Heroes of the South Atlantic

SHAUN CLARKE

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by 22 Books/Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1993

Copyright © Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1993

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Jim Gibson/Alamy (helicopter); Shutterstock.com (textures)

Shaun Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008154851

Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008154868

Version: 2015-10-15

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

OTHER TITLES IN THE SAS OPERATION SERIES

About the Publisher

Prelude

Phil Ricketts was having another nightmare based on fact. He was reliving with dreadful clarity that moment the previous year when, in a shit-hole of a housing estate in Andersonstown, West Belfast, Lampton had made his mistake and copped it.

They had moved out at dawn for a carefully planned house assault after being informed by the ‘green slime’, the Intelligence Corps, that a couple of IRA men were being hidden in the estate and preparing to snipe at a British Army foot patrol. As Ricketts sat between his mates in the cramped rear of the armoured ‘pig’ taking them along the Falls Road, secure in his assault waistcoat, checking his Heckler & Koch MP5 and adjusting his gas mask, he glanced out the back and was reminded again of just how much he detested being in Northern Ireland. This wasn’t a real war with an enemy to respect, but rather, a dirty game of hide and seek, a demeaning police action, a bloody skirmish against faceless killers, mean-faced adolescents, hate-filled children and contemptuous housewives. Christ, Ricketts loathed it.

He was filled with this loathing as the pig took him through the mean streets of Belfast in dawn’s grey light – past terraced houses with doors and windows bricked up, pubs barricaded with concrete blocks, even off-licences and other shops protected by coils of barbed wire – but he managed to swallow his bile when the pig neared the estate and Sergeant Lampton, Ricketts’s best friend, started counting off the distance to the leap: ‘Two hundred metres…one hundred…fifty metres…Go! Go! Go!’

The armoured vehicle screeched to a halt, its rear doors burst open, and the men leapt out one by one, carrying their weapons in the ‘Belfast cradle’, then raced across the debris-strewn lawns in front of the bleak rows of flats, still wreathed in the early-morning mist.

Such actions were so fast, they were over before you knew it. Ricketts raced ahead with Lampton, across the grass, into the block and along the litter-strewn walkway as someone shouted a warning – a child’s voice, loud and high-pitched – and a door slammed shut just above. Up a spiral of steps, along a covered balcony, boots clattering on the concrete, making a hell of a racket, then Lampton was at the door in front of Ricketts, taking aim with the Remington 870 pump-action shotgun. The noise was ear-splitting, echoing under the walkway’s low roof, as the wood around the Yale lock exploded and the door was kicked open. Lampton dropped to his knees, lowering the shotgun, taking aim with his 9 mm Browning handgun as Ricketts rushed into the room, his Heckler at the ready, bawling for the bastards to surrender even as he hurled in a stun grenade.

The grenade exploded, cracking the walls and ceiling, but when its flash had faded away an empty room was revealed. Cursing, Ricketts and the others explored the whole flat, tearing down the curtains, kicking over tables and chairs, ensuring that no one was hiding anywhere, then covering each other as they backed out again, swearing in frustration.

‘Let’s try the flats next door!’ ‘Gumboot’ Gillis bawled, his voice distorted eerily by the gas mask. ‘The fuckers on either side!’

But before they could do so other doors opened and housewives stepped out, still wearing their nightdresses, curlers in their hair, swearing just like the SAS men and bending over to drum metal bin lids on the brick walls and concrete floor of the walkway. The noise was deafening, growing louder every second, as more women emerged to do the same, followed by children. Their shrieked obscenities added dramatically to the bedlam until, as Ricketts knew would eventually happen, the first bottle was thrown.

‘Whores!’ Gumboot exclaimed when the bottle shattered near his feet. ‘And mind those little cunts with ’em!’

‘Damn!’ Lampton said, glancing up and down the walkway, then over the concrete wall, the shotgun in one hand, the Browning in the other, but briefly forgetting all he had been taught and failing to watch his own back. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

That was his first and last mistake.

A ragged, gaunt-faced adolescent had followed them up the stairs and now emerged from the stairwell with his pistol aimed right at Lampton. He fired three times, in rapid succession, and Lampton was thrown back, bouncing against the concrete wall, as the kid disappeared again. Lampton dropped both his weapons and quivered epileptically, blood bursting from his gas mask, and was falling as Ricketts raced to the stairs, bawling, ‘Christ! Pick him up and let’s go!’ He chased after the assassin, bottles bursting around him, the drumming bin lids and shrieked obscenities resounding insanely in his head as he plunged into the dangerous darkness of the stairwell without thinking. Then…

Ricketts, as he often did these days, was groaning and punching at thin air as he awoke from his nightmare. He soon realized that in fact he had been woken up by a mate, SAS Corporal Paddy Clarke, who was excitedly jabbing his finger at the TV in the barracks, saying, ‘Sit up, Ricketts!’ Everyone called him by his surname, or ‘Sarge’. ‘Look! A bunch of Royal Marines have been forced to surrender in…’

Gumboot started his weekend leave with a quick fuck with some bint he’d picked up in King’s Cross. As he sweated on her passive body, propping himself up on his outspread hands, he was thinking about how the break-up of his marriage had reduced him to this.

Of course, he knew what had caused it – the good old SAS. His wife, Linda, had been torn between fear of what could befall him and anger at his going away so often. What she had hated, Gumboot loved – both the danger and the travelling – so what happened had to happen eventually – and finally did. Linda turned to another man, shacked up with him, and when Gumboot returned from Belfast, where Lampton had bought it, his wife and kids were missing from his home in Barnstaple, Devon, though a note had been left on the kitchen table, kindly telling him why.

Linda had been having an affair with a local farmer, James Brody, and had decided to move in with him ‘for the sake of the children’. She wanted a husband at home, Linda had written in her neat hand, preferably one not slated to be killed or, worse, crippled for life. Sorry, Gumboot, goodbye.

Bloody slag, Gumboot thought with satisfying vindictiveness, as he laboured on the whore stretched out below him. They’re all the same, if you ask me. He knew that wasn’t true, but it made him feel good saying it – just as it had made him feel good when, in a drunken stupor, he had gone to Brody’s imposing farmhouse, called him to the door, beat the shit out of him while Linda howled in protest, and then returned for another bout in the local pub. He had drunk a lot after that, mooning about his empty home, and was delighted to be called back to the Regiment and posted to Belfast.

Most of the men hated Belfast, but Gumboot had found his salvation there. Even the banshee wails of contemptuous Falls Road hags had helped to distract him from his sorrows. He had loved being in bandit country, away from Devon and Linda’s betrayal – loved it even after Lampton bought it with three shots to the head. Blood all over the fucking place. Lampton dragged out by his ankles, down the stairs of the housing estate as Ricketts, his best friend, released a howl of grief and rage, then raced on ahead to find the killer.

No such luck. That estate was a labyrinth. The kid with the gun was protected by the housewives and ‘dickers’ – the gangs of kids who monitored the movements of the security forces and passed on the word. Ricketts had been distraught. Lots of nightmares after that. But Gumboot, though angry at Lampton’s death, still liked it in Belfast.

Fighting was better than sex or booze, though few would admit it. In fact, this whore was pretty good and Gumboot was almost there, which prompted him to think of other things and delay his climax.

Sex was fine, but not enough. He needed to be back with the Regiment. Even when not engaged in a specific operation, he preferred it at the SAS ‘basha’ in Hereford, cut off from the normal world. A basha is the place where an SAS man is based at any given time – whether it be his barracks or a makeshift shelter erected in action.

Gumboot lived for the SAS. Life with so-called ‘normal’ people was boring and offered no satisfaction. Gumboot liked his bit of action, the danger and excitement, the thunder of the guns and the reek of cordite, and so he constantly yearned to be overseas, risking life and limb.

Even right now, as he climaxed, Gumboot was yearning for that. He groaned, convulsed and then relaxed. The tart patted his spine in a friendly manner, then glanced at her watch.

‘You’ve still got twenty minutes,’ she informed him.

‘I’m amazed,’ Gumboot said.

Rolling off her, he lit a cigarette and thoughtfully blew a couple of smoke rings. Then, realizing that he had nothing more to say to the woman, he switched on the radio beside the bed.

‘…islands,’ a BBC newsreader was announcing grimly, ‘were invaded earlier today by…’

‘Fucking great,’ Gumboot muttered.

