LITMIR.BIZ

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In May of each year a conscription lottery is broadcast on the television and radio and printed in the newspapers. The numbers published refer to males who have reached the age of nineteen: it was mainly Class of 62 that served in the Falklands war. Young men whose last three digits on their identity documents correspond with the lottery numbers must present themselves for a medical examination in their local military district. Since a percentage will be exempted from service on medical grounds, more men than are needed are called up.

      This sounds complicated to us who have a voluntary system, but it works. A further feature is that, by law, all conscripts working at the time of their call-up have their jobs left open for them and 75 per cent of their wage is payable during military service.

      Because Argentina has not experienced war on our level, it has no firmly established aftermath programme for its soldiers. The government failed to respond adequately to the needs of those suffering physical and mental injury as a result of the Falklands war. Despite the difference between our countries, this will strike a familiar chord in many British veterans of the campaign.

      The Argentinians do have veterans’ groups, although over the past twelve years the movement has become split. Some groups regard their position as largely a political issue, and make their views felt, while others aim to quietly rehabilitate one another in group discussions. I am well aware that some Argentinian veterans wouldn’t dream of sitting down to talk with me, an Englishman. That is why I had to secure the interviews before leaving Britain.

      For fourteen consecutive days after our arrival in Buenos Aires, often working sixteen or eighteen hours a day, Diego and I interviewed my former enemy. With each individual I met I was unsure of how I would be received. But what I witnessed in every home has changed my outlook completely. As one soldier to another, we acknowledged our shared experiences, and each man wanted the public to know his story – just like my comrades from 3 Para. I was greeted in every home I went to with a sincere handshake, a hug and, most moving of all, a friendly smile. Not once did I come across suspicion or even lack of courtesy.

      Food was always provided, along with beer to smooth the proceedings. Other members of the family sat in on most of the meetings, in many cases hearing their relative’s war experiences for the first time. They were all eager to learn about the British way of life, my friends and our military system. One of the veterans said to me: ‘This is a weird experience. Never did I think an English former enemy would come here into my neighbourhood and my home, but the funny thing is, it’s going to be an Englishman that’s going to tell our story! Nobody has really bothered to listen to us. Because we lost, everyone ignores us. After all, I did have many friends killed. It still hurts today.’

      After meeting men like this, and feeling their genuine warmth alongside the sadness of their memories, I realized that every veteran I spoke to would, regardless of the language barrier, fit in socially in a British pub on a Saturday night. And for me that was an important discovery.

      I must now thank all the people who have supported and helped me over the two years it has taken to research and write this book. Without Patricia Sarano’s contribution you would not be reading this book today. The same goes for Diego Kovadloff, whose excellent interpretation and translation, support and humour have been of immeasurable value. I would like to thank Jorge Altieri, who worked tirelessly to establish contact with his former colleagues for me, and Edgardo Esteban, who assisted with professional confidentiality in the case of further contacts. Thanks to the Argentinian family who accommodated me while I was researching in their country. They have asked to remain anonymous. Thanks also to Chuchu and Juan, two civilians who wined and dined me at all hours during my brief periods of free time.

      Many thanks to Julie Adams and Steve Tebbutt. (Thanks for the photocopier.) To all the staff at Bloomsbury, particularly David Reynolds and Nigel Newton, who had faith in this project. To Richard Dawes, whose professional help and advice over the years has made him a valued friend. And special thanks to Alastair McQueen, who as my editor navigated his way through my manuscript and who has guided me away from the press harassment which has been an unpleasant feature of my life for nearly two years.

      I want to thank my friends who have stuck by me during this most difficult period, in particular Paul Read and Martyn Benson. Also my parents, Fred and Pam, my brother Russell and my Uncle Brian, whose support for me throughout my life has never wavered. And particularly warm thanks to my wife, Karon, who has suffered long and hard with me. She and all my family have proved pillars of strength.

      I offer this book to the memory of all who lost their lives in the Falklands, British and Argentinian alike. They cannot tell their story.

      AT THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN AND IN THE MORNING

       WE WILL REMEMBER THEM

      Vincent Bramley

      Aldershot, July 1994

       Part 1

Friends and Foes

       1

      SANTIAGO GAUTO drew deeply on his cigarette, making the red end glare fiercely. He held the smoke, then blew it up towards the ceiling. For a moment he paused, then he began to relax, and I was glad I had come here to this modest little house near Buenos Aires to meet a man my comrades and I had been trying to kill almost twelve years before.

      He had greeted me at the door with a welcoming smile and a friendly handshake, then showed Diego, my interpreter, and me into his kitchen cum living-room. We sat round the table and he looked me in the eye and said: ‘This is my home, Vincent. It is yours, too. Please.’ Then he passed me a cool beer from the fridge, saying: ‘Let’s have a beer together. It’s an honour to meet one of my former enemies.’

      ‘Salud!’ We raised our bottles of beer and I handed him an English cigarette and together we smoked and drank our beer and began to talk. We had both been a little nervous and, deep down, wary about this meeting. But now the ice was broken, we had overcome the first hurdle, and the chat was flowing, particularly about why I had come to see him. We were both as curious about each other as any soldiers from opposite sides when they meet so long after a battle.

      For a moment that great smile flashed again and then he said seriously: ‘It is a brave thing you do, brave of you to come here alone, so far, to be surrounded by people who – even though it is all a long time ago now – could still want to harm you because you are English. I appreciate what you have done, what you are doing. Believe me, it is a brave thing and a big thing you do here today. I am proud of being chosen by you, Vincent. Maybe it is one of those beautiful chances in life… Someone picked me out, gave you my name and now we meet. Yes, it is brave, brave for both of us to meet.’

      Watching me with deep, dark, puzzled eyes from behind the curtain which served as a door was Mayra, a classic picture of beauty and childhood innocence, bewildered by the strangers and the language they spoke to her father.

      Sensing her confusion, Santiago said: ‘Mayra, come to Papa.’

      Diego talked quietly and calmly to his seven-year-old daughter and I turned to watch his lips as he translated the conversation. ‘Don’t be afraid, Mayra,’ he said. ‘This man Vincent has come from another country, a country many miles away. Many years ago, before you were born, he and I were enemies. We tried to kill each other for what we both believed was right. Don’t worry – now we are at peace. Now we are about to become good friends.’

      I looked at Diego as I stubbed out another cigarette. His eyes had filled with tears. I turned to the little girl as she moved from her father, came towards me and climbed on to my lap. She, too, was crying, tears rolling down her little face. Then she kissed me on the cheek and hugged me.

      ‘Papa respects you. We are all friends now, yes?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said, wiping her tears away in just the same way as I do for my own daughters when they are afraid or upset.

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