Hugh McManners - Falklands Commando

Our LCM arrived. Between air raids, the coxwain nipped out into the bright, fresh sunlight of the anchorage. Eventually we were delivered back into the cavernous, dark exhaust-fumed atmosphere of Intrepid’s now very busy stern dock.

I found the route to the wardroom impassable because the ship was at Action Stations with all hatches bolted. I therefore decided to climb up onto the forrad Sea Cat deck and go in through the hatch below the bridge. This was incredibly foolish, as I rapidly discovered.

I heaved my kit up on to the upper deck, and very suddenly another air raid came in. The Sea Cat missiles were just feet away from me, and started to rotate in the peculiarly sinister, jerky movements they use when tracking a target. As the Oerlikon guns on the bridge just above started to pound, a sailor emerged from the Sea Cat missile stowage space, dragged me into the darkness and bolted the hatch.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim red emergency lighting, I could see two other sailors crouching at the far end, waiting to reload the Sea Cats to fire once they’d fired. We huddled together smoking cigarettes, listening to the sitreps over the tannoy from the Officer of the Watch, and grimacing as the Sea Cats launched with their bang, roar and whoosh just outside the door.

It was over an hour before the Officer of the Watch stood us down. As surreptitiously as I could manage, I opened forrad hatch, and escaped to the warmth of the Wardroom, and its comfortable illusion of safety.

But a few hundred metres north, in the beautiful sandy cove from which we’d embarked into the LCM back to Intrepid , just off shore small dolphins had been jumping, with a pair of seals bobbing about like old men in a bathtub. The noise of our war must have been a novelty to them on that first morning of air raids. But I had a strong feeling that the peace and tranquillity I’d so suddenly and violently shattered the night before might never be fully restored.

HMS Intrepid was FO1’s home base, where we kept our Gemini inflatable assault boat and outboard motors, spare radios and batteries, a huge pile of rations and ammunition, and all our spare personal kit.

I had a cabin, located in the small passage to the left of the Wardroom door, in which I dumped myself and my kit whenever we got back. A large nylon parachute bag contained my belongings, with toiletries handy at the top ready for immediate use. ‘FLYCO’, the ever-cheerful [7]Lt Commander Roy Laney, occupied the cabin opposite. One of the most busy men on the shop. Roy looked after both my bag and my interests when we were out.

The other empty cabins in the passage were also full of kit, belonging to various other nocturnal folk including my friends Chris Brown and John Hamilton (an SAS captain later killed at Port Howard), and other shadowy people. We would appear, pale, haggard, and filthy, stay a few nights, then vanish again in our separate directions. I’d start the night sleeping on my own but would then be would be taken over, stealthily, without the lights being turned on. In the morning there’d be snoring, dead-tired bodies in all the bunks and on the floor, weapons ranging from pistols to rocket launchers hanging on pegs and lying on desk tops. The corridor outside would be blocked with muddy bergens and neatly piled webbing, with the peculiarly distinct smell of peat and rifle oil.

Lieutenant-Commander Roy Laney handled the workings of Flyco, organising all the flying to and from the ship for twelve of the twenty-four hours. He virtually lived in the glass-windowed control box that overlooked the flight deck, from which everything from the servicing of aircraft, their landings and takings off, refuelling, reception of wounded and prisoners of war, etc., were handled. I was constantly poking my head into their glass-fronted office, wanting to be taken to other ships or asking for estimated times of flights. In spite of the pressure and constant confusion under which they worked, they always bent over backwards to help.

Roy also collected my mail, shoving it into the top of my para bag so I could get at it if he was working in the Flyco whenever I got back aboard. He never asked about what we’d been doing, but always greeted me with a large beer even when the wardroom was closed.

The Wardroom Chief Petty Officer was another marvellous man, remaining helpful and kind in even the direst circumstances. He’d left the Navy when Intrepid had gone to the shipyard for its refit. When the Naval postings branch requested the previous ship’s company come back for Operation Corporate, our CPO had returned from well-earned retirement in Civvie Street to run his wardroom. (There were days to come, when ‘Bomb Alley’ was at its most intense, when he admitted to doubts about having made the right decision. The bombing made us all feel like that…)

Coming back on board Intrepid to a hot shower, food and sleep, was wonderful. Roy would wave from Flyco as we ran out of the helicopter and humped our kit over to the ramp. When the engine noise had died away he would make some joke about us over the flight deck tannoy. We would heave our kit over the slippery flight-deck and down the steep ramp to the lower tank-deck where our mountain of food, kit and ammunition lay. The boys’ mess-deck was very close by, through a watertight door.

Having got their stuff stowed, I’d walk back up the ramp to the flight-deck, then along the starboard rail to the hatch that led into the galley area and the senior rates’ dining hall. A short climb up another ladder onto the Wardroom flat then, passing the Gun-Room and the Wardroom galley, I could enter the sitting-room-cum-dining-room of the wardroom proper.

The ship’s officers, working their usual watches, tried very hard to keep wardroom life as normal as possible. There’d be tea as usual at 1600, the bar would open at 1800, and if we were deemed to be ‘at sea’ there’d be big, chunky hot chips alongside dishes of relish on the counter. There was a continuous – and at time heated – debate as to whether San Carlos Water counted as being ‘at sea’. However despite this, the Wardroom Chief usually provided chips anyway. It was a very determined ‘business as usual’ operation: newspapers on the tables, but dog-eared and hopelessly out of date, unclaimed letters jamming the letter-rack, and the ever-cheerful and sometimes cheeky mess staff topping up the constant supply of coffee on the hob.

During daylight while there were air raids, the furniture would be lashed back to the walls and central pillars, with anyone not at Action Stations lolling in the armchairs or lying on the floor reading Motor Magazine or Illustrated London News for the fifth time. We mumbled at each other through the grubby, white cotton of the anti-flash hoods.

The chapel was now permanently occupied by Special Forces operational planning – split down the middle into two denominations: one half SAS, the other SBS. So the padre held regular Holy Communion services in a wide variety of places around the ship – wherever he could find a free space.

A hot shower was our most enjoyable après- operation activity – one of the greatest advantages we enjoyed over the troops now frantically digging in ashore. After the Fanning Head operation, I’d emptied my pockets then stood fully clothed under the shower to wash my clothing in layers. Then I’d got myself completely lathered up and shampooed. I was eyes shut and fumbling to turn on the water for the rinse phase, when the tannoy blasted out an ‘Air Raid Imminent’ and ordered everyone to take cover.

I debated the pros and cons of climbing into my soaking-wet clothes and donning anti-flash covered in soap. But then I decided I couldn’t be bothered. I was rinsing my hair when the deck literally just above my head reverberated with the pumping bang of the Oerlikons. Then there was the clatter of the next-door GPMGs and the whoosh of the Sea Darts as the raid came in.