Corporal ‘Jock’ McGregor and troopers ‘Taff’ Burgess and Andrew Winston were having their regular Friday-night piss-up in their favourite pub in Redhill, Hereford, not far from the ‘Kremlin’ – the Intelligence Section – and their barracks. Jock was short, lean and red-faced, Taff was of medium height, broad-chested and pale-faced, and Andrew, who towered over his two mates, was as black as pitch.

Well into his third pint, Jock was staring up at Andrew, thinking what a big bastard he was, and recalling that if anyone called him ‘Andy’ they were asking for trouble. Born in Brixton, to a white man from the area and a black mother from Barbados, Andrew felt at home in England, but even more so with the Regiment. After transferring to the SAS from the Royal Engineers, he had soon become renowned for his pride and fierce temper. He was also widely respected for the bravery and skill he had shown during the SAS strikes against rebel strongholds on Defa and Shershitti, in Oman, in the mid-1970s.

Taff was a big man too, though not as tall as Andrew, and his smile, when he wasn’t annoyed, was as sweet as a child’s. On the other hand, when he was riled, he’d take the whole room apart without thinking twice. A good trooper, though, always reliable in a tight spot, and like Andrew one with plenty of experience of the kind that mattered most. Not bad for a Welshman.

‘Now me,’ Jock was saying, although it was not what he was thinking, ‘I say that while it’s nice to have a wee break, a long break is misery. Men like us, we’re not cut out for all this peace. What we need is some action.’

‘Oman,’ Andrew said, nodding vigorously, deep in thought. ‘Damn it, man, I loved it there. That desert was livin’ poetry, boys, and that’s what I’m into.’

‘He even writes it,’ Taff said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and grinning slyly. ‘I think it’s a lot of shite he writes, but it keeps him from mischief.’

Jock and Andrew laughed. It was true enough, after all. Inside Andrew’s huge, badly scarred body a fine poet was struggling to get out. Even natural killers like Andrew, thought Jock, have their sensitive side.

‘I just do it for fun,’ Andrew explained. ‘They’re poems about the Regiment. Some day I’m gonna put them in a book and give the book to the Imperial War Museum. Then I’ll die happy.’

Human nature, Jock thought, studying his friend’s ebony face and huge body. There’s a tender wee soul hidden somewhere in there. Though at times, like when you’re on an op with him, you’d never believe it, so savage the bastard turns.

‘I’ll die happy,’ Jock said, ‘if they just find us something proper to do, instead of more pointless field exercises. I don’t mind a “sickener” occasionally, but now we’re just killing time.’

‘Right,’ Taff said, swigging his extra-strength beer, licking his ever-thirsty lips. They pull us out of bloody Belfast, leaving only ten behind, and now they don’t know what to do except keep us busy with bullshit. That’s the only point of those bloody exercises – it’s just keepin’ us busy.’

‘Also keeping us fit,’ Jock said, automatically stretching himself, recalling the endless repeats of Sickeners One and Two – the four-mile runs, cross-graining the Brecons – running from summit to summit across the Brecon Beacons – setting up primitive base camps on the same freezing hills, the horrors of the entrail ditch, lengthy swims in OGs – olive-green battle dress – weapons and explosives training, map-reading, language and initiative tests, parachute jumps, combat and survival, escape and evasion – in fact, endless repeats of everything they had endured during Initial Selection and its subsequent five months of murderous tests – all just because they had no war to fight and had to be kept on form.

Jock didn’t mind doing it for a purpose, but he hated time-filling. He didn’t have a wife and kids – nor did Taff or Andrew – so like them, he wanted to be somewhere else, putting his training to good use.

‘It was because of Lampton,’ Andrew said, gazing around the busy bar, taking in the country-squire types and thinking what sheltered lives they led, insulated from the real world by inherited status and wealth, removed from questions of black and white, the crude realities of blood and bone. ‘If he hadn’t dropped his guard and copped it, we’d all be there still.’

That quietened them all a moment. They didn’t normally discuss the dead – those who had failed to ‘beat the clock.’ Andrew realized that he’d said the wrong thing and felt bad about it. Embarrassed, he gazed around the bar again, reflecting that some of those privileged-looking old codgers had possibly fought in the last war, or in Malaysia or Aden, and might even be connected to the Regiment, which could explain why they lived here. You never knew if someone was in or not, so you shouldn’t pass judgement.

‘Look,’ Taff said, squinting up through clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke at the TV angled over the busy bar. ‘It’s a special broadcast,’ he said. ‘Something about an invasion…’

‘Is that British troops we’re seeing with their hands up?’ Jock interrupted, watching the grainy newsreel images on the box. ‘Where the hell is that?’

‘Something about Argentina,’ Andrew replied. ‘Not quite there, but nearby.’

‘I love her,’ Danny Porter said without the slightest trace of guile, ‘and I want to marry her and protect her always. I’m here to ask your permission.’

Danny was holding Darlene’s hand in the tiny living-room in the small house in Kingswinford, West Midlands, bravely facing her mother and father. Mrs Dankworth was a fading peroxide blonde with a wicked sense of humour and too great a love of men, including Danny. However, her husband, Vince, was further advanced in his state of not entirely natural decay, with unshaven jowls and a beer belly, a face scarred slightly by a broken bottle in a pub fight. He also had a tendency to feel superior to most folk.

Vince Dankworth’s sneer was presently reserved for the way in which Danny shamelessly held Darlene’s hand and kept smiling encouragingly at her, which hardly squared with the little berk’s timid nature. He thought that Danny was a little berk because, although he was in the Army, he rarely talked about it and invariably mumbled evasively when he did. Vince was an ageing rocker and constant fan of Gene Vincent, after whose wife, Darlene, the subject of one of Vincent’s great rock-’n’-roll laments, Vince had emotionally named his own daughter. In fact, Vince had originally been called Victor, which just about says it all.

Yeah, Gene Vincent! Now there was a real rocker. A gaunt, acned face, black leather pants and jacket, his leg in a brace which he pounded against the floor as he sneered and leered at the audience, before hitting the road again and smashing up some more motel rooms. The first really rebellious rocker, a bona fide original – not like that preening pretender Elvis Presley with his big, dark, girlish eyelashes and smarmy love songs.

Yes, Vince admired wild men – the ‘bona fides’, as he called them – and so could hardly accept that young Danny, who seemed so shy, even slightly effeminate, could actually be in the Army, let alone in the so-called Special Air Service.

Special for what?

Danny was 22, though he looked about 18. For this very reason, when Vince asked him what he had done in the Army in Northern Ireland and Danny merely shrugged shyly, mumbling something about ‘not much’, Vince completely believed him.

He would never have believed, on the other hand, that the shy young man sitting modestly in front of him had the instincts of a born killer and was renowned in the SAS for the number of times he had fearlessly practised the ‘double tap’ against known terrorists in Belfast. This involved entering incognito some of the most dangerous areas of the city to discharge thirteen rounds from his Browning high-power handgun in under three seconds, at close range, into his victim’s body, then making his escape in a car parked nearby before witnesses had time to gather their wits.

Danny’s ruthlessness was breathtaking, even to more seasoned members of the Regiment, but since such assassinations could not be sanctioned by the authorities, let alone recognized, he never received commendations and certainly never discussed his work with the Regiment. He would only say he was in the ‘Army’, mumbling uncomfortably when he did so, thus encouraging the former Ted and fan of greasy Gene Vincent to suspect that his daughter’s baby-faced boyfriend was some kind of poofter.

Now the baby-faced, whispering poofter was asking Vince for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Well, what could you say?

‘Right,’ Vince said magnanimously. ‘I guess that’s it, then. You want to marry Darlene – OK then, I won’t stand in yer way. Me and Darlene’s mum, we married young as well, so I guess we can’t say no.’

He smirked at Darlene’s bottle-blonde mum as she pursed her lips in a sensual ‘O’, blowing a couple of smoke rings, her bosom rising and falling impressively under a tight, low-cut blouse.

‘Dead right,’ she replied.

‘Thank you, Mr and Mrs Dankworth,’ Danny said. ‘I won’t let Darlene down. God, I’m so pleased. Thank you.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ good old Vince said impatiently. ‘Hey, love, you’ll soon have a son-in-law. That should turn you grey!’

