The Exit Club: Book 5: Old Comrades Page 7

  As the Argentinian scout, far ahead of the other two men, passed Taff’s position, Taff rose silently behind him, a mere shadow against the skyline, and applied the silent killing technique by covering his victim’s mouth with one hand and swiftly slashing his jugular vein with his dagger. He held the body tightly, ensuring that it could not go into a spasm or start thrashing noisily, then lowered it gently to the ground. He then moved, crouched over, towards his next victim, circling around to come up behind him. The second killing took place in darkness, out of view, but a brief thrashing sound, a fallen body crushing bracken, made the final Argentinian look about him in panic. Before he could see anything, a white hand covered his mouth and jerked his head back, then the blade of Taff’s knife gleamed in the moonlight as it slashed the man’s throat. He shuddered, dropped his rifle and then started collapsing, but was held upright by Taff for a moment, before being lowered slowly to the ground, keeping the noise down.

  Eventually, Taff straightened up again and extended his right hand, waving it in towards his own body, silently indicating, ‘As you were.’ Marty and the others heaved sighs of relief, then completed the filling in of the OP, gathered their kit together, and awaited the arrival of the RN helo.

  Ten minutes later, they had been lifted off and were being flown back to the RFA Resource to hand over the intelligence which would, along with that of the other SAS patrols from both islands, enable the plans for the invasion of the Falklands to be finalized.

  Chapter Nine

  The first step on the road to Port Stanley was the landing beaches at San Carlos Water, on the west coast of East Falkland, but before these landings could take place the Argentinian aircraft located within range of the beaches had to be destroyed. This task was given to the SAS.

  According to intelligence picked up by the advance patrols, the aircraft were parked on a grassy strip near the only settlement on Pebble Island. They included 1A-58 Pucara ground-attack planes with 20mm cannons, 7.62mm machine guns, and bombs or rockets, all of which could be used to strafe British ground troops. As it was not known exactly how many Pucaras were on the airstrip, a four-man SAS patrol, formed from the Boat Troop and commanded by Captain Mick Clarke, was inserted by two Klepper canoes, tasked with conducting an eyeball recce and bringing the required information back.

  Taking his bearings from the moon and stars, Clarke guided both canoes away from the immense, flooded docking bay of the Resource and across the gently heaving, dark sea until the beach of Pebble Island came into view, leading gradually up to low, frost-covered hills. After checking the length of the shore for campfires or other signs of the enemy’s presence, of which there were none, Clarke jotted down useful notes on the tides, beach gradients and general topographical details that would help in selecting the best areas for amphibious landings. Both canoes were then paddled in to shallow waters, where the men waded to shore and then hauled the canoes in and carried them carefully across the beach to hide them under chicken-wire covers, camouflaged with turf and local foliage.

  Still not speaking, the men strapped their packed Bergens onto their backs, hurried off the exposed beach and commenced the hike up the moonlit slopes of windblown grass, then along a narrow waist of land, again completely exposed, with the sea on both sides, to the Argentinian airstrip.

  Once there, they viewed the enemy aircraft, eleven Pucaras, through binoculars, from behind a hedgerow on a slight rise about three kilometres from the grass airfield, and noted that they were being guarded by heavily armed Argentinian troops. Many other troops were positioned all around the airfield, about a hundred in all, and others were positioned along the waist of land running parallel to the airstrip, as protection against attacks from the sea.

  After constructing a short-term, diamond-shaped OP that they camouflaged with ponchos covered in turf and local shrubbery, they spent the night and following day taking turns at sleeping and watching the airfield through binoculars, jotting down notes on everything they saw. By evening of the first day, they had all the information they needed and Captain Clarke decided to move out.

  This was not as easy as he had thought it would be. He had been shocked the first day to note that the ground on which the Pucaras were parked was on the top of another rise that put it on the same level as the OP. This, he realized, was going to make it difficult for the patrol to get away, in darkness, without being silhouetted by the moonlit sky. Now, however, as his men dismantled and filled in the OP, Clarke noticed that there was a slight depression running back towards the sea in the general direction of the LZ. He decided that they should try to crawl along it until they were out of sight of the Argentinians.

