Читать книгу Battle for the Falklands: The Winter War - Patrick Bishop - Страница 6

One Small War

It was a while before anyone realized that the guns had stopped firing (writes Patrick Bishop). We were standing on a rock ledge on the east face of Mount Harriet looking down towards the town. The crags around were chipped and smashed by the fighting of the last two days and the pathetic debris of the Argentinian defenders lay strewn all around. At three o’clock there were some uncertain cheers from the Marines on the rocks above. ‘That’s it,’ one of them shouted. ‘They’ve surrendered.’ One of the officers, Major Mike Norman, who had been captured and sent back to England by the Argentine invaders ten weeks before, laughed and shook hands with an officer standing next to him, but the rest of us wanted the news to be true too badly to rejoice until we were sure.

The commanding officer, Colonel Vaux, went over to the radio and called up Brigade. ‘It’s not confirmed,’ he said. ‘It’s just something they got from fleet.’ It started to snow again. Colonel Vaux went back to the radio. ‘They’re falling back from Sapper Hill!’ he said. ‘There are white arm bands and flags all over the place.’

The same news was travelling fast across the battlefield. The Welsh Guards scarcely had time to take it in before being ordered forward to Sapper Hill, the last Argentine stronghold before Port Stanley (writes John Witherow). Tired soldiers staggered out of their ‘bashers’ pulling kit into rucksacks and piled into Sea King and Wessex helicopters to be ferried the last few kilometres to the foot of the hill. Inside the aircraft the soldiers gave each other nervous grins. The elation at the news that the Argentinians were retreating had been replaced by uncertainty as to whether they were flying to witness a surrender or to fight the final battle. The helicopters shuddered to the ground by a jagged outcrop of rock on an unmetalled road running by the side of Mount William. The men jumped out and scrambled into the heather looking for cover. There were no Argentinians in view. ‘Get back on the road, those surrounds are mined,’ shouted an officer.

The men returned to the track and set off towards the outline of Sapper Hill. Their faces were dark with camouflage cream and tiredness but the pace as they walked got faster and faster. The intelligence officer, Captain Piers Minoprio, was called to the radio. ‘There’s a white flag over Stanley,’ he shouted. We were trotting down the road now, passing soldiers struggling along with enormous packs and heavy machine guns. The order came down the line to ‘close up’ and ‘unfix bayonets’. The defenders’ abandoned possessions littered the sides of the road: kit bags, blankets and helmets. Mud-stained comic books and letters from home skipped about in the wind. We passed an artillery position still smoking from the battering it had received from the British guns. The ground around it was churned up like a newly ploughed field. Two Marines were lying by the side of the road. One had a dark red patch spreading across his trouser leg and the other had a bloody blotch on his head. Medical orderlies were hunched over them murmuring reassurance. We climbed on to a Scorpion tank and caught up with the forward Commandos who were skirting the base of Sapper Hill. They had been fired on by the retreating Argentinians as they ran out of their helicopter and there had been a firefight that lasted twenty minutes. It was probably the last skirmish of the war.

We rounded the bend and came within sight of Stanley. An Argentine corpse was lying face down in the middle of the road. The soldiers peered at the body, full of curiosity. ‘Spread out lads!’ shouted one of the NCOs. ‘Take care, this is too easy.’ The troops moved up the muddy path on to Sapper Hill, scouring the ground in front of their feet for signs of mines. We knew the name of the hill well from numerous intelligence briefings and it had been the Guards’ objective in the renewed assault due to take place that night, but now the machine gun positions and trenches were empty. A vehicle lay abandoned at the side of the road and there were ration tins and biscuits trodden into the mud around the dug-outs. The only sound was the wind and the tramp of boots. Down below in Stanley, smoke swirled away from shelled houses. The Argentine soldiers stood by their dug-outs staring at the approaching troops. The capital looked suburban and insubstantial in the watery light, a smattering of green-and red-roofed houses. The large red cross on the roof of the hospital stood out in the middle of the town. A white helicopter buzzed across the bay carrying casualties to the Argentine hospital ship Bahia Paraiso. The Welsh Guards’ commanding officer, Lt.-Col Johnny Rickett, stood on the crest of the hill taking a swig from a whisky bottle that was passing among the officers. Brigadier Tony Wilson, the commander of the 5th Infantry Brigade, joined him looking down on the town. ‘It seems an incredibly long way to come for this,’ he said.

