LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘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.’

      ‘So why are we still sitting here?’ Sergeant Ricketts asked.

      ‘Right, boss,’ Corporal Jock McGregor added. ‘Our arses are freezing on these chairs while the Navy goes gung-ho.’

      ‘True,’ Major Parkinson said calmly, immune to their expected sarcasm, since the SAS not only used the informal ‘boss’ instead of ‘sir’, but also encouraged free thinking and initiative. ‘A Royal Navy Task Force is set to sail from Portsmouth for the Falklands tomorrow. That task force will include frigates, destroyers, troop carriers, landing ships and supply vessels. Its two aircraft-carriers, HMS Invincible and HMS Hermes, will be crammed with Harrier jump-jets and helicopters, as well as with Royal Marines and Paratroops. Although she carries mainly Sea Harriers, HMS Hermes also has Sea King HC4s of 846 Naval Air Squadron, equipped to land the commandos with whom they normally train. At the same time, other ships will be leaving Plymouth to link up with yet more forces from Gibraltar. All in all, it will be Britain’s greatest display of Naval strength since Suez.’

      ‘But not including us,’ Taff Burgess complained, grinning laconically at his fellow SAS troopers.

      ‘Right,’ Sergeant Ricketts snapped, not grinning at all. ‘I’ve heard that the Royal Marines’ special Boat Squadron have already asked for two divers – one a former Marine – to complete a team flying to Ascension Island, where they hope to join a British submarine in the South Atlantic.’

      ‘We’ve heard, also,’ SBS Captain Grenville said in his familiar terse way, ‘that two members of G Squadron joined 2 SB Section at RAF Lyneham.’

      ‘Yet there are still no movement orders for this Squadron,’ Trooper Burgess said. ‘What’s going on, boss?’

      Major Parkinson smiled. ‘Oh, ye of little faith. In fact, earlier this morning our OC called the senior officer in command of the Falklands operation – Brigadier Julian Thompson, Commander of 3 Commando Brigade, Royal Marines…’

      ‘Now on seventy-two hours’ notice to sail for the South Atlantic,’ Ricketts interjected sarcastically.

      ‘…and insisted that he include us in the Task Force. He was informed by the brigadier that Naval and Royal Marine staffs are working around the clock to arrange the embarkation of the men and war stores needed to spearhead any reconquest of the islands. This operation has been code-named “Corporate” and we’ll be part of it.’

      ‘How?’ Trooper Andrew Winston asked, rubbing his hand against his cheek and displaying an unwavering gaze that could make grown men tremble.

      ‘Oh, dear, you trust us so little!’ said the formerly renowned mountaineer and still dashingly handsome Captain Hailsham of the Mountain Troop.

      Major Parkinson let the derisive laughter die away, then said in a graver tone: ‘The Task Force has been gathered together to show the world, and particularly Argentina, that Britain is serious about the fate of the so-called Malvinas. It will therefore be leaving to military music and a lot of patriotic flag-waving, in full view of the assembled international media.’ He paused for emphasis, before adding: ‘But we’ll be leaving as well. We will simply go quietly – flying out tomorrow.’

      This time his men whistled and applauded, obviously pleased. Parkinson raised his hands to silence them. When they had calmed down, one of them, Trooper Danny ‘Baby Face’ Porter, put his hand up and asked: ‘Do we have anything on the Falklands, boss?’

      Major Parkinson nodded to Captain Hailsham, who said: ‘Yesterday the Kremlin’s staff gathered together all the information they could find about the islands in the MOD map-room – most of it from the British Antarctic Survey’s HQ in Cambridge and other, more confidential sources. You’ll find those reports in the folders on the desks in front of you. Make sure you know the details off by heart before we fly out.’

      ‘Are there any contingency plans in SAS files or elsewhere for a recovery of the Falklands, if necessary?’ the astute Ricketts asked.

      ‘No,’ Hailsham said bluntly. ‘All of the long-term planners who considered it felt it would be next to impossible to sustain such a campaign.’

      ‘How come?’

      Hailsham nodded to Captain Grenville, who was in constant contact with SBS intelligence. ‘The nearest feasible base from which to launch an amphibious assault is the very Ascension Island you’ve just mentioned,’ Grenville said. ‘That’s nearly 7000 kilometres from the UK ports and airfields. As for Port Stanley itself, it’s a further 6250 kilometres from Ascension – and there’s only open ocean, apart from Ascension, between the UK and the Falklands.’

      ‘That may be a problem for desk-bound planners,’ Ricketts said. ‘It’s not a problem for us.’

      ‘Correct,’ Parkinson said briskly, proud to hear such a remark from one of his men and eager to jump back into the briefing. ‘So tomorrow, 5 April, a small advance party from this squadron – the 80 men gathered together here – commanded by Major Cedric Delves, will fly out to Ascension Island to take part in the highly secret Task Force 317.9 – being formed to recapture South Georgia.’

      A general murmur of approval spread around the briefing room, only silenced when Trooper Winston asked: ‘Who divides and rules?’

      ‘The work of all special forces, including the Special Air Service and the Special Boat Squadron, is to be coordinated through a command cell in Rear-Admiral Woodward’s HMS Hermes, the flagship of the Royal Navy Task Force. I’ll be aboard with some of you men.’

      ‘Do you think there’s going to be conflict, boss?’

      ‘Not immediately,’ Major Parkinson said. ‘You’ll fly out to Ascension and familiarize yourselves with local conditions as best you can.’

      ‘What does that mean?’

      ‘Ascension is a small island that can hardly sustain its civilian population of a thousand,’ Captain Grenville explained. ‘For this reason, the Royal Navy is going to severely limit the numbers of commandos and other forces who can be ashore at any one time. The opportunities for further training will therefore be limited.’

      ‘Any more questions?’ Major Parkinson asked when the silence stretched on too long.

      ‘Yeah,’ Trooper Gumboot Gillis said, licking his lips and grinning like a mischievous schoolboy. ‘Apart from its thousand head of human sheep, what else is on Ascension Island?’

      ‘A British telecommunications centre, a US airbase, a US space-research centre, and a US gin-palace called the Volcano Club. That should see you right, Trooper. Any more questions?’

      They all had a good laugh at that, but no hands went up.

      ‘Then I suggest you all return to your bashas, open those reports, and ensure that you’ve memorized them by tomorrow. You’ll be kitted out in the morning. Thank you, gentlemen.’

      Major Parkinson and his two captains

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