Hugh McManners - Falklands Commando

Sergeant O. and his four-man SBS team arrived on Sir Lancelot that afternoon, to accompany us onto the ridge. They’d been given the unenviable task of trying to infiltrate south to the Murrell River which they would swim, in order then to hide on Wireless Ridge – a hair-raising prospect about which they were clearly concerned. As with all special operations, the onus is on the men on the ground to do what they think is best, and Sergeant O. was going to stay with us for a day or so on the Ridge to assess the possibilities.

Just before dinner I was introduced to a Naval Wessex pilot Lieutenant Peter Manley (I think from Fearless ). He was quite small, bearded and disarmingly cherubic. His idea was to fire his helicopter’s SS12 rockets at Government House in Stanley with the aim of killing General Menendez.

SS11 rockets can only be fired from the hover and have to be guided every metre of the way to the target. Whilst this is being done, the helicopter cannot move, and so is extremely vulnerable.

Peter wanted to make his approach over Berkeley Sound at first light, then hover behind our position – as this would be the safest place for him, as our presence guaranteed it clear of any enemy.

It was certainly the safest place for him, but I really didn’t want the attention of every single Argentine soldier in Port Stanley being focused on where we were hiding. We’d already experienced the hail of spent rockets, AP (Armour Piercing) bullets and cannon shells that fall in the wake of departing aircraft, and I had no desire to compare Argie anti-air ordnance with our own. I also wondered what would happen if the Wessex got shot down in our area and the enemy sent out a patrol to investigate the wreckage.

But regardless of whether this would actually happen, it was important for us to know about it, if only so as not to shoot him down ourselves.

After our second splendid dinner on Sir Lancelot , we humped our gear up on to the fight-deck into a line beside the fire extinguishers. As the sun went down over Bomb Alley and its sombre green hills, we loaded the bergens into the Sea King and Martin ducked around the fuselage doing his pre-flight checks. We waited until it was completely dark then climbed in, strapping into the net seats. The generators began their gradual whining crescendo, the two engines started, then with a rhythmic rocking the rotors engaged and turned. In the cockpit Martin and his co-pilot were checking dials and switches, talking to each other through their helmet microphones. Except for a few crucial dials, which were fully dimmed, all the warning lights and instruments were completely obliterated by black masking tape. The flight-deck crew operated in complete darkness, and only when Martin flashed a light from the cockpit to indicate he was ready to take off did the marshaller flash his two neon wands plus a dim horizon-indicator on the flight deck, providing Martin with enough information to take off.

We flew first to Fearless because someone had forgotten something, then waited, burning and turning, until they came running back with whatever it was. As we heaved up into the darkness for a second time, the indicator lights on Fearless and the marshaller’s wands went out, leaving us in the blackness of a cloudy, moonless night.

As soon as we got overland clear of San Carlos Water, Martin dropped down to about fifty feet. I could see him sitting with his back very straight, the PNG covering his face. His head bobbed continually up and down and side to side. He could only look out and not down because even the dim light of the few remaining dials would ‘burn’ into the PNG image and make him blind. The co-pilot handled the navigation and read the dials, and they were continually muttering to each other. I knew from experience this was not worth listening to: a particular brand of black humour featuring crashing and air disasters in general, so I was quite happy not to have headphones.

We hunched in the back of the Sea King, screaming along in total darkness veering from side to side, pulling up suddenly then swooping down to avoid hills and follow valleys. The perspiration caused by the loading of the bergens became a chilled dampness. The cold began to permeate the layers of clothing. The rear side-door was open and the wind swirled and buffeted. The darkness outside suddenly became a hill just feet away with sheep running in all directions from the sudden presence of the helicopter. The crewman sat on the sill with his foot braced against the jamb, his safety strap flapping violently in the downwash. Occasionally he would murmur into his throat-mike or flash his teeth in response to some joke from the cockpit.

We cut north over Douglas Settlement and flew down Port Salvador. The moon came out briefly and lit up a savage monochrome scene of smooth water and sharply indented coastline. We then cut up north again over Port Louis Settlement and along Berkeley Sound. The crewman held up two fingers to us and we grasped the quick release catches on our safety harnesses. As Martin turned sharply right and came in very low and fast to the east of Mount Round and its enemy position, he tucked into a fold in the ground, slowing down sharply. Ahead from the darkness winked a coded signal from the muted torch of the four-man SAS team that had been in the area for the past week. Martin flared backwards and landed; we got out fast with the gear. After a quick shouted conversation with the reception team, I waved the aircraft away. Martin pulled off, the crewman waved out the back and gave a thumbs-up, and they flew north towards the black water of Berkeley Sound, very low and very fast.

It was suddenly still and quiet. We waited, lying in the wet tussock grass, heels touching and weapons pointing in a circle outward, on our own again.

We lay quietly for about three-quarters of an hour, getting colder and colder. There was no sound apart from the wind. Scanning with the NOD (Night Observation Device) revealed nothing and so we struggled to our feet with our bergens on our backs. I couldn’t lift mine so the only way I could stand was to put the straps on whilst sitting on the ground, then have two people pull an arm each to get me to my feet.

We tottered off in a ‘snake’, a scout at the front with 5 metres between each other. Although dark, there was no cover and very little shadow. Frequent stops were made to scan ahead and to the side. There was one very exposed part across a wide, flat valley immediately behind Beagle Ridge, but the moonlight, such as it was, was from the south and cast a shadow to the north. Once we reached this shadow we felt safer.

Walking is hard at night, with tussocks, bog and holes in which to stumble. With the heavy bergens it was difficult to avoid falling. Our progress was punctuated by breathlessness, silent cursing as we fell and were helped laboriously to our feet again like turned-over turtles. The sweat began to flow inside our clothes and down our brows, necks and chests. When we stopped, the inevitable chill rapidly set in once more. My bad back was also starting to feel the strain, the pain turning these long deliberate progressions into real ordeals.

We moved along the north side of Beagle Ridge, until we reached the western end of the rock outcrop. There was an obvious summit about 600 metres further along and I did not want to go anywhere near that. If the Argies were able to get a bearing on our radio transmissions, then they’d inevitably shell the ridge, going initially for the summit (that is what I, in their place, would do). I wanted to be tucked away in a more random position.

We dumped the bergens in the shadows and Nick Allin and I went to search for an observation post. We found a suitable flattish bit with a rock outcrop to the rear as well as a deep gorge on the forward slope edge. The rocks to the rear would give protection and I hoped that the angled rock cleft on the top would be deep enough to get at least two of us into a position from which we could work. I crept up to the top of the ridge and the slab of outcrop, and carefully looked over the top. There below me lay our final objective, Port Stanley.