Our heads were buzzing as we settled down for the night, thinking how, just the four of us, could possibly inflict any damage on the enemy, let alone enough to make an impact on the war. We had to try to minimise or, better still, stop altogether, the Super Étendards and their lethal Exocet missiles from destroying any more of the Task Force ships before it was too late.
I have no idea how Neville was able to arrange it, but the next morning we managed to get on to the local Defence Force Base, which was equipped with a selection of fixed-wing aircraft and helicopters, most of them being of American design. Not only that, but we also finished up in the office of the base commander, who was very friendly and spoke English with, what I can best describe as a rather educated Oxbridge accent. He made it abundantly clear to us that he had complete authority in this part of the world and that talks of internment, or just about anything else, from bureaucrats in Santiago were of no consequence to him.
Neville told the commander that I was a pilot and asked if it was possible to lease a helicopter from a civilian company on the island.
“It is not possible to lease a helicopter from anywhere on Tierra del Fuego,” said the Commander thoughtfully. “However, I may be able to help,” he added as he looked across at me.
“Mister Riley, please go with my Head of Training and show him that you can fly. In the meantime, I would like to chat, over a cup of coffee, to Colonel Neville about my time at your wonderful Royal Military Academy Sandhurst and the nightlife of Camberley.”
The helicopter was a ‘Huey’, which was, and still is, the nickname for the UH1, American Utility Helicopter. Then the most ubiquitous and prolific helicopter in the world. It became famous in the sixties when thousands were built and used in the Vietnam war. The Huey was a remarkably simple aircraft to fly and I had no trouble impressing the instructor with my inherent flying ability.
Back at the office, there was, almost, a party atmosphere with the commander laughing and reminiscing about all the great times he had as a young officer in the UK, when The Beatles, mini-skirts and free love were all the rage.
He poured us all a small glass of some local grog and stood to attention behind his desk to propose a toast.
“Gentlemen… comrades,” he said, raising his glass. “To Her Majesty the Queen and the success of your mission.”
“The Queen,” we all harmonised, knocking back the grog.
“Mister Riley. We are very happy with your flying, but you need to consolidate your training. You may use the helicopter to improve your skill and, of course, that is best done flying solo,” continued the commander. “You may also take your friends along with you for the ride, but you must not, under any circumstances, fly into Argentinian airspace.” “Well of course not, sir,” I lied. “And thank you.”
Flying around in circles for me to improve my flying skills on the Huey was not an option. We felt that we had to do something and do it without wasting any more time, and that would mean not only flying into Argentinian airspace, but we would also have to get as close as possible to the enemy airfield. Crossing into enemy territory from a neutral country in a stolen helicopter was going to be fraught with danger. Getting to within a mile, or so, of the Rio Grande Airbase, with its low-level air defence systems and airfield perimeter protection forces was going to be perilous in the extreme.
It was decided that only Brummie would fly with me, armed with nothing more than an SLR, – a single lens reflex camera. That way if, or, possibly more likely, when, we were shot down, at least only half of the team would have been lost.
We sat down together studying the maps and considering what we were aiming to achieve. We had both been in the Army long enough to know that before undertaking any action it is essential to define an aim which should always be clear and unambiguous. Our aim was to take aerial photographs of the airfield and aircraft dispersal areas at the Rio Grande Airforce Base and return with them to our Forward Operating Base on Tierra del Fuego. Apart from the main aim, we felt that there was a reasonable chance that we may pick up some bonuses along the way. We could possibly find out at what range the low-level air defence system would become effective and, as we got closer, we might discover when the small arms fire of the perimeter protection forces came into play. Perhaps needless to say, but we were not looking forward to either of these bonuses. There was no doubt in our minds that this was going to be a very high-risk undertaking but we took a minute to consider the positives. There was a chance that we might not get picked up on radar or be seen by anyone on the ground. There was also the possibility that, even if we did get seen, then we could be mistaken for Argentinian Airforce, since they also flew Hueys and it seemed likely that they were not an uncommon sight in that part of the world.
We were both fully aware that the odds were stacked against us, but the stakes were so high that we felt that we were left with no other alternative. The risks had to be taken.
My operational tours in Northern Ireland had taught me how best to avoid small arms fire from the ground. Fly ultra-low-level, as fast as possible, and follow an unpredictable track. We packed a small rucksack each with a basic survival kit in case we had to abandon the aircraft and tab it for thirty or forty miles back to the safety of the border. A walk across the country is referred to as a ‘tab’ in the Army, a ‘yomp’ in the Royal Marines and, I’m not sure, but possibly, a ‘sashay’ in the Royal Airforce.
I explained to Brummie the risks we were about to face and how the level of danger was likely to increase as we got closer to the target.
“Is there anything I should do if we do get hit?” asked Brummie with a worried look on his face.
“Oh yes,” I replied. “There is a standard emergency procedure which you need to carry out, which I happen to have written down here,” I said looking through my imaginary notes as if I wanted to make sure that he knew the procedure exactly.
“Yes, here it is,” I recited, pretending to read it to him verbatim. “In the event of being struck by enemy fire the co-pilot should: One – immediately release his shoulder straps. Two – place both hands behind his neck. Three – bend his head between his knees and kiss his arse goodbye.”