Hugh McManners - Falklands Commando

“Come on padre, you can’t expect these soldiers to carry on with a padre who can’t even walk across a pond. Even my small son could manage a quick stroll across there. Come on padre, have another go. We’ll keep the first attempt a secret from the men. Come on, sir, you’re not even trying. We can’t allow you into the Commando Brigade after a performance like that. All the other padres who come on this course manage it. We’ll just have to try every day until you get it right.” And the whole course will have to do it too, as a punishment for letting their padre be so Idle and Useless .

Everyone is loaded with insults that become like background noise and a perverse form of entertainment. Black men are universally referred to as ‘Chalky’ and Irishmen run the whole gamut of ‘paddyisms’. Officers receive special treatment, being ‘requested’ to do press-ups in muddy pools, throw themselves into rivers, and so on. The idea is that in spite of constant indignity, you remain the man in charge. The process develops a ‘no-nonsense’ sort of leader whose judgement is unaffected by bad conditions and stress. The soldiers become similarly undisturbed by their circumstances or by being buggered about, and everyone develops an incredibly strong team spirit. It also produces a very special sort of clergyman.

On Easter Sunday, Wynne gave a service on the forrad hold hatch cover, the guns lashed down beside us. There were a lot of people standing around enjoying the sunshine. One of the sergeants major bellowed across to them, “Come over here and get your fucking souls cleansed” which got us off to a good start.

Wynne, in his full cassock and surplice, stood out front. “Without further ado, gents, let’s start off with a song. I’ve got a couple of good ’uns so let’s give it rock-all”.

We got stuck into ‘There is a green hill far away’ realising that, like us, Wynne knew the disrespectful rendition of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ that can follow. Thankfully this did not happen. He also gave us a little talk about what we were off to do, and Christianity being a man’s religion. These few moments of singing and thought were a complete break from the military reality, worry and discomfort, which everyone enjoyed. We finished with the Naval Prayer:

O Eternal Lord God who alone spreads out the heavens and rulest the raging of the sea,

Who has compassed the waters with bounds until day and night come to an end.

Be pleased to receive unto thy almighty and most gracious protection the persons of us thy servants and the fleet in which we serve. Preserve us from the dangers of the sea and of the air and from the violence of the enemy that we may be a safeguard unto our most Sovereign Lady Queen Elizabeth and her Dominions, and a security for such as pass on the seas upon their lawful occasions.

That the inhabitants of our Island and Commonwealth may in peace and quietness serve thee our God,

And that we may return in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land with fruits of labours and with a thankful remembrance of thy mercies,

To praise and glorify thy Holy Name,

Through Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen.

This prayer seemed to sum it all up, and gave me a sense of the ‘timelessness’ of our venture. We were, as our predecessors for hundreds of years had done, ensuring the safety of those engaged in their ‘lawful occasions’. The beauty of the language, with its succinct brevity and complete relevance, was reassurance and comfort.

I was later to hear of Wynne from several people throughout the Falklands campaign. He was constantly up with the soldiers doing his best to take minds off the harsh realities, trying to awaken more happy memories of home. Whatever he really thought, he always appeared cheerful, yet he could read moods and join them, talking about the military side then enquiring about your family to bring you out of yourself a bit. One story about Wynne came to me via some Marines in 40 Commando, who were the neighbouring unit to 45 Commando. They had seen a strange, muffled figure roaming around in the darkness calling out and waving. (It must have been like that ghastly film apparition in The Signalman .) The sentries, who had their weapons cocked and ready to shoot, waited as the strange figure drew closer.

“Zooloo, Zooloo, Zooloo” it cried.

They alerted the whole troop, which stood to in their trenches with their weapons, and the troop commander moved forward to investigate. As the figure drew closer, the words that the bitterly cold wind was whipping away became clearer:

“Zooloo, Zooloo Company. Where are you?”

So the sentry challenged the figure.

“Halt , who goes there?”

“Oh thank goodness I’ve found somebody. It’s only the padre and I’ve forgotten the fucking password.”

With a padre like that how could we not succeed?

Each morning after breakfast, we would perch on bar stools strategically under the ceilings’ cool air ducts, and listen to the World Service of the BBC. It seemed as if the whole planet was degenerating into violence and tension – which was depressing. Any small development in Falklands negotiations was discussed with strong personal interest. The sooner the politicians and diplomats sorted it out, the sooner we would all be off Sir Percivale and back home.

On 11 April, the news for us at sea was not inspiring. Mr Nott, having decreed that a ‘No-Go’ area around the Falklands would be enforced in the next 24 hours, was receiving the US shuttle-diplomat Alexander Haig, who was said to have ‘specific ideas for discussion’. All sides were girding up their loins. The Islanders transmitted an Easter greeting to the Task Force, addressed to Admiral Woodward and saying ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. In response, the Argentinean invaders confiscated their radio sets. General Galtieri told a rally in Buenos Aires that Argentina wanted peace but would fight if necessary, and the EEC announced a complete ban on Argentinean imports.

The only bit of good news for us at sea was that our friends from RM Poole, Lieutenant Keith Mills and his Royal Marine detachment (with thirteen civilians from South Georgia) were to be repatriated. A sniper in Jerusalem took pot-shots at pilgrims entering the Domed Mosque, injuring eight and killing two, and Israel was building up its forces on the Syrian border as tension in the Middle East mounted.

On Sir Percivale we were urged to cut down our consumption of water during even the daily half-hour period. Some dissidents were letting their showers continue to run whilst soaping themselves. The main galley was only just coping with the overload of hungry soldiers, and the food was less than wonderful. With the water off most of the time, it wasn’t easy to get a drink, which in the tropical heat was leading to problems. Water bottles had to be kept filled. Tempers were not helped by one particularly officious Sergeant Major decreeing that the nightly beer issue, two cans per man, was to be made with the cans being opened as they were handed over to prevent anyone storing the cans for a few nights, and then getting drunk. This particular stupidity was rescinded pretty sharply.

By now we were 120 miles north of Tangiers. It was warm with no sign of land, fish or birds. The other ships in the Task Force could now be seen, sailing parallel to us but widely spaced. The Royal Navy warship escorts used their superior speed to sheepdog their way around the flock, while we ploughed along as best we could. Some mornings we woke to find ourselves completely alone, the horizon empty, as if we had been left behind, which was a little alarming.

We knew absolutely nothing about what we might have to do. But we were not now sailing straight to the Falklands, but to Ascension Island. The speed of our loading in the UK had spread everything hopelessly across the fleet. No one knew what was on-board, what had been forgotten and where anything was. Our hold was piled high and would take days to rearrange. I was expecting several bits of kit to be delivered to us in the next wave of ships, but had no idea where I was to collect it, or when.