The troops were told to wait outside Stanley while negotiations were started for a surrender, so we both decided to go in ahead of them. We stripped off our camouflage kit, piling it next to one of the 155mm guns that had been shelling us the night before, and started to walk the last half mile into town. It was difficult to know what attitude to strike with the Argentine soldiers who sat by the road in trenches pointing their guns towards us. We tried to be as ostentatiously harmless as possible, waving and calling greetings, but there was no response and it was hard to stop speculating about how it might feel to be struck by a bullet. As we reached a cattle-grid on the edge of town three Argentine conscripts approached. They were unarmed and grinning and insisted on shaking our hands. For the first time we felt that the battle for the Falklands was all but over.

The speed of the Argentinian collapse that Monday morning astounded everybody. The British had been appealing to them to surrender for four days without receiving any sign that they were prepared to do so and most of the soldiers were expecting to fight through Stanley street by street. As the news of the surrender came through, the commander of the land forces on the Falkland Islands, Maj.-Gen. Jeremy Moore, had ordered an air raid on Sapper Hill to blast the Argentinians with cluster bombs. ‘I heard on the radio that the Argentine soldiers were all walking about and I had a Harrier strike due to go in,’ he said. ‘I grabbed the radio myself and did all the talking for the next two hours. The strike was due within minutes and if it had gone ahead it may have meant the whole war continuing.’

Considering the war ended in a reasonably neat and satisfying way for Britain it is easy to forget that it began in muddle and semi-farce. The slide into conflict started on 18 March 1982, when Constantino Davidoff, a Greek Argentine scrap metal merchant with a contract to dismember an old whaling station on South Georgia ran up the blue and white Argentinian flag to remind the world of Argentina’s claim to the territory, which had been acquired by Britain at the beginning of the century. It took time for the consequences of this small coup de théâtre to develop. When diplomatic representations met with calculated indifference in Buenos Aires it became clear that Davidoff’s action was a deliberate test of Britain’s will. Up until then the dispute over the ownership of the Falklands had, in the eyes of Britain at least, shown a capacity to be stretched, painlessly, into infinity. But on 2 April, a day late it was said to exploit the full irony of the situation, Argentina invaded the Falklands, expelled the British garrison of Royal Marines and declared them the Islas Malvinas. Britain reacted first with indignation and then with force.

Even when the Task Force set sail it was hard to take the business too seriously. ‘See you in a week,’ said one of our editors at the time as preparations were made to join the fleet at Portsmouth. The predominant feeling during the first few days at sea was that this show of might was a faintly ludicrous reaction to a dispute that would almost certainly be resolved by diplomatic means. The Argentinians would soon realize the extent of their effrontery and their isolation from the rest of world opinion, and withdraw.

We comforted ourselves with the thought that powerful diplomatic machinery was available to shift the protagonists off a collision course before the crash happened and there was, it appeared, plenty of time. The newspapers seemed confident that if it did come to a fight the odds were almost embarrassingly unfair. It was a contest, they said, between the first and the third division. In this buoyant atmosphere some of the soldiers felt that the worst outcome would be if a diplomatic solution was arrived at before a shot was fired and we all had to turn round and come home. The Navy was more cautious. At least the soldiers had some idea of what sort of conflict they might be going into. The Navy had never been in a missile war and had a healthy fear of the horrors it might involve.

The Falklands campaign had many of the characteristics of a nineteenth-century military encounter. It was in essence an old-fashioned punitive expedition and the cause of the dispute concerned territory not ideology. It was a short war with a beginning, a middle and an end. Apart from the missiles, modern technology played a minor part and the basic weapons would have been familiar to any veteran of World War II. Most of all it was, unusually for the twentieth century, a remarkably two-sided war. Both sides had to rely, fundamentally, on their own soldiery and stocks of weapons without any decisive military assistance from an outside power.

The British could reasonably claim to have done almost everything for themselves. They took a pride in their ability to mount such an operation, at such a distance, at a time of economic feebleness and national self-doubt that will probably look excessive in years to come. Even the accounts of the war were two-sided. The press corps of thirty journalists who travelled with the Task Force was exclusively British. For once the ubiquitous camera crews of NBC and CBS were absent and the world was forced to watch events unfold through the eyes of the two protagonists.