  They moved out under cover of darkness, running at the half-crouch to the slight depression that snaked around the top of the hill and ran back towards the sea. Unfortunately, it also took them dangerously close to the Argentinian sentries. To make matters worse, when they started crawling along the depression, they saw that their Bergens were jutting above the top of it.

  Given no option, they ditched the Bergens, then moved off again, this time wriggling along on their bellies, holding their rifles out ahead of them. This agonizingly slow, physically draining form of locomotion had to be continued for about ten kilometres, which took them three hours to cover, and by the time they were out of sight of the Argentinians, they were sweating profusely even in the freezing cold.

  Nevertheless, now out of sight of the enemy, they were able to get back on their feet and hike the nine kilometres back to the beach, stopping only once, about four kilometres from the airstrip, to lay down a baseplate for the 81mm mortar that would be used during the forthcoming assault.

  Once back at the beach, they uncovered the hidden Klepper canoes, carried them down to the water, anchored and loaded them, then rowed themselves back out to sea. About forty minutes later, the two Kleppers were gliding back into the brightly lit, cavernous holding bay of the Resource.

  A few days later, after the SAS had cross-decked to HMS Hermes, the assault on Pebble Beach commenced.

  Tasked with destroying the Argentinian aircraft in a hitand-run night raid lasting only thirty minutes, thus ensuring that the Sea King helos were back aboard the Hermes before first light, the raiding party consisted of the Mountain Troop led by Captain Peters and armed, in addition to personal weapons, with 60mm light antitank weapons, or LAWS, and the Boat Troop led by Captain Clarke, which would lead the assault group to the airstrip, then give them covering fire with mortars, using the base-plate already put in place by Captain Clarke’s previous patrol.

  At 1130 hours on 15 May, the three Sea King helos lifted off the immense, floodlit flight deck of the Hermes and headed for shore. Inside the helos, the SAS men were packed together with an extraordinary variety of weapons, including SLRs, 7.62mm GPMGs, LAWs, grenade launchers with cartridge-launched grenades, white phosphorous, smoke and fragmentation grenades, an 81mm mortar with calibrated dial sights, and, of course, the standard-issue Browning 9mm High Power handgun. Though they did not have to carry rucksacks or sleeping bags (as the plan was to get in and out in thirty minutes) their Bergens weighed up to sixty-five kilograms only because of the additional heavy weaponry, including the mortar, extra 200-round belts for the GPMGs, tactical radio systems, batteries, binoculars and personal first-aid kits. Even heavier equipment was being carried as underslung loads on the helos.

  Thirty minutes later the helos were at the DZ and hovering mere metres above the ground to let the men jump out one by one. The first men down formed protective rings around the helos, their weapons at the ready, while others released the underslung loads containing the heavy equipment. When all the men were on the ground, the helos ascended vertically, then flew back to the fleet, leaving the men to get on with their work.

  The LZ previously marked by the Boat Troop was located approximately nine kilometres from the airstrip. Before setting off on the march, Captain Peters called the Mountain Troop together and divided them into smaller groups: one
would seal off all approaches to the airstrip, the second would blow up the Argentinian aircraft, and the third would be held in reserve.

  The Mountain Troop fell in behind the Boat Troop and were led by them to the airstrip, stopping only at the previously laid base-plate to set up the mortar. Each member of the squadron was carrying two bombs for the mortar, which they now left with the selected mortar team – Corporal Garth Thomas and Trooper Phillip Reid – who would fire directly at a target identified by a forward observer placed with the assault group at the airstrip and using a tactical radio system for communication with the mortar crew.

  With the mortar crew in position, the rest of the men moved off again, into the windblown, freezing darkness. Four kilometres on, having met no opposition from the enemy, Captain Clarke, who had commanded the original reconnaissance patrol, led them to positions that gave a clear, moonlit view of the eleven parked Pucaras. The lights of campfires burned all around the airstrip, along the narrow waist of land thrusting into the sea, and in front of the ammunition and supply dumps, helpfully giving positions.

