I took a deep breath. ‘What’s the point of putting the RAF to the trouble of bringing us all this way to do a reinforcement jump into the South Atlantic when we’ll be a liability to D Squadron if we go into the field without the proper kit and equipment? We might as well have stayed on the piss on Ascension.’
For a split second the steady non-committal gaze was replaced by a far sterner look, as though the Captain was turning over some crucial piece of information in his precise naval mind. ‘OK,’ he announced, ‘I’ll give you a couple of hours.’
A period of intense activity followed. Time and time again I had to fight back fatigue and persuade the Navy to continue the search. I had to locate that pallet. We chugged on through the night, the radar search providing the eyes, Chalky – the other troop member – and I providing the concentration. Lashed by spray, freezing cold and near exhaustion, we stood with a group of naval ratings on the bow of the ship, peering into the starlit night. As Andromeda lumbered through the seas and the hours slipped by, I was becoming increasingly strained. The continuation of the search seemed to hinge on my resolve and determination to keep going. I shivered and looked at my watch. It was just past midnight. The naval ratings were looking towards their bunks, and I was expecting at any time to be called up to the Captain’s cabin and given the bad news.
Then word came down from the bridge that something had been picked up on the radar. Suddenly, a rating on the starboard rail of the bows shouted that he could see something in the water. I grabbed the petty officer of the watch, who was in possession of a dragon light. We made our way over to the starboard side of the ship. As the powerful beam of the dragon light cut through the night Chalky shouted, ‘There it is!’ as the beam played on a set of rigging lines, a parachute canopy and a large, dull-brown packing box. It was the missing airdrop pallet.
Sleep. That was all I wanted now. The ship was extremely crowded, every berth taken. One of the Navy lads showed me a bed that someone had just vacated to go on duty. ‘There’s your bed for the next eight hours.’ It was lovely and warm. I went out like a light.
The Falklands! Two small islands to the north-east of Tierra del Fuega, two specks floating in the sea, like tiny scales dislodged from the great curl of the scorpion’s tail that is South America. With a coastline as long as Norway’s circumscribing a land mass no bigger than Wales, the Falklands are subject to relentless winds and the hazards of wind-chill factor that accompany them. The islands are the same latitude south of the equator as London is to the north. They are doggedly British and are determined to stay so.
I was deeply impressed as I stood on the forecastle of the Royal Fleet Auxiliary LSL Sir Lancelot and surveyed the anchorage at San Carlos Water. There hadn’t been so many ships around the Falklands since the days preceding the first battle of the Falklands in December 1914, when dozens of colliers arrived to fuel the battlecruisers HMS Invincible and Inflexible and the other ships that made up Admiral Sturdee’s original Falklands task force, sent to root out von Spee’s Imperial German fleet hiding around the islands.
San Carlos Water bustled with activity. Aboard the frigates, acting as goalkeepers at each end of the waterway, anxious eyes scanned radar screens for the expected air attacks. In front of me, across the bay, I could see RFA Blue Rover, SS Atlantic Causeway, MV Norland and, faintly ridiculous amid the camouflage grey, the brightly coloured Nordic Ferry. Anchored at the southern end was the assault ship HMS Fearless. On the high ground overlooking the water, the Rapier batteries formed a defensive ring of steel. Like hungry seagulls circling a freshly churned refuse tip, helicopters wheeled and dived as they carried out routine cross-decking sorties and undertook offloading operations. A Sea King 5 vet-repped drums of petrol swinging beneath its matt green belly.
It was just after 1600 hours and, with dusk gathering, I gave my belt kit, personal weapons and ammunition a final check, ready for the mission ahead. At that time of the year it would be dark at 1630 hours, ensuring a covert insert into enemy territory. We had to be in position by 1800 hours. The plan, like all good plans, was simple. We were to take a night flight to enemy-occupied West Falkland by Sea King helicopter. We would deploy a linear-type ambush on high ground overlooking the target area. Intelligence received had indicated that three Argentinian C-130s were going to do a reinforcement drop of an elite company of Paras at 0100 hours the following morning. Members of D Squadron, boosted by Six Troop B Squadron, would provide the DZ reception party.
The cocking handle of my XM203 snapped forward, chambering the first 5.56mm round. I applied the safety-catch. My fingers checked the smooth metallic cases of the 40mm bombs located in the pockets and the bandoliers criss-crossing my chest. Cradling the loaded rifle in the crook of my left arm, I stood motionless in the growing darkness. As my eyes adjusted to night vision, taking the inkiness out of the purple-black surroundings, my thoughts turned to the achievements of British forces over the last few weeks. In very little time, a task force of over a hundred ships had sailed 8,000 miles and landed between 9,000 and 10,000 men on an enemy-occupied coastline, and the men had fought to within an ace of total victory.
The overloaded Sea King helicopters of 846 Squadron took off at precisely 1800 hours. They flew low and fast, skimming across the darkness of San Carlos Water, heading for Falkland Sound. The Navy pilots wore passive night goggles – image-intensifiers enabling them to see at night in conditions of low light. In the cramped, blacked-out passenger compartment of the chopper, the noise of the rotor blades, specially coated to withstand the harsh weather conditions, was deafening. We swept across the undulating terrain of East Falkland and then enemy-occupied West Falkland. We hugged the contours and hedge-hopped the sheep fences; we dipped over hillocks and swooped down re-entrants. Finally, after a gut-lurching, hair-raising short dash up a pitch-black gully, we reached our objective. We put down on an area of high ground amid lumps of tussock grass and soggy peat. A blast of fresh, crisp air hit me as the loadmaster slid open the door. The clear, starlit night was bitterly cold as we struggled out of the helicopters, pulled on our heavy bergens weighed down with 7.62mm link, and went into all-round defence.
The drone of the Sea Kings spiralling upwards into the moonlit night signalled the move out. In the distance, the relentless pounding of 4.5inch shells from the Type 21 frigate could be heard bombarding the Fox Bay area. We moved off silently on a preset compass bearing. Because visibility was good we travelled in staggered file, well spaced out. We carried a formidable array of weapons: GPMGs, XM203s, L42 sniper rifles with night sights, 66mm LAWs and the new, Americansupplied Stingers – lightweight heat-seeking surface-to-air missiles. For a while, we followed the gently rising spur running north. The brilliant full moon bathed the jagged rocks on the high ground in front of us. We made good time on a steadily climbing, steepening slope, picking our way quietly and patiently through the semi-frozen boggy hillside strewn with unyielding rock.