John Wiseman - Operation Lavivrus

It was a tough community to grow up in without a father. His mother suffered endless abuse from bigoted neighbours, and Chalky couldn’t wait to be big enough to defend her. Although she doted on him, he was a painful reminder of the past, and joining the army was a natural escape for him. He fitted into his new family well. At twenty-seven years old, with seven years in the Squadron, he was the troop medic, probably influenced by his mother.

Fred massaged the scar on his leg where he had been burnt hitting high-tension cables three years ago. It seemed like yesterday that the brilliant blue flash lit up his body and the surrounding area of Salisbury Plain. Cables are difficult to see from the air, even in daylight. The parachute collapses when the cables are touched, leaving the parachutist to fall to the ground. Electrocution is the lesser of the two hazards.

Tony’s main concern was the insertion phase of the coming operation. Stretched out on the seat with his hood up and arms buried between his thighs, he thought about deception plans. Any aeroplane entering another country’s air space is immediately challenged. It is acquired by radar, and unless it gives the correct response aircraft are scrambled to intercept it. In a time of conflict the plane may be shot down. The Argentinians had a good air defence system, and intelligence was trying to get up-to-date info on its performance and limitations. A modern system like theirs acquires the target, and unless it is identified as friendly it fires an anti-aircraft missile. Tony’s problem was how he could make his aircraft appear friendly.

He pushed this to the back of his mind, concentrating on the problem at hand. He was responsible for lining up the aircraft and getting it over the exit point. The RAF navigator would get the aircraft on the run-in track at the correct altitude, then it was up to Tony to eyeball it from the ramp, getting them over the release point.

The parachutes they were using were twelve-cell steerables with reserves to match, on a piggy-back system. These were state of the art and only available to the Regiment. They had a good performance, capable of holding a 20-knot wind, and if need be they could cover a lot of ground. This was fine if you could see where you were going, but at night you just wanted to land gently, and a high-performance chute could get you into trouble. These were definitely not for the novice.

On a night descent it is an advantage to have some moonlight with a little cloud cover. On all but the darkest nights the ground can be seen until the last 1,000 feet, when the earth is enveloped in shadow. Their jump was scheduled just before first light; they would catch the end of the old moon, making conditions ideal.

No visual aids were being used on this descent; if they could be seen from the air they could be seen from the ground. 3 Troop were already deployed in the area to test the effectiveness of the covert entry; they would dearly love to capture a 2 Troop birdman and pluck him of his feathers. Inter-troop rivalry verged on the sadistic.

For safety reasons a ground party was in the drop zone in radio contact with the aircraft, but neither displayed or gave signals. Their sole job was to keep an eye on the ground winds in case they exceeded the limit, and provide medical cover.

The lads came alive as the bus turned through the large ornamental gates of RAF Lyneham. Security was impressive, the area being well lit and guarded by RAF police who waved the bus through. Sandbag emplacements had been built to dominate the approaches to the base. Tony took particular interest in these security arrangements; he would soon be trying to breach similar defences.

There was some small talk on the short journey to the hangar, the sleepy atmosphere transformed into a lively scene as people stretched and chattered. Past exploits were discussed, and misfortunes recalled. ‘I remember carrying Chalky . . .’ ‘Fred put out all the lights in Salisbury . . ..’ The men were in good spirits, ready for the descent.

The navigator gave the lads the flight briefing. His ruffled hair and bulbous eyes reminded Tony of a rabbit caught in a snare. His tired, monotonous voice confirmed his dislike of early starts, and he made an exciting event seem dull. He yawned continuously as he pointed to an enlarged aerial photograph of Foxtrot Charlie, and traced the run-in track using a black china graph pencil.

‘The wind at 18,000 feet is at 230 degrees steady at 35 knots. This changes to 200 degrees at 8,000 feet, slowing to 20 knots. Opening height for this sortie is at 3,500 feet with the same wind but at 190 degrees. Ground wind,’ he paused for an infectiously long yawn, ‘is 8–10 knots.’ Tony couldn’t wait to take over the briefing and inject a bit of spark.

‘We calculate the release point here and the opening point here.’ The navigator circled two red points on the photo. ‘I will get you to this point here, and Staff, you will take over when the red light comes on. You should see this lake clearly, and all this forestry will stand out.’

Charlie was picking his teeth with a broken matchstick, removing the traces of a kebab he had the night before. All this talk of knots and degrees went over his head; he just wanted to jump and follow the others.

Eyeballing a C-130 at night is not easy. Tony’s job when the red light came on was to get the aircraft exactly over the release point. Staring into the slipstream from the ramp is the most accurate way of lining up an aircraft. Peter and Tony confirmed the navigator’s calculations to verify the checkpoints. They added the final details to the air briefing Peter was going to give.

The cavernous interior of the aircraft looked even bigger with only eight men sitting in the middle. They sat either side of an oxygen console, fully dressed, strapped into webbing seats, with bergans (rucksacks) held between their legs. It was only a short flight so they wouldn’t have time to strip off or stretch out.

Aircraft have a smell of their own, a heady mixture of cold alloy, warm nylon, hydraulic fluid and paraffin. Soon the tantalising smell of RAF coffee would add to this rich bouquet.

Conversation was made difficult as the high-pitched whine of the four turbines increased. As the noise level rose, so did the vibrations. Tony watched, fascinated, as the safety ring of a fire extinguisher revolved slowly, and a discarded polystyrene cup did a dance of its own until Fred crushed it under a size 10.

With engines running evenly, the aircraft lurched forward as it began to taxi out to the main runway. The big Herc rolled and swayed like a ship in heavy weather. They were wasting no time this morning and rumbled forward, turning sharply onto the threshold. It dipped down on its undercarriage as the brakes were applied, and the passengers braced themselves for take-off.

A whirr of hydraulic pumps set the flaps as the engines ran up to full power. Raring to go but held back on the brakes, the whole structure shuddered. When the brakes were released the huge camouflaged aircraft leapt forward like a spirited stallion, building up speed rapidly before soaring up into the early morning sky.

Once it was clear of the ground the pilot eased the throttles back as they climbed steadily to 18,000 feet. Seat belts were undone and the loadmaster came round with the traditional RAF coffee in polystyrene cups. To the old and bold this was the worst part of the jump.

As they sipped their strong, sweet brew they were given an altimeter check. Each man had two altimeters, and they carefully calibrated then both. Through nervousness rather than necessity, they tapped them to ensure the needle wasn’t sticking.

A dull red light was the only illumination in the aircraft, set above the oxygen console. It didn’t affect night vision, but it cast an eerie light over the eight men huddled in the centre of the cargo hold, like witches around a cauldron.