It wasn’t the kind of house where you uncorked champagne, so Danny took Darlene out for a beer and a game of pool in the local pool hall, a right den of iniquity, to which he had been introduced by Vince.

‘Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason,’ Vince had said. ‘That movie, The Hustler. A fucking masterpiece, kid. A work of art. A real man’s game, is pool.’

Danny, though not yet a man in Vince’s eyes, had learnt the game quickly, but was careful never to beat his girlfriend’s dad. With his dreamy baby face hiding the instincts of a killer, Danny knew exactly what he wanted – and what he wanted was Darlene.

‘You probably think I’m pretty coarse playing pool,’ Darlene said as they walked along slummy streets to the pool hall. ‘But a lot of me workmates play it as well. It’s the real gear around here.’

Darlene was a switchboard operator for British Telecom, and her workmates, as Danny had noticed, could be a bit on the free side. Danny, who had his innocent side, thought this was real neat.

‘It’s a good game,’ he told Darlene reassuringly. ‘It sharpens the reflexes.’

‘Oh, you don’t need those sharpened,’ Darlene said with a surprisingly coarse chuckle. ‘Your reflexes are wonderful!’

Danny blushed brightly with embarrassment and pride, which made Darlene love him all the more.

‘God,’ she said, ‘you’re so sweet.’

Which made him blush all the more.

Once in the pool hall, they ordered a pint of beer each and while waiting for a vacant table discussed when they should marry. As Danny was between ops with his Regiment, and therefore based in the camp in Hereford rather than in Belfast, they agreed that they should do it as soon as possible.

‘I can’t wait any longer,’ Darlene said. ‘Oh, I do love you, Danny.’

When Danny studied Darlene’s sweet, moon-shaped face, bright-green eyes and jet-black hair, a lump always came to his throat. Now, with Willy Nelson singing ‘Always On My Mind’ coming from the radio perched high on one wall, that lump returned to his throat and filled him up with emotion.

‘I love you, too,’ he said.

He wasn’t a man of many words, but Darlene didn’t mind. She responded to his tender, loving nature and was touched by his reticence.

‘That table’s free,’ Danny told her.

Though only five feet two, Darlene had a perfect body and long legs. She liked to show off in tight sweaters and jeans – to ‘wind ’em up’, as her mother had always taught her. When playing pool, which involved certain contortions, Darlene was a sight to behold.

Perhaps for this reason, a player at the next table, another member of the great unwashed – a ring through his nose, with another dangling from one ear, hairy chest bared in a leather waistcoat above black leather pants and tatty high-heeled boots decorated with skull and crossbones – eventually put his head back, blew a stream of cigarette smoke, and sneered to his mates, ‘With tits like that bouncing on the velvet, how can she lose, guys?’

The sudden silence that followed was like an explosion, freezing everyone momentarily, as Danny spun his pool cue over, slid his grip to the narrow tip and brought the handle down like a club on the sneering git’s skull.

As the lout howled and grabbed his head, pouring blood, looking dazed, Danny moved in without thinking to karate-chop him twice in the guts. The guy jack-knifed dramatically, making a strangling sound, and was vomiting even as Danny jumped back and again used his hand like a guillotine. This one chopped smartly at his exposed nape, for he was leaning forward, and he was face down on the floor in his own puke before he knew what was happening.

Danny knew he was doing wrong – using his skills for personal reasons – but his killer instincts were overwhelming, so great was his rage. He raised his right boot, about to break the bastard’s neck, but Darlene cried out ‘No!’ and pulled him away, leaving his victim free to continue spewing on the floorboards.

‘Shit, man!’ someone whispered in fearful admiration. Then Stevie Wonder, who was singing ‘That Girl,’ was cut off in mid-sentence.

‘This is a special announcement,’ the radio announcer said. ‘Today, 2 April, 1982, a garrison of British Royal Marines guarding Port Stanley, capital of the Falkland Islands, was forced to surrender to…’

‘The Falkland Islands?’ Danny broke in, instantly distracted, no longer angry, and oblivious to the groaning man on the floor. ‘Where’s the Falkland Islands, Darlene?’

It was just another day for Major Richard Parkinson. As usual, he awoke at six in the morning and slipped quietly out of bed, letting his wife, Jane, get a little more sleep. Leaving the bedroom, Parkinson took the stairs up to his large converted loft, where he stripped off his pyjamas, put on a pair of shorts and proceeded to do 75 press-ups.

Though proud that at forty-four he could still do that many, Parkinson didn’t stop there. Rising from the floor, his whipcord body slick with sweat, and then standing on tiptoe to grab the chin-up bar he had inserted between two crossbeams, he began his usual fifty pull-ups.

Most men half his age could not have managed this with such ease, but Parkinson, though a little out of breath, was otherwise still in fine shape when he finished. After a few more exercises – touching his toes and lifting weights – he went downstairs, into the bathroom, stripped off his shorts and stepped into the shower, where he switched the water from hot to icy cold. Cleansed and invigorated, he dressed in his freshly pressed OGs, complete with medals and winged-dagger badge, then sauntered into the country-style kitchen, located at the back of the house overlooking a well-kept lawn and garden and offering a panoramic view of the countryside. From here you could see the rooftops of Hereford and the spire of the church.

When not overseas or at the Duke of York’s Barracks, in London’s King’s Road, Parkinson treated his wife to tea in bed every morning. He did this now, waking her up gently, running the fingers of his free hand through her hair as he set the cup and saucer on the cabinet beside the bed. Jane glanced up, smiling sleepily, then rolled away from him. The daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel Michael Lovelock – formerly of the Durham Light Infantry, then the SAS, a much-decorated veteran of Malaya and Oman, now in command of the Counter Revolutionary Warfare (CRW) Wing responsible for Northern Ireland – she was used to the demands of the Regiment and accepted her husband’s unwavering routine as perfectly normal.

Parkinson returned the smile, but to the back of his wife’s head, knowing that she would snatch a few more minutes of sleep, yet instinctively wake up before the tea was cold. After gently squeezing her shoulder, which made her purr like a cat, he turned and left the bedroom, automatically glancing into the other two bedrooms, where his children, now both married, had once slept and played. Reminded of his age, but certainly not feeling it, he returned to the kitchen to have breakfast and a quick scan of The Times.

His breakfast was frugal: orange juice, one boiled egg with brown toast, then a cup of black coffee. Parkinson did not believe in overeating; nor did he smoke or drink.

Opening his newspaper, he read that yesterday Argentina had invaded the Falkland Islands, overwhelming the single company of Royal Marines guarding the capital, Port Stanley. An emergency session of Parliament had been called – the first Saturday sitting since the Suez crisis – and the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, was scheduled to make a statement detailing Britain’s response to the invasion.

Parkinson immediately picked up the telephone and called his Commanding Officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Michael Pryce-Jones, at Stirling Lines, the home and heart of the SAS.

‘I’ve just read the morning paper,’ he said. ‘It sounds serious, boss.’

‘Quite serious, old chap,’ Pryce-Jones replied, making no attempt to hide his delight at the prospect of war. ‘In fact, damned serious. A bunch of bloody Argies trying to steal a British territory and we’re supposed to sit back and take it? Not likely, I say!’

‘Mrs Thatcher won’t let them,’ Parkinson replied. ‘We all know what she’s like. She’ll insist that it’s her duty to defend and preserve British sovereignty, no matter how small the territory involved. I think we’re in for some action.’

‘Damned right, we are. A task force of 40 warships, including the aircraft-carriers Invincible and Hermes, with 1000 commandos, is already being assembled, though the fleet hasn’t yet been given orders to sail. The usual political posturing will have to be endured first, thus wasting valuable time, but war with Argentina is inevitable. By tonight, the United Nations Security Council will almost certainly be compelled to demand a cessation of hostilities and an immediate withdrawal of the Argentinian invasion force. Then there’ll be negotiations. But cheering crowds are already gathering outside the presidential palace in Buenos Aires to celebrate the recapture of the so-called Malvinas, so it’s unlikely that General Galtieri – he’s the head of the military junta – will voluntarily back down. War it will have to be – and we’ll be part of it. You’d better get in here.’

Parkinson hurried out of the house, climbed into his car and drove off at high speed, heading for Stirling Lines.

