LITMIR.BIZ

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in the real thing. He had never thought the British Army would fight a conventional war in his time and this was an opportunity too good to be thrown away. After all there were hats doing twenty-two years who would never see action, never even serve in Northern Ireland.

      As the Canberra slipped down Southampton Water, Dom was alone in the crowd with his personal thoughts. He had managed to say a fond farewell to his dad – whom he still adored – in the departure lounge. He had climbed back on board as the military bands prepared to play them off. Despite the publicity he was proud to be British and soon, God willing, he would prove just how good the modern generation of Paratroopers was, just how entitled they were to carry the mantle of their glorious predecessors. He would prove to his friends, his nation and to himself that he was one of Britain’s finest.

      Yet even as he sailed off to war Dom couldn’t help but reflect how things could have been different for him if he had been allowed to stay in France with his Aunt Joan and brother. It is a thought which still haunts him, because in 1990 – eight years after the Falklands – Daniel was found murdered in a backstreet in Paris and since then Dom has always wondered whether, if they had been left together, his younger brother would have died so tragically.

      On the long voyage south the training schedule was at times hectic, but it didn’t sap all the energy which coursed through Dom and his mates. They soon planned unofficial extensions to their military training – ‘special missions’.

      ‘A few of us would ambush Marines on the ship for a good punch-up. We were pissed off with all the hassle we were getting from them, so we gave them some back. Although we were supposed to be on the same side the rivalry between us was intense. (I remember after the war a few of us were talking about them and we decided that their toms [private soldiers] were not unlike us in their professional outlook, but their top brass were complete arseholes.)

      ‘But at that time they were fair game. Our corporal, Stewart McLaughlin, was a real hard Scouser. He was anti everything non-Para. His word was law. He was all Para through and through, straight out of a war comic. The ultimate warrior. He didn’t stand any messing or any fuss. You either did what he said and you did it immediately and properly, or you suffered. That was it: instant punishment on the spot. We respected him and felt at ease being led by him, but sometimes it was all a bit too much.

      ‘So, one night, we decided to give him some of his own medicine. We decided we would ambush him and give him a going-over. We told him we had beer in our cabin, which was illegal, and he took the bait. We were a very close-knit bunch because that was the way Stewart wanted it. We were his toms and nobody else could fuck us about or pick on us. All we wanted to do was point out in the way he would best understand that the toms had rights and should be able to voice an opinion at times. Anyway, he arrived and we jumped him. He sorted the lot of us out. We all finished up with bloody noses, fat lips and black eyes. I had two black eyes for weeks. Stewart really enjoyed himself punching the crap out of us. But, in true Para style, he was proud of us because we had given him a work-out.

      ‘We prowled the Canberra together in search of beer with Stewart, as befits a corporal, in command. One night we were in one of the crew bars on the Canberra – a place which was out of bounds to us – when one of the crew started to get stroppy with us and, in particular, Stewart. It was a silly thing to do and Stewart responded by ‘lumping’ him and then attempting to force him out through a porthole. This caused a fairly serious shoulder injury to the guy and the MPs were called and we were nicked. We were all marched in before the CO on disciplinary charges.

      ‘I’ll always remember being marched in front of him and the shock when my eyes took in the luxury of his cabin. I couldn’t believe his spacious living quarters compared with our cramped accommodation below. I was still eyeing up his cabin when we all got hit with a £200 fine and extra duties. The fine didn’t bother any of us because we were going to war and if we weren’t around at the end of it we wouldn’t have to pay. It was as simple as that, but the extra duties did hurt.

      ‘We then cross-decked to the Intrepid and were crammed into the corridors and bulkheads. The ship was jammed solid with sailors and soldiers absolutely jam-packed with Paras and Marines all awaiting the green light to go, and then they told us to report to the galley to begin our extra duties punishment. There we were, all rammed and ammoed up, cleaning the dixies they carted the food around in. We all had our sleeves rolled up and were scrubbing away – and there was some scrubbing because of the number of people on board. There was pile after pile of pots and pans and dixies. Stewart had flames coming out of his nostrils. What made us even madder was being told to go to the hotplates and start serving breakfasts to the fucking Marines. That really was taking the piss. Anyone who gave us a look or made a stupid comment had piping hot beans ladled over their hands.

      ‘We were still cleaning dixies and serving food as the Intrepid sailed into Falkland Sound for the landings. We dashed straight from the galley to the landing-craft. I have a sneaking suspicion that the top brass delayed the landings to make sure we had cleaned all the dixies…’

      I climbed from our car to greet Germán Chamorro. This meeting was to be different from the others in that, like me, Germán was an ex-Para. He had been in control of a 120mm mortar and artillery on Mount Longdon, and I knew his onslaught had proved a hellish experience for 3 Para during the battle. His handshake was firm and he gave me a reassuringly warm smile as I said hello.

      We all went quietly into his house and as we settled down around the kitchen table there was a slight nervousness in the air. Diego relieved the tension by getting Germán to speak of his apprehension about meeting a British soldier after the war. This made him feel relaxed enough to grin at me and admit: ‘You know, the English language has given me some bad memories, but this project that you’re doing is good. After all, it’s the common soldier that always suffers, not the government officials.’ Within five minutes we were all laughing – largely because this stocky, jovial man has a wonderful sense of humour, ironically very much like that of my close friend Denzil Connick.

      Germán always knew he would be involved in a war. He had always been fascinated by soldiers, war and the history of conflict. It was, he believed, his destiny, ever since the days when he had played soldiers in the streets of Adrogue, the Buenos Aires suburb where he grew up with his parents and three sisters. His parents emigrated from Paraguay, where his father had learned his trade as a builder. Work in Argentina was plentiful and he was able to provide his growing family with a good lifestyle.

      In those days Adrogue was a good neighbourhood and the young Chamorros were well off compared with many other kids of their generation. Germán, born on 12 August 1962, returned to the area after the Falklands war and lived there until four years ago. He had been to primary school locally and enjoyed it, rushing home afterwards to play soccer or cops-and-robbers or soldiers on the safe streets. But secondary school was different.

      ‘It was difficult,’ he recalls. ‘Very difficult. I even failed break time! Eventually my parents gave me an ultimatum: “Study – or work.”

      ‘I chose the easy one: work. Earning my own money really suited me. I was a teenager and the world for me was all discos, clubs, drinking and women. I tried re-education at one stage – you can do that here – because I regretted leaving school at fourteen. I worked on the building sites with my father for a time then became an odd-job boy for one of my elder sisters. I did that right up until I was called up for the Army. Times have changed a lot in Argentina since those days.

      ‘Do you know, when we went to discos sometimes we were absolutely shit-scared if there was a razia – a police raid. It was a real risk being there, because if drugs or something like that were found you could become an NN [missing person, one of the “Disappeared Ones”] and just for being there you got an automatic two months in jail. Sometimes, when I look around the streets today, I miss the strict order that ruled in those days. We still had a good time and I remember the parties to celebrate when Argentina won the World Cup in 1978.

      ‘My call-up came in August 1980 and I went to La Plata and volunteered for the Parachute Regiment. I was sent to Córdoba in the north central province. There were about fifty of us lined up for a medical and they gave us all an injection

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