That evening we again met Neville, and again he was alone. We had still not set eyes on the missing, fourth member, of the team. He went through the, now familiar, agent meeting procedure, and then went on to tell us that a political decision had been made by the Chilean Government. British troops would not be allowed on the neutral territory of Chile whilst a state of war existed between them and Argentina and we were about to be interned. This meant that we should expect to spend the duration of the war in prison, in order to avoid the government any embarrassment. There was no way any of us wanted, or intended to, allow this to happen, so we hastily, put together a plan. It was agreed that we would not return to our hotel rooms that evening. We would, instead, stay out for the night and meet up at Tobalada Airfield as soon as the gates opened the following morning, and get away from Santiago as quickly as possible. Fortunately, Jose, who I had agreed to do the lease deal with, was one of the first to arrive and didn’t seem to be the least bit surprised to find us waiting for him. Unfortunately, Neville and the fourth team member where nowhere to be seen and we had, of course, no way of contacting them.
I introduced Brummie as a part of the BBC television crew, mumbling something about a camera grip gaffer, or some such nonsense, and explained that the rest of the team were on their way. Handing over the brown envelope, containing the twenty thousand dollars, which I had been given before leaving London, I asked if we could get ready to depart as soon as possible. We had no way of knowing if the other half of the team were already languishing in a Chilean prison so we decided that we would leave as soon as we were ready, regardless of whether they turned up or not. As Jose, or whatever his real name was, sat diligently counting out the money, a taxi pulled up at the door. Out jumped Neville and someone that we both, instantly, recognised – Bernie Lane. None of us needed any introduction, Bernie and Brummie had spent many years together in the SAS and I had known him for the past three years or so. I introduced Neville and Bernie as the last two members of the BBC crew, deciding this time to play it safe and leave out their job titles. Jose seemed to be completely unfazed by the fact that we had no baggage between us and just nodded when I asked if we could get on our way as soon as possible since the gaffer would like to get to Tierra del Fuego before last light if possible.
As my co-pilot filed the flight plan, I cast my eyes over the en route weather forecast, paying little attention to it, to be honest, since I intended to get away from Santiago regardless of what the elements had to throw at us. Quite a lot as it turned out.
There was a fairly strong wind blowing directly across the north–south aligned runway, over three thousand feet in length, so I elected to take off on runway One Nine in order to save me a one hundred and eighty-degree turn, before heading south towards the Antarctic. For more than a thousand miles the navigation could barely be easier. All I had to do was keep the Pacific Ocean on my right and the towering Andes mountain range on my left and we would be almost certain to stay clear of Argentinian airspace. But what benefits the mountains gave by guiding us safely to Punta Arenas they took away from us in the form of turbulence.
Turbulence so extreme that our little turboprop aircraft was in danger of being torn asunder.
When the wind hits the side of a mountain range – and the Andes is the longest mountain range in the world – severe, orographic, or mountain wave turbulence, can occur. Powerful up-draughts, known as anabatic winds, and down-draughts, known as katabatic winds cause enormous disturbances to the air, sometimes as far away as one hundred miles in the lee of the range. Throughout, just about, the whole of our journey, the turbulence was, what can only be described as, very severe. It was very distressing for everyone on board, including me, although the co-pilot seemed to be remarkably relaxed. I was acutely aware that structural damage could result and that light aircraft, such as the one we were in, had been known to have their wings ripped off, resulting in predictable consequences. All on board were hugely relieved when we landed safely at Punta Arenas, the most southerly airfield on the South American mainland and a short hop from Tierra del Fuego.
We were met at the bottom of the aircraft steps by a small, Latin American-looking guy, in a grey suit and brightly coloured tie. He shook hands with Neville, the obvious leader of our small team, who I guess must have displayed the airs of a lieutenant colonel, whilst the rest of us were mere warrant officers. Without introducing himself to anyone other than our leader, he led us across the dispersal area and into the small terminal building. After negotiating a series of corridors, we were escorted straight into the back of a waiting minibus with blacked-out windows, having circumnavigated any of the normal arrival procedures.
It was not until many years after the war, when I returned to Santiago, that I learned that Jose the Pilot had, shortly after our trip, been killed whilst flying his small turboprop aircraft. I have always suspected that he had been employed by the Chilean Intelligence Service, but any assistance we might have been given by the government had to be completely deniable and provided to us as covertly as possible.
We were driven through the town of Punta Arenas to a small port and then onto a ferry which took us across the Strait of Magellan to, an even smaller port, of Porvenir. Eventually, we arrived at an isolated farmhouse, where we were left and told to make ourselves comfortable for the night. The farmhouse was enclosed by a high fence and heavy wooden gates. There were several outbuildings, one of which housed the hefty, diesel-fuelled, generator, the only source of electricity for the house. It had quite a few bedrooms, all of them comfortably furnished with clean bedding and fresh towels. The kitchen was stocked with enough tinned food to keep the four of us going for months. There was a large cellar which was packed with more quasi-military equipment than you would be likely to find in your average quartermaster’s store. The kit ranged from clothing and sleeping bags to survival rations, cooking stoves and mountaineering equipment. There was even a RIB, rigid inflatable boat, with an outboard motor, and two cross-country motorbikes. In a small room, off the main hallway, was a satellite telephone system, already set up and working, and capable of providing secure communications back to our base in Hereford.
Although we now had enough equipment to survive the harsh winter conditions and operate across the rugged terrain of Tierra del Fuego, we were still more than one hundred miles from our target, the Airforce Base at Rio Grande. A long way if we had to make it by foot. Even if we drove to the Argentine border we would still be left with a walk of thirty or forty miles over very inhospitable terrain, all of it in enemy occupied territory. We all agreed that our best option would be to get our hands on a helicopter. But we had little doubt that the chances of that happening were extremely remote.