Forward into Hell Read online

  As we were propping up the bar that night, the usual scene now, the RSM entered and broke the news that our sister battalion, 2 Para, would be joining us and would be leaving Aldershot immediately. This was a morale-booster for us all, and there was a big cheer of approval. But, as one lad from C Company said loudly, ‘Well, now we have nearly four thousand against nine thousand.’

  His joke fell flat, but he had a point.

  Next morning, heli drills in full kit were rehearsed with the Navy’s Sea King helicopters, which were larger than the Army’s. We knelt in our sticks. From kneeling, we ran to the doors, clambered into the helicopters and quickly shifted into position. We then debussed from the choppers. This was two minutes’ work, but we had waited for two hours, in the tropical heat in full kit, for the lesson.

  Tuesday, 20 April. I was up at 0630 hours for an early breakfast. Rawley and I went on deck to watch our arrival at Ascension Island. The island was British, but loaned out to the US Air Force. What was more important to us even than seeing land again was getting our first proper sight of the Royal Navy anchored offshore. The frigates and assault ships anchored there were watching us too. In all, there were about ten ships. But the sight of the mid-Atlantic island was the biggest shock for most troops. We had had a vision of palm trees and golden beaches. In reality, the island was nothing more than ninety square kilometres of ash, dust and rock. ‘The pits of the earth,’ Rawley said.

  Fitness exercises were now held in the early morning, to avoid the midday heat. Plodding around the ship had become boring as our fitness improved, but the sweat ran from our bodies like water. We took showers after our runs.

  The daily hassles were easing up and we were getting afternoons off. Sunbathing became the in thing while we were at the island. Whenever time was spare, it was common to see the upper deck crammed with troops plastered in lotion, ‘getting the rays in’. One hilarious incident occurred when a lad from the Marines decided to cool off. After posing, he dived into a swimming pool which had just been emptied. His subsequent injuries are unknown to me, but the slagging that the Para lads gave the Marines afterwards was untold.

  We had a daily ship’s rag, which was printed with all sorts of jokes designed to raise morale. Its humour became increasingly directed against the brass and the jokes kept the junior ranks in fits. In earlier editions, the brass had put in their upper-crust jokes (which just made us yawn) but, when the editor let in slagging comments about those at the top, it became ‘insubordination’ and the rag died.

  Mail arrived and this lifted morale. The penfriend mail was exchanged with great speed. The many letters from home for all the platoon showed support from everywhere. Perhaps it was still a game at home too.

  Wednesday, 21 April. Because of the very hot weather, the ship’s company rose at 0645 hours and fitness training took off first thing, the programme tightly packed, with different platoons taking over the deck for running every half-hour. The whole ship had to get through training before dinner.

  During the time we were at Ascension Island, our routine was one of busy preparation. This involved not only fitness exercises but also lessons and loading. Then, on 22 April, we had a sudden change of routine. After doing a hard tab around the deck in full kit, we were taken on top and placed in orderly lines. Then, to our amazement, the area around us became like a scene from a war movie. Helicopters buzzed above us, landing whenever possible on their pads, or hovering and carefully lowering load after load of ammunition.

  For four hours, we unloaded the ammo in chain-gangs. It was stacked below as well as on deck – all around us. For the first time in my army career, I was looking at, and holding, more ammo than you could dream of, from sixtysix-millimetre anti-tank rockets to grenades, as well as thousands and thousands of nine-millimetre and seven-point-sixty-two-millimetre bullets. That day, the SS Canberra took on board hundreds of tons of ammo. We were all very busy. It struck me how good it was to see the Army, Navy and Air Force all working closely together. If one day the button was pressed, my confidence would stay high, if everything worked like this.

  In the short breaks from unloading, my small party went to the side of the ship to watch the activity in the bay. Navy ships signalled to each other, and landing-craft steamed from ship to ship loaded with all kinds of cargo. Most impressive were the choppers, hovering near us with cargo hanging, waiting in an orderly queue to unload. At the height of the operation, between six and eight loaded choppers whirred above our heads.