A few hours before the Welsh Guards were due to start an attack on a force of 250 Argentinians dug in below Mount William, one of their officers was asked what the strategy was for the action. ‘We’ll sneak up on them, open fire and give them cold steel up their arse,’ he replied. Every newcomer to the battlefield was struck at what a primitive business it was. Tactics seemed to have changed little from the last war or indeed the Great War. The basic tools for fighting were artillery, mortars and machine guns. Several of the mountain-top battles ended with the British soldiers lunging at the departing backs with bayonets. Because the Argentine armoured vehicles played no part in the fighting, many of the more modern weapons were never used for their original purpose. The Paras’ ‘Wombat’ anti-tank guns stayed on the ships and the Milan wire-guided missiles were used almost exclusively and with horrific effect for firing into Argentinian bunkers.

The anti-aircraft missiles were employed with mixed results. The Blowpipes, under suspicion from the outset, turned out to be cumbersome and – it seemed to us watching – to miss the jets with depressing frequency, although they were more successful against the piston-engined Pucaras that hopped around the islands terrifying the helicopter pilots. Naval visitors to the battlefield were surprised to see that so much of it was still a matter of trenches and artillery bombardments and that the first thing you did when you stopped was to start digging a hole. The battle on Mount Longdon proved that a single sniper could still hold up a company of men. The planes were fast and sophisticated but they could still be brought down by small-arms fire. The well-tried tactics of military warfare were the ones that succeeded; diversionary raids, surprise attacks and night operations. This approach also had the benefit of keeping down the number of casualties. The British equipment was no better than the Argentinians’. In some cases it was the same, but unlike the Argentinians, the British looked after it. The troops kept up the habit of stripping and cleaning their self-loading rifles, even on top of the mountains, so that at the end of the campaign they were oiled and spotless in comparison to the rusting and battered piles of weaponry left behind by the Argentinians. Despite the helicopters and the Volvo tracked vehicles, it was a war where most of the troops marched into battle. 3 Para walked all the way from Port San Carlos to Port Stanley. The ability to move long distances loaded up with equipment and weapons was something the Argentinians had not accounted for and part of their reasoning for not attacking the beach-head at San Carlos at the beginning of the landing appears to have been because they believed that the Task Force would soon get bogged down and fall vulnerable to the Argentinian Air Force.

The marches were forced on the troops by the shortage of helicopters but they took a masochistic pleasure in the ordeal. It was not any great belief in the justice of the cause that propelled them along. Most of the argument about the rights and wrongs of the affair had ended a few weeks before the landing. If anything, the case for going to war over the Falklands diminished rather than grew the more you saw of the place and its inhabitants. Mostly it was pride in themselves and their organizations that motivated them. Many of the men were from Britain’s economic wastelands: the Clyde, Ulster, the North-East, and they had better experience than anyone else in the country of its imperfections and injustices. They joined up in many cases because there was nothing else to do. The war was not won on the playing fields of Eton but on the tarmac playground of a Glasgow comprehensive. The soldiers showed an extraordinary capacity for pain and discomfort. By the time they arrived in Port Stanley many of them had spent seventeen days in the open. That meant an existence of continual dirt, wet and cold. It was not always necessary for them to have been quite so uncomfortable. We sometimes asked why the soldiers did not carry tents, which seemed much more sensible and less time-consuming than the usual business of building a shelter out of a waterproof poncho and bits of string, but no one ever had a convincing explanation. We got the impression that tents were somehow regarded as ‘sissy’. In the last days of the war, when the Task Force commanders began to get worried about the state of the troops on the mountains, some tents were found and sent up to them.

The soldiers met all these privations with an uncomplaining acceptance which seemed almost unnatural. Their reaction to the horrors of the campaign was usually to make a joke and laugh. At one level this was simply a case of laughing because otherwise you might cry; humour was the balm of tragedy. The Welsh Guardsmen who staggered ashore from the Galahad, blackened and shocked, spent their first moments on the beach joking about what had happened. A motorcycle messenger in the Welsh Guards was killed when he ran his bike over a mine after bringing rations up to the front line. ‘At least he copped it on the way back,’ someone said.

This flip callousness was a feature of most of the humour. Brigadier Julian Thompson, commanding officer of 3 Commando brigade, said the funniest moment of the war for him was watching an officer caught in a small boat in San Carlos Water during the middle of a bombing raid. The outboard engine had broken down and he was paddling frantically to get ashore. People were unsentimental about the dead, at least during the time the fighting was going on. The death of Colonel ‘H.’ Jones, commanding officer of 2 Para, who was undoubtedly popular produced only formal expressions of regret when the news came through that he had been killed.

