Hugh McManners - Falklands Commando

By this stage they are pretty pissed off and go round their ruined ship dressed in rags and tatters getting more and more angry.

‘Right’ they say, ‘We’re getting really pissed off now. You Bastard Argentinians . We’re so totally going to sort you out now.’

‘Look at the fucking state of my head! You Bastards , we’re really going to make you pay for this, you Bastards .’

So when this happens, before we reach Ascension, don’t be alarmed if you see wardroom furniture come bobbing past us, or main galley tables, or a darts board, or the film library. It’s only Jack getting himself into the right frame of mind.”

Rumour suggested that Invincible had indeed chucked her wardroom carpets and piano into the sea, and was now working Defence Watches, with half the complete crew on duty all night, the ship remaining on full alert around the clock – as opposed to just the usual night-time skeleton crew plus teams of cleaners. As danger intensifies, life in a naval ship becomes more and more uncomfortable, and the psychological effect is enormous. In actuality, Antelope was about to follow Invincible’s example as far as Defence Watches went. As for throwing things overboard, they had almost reconciled themselves to the possibility of their sacred antelope’s head being jettisoned.

Another element of naval preparation which did actually take place, came to the fleet by courtesy of the French armed forces, when most of the Type 21 frigates on their way south were able to practice anti-aircraft drills against Armée de l’Air Super Etendard jets of the type used by the Argentine FAA, as we sailed parallel to the West African coast. These drills were to prove invaluable, and life-saving.

Nearing Ascension Island, I wound up my Buenos Aires saga by having the Argentine fleet sail under the command of Speedy Gonzales. Admiral Enrico Frigorifico was not available to take command in person, as he was now in hospital with popped cartilages in both knees and a slipped disc because of the weight of his medals.

But now the Task Force might well come under Argentine attack. The time for frivolous invention was over.

Slow old Sir Percivale arrived at Ascension one day behind the other ships, early on a beautiful sunny morning. We awoke to the unaccustomed sound of the anchor being dropped. Dozens of ships surrounded us: merchant tankers, car ferries, sleek Type 21 frigates, the larger and more sinister-looking DLGs (Destroyers Light with Guided Missiles), RFAs like ourselves, as well as the POL (petrol, oil and lubricants) tanker versions, and deep-sea salvage tugs. There were also a few American ships, no doubt bemused at this ultra-quiet, mid-ocean backwater becoming suddenly so busy.

The island itself was made of very solid looking pinnacles of black volcanic lava, sloping gently upwards from the shore to form foothills to the incongruous grandeur of Green Mountain, which dominates the whole island. The shore is indented with some sandy beaches, but only a few places where heavy surf permits landing. The foreshore was covered with every kind of radio mast, from dish antennae to long pylon runs of cable for long-distance HF communications. To the south streams of naval helicopters were clattering in and out of the tiny island’s single-strip airfield.

Originally, and presumably ironically, it had been called ‘Wideawake Airfield’ – a very appropriate name now. Military aircraft had taken over: Phantom jet fighters, huge old Vulcan jet bombers, Nimrods, Hercules and Victor Tankers.

In a dramatic contrast to the barren oven-baked moonscape of the rest of Ascension, at the island’s centre Green Mountain was misty and ethereal, topped off with its own localised cloud. The sudden upward movement of moist air from the ocean, condensing into cloud near the top of one of the few bits of high ground between Africa and America, causes a miniature rain shadow on the upper slopes of the mountain. Vivid green vegetation caps it like mint topping on an ice-cream cone. Sometimes the mist completely enshrouded that implausibly green paradise, which, viewed from the crowded heat of the ships at anchor or from the conical piles of arid black pumice stone below, had a definite Shangri-La sort of attraction.

After breakfast we leaned on the rail, enjoying seeing dry land for the first time in a fortnight. The calm water around the ship was very clear, blue and alive with fish. But soon the well-regulated bowels of military men and the very basic plumbing of the ship (the same as BR trains) made us wish the water wasn’t quite so clear. Suddenly large numbers of piranha-like black fish appeared, voraciously seizing every morsel, then lurked hopefully near the outlets. They were immediately christened ‘shit-fish’.

The Chinese stewards rushed off excitedly, returning with fishing lines, with which they were horrifyingly successful. They fish at every possible opportunity. As only the senior Chinaman (the Bo’sun) spoke and understood English, from that moment onwards, fish on the menu was treated with suspicion.

We inflated our Gemini assault boat, ostensibly to test our engines, but actually so we could pay a visit to Canberra when she arrived. We were curious. There were rumours of the normal cruising staff still being on board – including females. After the cheerful rigours of Sir Percivale, and having invented so much about her in the Oily Rag, I wanted to see for myself.

We were also keen to take proper exercise on solid land. We could see a stone jetty with steps, petrol bowser and cranes at the end of the rocky pinnacle nearest to the buildings of the main settlement Georgetown. We tied up the Gemini at the Fort Thornton pier and went ashore wearing webbing (with lots of water bottles), shorts and boots. Des, being pale skinned, wore a jungle hat.

As we walked up the road in the direction of Lady Hill which we’d decided to hack up and down a few times, we passed a long, two-storied building with a veranda round the top storey, from which much chat and conviviality could be heard. Friendly voices assailed us, as before in equally unexpected, remote and unlikely places. Members of 148 Battery Sergeant John Rycroft and RS (Radio Supervisor) George Booth were leaning over the rail with cold pints of beer in their hands. Resisting the strong inclination not to bother with the march, we tramped off bravely into the heat haze.

Up close, the black pinnacles were loosely granulated like very fine coke. In an off-shore wind, the ships at anchor in the bay were soon covered with black granules.

We flogged to the top of Lady Hill, running most of the way, until the heat became almost unbearable. The summit had an unmanned US radar station, and there we paused for the view, looking across to the centre of the island where Green Mountain disappeared upward into the mist.

John Rycroft and George Booth had come ashore from Fearless the day before, setting themselves up on the first-floor veranda of the ‘Exiles Club’. They’d been ‘refreshing’ themselves for most of the morning. The club was packed with the green-denim uniforms, some flown out from the UK who’d been on the island for a while, plus newcomers like us, and several friends I’d not seen for years. It seemed to me like a film – a cross between the bar in Star Wars, and a comedy about dying, this being a celestial waiting-room in the middle of nowhere, pending the completion of entry formalities to the after-life.

The Exiles Club was also too much fun to last. Something was bound to go wrong. The military ‘System’ would object, or some clown would misbehave and spoil it for everybody else.

I was completely wrong. Only when it was realised that in a few days the island’s entire supply of beer for that year would have been drunk, did Brigadier Julian Thompson reluctantly ban us from the ‘Exiles Club’ – to the club manager’s keen disappointment. This for me was the first of many examples of how nobody gets uptight about trivia when military operations are for real.