its way through the burning remains of the truck. The guy in charge had been shrewd, sending the poor bastard in the truck forward to take out any traps these attackers had set. Marty’s exclamation was understandable. But Serious Sid, even hobbling, knew what it was, and he shouted as the rest opened fire, their bullets bouncing harmlessly off the armour plate.
‘It’s the chassis for the Rolands. There are no fucking guns.’
‘How the fuck do we stop it?’ yelled Sam.
Blue hadn’t waited. Having blasted the bunker doors with 66s neither he nor Sid had used their pre-prepared charges. He grabbed at Sid’s day sack to extract a taped cube of PE, hauling a grenade off his belt as he ran forward. It was crude way to do what was necessary, but even without guns that armoured chassis represented a threat to a patrol without anti-tank weapons. The Argies could use it for cover to pursue them, leaving the men in the open very vulnerable.
The tape on the charge seemed to stick to his fingers, and Blue had to slow his actions to avoid fumbling. He knew what he wanted to do, best to give himself the time to get it right. The AMX 30 had slowed slightly, as it ground its way over the bulk of the truck body. Blue taped his grenade to the charge, then stepped forward until he was nearly under the body of the Roland chassis, ready to slide it under the tracks as the vehicle dropped down. He pulled the pin just as he placed it, then slipped on spilled fuel as he tried to spin away.
Blue was on his hands and feet, scrabbling for what seemed like an age before his boots got enough purchase to put some distance between him and the charge. The blast was timed at seven seconds, too close for comfort even if most of it was contained by the weight of the vehicle. He knew he was hurt as it slammed him back down on the road. He passed out, so didn’t see the AMX 30 chassis slew round, the track clattering off the wheels to render it useless.
There was now no doubt about it: the Argentine forces around Port Stanley were determined to surrender. The talk of terms was a smokescreen for the fact that there was only available whatever option suited the British government. There was still sporadic fighting on the 5 Brigade front around Tumbledown and Sapper Hill. But a report had come through that the Paras had discarded their steel helmets in favour of their red berets, and were even now in the island capital. There was, in fact, no shortage of cheerful signal traffic, except from one place – Tierra del Fuego.
Hosier had finally conceded the need to abort the mission when it was, if Sam Clark’s plan was in motion, clearly too late. There wasn’t a man in the War Room at Hereford who didn’t feel that he’d exceeded his responsibilities. That he had sent men to die for no purpose other than personal gratification. Everyone avoided his eye, not willing even to exchange a disappointed glance with him. And the insensitivity of his parting shot was breathtaking.
‘My being here serves little purpose, Archie. This little operation was really down to Jamie and the command on Fearless. I must be getting back to London, you know. There are bound to be inquests, and it will do no harm to have someone on the spot who can defend the interests of Special Forces.’
‘As you wish, sir,’ Archie Grosvenor replied, so tight-lipped he almost didn’t get it out.
Thick skinned as he was, even Jock the Sock knew he was an embarrassment. That produced his slightly goofy smile, a slap of his trews with his swagger stick, and a single word with which to say goodbye.
‘Quite.’
Blue came to before they’d covered half a kilometre, aching in every part of his upper body. Sam Clark grunted a question, and when Blue replied he could walk he enquired no further. Sam was a man with a lot on his mind. He had no time to stop and send out signals indicating success. He had three wounded men and half of Argentina on his tail, with only a few hours of darkness to get some air between him and the pursuit. It was only when he joined up with the gun teams that he found out there were two dead troopers instead of one.
Digger was the worst, but it had been a joint decision not to leave him behind. As Marty Roper said, there were just enough fit bastards left to carry him provided they could get across the river. Sam’s solution to that was typical. Fuck crossing by rope! He decided to attack the bridge, only to find when he got there that whoever was supposed to be guarding it had scarpered, no doubt scared shitless by the noise of explosions coming from the air base.
They retrieved their Bergens and headed out west, almost running, Sid hopping and Blue staggering a bit, the fit taking turns to carry Digger, all of them in that quiet after-action mood in which they felt totally drained. They hadn’t really thought through this part, which was a sort of fear, the knowledge that a positive outcome was so unlikely that to mention it was to invite a jinx. Yet there was no sign of pursuit, and this was while they were in sight of any headlights on the road, heading for the only hilly area they knew, the one they’d occupied before using the Estancia Silvana.
These hills weren’t much to write home about and setting up a decent hide here was chancy. But that was all they could do. To try and keep moving in daylight went against every tenet of their survival training. And they had to report in, to tell the Headshed that the raid had been a success, an absolute must before they were captured. Sam Clark left the rest to dig and cam up a fold in the hills while he and Graunch opened the console to compose a Sked. Graunch switched on the PRC320 to power it up. As soon as he offered his signal, he was informed there was a ‘message for you.’
They cheered on Fearless when Sam’s original signal came in, and even louder in the War Room at Hereford. But both sets of celebrations were more from relief than exultation. Jamie Robertson-Macleod ordered them to keep the line open to send a reply himself, and stood over the signaller who sent it. Had he known the response to the earlier signal he might not have bothered.
‘The dirty rotten no-good bastards,’ Sam Clark had shouted, as he decoded the first message. ‘It’s a signal to abort.’
‘There’s another one coming through.’
Sam had the console to decode it, and Graunch looked at him for enlightenment. But the SSM just shook his head and waved a hand to indicate that he should follow. The guys working to improve the hide must have sensed there was something up, since their Patrol Commander a stickler for good routine in a cammed up basha, barged in noisily.
‘I’ve got a message here from the Headshed that is going to either make you laugh or cry.’
Digger, still for some time, had come round. He was weak and pallid, but the tongue was still working. ‘You’ve been made a Rupert.’
‘Fuck that and fuck them,’ said Sam, holding up the paper he’d written on. It read as follows:
Sitrep 14/6/82 A: Well done Rio Grande: B: Am pleased to inform you that white flags are flying over Stanley: C: Proceed to in:fil landing site and await surface arrival of HMS Oberon:’ D: RV visual and open.