For all that, the soldiers were not unfeeling people. The military operated an ‘oppo’ system where each soldier had a best friend upon whom he could rely and who would look after him in turn when necessary. The system worked. In battle the men risked their own lives to patch up their wounded friends and carry them back to the regimental aid post. They sometimes got horribly injured doing so. Two Scots Guards had their feet blown off carrying their injured ‘oppos’ out of a minefield.

After the victory there was much talk about how well the Argentinians had fought but most of the soldiers had a fairly low opinion of the soldiering abilities of their opponents. ‘Military pygmies,’ was how one SAS officer described them. Some of the British troops had a tendency to ghoulishness. A seventeen-year-old Argentinian conscript who was shot through the mouth during the battle for Mount Harriet and buried where he fell was dug up by a ‘bootie’ – one of the slang words the soldiers called themselves – who wanted to photograph him for his album.

It is extraordinary the extent to which people behave in a war in the way that the war films would have you believe. In the middle of the battle for Mount Tumbledown, John Witherow saw a young Guards lieutenant from the Blues and Royals wandering down the road from the fighting looking fiercely indignant. ‘The swine have gone and blown up my tank,’ he said. Earlier on, while wandering around in the darkness in the worst weather of the war looking for a trench, he came across a lone figure hunched against the wind, his cape flowing behind him like a cartoon character. ‘Who was that outside?’ he asked when we found some shelter. ‘Oh, that will be Lord Dalrymple,’ said a sergeant. ‘He’s always out there.’ On the day after the battle for Mount Longdon a pair of Harriers swooped along the side of Mount Kent on their way to a bombing raid on Port Stanley and as the troops cheered and shouted they switched on their vapour trails and climbed into the sky leaving a perfect victory ‘V’ in their wake.

People spoke in war comic clichés. They really did say, ‘We’re going to knock the Argies for six.’ A Marine lieutenant heading off on a night patrol to draw the enemy fire and locate their positions said: ‘Looks like we’re set for some good sport tonight.’ Perhaps because it had been so long since Britain had fought a conventional war a lot of the language and images were borrowed from American literature and films about the Vietnam war. ‘It’s just like Apocalypse Now,’ said a Marine in awe watching the tracer crackle over the side of Mount Harriet. Soldiers predicted that if the Argies were ‘zapped’ heavily enough they were bound to ‘bug out’.

The doctors and medical orderlies in the gloomy field dressing station at Ajax Bay and on board the hospital ship Uganda half consciously modelled themselves on the heroes of ‘MASH’ although the best words and expressions were their own. ‘Yomping’ was an almost onomatopoeiac term for trekking heavily-laden over difficult ground. It described the activity perfectly. No one knew where it came from, though exhaustive research by John Silverlight of the Observer seems to suggest it has its origins in the Norwegian skiing term for crossing an obstacle.

Significantly, there were two terms for acquiring pieces of equipment dishonestly. One was called ‘proffing’, the other ‘rassing’, derived from the naval shorthand for Replenishment At Sea. Looted items were known as ‘gizzits’, short for ‘give us it’. ‘Proffing’ was a way of life. One of us left a pair of ski gloves to dry out on top of a boiler in a settlement farmhouse and within half an hour they were gone. A little later a Guardsman walked by wearing them. He swore he had found them elsewhere and already his name was inscribed across the back in large black letters. Some of the most sought-after articles were the waterproof overboots that were much prized as a means of preventing trench foot. To take them off and leave them unattended was taken as an indication that you no longer had any further use for them. Courage was measured in two ways. First there was the extent of your ability to ‘hack it’; to keep going in adverse conditions. That you failed to hack it was almost the worst thing that could be said of you. Second there was the size and quality of your ‘bottle’. This was really old-fashioned daring. People who charged machine gun posts armed only with a fixed bayonet had a ‘lot of bottle’. That you ‘bottled out’ was definitely the worst thing that could be said of you. The most useful military word was ‘kit’. The military applied it to everything from a comporation tin-opener to a Hercules transport plane. This could be carried to extremes though. We heard one officer referring to his girlfriend as ‘a good bit of kit’.