1

‘I don’t think I have to tell you men why you’ve been called back to camp on three hours’ notice,’ Major Parkinson said to his men on Sunday morning, 4 April, 1982, as he stood beside Captain Michael ‘Mike’ Hailsham of the Mountain Troop and Captain Laurence E. Grenville of the Special Boat Squadron (SBS), in the briefing room of the ‘Kremlin’, the SAS intelligence section at Stirling Lines, in Redhill, Hereford. ‘Suffice to say that since its forced surrender to the Argentinians in Port Stanley on Friday, the unfortunate company of Royal Marines has been further humiliated by being forced to lie face down on the ground to be photographed for propaganda purposes. That’s why you’ve all been called back. We can’t let the bloody Argies get away with that, let alone their damned invasion of the Falkland Islands.’

‘So why are we still sitting here?’ Sergeant Ricketts asked.

‘Right, boss,’ Corporal Jock McGregor added. ‘Our arses are freezing on these chairs while the Navy goes gung-ho.’

‘True,’ Major Parkinson said calmly, immune to their expected sarcasm, since the SAS not only used the informal ‘boss’ instead of ‘sir’, but also encouraged free thinking and initiative. ‘A Royal Navy Task Force is set to sail from Portsmouth for the Falklands tomorrow. That task force will include frigates, destroyers, troop carriers, landing ships and supply vessels. Its two aircraft-carriers, HMS Invincible and HMS Hermes, will be crammed with Harrier jump-jets and helicopters, as well as with Royal Marines and Paratroops. Although she carries mainly Sea Harriers, HMS Hermes also has Sea King HC4s of 846 Naval Air Squadron, equipped to land the commandos with whom they normally train. At the same time, other ships will be leaving Plymouth to link up with yet more forces from Gibraltar. All in all, it will be Britain’s greatest display of Naval strength since Suez.’

‘But not including us,’ Taff Burgess complained, grinning laconically at his fellow SAS troopers.

‘Right,’ Sergeant Ricketts snapped, not grinning at all. ‘I’ve heard that the Royal Marines’ special Boat Squadron have already asked for two divers – one a former Marine – to complete a team flying to Ascension Island, where they hope to join a British submarine in the South Atlantic.’

‘We’ve heard, also,’ SBS Captain Grenville said in his familiar terse way, ‘that two members of G Squadron joined 2 SB Section at RAF Lyneham.’

‘Yet there are still no movement orders for this Squadron,’ Trooper Burgess said. ‘What’s going on, boss?’

Major Parkinson smiled. ‘Oh, ye of little faith. In fact, earlier this morning our OC called the senior officer in command of the Falklands operation – Brigadier Julian Thompson, Commander of 3 Commando Brigade, Royal Marines…’

‘Now on seventy-two hours’ notice to sail for the South Atlantic,’ Ricketts interjected sarcastically.

‘…and insisted that he include us in the Task Force. He was informed by the brigadier that Naval and Royal Marine staffs are working around the clock to arrange the embarkation of the men and war stores needed to spearhead any reconquest of the islands. This operation has been code-named “Corporate” and we’ll be part of it.’

‘How?’ Trooper Andrew Winston asked, rubbing his hand against his cheek and displaying an unwavering gaze that could make grown men tremble.

‘Oh, dear, you trust us so little!’ said the formerly renowned mountaineer and still dashingly handsome Captain Hailsham of the Mountain Troop.

Major Parkinson let the derisive laughter die away, then said in a graver tone: ‘The Task Force has been gathered together to show the world, and particularly Argentina, that Britain is serious about the fate of the so-called Malvinas. It will therefore be leaving to military music and a lot of patriotic flag-waving, in full view of the assembled international media.’ He paused for emphasis, before adding: ‘But we’ll be leaving as well. We will simply go quietly – flying out tomorrow.’

This time his men whistled and applauded, obviously pleased. Parkinson raised his hands to silence them. When they had calmed down, one of them, Trooper Danny ‘Baby Face’ Porter, put his hand up and asked: ‘Do we have anything on the Falklands, boss?’

Major Parkinson nodded to Captain Hailsham, who said: ‘Yesterday the Kremlin’s staff gathered together all the information they could find about the islands in the MOD map-room – most of it from the British Antarctic Survey’s HQ in Cambridge and other, more confidential sources. You’ll find those reports in the folders on the desks in front of you. Make sure you know the details off by heart before we fly out.’

‘Are there any contingency plans in SAS files or elsewhere for a recovery of the Falklands, if necessary?’ the astute Ricketts asked.

‘No,’ Hailsham said bluntly. ‘All of the long-term planners who considered it felt it would be next to impossible to sustain such a campaign.’

‘How come?’

Hailsham nodded to Captain Grenville, who was in constant contact with SBS intelligence. ‘The nearest feasible base from which to launch an amphibious assault is the very Ascension Island you’ve just mentioned,’ Grenville said. ‘That’s nearly 7000 kilometres from the UK ports and airfields. As for Port Stanley itself, it’s a further 6250 kilometres from Ascension – and there’s only open ocean, apart from Ascension, between the UK and the Falklands.’

‘That may be a problem for desk-bound planners,’ Ricketts said. ‘It’s not a problem for us.’

‘Correct,’ Parkinson said briskly, proud to hear such a remark from one of his men and eager to jump back into the briefing. ‘So tomorrow, 5 April, a small advance party from this squadron – the 80 men gathered together here – commanded by Major Cedric Delves, will fly out to Ascension Island to take part in the highly secret Task Force 317.9 – being formed to recapture South Georgia.’

A general murmur of approval spread around the briefing room, only silenced when Trooper Winston asked: ‘Who divides and rules?’

‘The work of all special forces, including the Special Air Service and the Special Boat Squadron, is to be coordinated through a command cell in Rear-Admiral Woodward’s HMS Hermes, the flagship of the Royal Navy Task Force. I’ll be aboard with some of you men.’

‘Do you think there’s going to be conflict, boss?’

‘Not immediately,’ Major Parkinson said. ‘You’ll fly out to Ascension and familiarize yourselves with local conditions as best you can.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Ascension is a small island that can hardly sustain its civilian population of a thousand,’ Captain Grenville explained. ‘For this reason, the Royal Navy is going to severely limit the numbers of commandos and other forces who can be ashore at any one time. The opportunities for further training will therefore be limited.’

‘Any more questions?’ Major Parkinson asked when the silence stretched on too long.

‘Yeah,’ Trooper Gumboot Gillis said, licking his lips and grinning like a mischievous schoolboy. ‘Apart from its thousand head of human sheep, what else is on Ascension Island?’

‘A British telecommunications centre, a US airbase, a US space-research centre, and a US gin-palace called the Volcano Club. That should see you right, Trooper. Any more questions?’

They all had a good laugh at that, but no hands went up.

‘Then I suggest you all return to your bashas, open those reports, and ensure that you’ve memorized them by tomorrow. You’ll be kitted out in the morning. Thank you, gentlemen.’

Major Parkinson and his two captains stepped away from the blackboard as the 80 soldiers pushed back their chairs and started to file out of the briefing room, most looking happy.

2

The selected members of D Squadron flew out of England on C-130 Hercules transport aircraft specially converted to flight-refuelling tankers. With their passenger and carrier holds containing long-range fuel tanks, the aircraft were short on breathing space, as well as noisy and bumpy, making for a long, uncomfortable flight that put no one in a good mood.

After landing on Ascension Island, the 80 men were driven in Bedfords from Wideawake airfield, located in featureless, wind-blown terrain, to be billeted in an equally desolate, disused school surrounded by flatlands of volcanic rock. There they made up their bashas, then attended the first of what would be many boring briefings from the ‘green slime’. The Intelligence Corps staff informed them that no war had yet broken out and they would therefore be spending their days on the island undergoing limited, special training for the Falklands. This news was greeted with a universal groan of frustration.

‘Christ, what a hell-hole,’ Jock said that first evening as he drank beer with his mates in the Volcano Club, the American bar on Wideawake airfield, its windows giving a view of the rows of aircraft outside, including Vulcan bombers, Victor tankers, Starlifters, Nimrod recce planes and their own cumbersome Hercules transports. ‘It’s no more than a lump of scraggy rock in the middle of the bleedin’ South Atlantic. What the hell are we doing here?’

‘This is the nearest base for an amphibious assault on South Georgia,’ big Andrew explained. ‘That’s why we’re here, mate.’

