Heroes of the South Atlantic. Shaun Clarke

‘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