When it came to the nastier side of their trade the military tended to go in for euphemisms. Apart from the SAS who invariably used direct terminology, you rarely heard people talk about killing Argentinians. They ‘took them out’, ‘wasted’ them or ‘blew them away’. Troops were never shelled. They were ‘malleted’, ‘banjoed’ or ‘brassed up’. It did not sound too alarming to hear over the ship’s tannoy that there was some ‘air activity’ thirty miles away until you realized that it meant some Argentine aircraft were minutes away from bombing you. To make the experience less harrowing, the incoming raiders were often called ‘dago airways’ in the running commentaries that went on during the attacks on Fearless. ‘We have some good news and some bad news,’ said a naval officer over the tannoy one day. ‘The good news is that four Argentinian aircraft are approaching from the west presenting excellent targets for our Harriers and missiles. The bad news is that they are Super Etendards carrying Exocet.’ Nothing was known by its real name. Food was ‘scran’ or ‘scoff’. The sea was the ‘oggin’ and our cabins were ‘pits’ or ‘grots’.

One of the reasons all this terminology sounded so odd was that the military was a foreign country to most of us. Because the days of national service were long gone few of the journalists knew what sort of men they were and how the Army and Navy operated. Having worked in Northern Ireland was not much of a help as it has been recent government policy to shield the Army from publicity and to prevent the emergence of any military ‘personalities’. In the absence of a conventional conflict for so long, the picture the public has of the upper reaches of the military has grown so faint as to be almost invisible. The heads of the services who sprung to prominence during the conflict were unknown to most people.

In view of this lack of information we tended to make crude assumptions about what these men would be like. Most of the battalion commanders had been educated at the better-known public schools and had gone straight into the Army. The Para and Marine commanding officers tended to be practical, spartan men who shared all the discomforts their men had to put up with. We were surprised when we went ashore to see 42 Commando’s CO, Lt.-Col Vaux, carrying a pack not much smaller than those of the ‘booties’ around him.

Although the officers shared the lives of the men and a close relationship grew up between them, at the end of the day they were still separated by an almost unbridgeable divide. Officers might call the subordinates by their Christian names when they were on their own together but it would never happen in public. The officers joined the forces as a career, the men as a job. The great majority of the soldiers knew when they joined up that they were in the ranks for the duration of their army lives, and for most of them it did not matter. To make the leap from the ranks meant taking examinations, including a knives and forks test to gauge your suitability for the rigours of the officers’ mess. ‘There are occasions when it is permissible, almost desirable, to throw a pint of beer over your neighbour’s head at dinner,’ a Marine lieutenant explained. ‘There are other times when it is not.’ The Parachute Regiment was the keenest to commission good NCOs and at least three majors in the campaign had joined the Army as privates.

We knew little about the men at the top of the chain of command, for Admiral Sir John Fieldhouse, Commander-in-Chief Fleet, ran the war from the Navy’s operations’ headquarters, an underground bunker at Northwood, in north-west London. The Task Force commander was Rear Admiral John Woodward, who was based throughout the war on HMS Hermes, the older of the two aircraft carriers with the fleet. He was called ‘Sandy’ because of his reddish hair and was the primus inter pares among the Task Force commanders. Both he and General Moore answered to Fieldhouse, but although Moore was in charge of the land forces, the local operation came under Woodward’s control. He was a retiring man, who played chess and solved mathematical problems as a hobby. Early on in the campaign his methods started to draw criticism from the Army. Most of it stemmed from Woodward’s preoccupation with the air and sea war and his determination to keep the losses of the fleet to a minimum. His nickname among some members of the land forces, and indeed some of the Navy too who were on the ships in San Carlos Water taking a daily battering from the Argentine jets, was ‘Windy Woodward’. He was awarded the ‘Burma Star’ for keeping the carriers so far east. It is hard to see what other course was open to him. For the British to win the war it was vital for them to have aeroplanes and if one or the other of the carriers was sunk the war would almost certainly have been at an end. Woodward’s first obligation was to keep Hermes and Invincible and the Harriers they carried safe, but by doing so he won few friends on the ground.

