I was number one in the stick, standing on the edge of the tailgate, adrenaline-charged, aching for release. It’s fearsome, being number one: you see everything in front of you – and worse, everything below you. When you are number three or four in the stick, all you see is the pair of shoulders and ’chute of the guy in front of you. You can shuffle forward almost with your eyes closed, as easily as a blind man being led off a cliff.
I was in the ready position: right hand gripping the parachute static line, left hand resting on the top of my reserve. Far below was the grey wash of the sea. I moved closer still to the edge. The deafening roar of the aircraft slipstream made all conversation impossible. My head was raised and turned to the right, watching, waiting for the red warning light to turn green. My rear leg was braced, ready to launch me over the edge of the tailgate.
‘Red on. Green on. Go!’ screamed the dispatcher, slapping me on the back. Automatically I leapt into space, forcing my right hand down on the top of my reserve to improve my exit stability. For an instant I was carried violently forward in the blast from the Hercules slipstream. Then I felt the reassuring tug of the parachute harness and the profound relief that the canopy had deployed. Almost immediately, I looked up and carried out my main canopy check for malfunction, ensuring it was deployed correctly.
My hands began to feel for the release hooks of my reserve. I looked down, and for one wild moment I saw I was directly above the dull, blue-grey shape of HMS Andromeda. If I released the reserve now, it would hit the ship square on. I took avoiding action. I pulled down violently – too violently – on my steering toggle. This caused air to spill out of my canopy, upsetting the stability and trim of my flight. I began to oscillate through 180 degrees. I spiralled downwards, my rate of descent decreasing. I swung back and forth, but at least I managed to clear the ship. I pulled down on both steering toggles, and this had the effect of breaking the forward speed of the canopy; the swinging was reduced. I had unclipped the reserve hooks from the D-rings on my main harness and watched the reserve plummet into the sea below. Now I was conscious only of the water rushing up to meet me and of the constant buffeting from eddies of wind all around.
Judging distance in poor light when making a vertical descent into a high swell can be difficult. So I decided to jettison my harness without delay. I hit my cape-well releases and the shoulder straps fell away – but only just in time. I was suddenly immersed in water. At least the harness was free, there was no drag and the canopy did not envelop me. The parachute fell away at an angle, blown away downwind. I was now exhilarated, switched on. I struggled into my fins to help me tread water. Then I pulled down on the toggle and popped my lifejacket. I watched the full-green canopies of the other troop members, many of them kicking violently out of twists as they drifted slowly down and hit the water.
I looked up and saw the lone C-130, its cargo now bobbing about in the South Atlantic, disappearing into the clouds. The second C-130 had turned back earlier because of fuel resupply problems with a Victor tanker, and would now be sitting on the tarmac on Ascension Island, its occupants in the Volcano Club, seething with an imperial frustration that even the arrival of a gargantuan steak would do little to alleviate. I was lucky. My disciplinary misdemeanours were working in my favour again. The same fate that had put me in the Killing House when the balloon went up for the Embassy siege, and subsequently allowed me to take part in an uniquely glorious episode in the Regiment’s history, had now ensured that I was on the first C-130 and not on the second one, containing my old troop, Eight Troop, which had had to turn back.
Bobbing about in the ocean, I could feel the adrenaline pumping. I was at the sharp end, heading for action. The Atlantic swell was tremendous. At the crests of the waves I could see all around me. In the distance I could just make out the grey superstructure of HMS Andromeda. Then I disappeared into a trough and there was no view, no horizon. I was surrounded by a vast ocean of grey, foam-flecked waves. I became aware of the cold. The dry suit protected my body heat, but my hands and face were exposed to the elements. I had to tread water with my hands held clear of the bitter, near-zero temperatures of the South Atlantic. Where was the pick-up? The light was failing and the frigate seemed a long way off. Having been the first out of the Hercules, I was furthest from the ship and would no doubt be the last to be picked up. Like a piece of battered flotsam, I rose back to the crest of the wave. In the poor light I could just make out the Rigid Raider about 250 metres away. A member of the troop appeared to be struggling over its side, then it headed back for the Andromeda.
I had now been in the water fifteen minutes, and my hands and face were numb. I began to wish I’d only partially inflated my lifejacket, by mouth, rather than popping the automatic inflater. The bulky shape was straining my neck, pressing it back at an awkward angle. I cracked the plastic tube of the chemical distress flare attached to my wrist. The two chemicals mingled and the tube began to glow. I disappeared into a trough and realized it was pointless waving my flare – no one could see me. I couldn’t even see the ship. I would have to wait till I was back on the crest of the wave. I kicked with my fins to gain height. I waved my flare arm, but to no avail. The Rigid Raider was returning to the mother craft with another full load. My vision began to go grey in the gloom. The camouflaged superstructure of the Andromeda disappeared from sight, and once more I became engulfed in the dark trough of a huge wave.
Anxiety began to gnaw at my insides. I had been in the water thirtyfive minutes and had begun to shiver. There were two dangers now: exposure and exhaustion. Already I was having difficulty keeping my hands out of the water. Perhaps fate was not so kind after all. I would have been better off in the Volcano Club with Eight Troop.
I seemed to be aimlessly paddling around, going nowhere, getting weaker. The South Atlantic was taking its toll on me; serious fatigue had set in. I rose again on the crest of another wave. At last, the familiar shape of the Rigid Raider crawled into view about a hundred metres away. I waved my flare arm wildly as the small boat surged forward. They’d seen me! They were heading in my direction, an olive-green shape bucking violently in the Atlantic swell.
‘We’d thought we’d lost you,’ said the big Marine boat-handler.
‘So did I,’ I replied. ‘I’m starving. Got any scran?’
As they hauled me over the side, they burst my lifejacket with a diving knife to make it easier to get hold of me and pull me into the boat. The tension fell away, and as the Rigid Raider sped over the waves towards Andromeda, a surge of weariness and a longing to be on dry land swept over me.
No sooner had I got on board than it was realized that an air-drop pallet was missing. A radar scan of the immediate area proved fruitless. A Sea King helicopter was due to arrive any minute to cross-deck the troop to HMS Intrepid. The Navy called off the search for the missing pallet. It was decided that I and one other would stay behind and persuade the Navy to continue the search. We would then remain on Andromeda until its arrival in San Carlos Bay.
I went to the petty officer and requested a resumption of the search. I was told that no way was that possible. ‘Fuck you,’ I said and strode straight into the Captain’s cabin.
I was struck by the homeliness of the tidy room. Going through the door was like walking into the warm, secure atmosphere of a comfortable study. The Captain, pen in hand, looked up from a desk cluttered with paperwork. With his steely-grey hair and steady gaze, he reminded me of a favourite uncle. When he spoke he had the dignity of a housemaster at a public school. His whole persona radiated power and authority. ‘We have got to get under way, we must be in San Carlos Bay by the morning,’ he replied quietly to my demand. His dignified features had taken on the expression of a patient negotiator handling a siege situation.