‘And not alone either,’ Taff said, sitting beside Baby Face Porter. ‘Just look around you.’

He was referring to the other men in the packed, smoky bar, representing M Company, 42 Commando, Royal Marines, the RAF, the Royal Naval Aircraft Servicing Unit, Royal Engineers, and other members of the British Forces Support Unit. Though no more than a volcanic dust heap, nine miles across at its widest, the island had a BBC relay station, a 10,000-foot runway built by NASA, a satellite tracking station and a firing range. Now being used as a staging post for the Task Force, it was receiving an average of six Hercules flights a day, as well as a constant stream of men and equipment ferried in from the fleet anchored out at sea. As there was not enough accommodation for the personnel arriving daily, the men were forced to spend most of their time aboard ship, only being ferried to the island when it was their turn for weapons testing on the firing range, craft drills on the beach, other forms of training, or work. A lot of those men were here now, filling up the formerly quiet Volcano Club.

‘Fuck ’em,’ Gumboot said, polishing off the last of his inch-thick steak in garlic butter and washing it down with another mouthful of beer. ‘Them Argie bastards made British RMs lie face down on the ground. I say crash a couple of Hercules into the fucking runway at Port Stanley. Two C-130s filled with our men. We’d have the Argies running like scared rabbits before we were out of the planes.’

‘If you got that far,’ Ricketts said. ‘Rumour has it the airfield is ringed with 7000 Argentinian troops and an anti-aircraft battalion equipped with ground-to-air missiles. The C-130s, not fast at the best of times, would be sitting ducks.’

‘Right,’ baby-faced Danny put in, nodding emphatically. ‘We would not beat the clock, my friend.’

‘Well, when are we going to do something?’

‘When the diplomats fail, as they will. Only then will we move.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Gumboot exploded.

The special training began the next day and covered a wide variety of situations. Though the eighty-odd troops were already sweating in the tropical heat of Ascension Island, they were compelled to wear outfits suitable to the Arctic conditions of their eventual destination.

‘The Falklands are notable for cold weather and wind,’ Sergeant Ricketts explained as the men prepared. ‘The two together can result in windchill, which can freeze exposed flesh in minutes. So you have to get used to operating in this gear, whether or not you like it.’

The ‘gear’ to which he referred was windproof and waterproof clothing which covered the whole body and was based on the so-called ‘layer system’, whereby layers of clothing are added or taken away depending on the temperature and level of activity. If moisture is trapped inside garments, sweat cools very quickly in the Arctic and the wearer starts freezing. Most of the Arctic battle gear was therefore made from Gore-tex, which keeps heat in but allows moisture to escape.

Other items of kit distributed to the Regiment that first morning included mittens, face masks, ski boots, snow shoes and skis. Nevertheless, even kitted out like this, the kind of training the Regiment could do was fairly limited. Wearing their bulky Gore-tex weatherproof jackets, wool sweaters, Royal Marine camouflage trousers and heavy boots in the heat of Ascension Island was a distinctly uncomfortable way of undergoing so-called ‘special training’. As for the training itself, given that the Arctic climate of the Falklands had to be simulated in a very different environment, very little new, relevant training could be managed. They tested their weapons on the firing range, rehearsed in canoes and Gemini inflatable assault boats in the shallow waters just off the beach, and practised abseiling from noisily hovering Wessex helicopters. But most of it was fairly basic stuff and all too familiar.

‘We’re just wanking here,’ Gumboot said, summarizing the widespread feeling of frustration. ‘Just passing time. Those Navy choppers are cross-decking troops every day, so they can be shipped on to the Falklands – it’s just us being left here. I’m gonna go mad with fucking boredom if they don’t move us on soon. Completely out of my mind.’

‘Right on,’ young Danny said, looking yearningly at all the ships anchored out at sea. ‘I know what you mean.’

Pretty soon, just to keep the men busy, the instructors were resorting to the well-known torments of Continuation-and-Cross Training, including four-man patrol tactics, signalling, first aid, demolition, hand-to-hand combat and general combat survival. While most of it was of obvious use, it had all been done before, and after a few days the men were sick of it. To make matters worse, the Navy had placed many restrictions on what could be done on the island. This further displeased the members of the Regiment.

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Corporal Paddy Clarke said two days later in the Volcano Club. ‘I’m fucking tired of playing amateur soldiers every morning on this bit of volcanic rock – just learning the terrain and repeating the lessons of Sickener One. Then listening to the green slime givin’ their boring lectures every bloody afternoon. Bullshit, bullshit and more bullshit. If we have to retrain, let’s do it properly – not all this basic REMF stuff.’

REMFs was the SAS term for the boys at the back – the ‘rear-echelon motherfuckers’.

‘It’s the Navy’s fault,’ Baby Face said. He was yearning for Darlene and looking lovelorn. ‘As the Head Shed said at the briefing back in the Kremlin, the Navy’s limiting the numbers of troops who can be ashore at any time – and that limits our training. It’s always the Navy.’

‘Right on,’ Gumboot said. ‘It’s always the Navy’s fault. They’re just tryin’ to take advantage. Those bastards want to keep us trapped here while they get all the glory.’

‘No glory to be had,’ big Taff Burgess pointed out mildly. ‘At least, not so far. The politicians are still farting around while we sit here sweating.’

‘Besides,’ Ricketts added, ‘it’s not just the Navy. It’s this damned terrain. We can’t train you properly in this place because we’ve nothing to work with – no snow, no ice crevasses, no mud. Here we only have featureless terrain and sea, which is not much use to us.’

They all knew what he meant. The main key to survival in an Arctic environment is to get out of the wind and defeat the cold. For this reason, all SAS troopers routinely receive training in the construction of shelters such as snow holes, snow caves and igloos, as well as instruction in ski techniques and navigation in Arctic conditions. Special training in those areas was clearly impossible on Ascension Island, where the ground was too hard to simulate snow holes and too flat to construct dry ski runs.

‘At least we’ve done some weapons training,’ Ricketts said. ‘Thanks for small mercies.’

In fact the only special weapons training they had done was in how to keep their weapons in working order in the dismal weather of the Falklands. Because in extremely cold conditions lubricants thicken, causing jams and sluggish action, all unnecessary lubricants had to be removed, with only the surfaces of the bolt being lubricated, and the rest left dry. Similarly, ammunition had to be cleaned of all oil and condensation. This required a little learning, but not much, so the men were soon bored again.

‘Small mercies?’ Jock said. ‘What fucking small mercies? I’m going mad doing nothing on this hell-hole while the task force sails on to the Falklands. I don’t think it’s right.’

‘It’s the Navy,’ Gumboot said, returning to their favourite punchbag. ‘Those bastards sail on to the Falklands while we jerk off back here.’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Paddy said, ‘if there was something to do here.’ He lit a cigarette, puffing smoke. ‘But there’s nothing but this miserable bloody club and a lot of rocks and the sea. It’s like being in prison.’

‘Not quite, lads,’ big Andrew said philosophically as he twisted a piece of paper into a tight ball and dropped it into his half-pint glass of Drambuie. ‘Just take a look at this place. Here we are, in the South Atlantic Ocean, on what’s essentially a piece of volcanic rock, only discovered on Ascension Day in 1501. There’s poetry in this primitive place, man. Sheer visual poetry.’

‘He’s talkin’ shite again,’ Jock said, shaking his head in despair. ‘He’ll soon set it to music.’

A few of the lads laughed, but Andrew remained unfazed. He swirled the Drambuie in his glass, letting it thoroughly soak the crumpled piece of paper floating on top. ‘Where’s your sense of military history?’ he challenged them, staring at each in turn. ‘Did you know that this place was uninhabited until the British established a garrison when Napoleon was sent to St Helena in 1815? That makes a line of history from Napoleon to us, sitting right here. I think that’s kind of magical.’

‘Where’s St Helena?’ Jock asked. ‘The other side of the island?’

‘Seven hundred and fifty miles south-east of here,’ Andrew explained with a studied display of patience. ‘A mere drop in the ocean. And to there – we’re practically sitting in his ghostly lap – the great Napoleon was exiled. Now I think that’s real magical, man – and magic is poetry.’

‘I’m gonna puke,’ Gumboot said.

‘Don’t blame you,’ Jock agreed.