  While one of the disappeared into the darkness to seal off all approaches to the airstrip and another took up their reserve positions, looking none too happy about this, the third such team, led by Captain Peters and Marty, advanced on the airstrip, crouched low with their weapons at the ready. When they were less than three hundred metres away, Peters silently signalled for them to prepare for the engagement, then he made radio contact with the fleet and, using the designated code, told them to commence with the covering barrage. As he was doing so, Marty was on the other radio, giving the distant mortar crew compass bearings and telling them to start firing immediately.

  Even as Captain Peters was raising his right hand to give the ‘open fire’ signal, each of the troopers with a 66mm LAW, having already extended the 90cm tubes and removed the protective cap from each end of the launcher, thus making the folding sights pop up, was holding the LAW to his shoulder and preparing to press the trigger switch.

  Hearing a high-pitched wailing from the direction of the sea, Marty looked up and saw the para-flares fired from the Glamorgan’s guns exploding spectacularly in the sky to illuminate the airstrip below. Simultaneously, the first of the shells from the mortar exploded between the parked Pucaras in fountains of fire, showering sparks, boiling smoke and erupting soil. Finally, when Captain Peters dropped his hand, the LAWs and GPMGs roared into action, the former sending rockets away the Argentinian

  Mountain Troop teams racing like tracers into the airstrip, the latter peppering the same area with two hundred rounds of bullets per minute.

  Explosions were erupting between the Pucaras as the Argentinian sentries, taken by surprise, either ran for cover or fired back with rifles and automatic weapons. Hit by a LAW shell, one of the Pucaras exploded, with pieces of metal flying out in all directions and the cockpit engulfed in crackling, vivid, yellow flames; at the same time, air-burst shells were exploding overhead and mortar explosions were erupting between the aircraft to crater the runway.

  Forced to take cover, the Argentinians ran back to their slit trenches at the edge of the airstrip, aiming occasional bursts of inaccurate rifle fire at their attackers. Observing this retreat, Captain Peters jumped up, gave the ‘Advance’ hand signal, and led his men on the run to the dispersal area.

  There, even as he was being fired upon by the Argentinians in the slit trenches, with bullets tearing up concrete in jagged lines all around him, Marty was one of those who ran from one Pucara to another, rigging explosives to those not already being destroyed by LAW rounds and sustained bursts from the GPMGs. When the charges exploded, the Pucaras’ nose-cones were blown off and their undercarriages demolished, causing them to tilt forward with their smashed noses deep in the earth and smoke belching out of them.

  At that moment, the shells from the fleet’s big guns reached the enemy’s defensive positions, hitting the fuel store and ammunition dump. They exploded spectacularly, with searing yellow, red and blue flames stabbing through oily black smoke that was carried back on the wind to choke the Argentinian troops in the slit trenches. While those men were temporarily blinded, the last of the charges rigged to the Pucaras exploded, causing more flames, smoke and flying debris as the SAS men backed away.

  One Pucara, however, remained untouched. Seeing it, Taff ran back to it, ignoring the Argentinian troops who had clambered out of their smoke-wreathed trenches and were firing at him as they spread across the airstrip. Given covering fire by Marty and TT, both firing their SLRs as they retreated and as mortar shells continued exploding all around him, Taff clambered boldly onto the untouched Pucara, rigged the explosive charge, then slid back to the ground as some Argentinians rushed at him. Dropping to one knee, ignoring the bullets whistling about him and thudding into the Pucara, he fired his SLR was cool, murderous accuracy, downing the men advancing upon him. He then jumped up and fled from the Pucara, which exploded behind him with a mighty roar. Punched forward by the blast, falling face down on the runway, he jumped up immediately and raced back to Marty and TT, who were keeping up a relentless fusillade of gunfire as they backed away from the airstrip.

  ‘That made number eleven,’ Marty told him. ‘Now let’s get the hell out of here.’

  Firing on the move, they backed away from the Argentinians advancing across the runway, weaving between the blazing aircraft and the many explosions from the SAS mortar. Just as they had cut most of the Argentinian troops down, a truck filled with more enemy troops raced at them.

