Goaded by
the ferocity of the force ten arctic winds, grim and ominous swells emerged
from out of the surrounding blackness and rolled menacingly into steep contours
of mountainous rage that would repeatedly and brutally thrust the ship’s bow
steeply upwards and out of the ocean shelving us for a split second, like
punctuation, before smashing us down insignificantly, deep inside the wave’s
low ensuing trough.
It was as if
Poseidon himself was expressing his rage at being woken by mans frivolous
squabbling and each time the ship rolled over, perhaps too far, meal trays
would slide off tables crashing onto the floor while in the ship's toilets,
stale urine, inches deep, would lap the floor covering the feet of whoever was
in there at the time while the ship’s hull would groan so obtrusively, the
noise would stifle the unremitting and monotone drone of the ship's massive
engines.
I was on one
of several ships heading south and mine was called The Sir Bedivere. A
virtually flat bottomed roll on/roll off beach landing ship stretching one
hundred and thirty seven metres long and just twenty wide, it endured admirably
the wrath of the south Atlantic ocean that tormented and threw us around with
such vehemence that while we slept in our bunks, we were forced to strap our
bodies to the framework using our rifle slings, to stop ourselves from being
flung off each time the ship leaned right over.
Due to the nature
of our deployment, we were seriously over crowded with around five hundred
fully equipped personnel on board not including the ships crew and this meant
in the already cramped sleeping quarters, dozens of men were forced to sleep in
hammocks erected literally wherever space allowed and at one point, the ships
desalination unit, pushed to it's limit, malfunctioned and all showering was
banned for about a week until it was fixed to conserve fresh water and the
stench below deck became practically intolerable.
Finally
after nearly three weeks, we ultimately sailed within striking distance of
Argentine fighter bombers and at nights, a blackout policy around the entire ship
was strictly enforced and this made
'watch-out' duty a perilous task especially at shift changeover because
this involved having to negotiate your way along the outside decks in complete
blackness as the ship rolled precariously from side to side with giant waves
crashing over your head. When we eventually reached our position on a standing
platform forward of the vessel and to one side just outside the bridge, we tied
ourselves very securely to the railings using a thick rope through fear of
being swept overboard.
I remember
so clearly that first morning during breakfast when the air raid alarm was
sounded loudly, echoing throughout the entire ship then followed by one of the
ships officers speaking through the ships announcement address system, firstly
in English and then in Chinese for the benefit of the Hong Kong/Chinese crew;
‘’AIR RAID WARNING RED . . . AIR RAID WARNING RED . . . EXOCET ATTACK . . . .
EXOCET ATTACK . . . . ONE
THREE ZERO DEGREES . . . ESTIMATED TIME OF IMPACT . . . .SIX MINUTES . . . MOVE
TO THE LOWER DECKS IMMEDIATELY . . . I SAY AGAIN . . . MOVE TO THE LOWER DECKS IMMEDIATELY!”
In the next
few days we got used to this and became rather proficient at eating our meals
promptly rather than risk having them end up on the floor.
When the HMS
Sheffield was blown up beforehand by an exocet missile killing twenty of her
crew, it was revealed that most injuries occurred from flying debris as a
result of the explosion. For this reason, the drill was to make our way quickly
to the lower decks below sea level and lay down covering ourselves with
anything possible, for example, by pulling a mattress off a nearby bunk.
Laying on
the floor waiting for impact, knowing that at that precise moment in time, an
Exocet missile carrying a 165 kilogram warhead and cruising just feet above sea
level at three hundred metres a second heading in your direction, but unsure
exactly which ship the missile’s targeting system had locked onto, induced
stomach butterflies and a feeling of dread on a level of intensity I never
imagined was possible and this occurred up to several times a day until we
reached the Falkland Islands. And when we did finally reach the beachhead of San
Carlos bay, where the air strikes came in almost hourly throughout the daytime
and always aggressive, did I begin to seriously consider the possibility I
might not be returning home after all.
I recall
vividly the day when I climbed up and out onto the outer deck and saw the
Islands for the very first time. We were anchored in San Carlos Bay, surrounded
by a flotilla of other ships belonging to the task force. The sea was still and
barely visible, obscured by a thin blanket of pre dawn mist that remained behind and hung low just
above the water line and the surrounding panorama was swathed in an unexpected yet
wonderful noiselessness that was only interrupted perhaps twice by a zippo
lighter snapping shut somewhere in the distance. It was as bewitchingly scenic
as any English estuary at first light and for the next half an hour, time
seemed to stand still and I stood gazing out into this real life watercolour
painting.
Then without
warning four A-4 Skyhawk jets shrilled over the skyline and descended, swooping
low as they came in fast to attack. In fact they came in so low, their pilots
were clearly visible and the noise as they thundered overhead was deafening and
anti aircraft gunfire could still be heard as the jets vanished high into the
sky as quickly as they had come and on the horizon, the silhouette of a Rapier
missile system abruptly woken, could still be seen rotating, watching and searching for a target.
Their pilots
would strike at extreme low altitude following the contours of the land to avoid
detection. Fortunately however, too often, they were ‘so’ low that when they
released their bombs, they were hitting their targets before the sophisticated
mechanism inside the bomb, even had time to arm itself for detonation and
during the period of time we had to wait to disembark, my ship was targeted and
damaged three times by 1000lb bombs that hit the side and glanced off failing
to explode.
The
ferociousness and consistency of the sorties earned the beach-head of San
Carlos the name Bomb Alley and it was here where I probably experienced some of
the most harrowing and traumatic moments of my entire life. I’ve since had the
image of jet dropping a bomb with the words Bomb Alley, tattooed on my right
forearm.
Having spent
that length of time on an amphibious landing craft, a floating target, under
such extremee and difficult conditions made me feel vulnerable, susceptible and
maybe even a little humble. Sadly it wasn’t long afterwards when our sister
ship the Sir Galahad incurred at least two direct hits when targeted by three
A-4 Skyhawk bombers killing 48 of her crew.
I was only
nineteen at the time of conflict and for some time afterwards I wished I had
been perhaps older because I believed that maybe, just maybe, I would have
understood more about why I was there and why all of those young men died. And
I don’t mean just our own men, but the hundreds of young Argentine conscripts
many of whose bodies were later found left laying around Port Stanley after the
surrender, who later under my supervision, had to be body bagged by a small
working party of Argentine prisoners.
I didn’t
realise it at the time, but when I joined my ship halfway at the Ascension
Islands for the final four thousand mile voyage south, it would change my life
forever. Because from the experiences that ensued, irreplaceable and lasting
memories were born that nourished and embraced the very core of my soul,
enriching me with a knowledge and understanding of the issues in life that
really matter. The things we take for granted. The problem now thirty years on,
is whether these memories have been processed correctly for the benefit of
those around me, particularly those closest to me who I love so dearly such as
my two dear little boys and my darling wife who only two weeks ago announced
she was carrying our third.
Is it wrong
that I carry the burden of guilt for bringing my children into a world that can
never promise true happiness and contentment? In the opening paragraph of David
Livingstone Smith's acclaimed book, The Most Dangerous Animal; Human Nature and
the Origins of War, he writes 'Right now, as you read this, somebody somewhere,
is planning a war". And it is because of this my dear children, that I am
so truly sorry.