  Having completed the unloading, we staggered back to our platoon sergeant to find him moaning that the cabins hadn’t been up to standard that morning. This frustrated the lads. He was always coming out with pathetic comments at the wrong time. I know that the PC (platoon commander) had quiet words with him about this. But as Tommo said, ‘It’s properly shit him up, with all the ammo and nearer to war now.’

  The PC gathered us for a quick brief and said simply, ‘As it stands at present, we will be sailing south tomorrow, lads, so write home.’

  This I did, without hesitation. The next morning, however, the brief changed and we reverted to normal routine. The false-alarm ‘we’re going now’ chats became a regular thing after this, doing nothing to raise morale. That same morning, Rawley and I heard the BBC World Service report, ‘The SS Canberra has now left Ascension Island.’

  Rawley and I looked at each other and I said, ‘Jesus Christ, what the fuck’s going on back home for them to say shit like that?’

  Rawley grinned. ‘Next we’ll hear them say that we’re going to land on the Falklands tomorrow,’ he said.

  This was very near the mark. At a later date, when 2 Para entered Goose Green, the radio had told the world before the event. This, and some previous encounters with journalists on board, made for a massive lack of trust between the Forces and the press. We had an hour-long brief in our cabin, ordering us not to talk to any member of the press under any circumstances.

  The press had had great treatment from the mess, although we had not really met many of them. They had officer-style treatment and, as most lads agreed at that time, ‘Fuck them, anyway – just another type of snob.’

  I can remember having to do some SF drills on the top deck for the cameras. They came around all nice and chatty, asking ridiculous questions for the papers back home, and most of the lads just cold-shouldered them, on orders from above.

  Johnny commented that night, while we were playing Yahtzee and drinking whisky, ‘I should have said, “Hello, old chaps, how about telling my missus to write?” – that’s more important than “How long have you been in the Army, soldier?”’

  Sunday, 25 April was a day to remember. The first news we had was that a Sea King chopper had damaged an Argie submarine. Minutes later, we heard that the island of South Georgia had been retaken without a single loss. That news was excellent. Some lads now hoped the Argies would withdraw from the main island. The corridors around the ship erupted with shouts of excitement. This is how the task force on the Canberra heard the news of the South Georgia episode: no brief, no BBC, just a very strong but correct ‘rumour control’, as they call it.

  The next two days were boring. On 28 April, an air block was imposed around the Falklands. Rumour after rumour ran around the ship. No one really knew the score, or what tomorrow would bring. You had only to walk out into the corridor and say to the first bloke you saw, ‘Have you heard, mate? The Argies are thinking of coming to Ascension Island to meet us, because they’re fed up with waiting,’ and this would probably then start a rumour.

  The lack of intelligence and of positive action by the brass were beginning to get to the lads. In an effort to keep the brigade happy and get the troops more motivated, we took to the beaches on 29 April. Our platoon was now split into three teams, one team for each company. Each team consisted of six lads with two SF guns. As usual, I went to my former B Company and took control of the five guys under me. Tommo and TP were C Company, Johnny and Rawley, A Company. Christ knows how I
ended up on my own with five Toms, but I really preferred it that way. The way I looked at it, if any mistakes were made on the big day, it was better if I took the blame on my own, rather than with two NCOs.

  We spent the morning being briefed by 4 Platoon, to which I was attached. My company was split according to this procedure too, so the Mortars, Anti-Tanks and Signallers were with me too. Support Company supports each other company.

  We carried out a small, quick exercise that was basically practising a beach landing and capture of a make-believe position. The landing-craft drills and beaching practice were really for 3 Para. Our usual role was strictly parachuting into battle. Who would have thought that, in our first battle since Suez, we would be pretending to be like our old enemies the Marines?

  No ammo was issued, we simply put on our webbing, ‘cammed’ ourselves up and then joined the B Company queue in the galley, waiting to climb into the landing-craft. After what seemed to be an hour of waiting and fucking around, my turn came. I reached the door by the side of the ship and looked down into a half-full landing-craft bobbing up and down in the water. It could take a hundred and twenty men at a squeeze. Armed with my SLR, webbing and the bloody life-jacket, which was more of a burden than a help, I watched as the craft bobbed briefly towards me and then away again.

