The crews were struck immediately by the buzz of activity around them, by hills, tucked close to the airfield, that rose like sandcastles into the dark, and by the tents. There were olive green military tents everywhere, pitched straight on to the dust. The entire RAF operation, they realized, was run from under canvas. John Reeve liked it immediately. No admin, no bullshit, he thought, just aircrews and engineers. Barry Masefield looked around at the dozen RAF Victors packed close to each other around the airfield. It was an impressive, reassuring sight. With this lot we’re going to win, he thought, feeding his confidence with the spectacle. The two Victor squadrons, 55 and 57, had already customized the entrance to their Ops tent with a board that read ‘5557 MASH Air Battle Fleet’ in a nod to Hawkeye et al. Visually, at any rate, the collection of tents meant that the comparison was a good one. The Vulcan detachment would have to find a legend of their own.
Monty said he’d take them up to where they were sleeping after a short debrief. Before leaving the airfield, John Reeve needed to find Engineering Chief Mel James. He thought there was a problem with 607’s fuel system. The number 1 tank didn’t seem to be topping off. It would need looking at. Reeve didn’t want any nagging worries about the jet he’d be flying. If there were any doubts, he’d elect to fly Primary in 598, the Vulcan Martin Withers had flown in. Since coming in on the VC10, James had been joined by the rest of his thirty-strong engineering team, who were transported with their equipment, in rather less comfort, aboard two C-130s. Included in their number was a technician from Honington in case anything happened to the unfamiliar Dash 10 ECM pod. James had tried to come prepared for all eventualities. When Reeve spoke to him, he was already casting an eye over his two new charges. As the bomb bay doors swung open he checked their contents. Condensation from the cold-soaked bomb casings – formed as the Vulcans had descended rapidly from the sub-zero air above 40,000 feet into the humid, tropical atmosphere on Ascension – splashed on to the warm Tarmac.
As James got to work on the two Vulcans, the aircrews climbed into a Sherpa van for the short journey to Two Boats to check in to the Right Arm Hotel. Sadly, there was no real evidence of the effort Monty and Bill Perrins had put into trying to make it look presentable and the reaction was predictable.
‘What a shitheap!’ someone goaded.
‘I’ve just spent two fucking days sweeping this out, you arsehole!’ retorted Perrins.
But even Monty thought, looking around: This looks terrible. And it smelt like a Gents. The sleeping bags seemed to have been made under an MoD contract by prisoners who had relieved themselves into the finished product before rolling it up and sending it on its way. It wasn’t going to be a problem in any case. Two Boats was only a degree or so cooler than sea level and, in the scramble to get the kit to Ascension, the crews had been issued with Arctic bags. As they milled around deciding who was going to sleep where, the Reeve crew turned on their co-pilot.
‘Don, you’ll sleep in the kitchen next to the fridge because you’re such a noisy bastard.’ Dibbens’ snoring was well known and only taking bold action was going to make sure that the sleeping arrangements didn’t become any more unpleasant than they already were. With Dibbens safely stuck out of earshot, it was time to get something to eat. They barrelled out of the dusty dormitory to get some food at an outdoor field kitchen set up in the village. Mick Cooper had said the food must be really good.
‘Why?’ they asked him.
‘Because a thousand flies can’t be wrong…’
Martin Withers and his crew were noticeably more relaxed than their counterparts on the Primary crew. They, after all, were going to get a good night’s sleep, then fly as far as the first refuelling bracket before returning for another good night’s sleep while Reeve and his crew flew south to launch their attack. Unconcerned about the next day they dumped their stuff, changed out of their flightsuits and headed off in search of a drink. After the disappointment of the accommodation and food – and his fears that Ascension might be dry – Martin Withers was cheered to discover that at least there was somewhere they could finish off the evening with a beer. There was, after all, something to celebrate. Tomorrow was AARI Dick Russell’s birthday. They ended up in a bar called The Seniors’ Mess. None of them had any idea who ‘The Seniors’ were, but their hospitality was outstanding and the Vulcan crew drank enthusiastically – fuelled by a belief that, if it took their bodies an hour to deal with each drink, they had nothing whatsoever to worry about. The SAS were there too, keeping themselves to themselves. The RAF officers were impressed to note that the troopers would return from the bar carrying whole slabs of beer and that each one appeared to be for personal consumption. At midnight the celebrations for Russell’s fiftieth began. The six men found what they imagined were the last few bottles of South African white wine and loudly toasted their new crew member’s health. Drunk and happy, they finally got their heads down at 2 a.m.
As the aircrews drank and slept through the night, Mel James and his team worked to ensure the two bombers were ready to go the following day. Just after midnight they sent a message estimating they’d be ready by 0500. By 0300, both 598 and 607 were accepted as functional, fuelled to 90 per cent and left, watched over by a guard of Royal Marines grateful to be off the crowded Canberra for a few days.
Despite fine weather, the atmosphere in Stanley had darkened since the town’s gymnasium had been commandeered by Argentine special forces. When pressed, Carlos Bloomer-Reeve admitted that the authority of these hard, professional-looking troops superseded all other. After dark, between the hours of 5 p.m. and 7 a.m., a strict curfew was imposed on the civilian population, who also now had to carry ID papers whenever they went outside. And these, it was announced, would be replaced by new documents issued by the military government. Telephone lines were disconnected to any household who were members of the FIDF and orders were issued that the windows of all homes were to be blacked out. The soldiers took to cruising malevolently around the streets of the little capital on brand-new Kawasaki motorbikes, short-barrelled sub-machine guns strapped loosely across their backs.
Chapter 29
The US government came down publicly on the side of the British on Friday 30th. After weeks and thousands of miles of shuttle diplomacy, Ronald Reagan’s Secretary of State, General Al Haig, finally conceded defeat. The decision to abandon a neutral stance, let alone impose economic sanctions against Argentina, hadn’t been a foregone conclusion. But by suggesting that Haig’s final peace plan be put first to the junta, Margaret Thatcher’s War Cabinet shrewdly assumed the moral high ground at the death of America’s efforts to broker a settlement. While Haig’s proposals were totally unacceptable to the British, by giving Argentina the opportunity – which she took – to reject them first, the British were able to claim good faith. Because of the Argentine rejection, there was no need for the British to reveal their hand. As a result, they could legitimately claim that they bore no responsibility for the breakdown of negotiations.
With what seemed to be the final restraint on British military action removed, Argentine forces on the Falklands expected the first British attacks to arrive at any time. Also waiting, steaming less than a hundred miles outside the 200-mile Maritime Exclusion Zone around the islands, were two Argentine naval Task Groups: to the north-west, the Veinticinco de Mayo with her squadron of A-4Q Skyhawks, escorted by four destroyers; to the south-west was the cruiser General Belgrano, accompanied by two ex-US Navy ‘Allen M. Sumner’ Class destroyers armed with MM38 Exocet missiles.