‘I salute the great fellow-soldier,’ Andrew said gravely. Then he flicked his lighter, set fire to the ball of paper in the Drambuie, put the flaming concoction to his lips and swallowed it.

It was the kind of sport the Regiment enjoyed and Andrew’s mates all applauded. When he had finished his drink, the ball of paper was still on fire. He put his lips over the glass and appeared to suck up the flame. When he put the glass down, the fire was out. The men clapped and cheered again.

‘Anyway,’ Ricketts said when the noise had subsided, ‘I think Parkinson should get on the blower and try to stir up some action.’

‘Talk of the devil,’ Paddy said, indicating the door with a nod of his head as Major Parkinson entered the bar and walked straight to their table.

‘Evening, chaps,’ he said. ‘Sitting here moaning and groaning, are you?’ The men jeered and howled melodramatically, until Parkinson pulled up a chair and sat down with them. ‘Contrary to what you bullshit artists think, our CO has been keen to get this squadron embarked. He’s therefore pleased to inform you, through me, that today he received a request for an SAS troop, the whole of D Squadron, to sail in the Royal Fleet Auxiliary Fort Austin for a proper assignment.’

Reprieved at last, the men roared their approval.

Some twelve hours later, in the grey light of dawn, the men of the SAS Squadron were driven away from Wideawake airfield, past planes, helicopters, fork-lifts, supply trucks, advance-communications equipment and stockpiles of fuel, rations and medical supplies, to the nearby beach, where Gemini inflatables were waiting to take them out to the fleet of battleships that would carry them on to the South Atlantic.

3

The 22,890-ton RFA Fort Austin sailed under the Blue Ensign in company with the large destroyer HMS Antrim (6200 tons), the frigate Plymouth (2800 tons), and the large fleet tanker Tidespring (27,400 tons). Maintaining radio silence, the fleet soon left Ascension Island far behind to become surrounded by the deep swells and ominous grey waves of the forbidding South Atlantic.

Although normally unarmed, the Fort Austin was carrying improvised weaponry, including GPMGs, general-purpose machine-guns. It had also embarked four Lynx helicopters specially fitted for firing the Sea Skua missile, and it was loaded with 3500 tons of ammunition, stores and spares. With a length of 183.8 metres, a beam of 24.1 metres and a draught of 14.9 metres, she was an impressive sight, and, to the uninitiated, overwhelming inside.

Spending most of their days and nights in the dimly lit, sweltering hold, in tightly packed tiers of bunk beds and hammocks, surrounded by dangling equipment and clothes hanging from stanchions, in a tangle of bags, packs, bergens and weapons, with little to do except be patient, the SAS men passed the time by studying as much detail of the islands as they had been given by Intelligence, playing cards, writing letters in which they could not state their whereabouts, visiting the latrines out of boredom as well as need, and exchanging the usual banter and bullshit.

‘Here comes young Danny, just back from the head, getting his lovely Darlene out of his system by having a good wank. How did it go, kid?’

‘None of your business, Gumboot.’

‘Shot a healthy wad, did you? Enough to last you till tomorrow? Me, I can do it ten times a day and it’s still not enough. That’s why women can’t get enough of me – because I just keep on coming.’

‘They can’t get enough of you,’ big Andrew corrected him, ‘because you pay them too much. The whores of London have never had it so good – at least not since your missus ran off and sent you on the prowl around King’s Cross. At least Danny here doesn’t have to pay for it. He has youth on his side.’

‘Hey, look, he’s blushing! Danny’s face has gone all red. If he had as much heat in his dick, we’d all be in trouble.’

‘Shut up, Jock,’ Ricketts said. ‘You’ve got a mouth like a sewer. Go and pick on someone your age – another geriatric.’

‘I’m the same age as Danny. He just looks younger than me. That’s because I’m a man of broad experience and it shows in my face.’

‘Dissipation,’ Andrew said. ‘Your mug certainly shows that. Now me, I’m often mistaken for Muhammad Ali. Black is beautiful, friends.’

When feeling trapped or claustrophobic in the crowded, noisy hold, a man could make his escape by touring the immense ship and observing the constant activity that went on in its other holds and on the flight deck. Most of this revolved around the transfer of stores and equipment, either to smaller ships alongside or by jackstay rigs or helicopters to HM ships. The noise both above and below decks was therefore considerable nearly all day, and sometimes went on through the night.

‘Fucking Navy,’ Jock said. ‘You’d have to be mad to join it. I mean, trapped on this floating factory for weeks on end with only the sea all around you. You’d have to be psycho.’

‘That’s what they say about us,’ Andrew replied, ‘and maybe they’re right.’

‘They’re just a bunch of poofters,’ Gumboot said, leaning against the railing and spitting over the side to baptize the sea. ‘We’ve all known that for years. That’s why they like life aboard ship, packed cosily together in their bunks. Why else would they do it?’

‘Three days we’ve been at sea already,’ Taff said, ignoring Jock’s base observation and instead watching another helicopter taking off with a roar, silhouetted by a pale, cloud-streaked sun as it created a wind that whipped their faces and pummelled their bodies. ‘One more day and I’ll go mad.’

‘Won’t we all?’ Ricketts murmured.

Luckily, they managed to survive the next day – and on the fifth, 9 April, Antrim’s fleet linked up with the ice patrol ship the Endurance 1600 kilometres north of South Georgia, and, escorted by it, began closing in on the island.

‘Thank God!’ Danny exclaimed softly, again leaning on the railing and gazing hopefully at the distant, as yet featureless grey horizon. ‘Now let’s see some dry land.’

However, as approval for the operation had not yet been received from London, another ten days passed before Major Parkinson could announce its commencement.

‘How are the men holding up?’ he asked Sergeant Ricketts.

‘Not bad, boss, but they’re obviously getting a bit frustrated. There isn’t much to do down there in the hold except listen to the hammering of the engines, play cards, write letters, trade bullshit and take the piss out of passing sailors.’

‘But no trouble so far?’

‘Not so far – but their remarks to the sailors are becoming more saucy by the day, so there could be some punch-ups in the near future. There’s a lot of energy needs squandering down there, one way or the other.’

‘We’d better distract them.’

‘I think so, boss.’

‘Let’s keep them extra busy, Sergeant. Every minute of every day. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll be right and they’ll start popping sailors. Let’s burn up all that healthy, excess energy before they release it another way.’

‘Good thinking, boss,’ Ricketts said.

Within each of the four Sabre Squadrons of the SAS – A, B, C and D – there are four kinds of 16-man specialist groups: Mountain Troops for mountain and Arctic warfare; Boat Troops for amphibious warfare; Mobility Troops for operations in Land Rovers and fast-attack vehicles, as well as on motorcycles; and Air Troops for freefall parachute operations. However, during their training, the men must serve with every group, to make them adaptable to any of the four main forms of warfare.

Given the nature of the Falklands, the SAS men on Fort Austin were divided into the two groups needed for this particular operation: the Mountain Troop, led by Captain Hailsham and including Sergeant Ricketts, Corporal Clarke and troopers Porter and Winston, which would be used for land-based reconnaissance and engagements; and the Boat Troop, led by Captain Grenville and including Corporal McGregor and troopers Burgess and Gillis, to be used for any required amphibious landings.

The first group was therefore kept as busy as possible with interminable lessons on the geography and topography of the Falklands; the second with similar lessons on the tides and waterways of the islands and with the constant checking of their Gemini inflatables and Klepper canoes.

Nevertheless, life aboard ship became increasingly dull and frustrating, leading to restlessness, moans and groans and even an occasional angry confrontation between SAS Troopers and the crew. Sergeant Ricketts was therefore relieved when at last they were called to the briefing room by an obviously pleased Major Parkinson.

‘I’ve just been informed,’ he told his frustrated SAS Troop, ‘that our accompanying tanker, Tidespring, is carrying M Company of 42 Commando, Royal Marines – destined to be landed in South Georgia.’

There were murmurs and many wide-eyed glances among the men.

‘This island,’ Parkinson continued when they had settled down again, ‘lies 1300 kilometres east-south-east of the Falklands and, as the main base of the British Antarctic Survey, is particularly important to Great Britain. Its recapture will therefore be a clear indication to the world in general and Argentina in particular that if necessary we Brits will fight to recapture any territory stolen from us.’