  Dropping to one knee, Will Simpson raised a LAW to his shoulder, preparing to fire. Before he could do so, however, a mortar shell exploded right beside him, bowling him over and obscuring him in smoke. Almost instantly scrambling back to the firing position, shaking his head to clear it, and ignoring the blood seeping from many shrapnel wounds, he once more took aim with the LAW, pressed the trigger switch, and was rocked by the backblast as the rocket shot straight into the advancing truck, now practically on top of him. The shell exploded inside the driver’s cabin, blowing it to smithereens and making the truck careen sideways to crash into the blazing Pucara, which also exploded. Wiping blood from his eyes, Simpson jumped to his feet, threw the LAW across his right shoulder, and ran back to join the other men.

  Withdrawing alongside the rest of the assault group, still under cover of mortar fire and naval support from the Glamorgan, Marty saw some Argentinians emerging from the smoke swirling darkly across the airstrip. Even before he could fire his SLR, he heard the savage roar of a GPMG right beside him and turned his head to see Alan Pearson shaking spasmodically to the pulsing of his machine gun as he fired a 200-round burst that cut some of the Argentinians down and forced the others to beat a hasty retreat.

  When the surviving Argentinians had disappeared back into the smoke, Pearson jumped up, slung the heavy weapon over his shoulder, grinned at Marty, then raced with him back towards the sea. On their way, they passed a wounded SAS trooper who had been thrown into the air by an exploding landmine and suffered a smashed kneecap, lacerated legs and concussion. He was being rolled onto a stretcher by two medics while other troopers gave covering fire. Marty and Pearson joined in, keeping the Argentinians pinned down until the medics had carried the stretcher away. Then they headed once more for the beach.

  Looking back from the hill that overlooked the airstrip, Marty saw that all of the Pucaras were either still burning or smouldering in the flickering, eerie light of the air-burst shells from the fleet. Craters pockmarked the runway and the ground between the burning planes. Dead bodies were scattered all over the area, though many were obscured in the languidly drifting smoke.

  As Marty and the others made their way back to the beach, they heard the roaring of GPMGs and the snapping of small arms from one side of the airstrip where the SAS troopers sent to seal off the approaches were stopping the advance, or flight, of Argentinian soldiers trying to escape along the sea road.

  Even as Marty stared in t
hat direction, a series of explosions sent smoke billowing into the sky in the vicinity of the gunfire, indicating that the SAS troopers there had called in for support from Glamorgan’s big guns. Not long after this, the sound of battle died away, indicating that the second SAS group had stopped the advance of the Argentinians and was now also heading back to the LZ.

  When they were about halfway back, the assault party stopped to pick up the two-man mortar crew, then they all proceeded together to the LZ. Exactly as planned, the Sea Kings returned just before first light and the squadron was lifted off and returned to the Hermes.

  With that particular batch of Argentinian aircraft out of action, the invasion of the Falklands could commence.

  Chapter Ten

  Now, as he neared Port Stanley, marching beside Taff, also exhausted but still quietly resolute, Marty was recalling the eighteen replacements who had drifted down from the night sky to replace the eighteen who had died.

  It was a memory that would never leave him and it haunted him even now as he made his way over the brow of a hill cratered with shell holes to look down upon the recaptured Port Stanley, amazed that he’d made it.

  The eighteen men who had survived so much in battle, had died in the least expected manner: when they were being cross-decked from the Hermes to the Intrepid, prior to being inserted by sea at Darwin on East Falkland, for a diversionary raid against the enemy.

  Though the Intrepid was cruising only eight hundred metres away, the Sea King helicopter used for the cross-decking, which took place two hours after last night, crashed into the sea, either because of a bird strike or because of overloading, and the eighteen men, from D Squadron, died as a result.

  Though the news of the crash and the inexorable mounting of the death toll as the SAR helos brought back the survivors sent shock waves rippling through the rest of the squadron, as well as many others on both the Hermes and the Intrepid, it was decided that the raid must go on. Subsequently, eighteen replacements were flown in from Hereford. When they parachuted down from the Hercules transport in the middle of the night, many friends of the dead, including Marty, were standing on the flight deck of the Hermes, watching them splash into the sea, their parachutes billowing out on the black water like eighteen white flowers, one for each of the dead. It was a singularly moving moment for Marty and one he would never forget.