Shaun Clarke - Heroes of the South Atlantic

‘I love you, too,’ he said.

He wasn’t a man of many words, but Darlene didn’t mind. She responded to his tender, loving nature and was touched by his reticence.

‘That table’s free,’ Danny told her.

Though only five feet two, Darlene had a perfect body and long legs. She liked to show off in tight sweaters and jeans – to ‘wind ’em up’, as her mother had always taught her. When playing pool, which involved certain contortions, Darlene was a sight to behold.

Perhaps for this reason, a player at the next table, another member of the great unwashed – a ring through his nose, with another dangling from one ear, hairy chest bared in a leather waistcoat above black leather pants and tatty high-heeled boots decorated with skull and crossbones – eventually put his head back, blew a stream of cigarette smoke, and sneered to his mates, ‘With tits like that bouncing on the velvet, how can she lose, guys?’

The sudden silence that followed was like an explosion, freezing everyone momentarily, as Danny spun his pool cue over, slid his grip to the narrow tip and brought the handle down like a club on the sneering git’s skull.

As the lout howled and grabbed his head, pouring blood, looking dazed, Danny moved in without thinking to karate-chop him twice in the guts. The guy jack-knifed dramatically, making a strangling sound, and was vomiting even as Danny jumped back and again used his hand like a guillotine. This one chopped smartly at his exposed nape, for he was leaning forward, and he was face down on the floor in his own puke before he knew what was happening.

Danny knew he was doing wrong – using his skills for personal reasons – but his killer instincts were overwhelming, so great was his rage. He raised his right boot, about to break the bastard’s neck, but Darlene cried out ‘No!’ and pulled him away, leaving his victim free to continue spewing on the floorboards.

‘Shit, man!’ someone whispered in fearful admiration. Then Stevie Wonder, who was singing ‘That Girl,’ was cut off in mid-sentence.

‘This is a special announcement,’ the radio announcer said. ‘Today, 2 April, 1982, a garrison of British Royal Marines guarding Port Stanley, capital of the Falkland Islands, was forced to surrender to…’

‘The Falkland Islands?’ Danny broke in, instantly distracted, no longer angry, and oblivious to the groaning man on the floor. ‘Where’s the Falkland Islands, Darlene?’

It was just another day for Major Richard Parkinson. As usual, he awoke at six in the morning and slipped quietly out of bed, letting his wife, Jane, get a little more sleep. Leaving the bedroom, Parkinson took the stairs up to his large converted loft, where he stripped off his pyjamas, put on a pair of shorts and proceeded to do 75 press-ups.

Though proud that at forty-four he could still do that many, Parkinson didn’t stop there. Rising from the floor, his whipcord body slick with sweat, and then standing on tiptoe to grab the chin-up bar he had inserted between two crossbeams, he began his usual fifty pull-ups.

Most men half his age could not have managed this with such ease, but Parkinson, though a little out of breath, was otherwise still in fine shape when he finished. After a few more exercises – touching his toes and lifting weights – he went downstairs, into the bathroom, stripped off his shorts and stepped into the shower, where he switched the water from hot to icy cold. Cleansed and invigorated, he dressed in his freshly pressed OGs, complete with medals and winged-dagger badge, then sauntered into the country-style kitchen, located at the back of the house overlooking a well-kept lawn and garden and offering a panoramic view of the countryside. From here you could see the rooftops of Hereford and the spire of the church.

When not overseas or at the Duke of York’s Barracks, in London’s King’s Road, Parkinson treated his wife to tea in bed every morning. He did this now, waking her up gently, running the fingers of his free hand through her hair as he set the cup and saucer on the cabinet beside the bed. Jane glanced up, smiling sleepily, then rolled away from him. The daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel Michael Lovelock – formerly of the Durham Light Infantry, then the SAS, a much-decorated veteran of Malaya and Oman, now in command of the Counter Revolutionary Warfare (CRW) Wing responsible for Northern Ireland – she was used to the demands of the Regiment and accepted her husband’s unwavering routine as perfectly normal.

Parkinson returned the smile, but to the back of his wife’s head, knowing that she would snatch a few more minutes of sleep, yet instinctively wake up before the tea was cold. After gently squeezing her shoulder, which made her purr like a cat, he turned and left the bedroom, automatically glancing into the other two bedrooms, where his children, now both married, had once slept and played. Reminded of his age, but certainly not feeling it, he returned to the kitchen to have breakfast and a quick scan of The Times .

His breakfast was frugal: orange juice, one boiled egg with brown toast, then a cup of black coffee. Parkinson did not believe in overeating; nor did he smoke or drink.

Opening his newspaper, he read that yesterday Argentina had invaded the Falkland Islands, overwhelming the single company of Royal Marines guarding the capital, Port Stanley. An emergency session of Parliament had been called – the first Saturday sitting since the Suez crisis – and the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, was scheduled to make a statement detailing Britain’s response to the invasion.

Parkinson immediately picked up the telephone and called his Commanding Officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Michael Pryce-Jones, at Stirling Lines, the home and heart of the SAS.

‘I’ve just read the morning paper,’ he said. ‘It sounds serious, boss.’

‘Quite serious, old chap,’ Pryce-Jones replied, making no attempt to hide his delight at the prospect of war. ‘In fact, damned serious. A bunch of bloody Argies trying to steal a British territory and we’re supposed to sit back and take it? Not likely, I say!’

‘Mrs Thatcher won’t let them,’ Parkinson replied. ‘We all know what she’s like. She’ll insist that it’s her duty to defend and preserve British sovereignty, no matter how small the territory involved. I think we’re in for some action.’

‘Damned right, we are. A task force of 40 warships, including the aircraft-carriers Invincible and Hermes , with 1000 commandos, is already being assembled, though the fleet hasn’t yet been given orders to sail. The usual political posturing will have to be endured first, thus wasting valuable time, but war with Argentina is inevitable. By tonight, the United Nations Security Council will almost certainly be compelled to demand a cessation of hostilities and an immediate withdrawal of the Argentinian invasion force. Then there’ll be negotiations. But cheering crowds are already gathering outside the presidential palace in Buenos Aires to celebrate the recapture of the so-called Malvinas, so it’s unlikely that General Galtieri – he’s the head of the military junta – will voluntarily back down. War it will have to be – and we’ll be part of it. You’d better get in here.’

Parkinson hurried out of the house, climbed into his car and drove off at high speed, heading for Stirling Lines.

‘I don’t think I have to tell you men why you’ve been called back to camp on three hours’ notice,’ Major Parkinson said to his men on Sunday morning, 4 April, 1982, as he stood beside Captain Michael ‘Mike’ Hailsham of the Mountain Troop and Captain Laurence E. Grenville of the Special Boat Squadron (SBS), in the briefing room of the ‘Kremlin’, the SAS intelligence section at Stirling Lines, in Redhill, Hereford. ‘Suffice to say that since its forced surrender to the Argentinians in Port Stanley on Friday, the unfortunate company of Royal Marines has been further humiliated by being forced to lie face down on the ground to be photographed for propaganda purposes. That’s why you’ve all been called back. We can’t let the bloody Argies get away with that, let alone their damned invasion of the Falkland Islands.’