In some ways Woodward personified the Navy’s aloofness compared with the more relaxed attitude of the Army, and its gaucheness in dealing with the press. Northern Ireland had taught the Marines and Paras the power of publicity. The Navy, on the other hand, rarely came across the media, except perhaps once a year when the local television station turned up to film the gun race. Soon after the taking of South Georgia Woodward told the reporters on Hermes that the Task Force was now ready for the ‘heavy punch’ against the invaders and issued a public warning to the Argentinians. ‘If you want to get out I suggest you do so now,’ he said. ‘Once we arrive the only way home will be by courtesy of the Royal Navy.’ This was rousing quotable stuff and it quickly earned him a rebuke from Northwood for appearing too belligerent. A meeting with him a few days after the incident gave the impression of a nice, slightly naïve man. ‘I don’t regard myself as the hawk-eyed, sharp-nosed hard military man leading a battle fleet into the annals of history,’ he said. ‘I am very astonished to find myself in this position. I am an ordinary person who lives in south-west London in suburbia and I have been a virtual civil servant for the past three years commuting into London every day.’ Whether this peace-mongering appeased Northwood we never learnt but after that Woodward stopped talking to the press.

Maj.-Gen. Jeremy Moore was a small, lean man who bristled with energy. He was the Marines’ most decorated serving officer, having won a Military Cross in Malaya in 1950 and a bar twelve years later for commanding an amphibious assault against rebels in Brunei. Moore led a company of Marines in two small river boats in a surprise attack on 350 rebels who were holding British civilians hostage. They killed scores of them, lost five men themselves and rescued the prisoners. He was awarded an OBE for his part in Operation Motorman which ended the no-go areas in Northern Ireland. Moore was a religious man and liked to quote from Bonhoeffer as well as von Clausewitz. He was reputed to carry a Bible in his breast pocket. He liked to get around the battlefield and regularly flew up the mountains to check on the progress of the war from the front line, wandering around in a khaki forage cap and a kit bag with ‘Moore’ on the back. The lack of insignia on his uniform added to his air of authority. His role in the war was that of a logistician and administrator. He came out to the Falklands to act as a buffer between Woodward and Thompson and their masters in London and to smooth relations between the land force and the fleet. He said afterwards: ‘I had to take the political pressure off Julian’s back. He was involved in constant referring upwards to all levels in London and the fleet. It was his job to concentrate on the build-up for the attack on Stanley.’

Julian Thompson was the most obviously intelligent of the commanders; quotable, brisk and amusing. Despite leading a sure-footed campaign, he claimed not to have derived much pleasure from it. Sitting in his office in Port Stanley, he said: ‘I’m always reminded of the saying of Robert E. Lee. “It is a good thing that war is so terrible otherwise we would enjoy it too much.”’ Among the half-dozen recurring military maxims of the campaign, this was one of the favourites. Thompson was the commander with the most claim to be the architect of the victory. It was his plan. He chose the landing site and the route that the troops would follow to Stanley, aided all along by the SAS and SBS teams who were helicoptered on to the islands on 1 May to reconnoitre around Port Stanley, San Carlos, Goose Green and Port Howard. It was a conventional plan but it had its subtleties and it worked.

Rivalry between the components of the Task Force was endemic. It started at the very bottom of the military structure, with one platoon speaking disparagingly about the abilities of another, and spread upwards. One battalion in a regiment would try and outdo the other. At various points the rivals would come together against a common ‘enemy’ so that the Marines on occasion formed a united front against the Paras and in turn the whole of 3 Commando Brigade looked down slightly on the Guards and Gurkhas. At the top of the structure the Army would join forces occasionally to snipe at the Navy. The one thing everybody agreed on was that the RAF had not distinguished themselves. The Vulcan bombing raids on Port Stanley airfield provoked widespread hilarity. The Navy pilots on the other hand, got nothing but admiration and praise

When the war was over General Moore, inevitably quoting Wellington, said it had been ‘a close run thing’. When the fleet set sail it seemed impossible the Argentinians could win. After it was over it was difficult to see how they had lost. Their weapons were just as good as those of the British and better in some cases. They had two months to prepare their defences and at the start of the war they outnumbered their attackers by three to one, a direct inversion of the odds that conventional military wisdom dictates as a prerequisite for success. They had nothing like the logistical problems that beset their attackers and right to the end they were getting nightly visits from C130 transport planes flying in from the mainland. The myth of starving and disease-ridden Argentine conscripts was one that rankled with Task Force troops when they discovered that the defenders were in fact rather better fed than they were. The mistake was letting the British establish a beach-head in the first place. In some ways the Argentinians were justified in thinking that their Air Force could drive the British back before the invasion took root. If the French had supplied more Exocets, if more of the bombs they dropped had exploded, then the course of the war could have changed utterly. The losses that the British did sustain shook the Task Force commanders. If every bomb which hit a ship on D Day had gone off, the momentum of the campaign would have been stalled and the return to diplomacy would have seemed the only option. The Navy’s view was that the fuses were set for one height but the Argentine pilots were dropping them at another, coming in too low to ‘arm’ them in an attempt to get underneath the canopy of missiles and small-arms fire that the fleet put up whenever the raiders appeared. If the fuses had been shorter, however, the pilots would have run the risk of blasting their own planes out of the sky.