‘About time!’ Gumboot exclaimed.

‘Bloody right,’ Jock said emphatically.

‘Let’s get them up and running,’ Taff Burgess added, smiling at the ceiling. ‘Let’s kick the shite out of them.’

The ensuing laughter and applause were silenced when Ricketts, on the ball as always, asked: ‘Who’s in charge this time?’

‘The second-in-command of 42 Commando, Major Guy Sheridan RM, will be in command of the landing forces, including us’ – a few groans at this – ‘and he’ll work with our CO aboard the Antrim in planning the assault on the island.’ This brought more cheers. ‘In addition to us, Sheridan has 120 men of M Company and about twenty-five swimmer-canoeists of 2 SBS, Royal Marines. There’s also a small detachment of Marines aboard the Antrim with M Company’s Recce Troop, a mortar section and the company OC. In all, about 235 men.’

‘How many Argentinians are holding the island?’ Ricketts asked.

‘We don’t know for sure. Why? Are you worried?’

‘No, boss, I’m not.’

‘I didn’t think so,’ Parkinson said with a grin. ‘Anyway, we’ve just received a signal…’

‘I thought we were sailing in radio silence,’ big Taff butted in.

‘It was dropped from a maritime reconnaissance aircraft,’ Parkinson explained. ‘A signal authorizing us to carry out covert recces on South Georgia.’ This sparked off more cheering.

‘As part of this, plans are being drawn up for our Mountain Troop to land north of Leith, where the Argentinians have reportedly been collecting scrap from an old whaling station. And 2 SBS will land about the same time in Hounds Bay, south-east of the island’s main settlement of Grytviken, and move up the coast in inflatable boats to establish observation posts, which can observe the settlement from across five kilometres of open water. That’s it. Any questions?’

‘When do we leave?’ Andrew asked.

‘The operation has already commenced. On your feet, bullshit artists. We’re busy at last.’

4

Because South Georgia was out of range of land-based aircraft, D squadron transhipped by Wessex helicopter from Fort Austin to the ice patrol ship HMS Endurance, which would sail closer to the shore, enabling them to fly in to their landing zone.

Looking down on the South Atlantic, where a man could freeze to death in a couple of hours, Ricketts wasn’t the only one to give a slight, involuntary shudder, no matter how fearless he might normally have been. He was glad, therefore, when a streak of crimson appeared in the alluvial, snot-grey sea, then took shape as the hull of the Endurance, also known as the ‘Red Plum’. Though smaller than the Fort Austin, the Endurance was equipped with two Wasp helicopters. To facilitate their landing, a large hangar had been built abaft the ship’s funnel, extending her poop deck to create a helicopter landing pad. It was onto this that the helicopter containing the SAS team landed, bobbing up and down, to and fro, above the treacherous, surging, shadowy waves, before settling at last on the solid but constantly swaying deck.

Once aboard the new ship, Major Parkinson held another briefing, this one solely for the 16 members of his Mountain Troop, which would be led by the young and handsome, but decidedly efficient, Captain Mike Hailsham, and including Sergeant Ricketts, Corporal Jock McGregor, Trooper Danny Baby Face Porter, and the massive Trooper Andrew Winston.

Captain Hailsham was standing beside Parkinson throughout the briefing, which took place in a large, committee-room-sized cabin located above the flight decks, with drenched portholes giving a distorted view of the featureless grey sea and sky outside.

‘Right,’ Major Parkinson began. ‘To put you in the picture, the Special Boat Squadron has been given the task of reconnoitring Grytviken and King Edward’s Point while the Mountain Troop, meaning you lot, under the command of Captain Hailsham here, will be landed on Fortuna Glacier, South Georgia, to establish observation posts for the gathering of intelligence on the Argentinian forces. This may not be as easy at it sounds, for reasons which Captain Hailsham will now explain.’

Parkinson stepped aside as Hailsham picked up his pointer and tapped it against the map pinned to the board. ‘The Fortuna Glacier is a potential death-trap,’ he said bluntly. ‘Its five arms flow down into the South Atlantic and are veined with hundreds of deep fissures and pressure ridges. At the top of the glacier, where the weight of the ice pressures downwards, it’s comparatively level, but there are also hundreds of mile-deep crevasses. These can swallow a man up to his waist – though if he’s lucky, the bulk of his bergen will break his fall and his colleagues will then be able to drag him out.’

This drew snorts of derision from some of the men. ‘Don’t laugh,’ Captain Hailsham admonished them. ‘I’m not joking about this. That glacier is massive, filled with crevasses, and extremely dangerous. In good weather conditions the procedure I’ve just described will be adequate to the situation, enabling us to advance, albeit slowly. However, in sub-zero temperatures and gale-force winds, which we’re likely to encounter, it’s extremely hazardous. In fact, sudden gales, which come from the mountains and are then funnelled down valleys, can produce gusts of over 240 kilometres per hour. To make matters worse, the weather’s unpredictable. What may appear as a window of clear weather can be closed in minutes by whirling snow storms, producing a blinding white-out. So believe me, that glacier is treacherous.’

‘Luckily, Captain Hailsham has Himalayan experience,’ Major Parkinson interjected. ‘That, at least, is a help.’

‘If it’s that hazardous, why choose the glacier for an OP?’ Ricketts asked, thinking it was a poor site for an observation post.

‘I have to confess,’ Parkinson replied, ‘that 42 Commando’s second-in-command, Major Guy Sheridan, advised against it. However, the importance of that high point overlooking Grytviken and Leith Harbour, combined with Captain Hailsham’s experience as a civilian mountaineer, was enough to make us take a chance and attempt a landing on this difficult LZ. We were encouraged further when we found that this ship carries detailed charts and maps of the area, now pinned up behind me.’

Captain Hailsham tapped the drawings on the board with his pointer. ‘These plans of the buildings on King Edward’s Point were carefully traced from drawings. The buildings housed the British Antarctic Survey settlement before the Royal Marines were forced to surrender to the Argentinians. The same buildings now house the Argentinian HQ. They’re located at the mouth of a cove a thousand metres from Grytviken. That’s what we hope to observe from the OP on the Fortuna Glacier.’ After a short silence, Hailsham asked: ‘Any questions?’

There were no questions, so Ricketts said: ‘Silence is consent. I say let’s go now, boss.’

‘I always take note of the wishes of my men,’ Major Parkinson replied with a grin. ‘OK, Cap’n, get going.’

Captain Hailsham enthusiastically left the cabin, followed by the others.

The men prepared themselves with their usual thoroughness. Arctic cold-weather kit was drawn from the Endurance’s stores, including Swedish civilian mountaineering boots, which they used instead of their normal-issue boots. Weapons were signed for and carefully checked, including SLR semi-automatic rifles with 20-round steel magazines; 7.62mm general-purpose machine-guns; a couple of Armalites with single-shot, breech-loaded, pump-action grenade-launchers; M202s with 66mm, trigger-mechanism incendiary rockets; Browning 9mm high-power handguns; and fragmentation, white-phosphorus, CS-gas and smoke grenades. The weapons were thoroughly checked, then the machine-guns, rifles and pistols were cleansed of unnecessary lubricants, to prevent them from seizing up on the freezing glacier.

Other equipment, apart from food and drink, included a couple of PRC 319 HF/VHF radio systems and an older Clansman high-frequency set, which could also be used as a Morse or CW, continuous-wave, transmitter. Also loaded onto the troop-carrying Wessex helicopters were four sledges, or pulks, which could be hauled by hand and would be used to transport the weapons and other equipment from the LZ to the summit of the glacier.

When this vital work was done, the men gathered on the landing pads of the ship and took their places in the two Royal Marine Wessex Mark 5 helicopters flown in for this op from the fleet oiler, the Tidespring, and the smaller Wessex Mark 3, from the RFA Antrim, to be flown by Lieutenant-Commander Randolph Pedler RN. At midday the helicopters took off and headed for South Georgia, flying above a sludge-coloured sea, through a sky ominous with black clouds.

‘It looks as welcoming as hell down there,’ Trooper Winston observed, glancing over his shoulder, through the window. ‘It’s just not as warm.’

‘Getting cold feet, are you?’

‘My feet are fine, Gumboot. I’m merely casting my poetic eye over the scene and making a measured observation. That landscape’s as white as your face. Feeling ill, are you?’