  ‘It’s an art to climb into these fuckers,’ said a Navy lad, holding my arm, as I half-jumped, half-stepped into the craft. With my legs slightly apart, I attempted to balance myself. Watching the lads kicking and cursing as they jumped into the craft was funny only up to a point. Nearly everyone agreed that if the brass had said, ‘You can either parachute on to the Falklands, or beach-land it,’ we would all have wanted to jump. As Steve Ratchford said to me, ‘If I had wanted to be a Cabbagehead, I would’ve joined them instead.’

  Steve and Taff were with me for the exercise. Both were good lads – just as well because our experiences ahead were to be heavy. Once our craft was full, we took off towards the beach. Almost everyone turned to look at the Canberra, which towered over us, while the remaining troops looked down at us. The huge ship stood out from the small fleet in the bay.

  We turned again and watched the beach get nearer. About thirty to forty metres from the shoreline, the big ramp at the front of the landing-craft was lowered forty-five degrees in readiness for the first 3 Para beach landing. The craft struck home, the ramp dropped and B Company stormed the beach, spreading out across the sand and charging the imaginary positions. I heard a sergeant shout at some lads who were laughing, ‘Stop that, you cunts, and take it seriously.’

  Running up the fifty metres or so of beach in soft sand in the incredible heat was much fucking harder than we had thought. We dropped into a hole by a small road, sweat pouring from our bodies. The Company moved around, running here and there. The OC then called out, ‘Endex.’ The whole thing had taken perhaps half an hour. The team under me had been very lazy and later, in a debrief, I went potty. However, it is only practice that brings out these faults, and it showed the day’s drills were really needed.

  Sitting on the beach, we waited for our lift back to the ship. The view of the fleet anchored in the bay was really impressive. The task force now had about seventeen ships waiting to move south. The SS Uganda, a hospital ship, had just joined us.

  Climbing back on to the Canberra was just as big a hassle as climbing off the bloody thing. Back in the cabin, both Rawley and I found we had collected enough sand to make a sandcastle. It fell from our webbing, our boots, even our hair. I washed and showered, then joined the queue for dinner. Intelligence that night said it was almost 90 per cent sure that we would be going in, but nobody believed anything any more.

  The last day of April, a Friday, we spent at sea, refuelling. For roughly nine hours, the Canberra sailed with the auxiliary ship alongside her, topping her up with fuel.

  The next day we were up at 0430 hours and ashore again by 0600 hours. This time, the entry on to the landing-craft and the subsequent beach landing were better performed. We clambered on to a one-tonne and got a ride over the rocky, hilly terrain to a firing range that had been set up for the day’s shooting. The road was winding and we were sticky with the heat. When we reached the range, we took up positions along a one-hundred-metre front and proceeded to balance the SF guns, each of the three barrels in the kit. Our targets were oil drums, some six to eight hundred metres away. Unknown to us, the beating zone, further on, was a bird sanctuary. Flocks of birds were soon flying everywhere. The Mortars took to keeping them in the air.

  The island was really one big dustbin. The ride back to the sandy beach was completed in minutes, and we were told we would be having an hour or two to relax. Most of the lads went skinny-dipping. It was far too hot for lying in the sun. The seawater was beautiful, clear and warm, with fish swimming in it.

  We returned to the ship at 1730 hours and managed to catch the latest news: the RAF had bombed Stanley airfield. We hadn’t realised it at the time, but on Ascension Island we had actually seen the Vulcans landing after their mission. I had managed to take a few photos of them as we passed the airfield. At first we took the news for lies, as the rumours were still unreliable and even the BBC news couldn’t always tell us the truth at that time. But afterwards we felt it was good news that things were warming up. We didn’t know it then, but that mission was one of the trickiest and longest ever for the RAF.