Once the British were ashore, the Argentinians had a rack of natural defences stretching all the way from the beach-head back to Port Stanley which, if properly fortified and defended, could have held up the advance for months. Yet they did give away almost all the ground up to the gates of Stanley. Mount Kent, which dominates the east end of the island, was abandoned without a fight. When the Argentinians chose to make a stand they often ignored elementary rules of infantry combat. They poured resources into Mount Longdon but neglected to push out advance patrols or train artillery in front of the stronghold so that the Paras were able to move up to their positions unimpeded. Both the Argentinian and the British commanders said that in the end it was the destructive power of the British which forced the surrender: the thirty 105mm field pieces and the rapid-firing 4.5inch naval guns that rained shells on the capital and the defensive perimeter during the last days of the fighting. But by that stage the war was nearly over. The fundamental difference between the two sides was the quality of the infantry men. The paratroopers’ victory at Goose Green over an enemy three times as numerous took place with minimal artillery support and against a heavy and skilful Argentine bombardment. In the end the Argentinians were disinclined to fight even though their soldiers probably felt the justice of their cause as much as their attackers did. The bulk of the Army was conscripted, and when the shooting started the NCOs were incapable of keeping their men in the trenches. After Goose Green, and as the British moved closer and closer, they seemed to have been overtaken by a creeping fatalism. Looking down from Mount Longdon the officer commanding A Company of 3 Para reported: ‘For the company the following two days provided some “good sport”. Having become established on the feature we found ourselves almost in the middle of the enemy camp, being able to observe and bring down harassing fire on all the main enemy positions. The two company MFCs, Corporals Crowne and Baxter, called it an MFC’s dream. The enemy seemed to show little concern for this harassing fire, and even continued to drive to and from Moody Brook and Stanley at night with headlights when meeting the nightly C130 flights. The number of targets was so great that they could not all be engaged.’

The British, on the other hand, had troops that were not only well-trained but also had a pride in their abilities and a degree of determination that made the prospect of defeat almost intolerable. George Orwell wrote in Homage to Catalonia: ‘People forget that a soldier anywhere near the front line is usually too hungry or frightened or cold or above all too tired to care about the political origins of the war.’ The British were no ideologues. They were just better soldiers.

It has not taken long for the memories of the Falklands war to dim. The things that are still vivid are the noises: the perpetual wop-wop of helicopters, the buzz of artillery shells. Neither of us had been shelled before. Like everything in the war it was surprising how quickly you adapted to it, though no one ever got used to it.

We were only fired on for a few hours but we soon learned to distinguish between the whizz of outgoing fire and the whistle of incoming. We experienced brief moments of terror but knew that if we were properly dug in it would take a direct hit to kill us, although this was rumoured to have happened to one unlucky man who had his head knocked off by a shell. ‘His number was definitely on that one,’ the teller would invariably say, whenever the story was repeated. The smells are still easy to recall: the hot eye-watering blast of aviation spirit exhaust that hit you every time you got on and off a helicopter. The powdery tang of artillery smoke and the acrid smell of a hexamine fuel block. There are other ineradicable memories: the horrible stillness of dead bodies; the sight of a row of survivors from Ardent, their expressionless faces smeared a ghastly white with Flamazine anti-burn cream, lying on the floor of the Ajax Bay field dressing station.

The war was a profound experience but not a particularly revealing one. On the whole it tended to confirm the truth of clichés. It did bring out the best in people: courage in the case of the civilian crews of the troop ships who more than anyone had the right to wonder what on earth they were doing there; compassion and dedication in the doctors and nurses who tended the casualties.

And at times it was hellish. The nights were long, about fourteen hours of darkness in which there was nothing to do but sleep, for we were not allowed to show any lights after dusk in case we gave away our position. It was always numbingly cold. We lived with seven layers of clothing on our chests and three on our legs and slept in them all, and usually with our boots on too. But despite the cold and the wet and the uncertainty, like everyone in this winter war we always slept well.