‘Very funny,’ Gumboot said. ‘The company poet has just spoken. He’s trying to hide the fact that he’s got cold feet by changing the subject. We all know just how white he’d be looking if he wasn’t so black.’

‘Now that’s real poetic, Gumboot.’

‘Thanks, Andrew, you’re too kind. When you come down out of the trees and learn to spell you can write me up in your notebook.’

‘Ho, ho,’ Andrew said. ‘A shaft of wit from the white-faced wonder. They grow his kind like turnips in Devon, where the folks all chew straws.’

‘I like Devon,’ Baby Face Danny, said. ‘I once took Darlene there. We stayed in a hotel at Paignton and had a wonderful time.’

‘In separate rooms,’ Paddy said.

‘Having simultaneous wet dreams,’ Gumboot added.

‘You shouldn’t make fun of young love,’ Taff Burgess rebuked them. ‘I think it’s cruel to do that.’

‘I don’t mind,’ Danny said. ‘I know they’re just pulling my leg.’

‘To keep him from pulling his dick,’ Gumboot said, ‘which he seems to do all the time these days.’

‘That’s true love,’ Andrew said.

‘I’d call it lust, but what’s the difference?’

‘Now we know why your missus ran off,’ Andrew said, flashing his perfect teeth at Gumboot. ‘You were too sensitive and sentimental for her, too romantic to live with.’

‘Now that’s cruel,’ Gumboot said. ‘That’s hitting a man below the belt. I could reply in kind by making comments about your girlfriends, but since I know that it’s little boys you like, I’ll keep my trap shut.’

‘Little boys like me, Gumboot.’

‘Yes, Andrew, I know they do. They like your nice smile, your black skin, your poetry and the fact that you have a dong so tiny you can slip it in smoothly. Say no more – I’m outraged.’

‘Scared shitless more like it.’ Paddy’s grin was wicked. ‘I can tell by the colour of his gills that he has constipation.’

‘Scared? Me scared? Who said that? Stand up and be counted!’

‘I would if I could but I can’t because my poor knees are knocking. Yeah, Andrew, you’re absolutely right: it looks like all hell down there.’

The bantering, Ricketts knew, was not a cover for fear, but a healthy way of psyching themselves up for the work to be done. Now, having exhausted conversation and nearing the LZ, they fell into a contemplative silence, each secretly preparing in his own way for what was to come.

Ricketts studied them with pride and a great deal of admiration. Trooper Danny Porter, who was a baby-faced Audie Murphy with the same lethal instincts, looked grave and almost delicate beside the enormous bulk of Trooper Andrew Winston, who was scribbling down his thoughts, or poetry, in a notebook, as he often did just before an action. Corporal Paddy Clarke, born and bred in Liverpool, was tapping his left foot and soundlessly whistling as he checked his SLR semi-automatic rifle. Trooper Taff Burgess, a beefy Welshman with a dark-eyed, slightly childish face, was glancing distractedly about him and offering his usual dreamy smile. Corporal Jock McGregor was rolling his own ciggies, which he would smoke at a later date, and displaying not the slightest sign of concern. And Trooper Gumboot Gillis, the small, sinewy, ferret-faced, former Devon farm-worker, was distractedly scratching at his balls.

All of them, in their different ways, were exceptional soldiers – truly the best of the best, a hand-picked elite. Which is why, as Sergeant Ricketts also knew, they were in the SAS.

Unclipping his safety belt, Ricketts made his way to the front of the helicopter, where Captain Hailsham was strapped in beside the Mark 3 pilot, Lieutenant-Commander Randolph Pedler RN. Looking out, past Hailsham’s head, Ricketts saw a charcoal-coloured, snow-streaked stretch of mountainous land on a grey horizon, growing larger each second.

‘Is that South Georgia?’ he asked.

‘It sure is,’ Lieutenant-Commander Pedler said. ‘And it doesn’t look good out there. We’re hoping to reach the LZ 500 metres above sea level, but I think we’ve got snow. That won’t make it easy.’

Pedler was right. Within minutes the mountains of the approaching island could be seen more clearly and were covered with falling snow.

‘You’d better go back and strap yourself in,’ Captain Hailsham warned Ricketts. ‘We’re in for a bumpy ride.’

‘Right, boss,’ Ricketts replied, then returned to the main cabin to strap himself in with the other troops.

Nearing the LZ, they were met by wind-driven snow that created a ‘white-out’ by making earth and sky indistinguishable. Nevertheless, with the aid of the Mark 3’s computerized navigational system, Lieutenant-Commander Pedler led the other two helicopters on through the dangerous gorges of South Georgia until the sheer face of the Fortuna Glacier emerged eerily from a curtain of falling snow. There they hovered, then ascended and descended, trying to find a place to land, with the roaring helicopters being buffeted dangerously by the fierce, howling wind.

The first attempt to land was unsuccessful, so eventually Pedler and the others flew away to circle the glacier in the hope of finding a clear area. They weren’t able to land until the third attempt, later that afternoon, when the wind was blowing at 50mph. It was like landing in hell.

When the troops disembarked from the helicopters, or ‘helos’ as the Navy called them, the fierce wind was driving fine particles of ice before it. These stung the men’s eyes if they were not wearing goggles and, more dangerously, choked the mechanisms of their weapons.

As they unloaded their equipment and long, lightweight pulks, they were sheltered from the worst of the weather. Also, the hot exhaust fumes of the helicopters gave them a deceptive feeling of warmth. But when they lifted off, the 16 SAS troopers, being suddenly, brutally hit by the full force of those biting, 50mph winds, realized just what they were up against.

‘Shit!’ Paddy exclaimed, wiping snow from his Arctic hood and examining the weapons he was putting onto his pulk. ‘They’re not only choked up – they’re frozen solid as well. Completely fucking useless.’

‘Damn!’ Captain Hailsham exclaimed softly, also checking the frozen weapons. ‘During the helicopter flight the warm metal must have attracted a thin film of water. Exposed to this damned wind, it froze.’

‘Great!’ Andrew said, rolling his eyes, then squinting into the howling gale. ‘Weapons like ice lollies. Let’s just hope the bloody Argies don’t show up until we get them thawed out again.’

‘The Argies won’t show up here,’ Ricketts said.

‘Still,’ Captain Hailsham warned him, ‘we have to get off this glacier before nightfall. ‘If we don’t, we’re likely to freeze to death.’

‘Right, boss,’ Ricketts said, forced to shout against the raging wind, but finding it difficult because his lips were already becoming numb. ‘We better get going then. I suggest we break the men up into four groups, each roped together, and go down the glacier in arrow formation. That way, we won’t lose each other and can help each other out if there’s trouble.’

‘Right, Sergeant, let’s do it.’

After splitting up into four patrols, one of which included Ricketts, Andrew, Danny, and Paddy, the men attached themselves to the pulks loaded with food and ammunition, roped themselves together in four separate groups, then advanced down the glacier in arrowhead formation, inhuman in their bulky Arctic suits and hoods, ghostlike in the mist and swirling snow.

One patrol had orders to watch Leith, one Stromness and one Husvik, four miles from the LZ. The fourth, led by Ricketts, had intended going down the opposite west slope to recce Fortuna Bay for boat and helicopter landing points. However, this was not to be. As the men edged slowly forward, the storm actually grew worse, with the wind howling louder and the snow thickening around them, reducing visibility to almost zero.

The ice surface of the glacier was covered with snow, which was gathering in the crevasses. The men could not always see the indentations in the snow, and within a few metres they came to a halt when young Danny became the first to cry out instinctively as he plunged through the snow-covered ice.

His fall was stopped by his bergen, his backpack, straddling the fissure, leaving him buried from the waist down.

‘Christ!’ he cried, frantically waving his hands above his head. ‘Get me outta here!’

‘Don’t move!’ Ricketts called to him, tugging on the rope, meanwhile pulling himself forward to anchor Danny with his pickaxe and prevent him sinking deeper into the crevasse. Andrew and Paddy then did the same, hooking their pickaxes under Danny’s armpits, then taking hold of his shoulders to pull him back up to solid ground.

Once Danny had shaken off the snow and ice, they all stepped over the crevasse, leaned into the wind and continued their advance down the white, gleaming side of the glacier. Then Paddy fell into another crevasse, compelling them to stop and start the rescue procedure all over again.

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