  The following day, 2 May, saw the Navy bombard enemy positions on land and the RAF succeed in shooting down two Mirage fighters. But for me that Sunday morning was most memorable for the lie-in we had. The sergeant left us alone for once and we got up at 1000 hours to spend what was for us a day off, sunbathing on deck oblivious to the fact that the war had started down south. As we relaxed by the pool, Johnny remarked, ‘Well, the Navy have had their little fun. Wait till they sink the fuckers.’

  On 3 May, the submarine HMS Conqueror sank the General Belgrano, with the loss of around three hundred lives. When this news was first brought to us, we were sceptical, thinking, Yeah, OK. Once the news was official, it wasn’t greeted with total enthusiasm. In the bar that night, most of us were solemn. We now knew that war was inevitable.

  Although the sinking of the Belgrano was a shock to us, no one regretted it. The fact that the ship was outside the territories didn’t matter. Our attitude was: ‘Go to their ports and sink the rest of their navy before it comes to meet the troops.’

  Later that day, we joined a queue for the issue of Arctic clothing. It consisted of wind-proof top jackets, wind-proof trousers, quilted trousers and jacket, and socks and a thick cap, also quilted. All this kit was new to us, but every bit was to be essential in the coming cold.

  Our time was now free. Sometimes the lads would go to the rear of the ship, where a lad we called Ghost had invented a new game: fishing for trigger fish. These little bastards were like giant piranhas. They were so greedy for any type of food thrown to them that you could catch as many as you wanted by simply chucking out a line and hook. The fish were about the size of a paperback book, with teeth the size of your fingernails. They would bite into the bread rolls we stole from dinner and swallow them as if it was their last meal. In this case it was, for we would bring them up to our deck as quickly as our hands could pull them in. Once a fish was thrashing about on deck, we would poke it with our bayonets or stamp on it. The fishes’ scales were incredibly tough, and it wasn’t unusual to see a lad pushing the bayonet in as if he was really doing someone in.

  Sport with the trigger fish was a good pastime for the lads when they were bored, and Ghost was much praised. Countless hours were passed fishing. We were only getting our own back. It was said that a lad painting the side of one of the ships in the bay off Ascension Island had fallen into the sea and half his leg had been eaten by the infamous trigger fish.

  The night of 4 May, while we were playing bingo in the bar, news came that HMS Sheffield had been hit by an Argie Exocet and was sinking. The loss of a harrier jet was also repor
ted. The news hit the troops on board like a sledgehammer. Until now, everything we had heard had been in our favour. South Georgia had been retaken, the Argies’ submarine patrol boats had all been hit, even their inland positions had been bombed by the Navy and, now, the Belgrano. Sinking the Sheffield was the first of their strike-backs.

  Morale in the bar that night swung from an incredible high to an almost sickening silence. Everything stopped, until the ship’s captain came on the intercom to confirm the news. Four or six Navy lads, who had taken to drinking with us because of our shared dislike of the Marines, sat quietly in one corner. Total disbelief was written on their faces. One of them came to the bar.

  ‘How can a Type Twenty-Two frigate get hit?’

  Types and makes were unknown to us, but the lads’ grief was shared by everyone on the Canberra.

  4

  THE GREEN LIGHT

  The day after the Sheffield was hit, we knew our wait was coming to an end. The atmosphere was quiet and a morale-booster was now much needed. The only thing possible for the task force was revenge. The sinking of the Sheffield had hit us as if we had lost a personal friend. Tension mounted, frustration showed in everyone’s eyes.

  We all thought the same. What’s the fucking brass up to? Why can’t we go in now? Why don’t they at least tell us what’s going on? A million reasons for wanting to move flooded our minds.

  The fitness drills were now carried out in full kit, and pounding the decks in the heat was gutty work. The queers from the Merchant Navy, the stewards, always came on deck to watch. It was not uncommon to see lads blowing sarcastic kisses at them or dropping their trousers, to flash at them in passing. It was all in good humour and the queers would shout back, ‘Oh, you naughty boys’ or ‘My, my, aren’t we a big boy then?’

  Obviously, some of the stewards liked living dangerously and would try to score. The lucky ones got the good news, ‘Like a beating?’