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‘Right,’ Vince said magnanimously. ‘I guess that’s it, then. You want to marry Darlene – OK then, I won’t stand in yer way. Me and Darlene’s mum, we married young as well, so I guess we can’t say no.’
He smirked at Darlene’s bottle-blonde mum as she pursed her lips in a sensual ‘O’, blowing a couple of smoke rings, her bosom rising and falling impressively under a tight, low-cut blouse.
‘Dead right,’ she replied.
‘Thank you, Mr and Mrs Dankworth,’ Danny said. ‘I won’t let Darlene down. God, I’m so pleased. Thank you.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ good old Vince said impatiently. ‘Hey, love, you’ll soon have a son-in-law. That should turn you grey!’
It wasn’t the kind of house where you uncorked champagne, so Danny took Darlene out for a beer and a game of pool in the local pool hall, a right den of iniquity, to which he had been introduced by Vince.
‘Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason,’ Vince had said. ‘That movie, The Hustler. A fucking masterpiece, kid. A work of art. A real man’s game, is pool.’
Danny, though not yet a man in Vince’s eyes, had learnt the game quickly, but was careful never to beat his girlfriend’s dad. With his dreamy baby face hiding the instincts of a killer, Danny knew exactly what he wanted – and what he wanted was Darlene.
‘You probably think I’m pretty coarse playing pool,’ Darlene said as they walked along slummy streets to the pool hall. ‘But a lot of me workmates play it as well. It’s the real gear around here.’
Darlene was a switchboard operator for British Telecom, and her workmates, as Danny had noticed, could be a bit on the free side. Danny, who had his innocent side, thought this was real neat.
‘It’s a good game,’ he told Darlene reassuringly. ‘It sharpens the reflexes.’
‘Oh, you don’t need those sharpened,’ Darlene said with a surprisingly coarse chuckle. ‘Your reflexes are wonderful!’
Danny blushed brightly with embarrassment and pride, which made Darlene love him all the more.
‘God,’ she said, ‘you’re so sweet.’
Which made him blush all the more.
Once in the pool hall, they ordered a pint of beer each and while waiting for a vacant table discussed when they should marry. As Danny was between ops with his Regiment, and therefore based in the camp in Hereford rather than in Belfast, they agreed that they should do it as soon as possible.
‘I can’t wait any longer,’ Darlene said. ‘Oh, I do love you, Danny.’
When Danny studied Darlene’s sweet, moon-shaped face, bright-green eyes and jet-black hair, a lump always came to his throat. Now, with Willy Nelson singing ‘Always On My Mind’ coming from the radio perched high on one wall, that lump returned to his throat and filled him up with emotion.
‘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.
1 (#u4452d75c-d35a-5ab1-89f7-c200dc642bfa)
‘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 stepped away from the blackboard as the 80 soldiers pushed back their chairs and started to file out of the briefing room, most looking happy.
2 (#u4452d75c-d35a-5ab1-89f7-c200dc642bfa)
The selected members of D Squadron flew out of England on C-130 Hercules transport aircraft specially converted to flight-refuelling tankers. With their passenger and carrier holds containing long-range fuel tanks, the aircraft were short on breathing space, as well as noisy and bumpy, making for a long, uncomfortable flight that put no one in a good mood.
After landing on Ascension Island, the 80 men were driven in Bedfords from Wideawake airfield, located in featureless, wind-blown terrain, to be billeted in an equally desolate, disused school surrounded by flatlands of volcanic rock. There they made up their bashas, then attended the first of what would be many boring briefings from the ‘green slime’. The Intelligence Corps staff informed them that no war had yet broken out and they would therefore be spending their days on the island undergoing limited, special training for the Falklands. This news was greeted with a universal groan of frustration.
‘Christ, what a hell-hole,’ Jock said that first evening as he drank beer with his mates in the Volcano Club, the American bar on Wideawake airfield, its windows giving a view of the rows of aircraft outside, including Vulcan bombers, Victor tankers, Starlifters, Nimrod recce planes and their own cumbersome Hercules transports. ‘It’s no more than a lump of scraggy rock in the middle of the bleedin’ South Atlantic. What the hell are we doing here?’
‘This is the nearest base for an amphibious assault on South Georgia,’ big Andrew explained. ‘That’s why we’re here, mate.’
‘And not alone either,’ Taff said, sitting beside Baby Face Porter. ‘Just look around you.’
He was referring to the other men in the packed, smoky bar, representing M Company, 42 Commando, Royal Marines, the RAF, the Royal Naval Aircraft Servicing Unit, Royal Engineers, and other members of the British Forces Support Unit. Though no more than a volcanic dust heap, nine miles across at its widest, the island had a BBC relay station, a 10,000-foot runway built by NASA, a satellite tracking station and a firing range. Now being used as a staging post for the Task Force, it was receiving an average of six Hercules flights a day, as well as a constant stream of men and equipment ferried in from the fleet anchored out at sea. As there was not enough accommodation for the personnel arriving daily, the men were forced to spend most of their time aboard ship, only being ferried to the island when it was their turn for weapons testing on the firing range, craft drills on the beach, other forms of training, or work. A lot of those men were here now, filling up the formerly quiet Volcano Club.
‘Fuck ’em,’ Gumboot said, polishing off the last of his inch-thick steak in garlic butter and washing it down with another mouthful of beer. ‘Them Argie bastards made British RMs lie face down on the ground. I say crash a couple of Hercules into the fucking runway at Port Stanley. Two C-130s filled with our men. We’d have the Argies running like scared rabbits before we were out of the planes.’
‘If you got that far,’ Ricketts said. ‘Rumour has it the airfield is ringed with 7000 Argentinian troops and an anti-aircraft battalion equipped with ground-to-air missiles. The C-130s, not fast at the best of times, would be sitting ducks.’
‘Right,’ baby-faced Danny put in, nodding emphatically. ‘We would not beat the clock, my friend.’
‘Well, when are we going to do something?’
‘When the diplomats fail, as they will. Only then will we move.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Gumboot exploded.
The special training began the next day and covered a wide variety of situations. Though the eighty-odd troops were already sweating in the tropical heat of Ascension Island, they were compelled to wear outfits suitable to the Arctic conditions of their eventual destination.
‘The Falklands are notable for cold weather and wind,’ Sergeant Ricketts explained as the men prepared. ‘The two together can result in windchill, which can freeze exposed flesh in minutes. So you have to get used to operating in this gear, whether or not you like it.’
The ‘gear’ to which he referred was windproof and waterproof clothing which covered the whole body and was based on the so-called ‘layer system’, whereby layers of clothing are added or taken away depending on the temperature and level of activity. If moisture is trapped inside garments, sweat cools very quickly in the Arctic and the wearer starts freezing. Most of the Arctic battle gear was therefore made from Gore-tex, which keeps heat in but allows moisture to escape.
Other items of kit distributed to the Regiment that first morning included mittens, face masks, ski boots, snow shoes and skis. Nevertheless, even kitted out like this, the kind of training the Regiment could do was fairly limited. Wearing their bulky Gore-tex weatherproof jackets, wool sweaters, Royal Marine camouflage trousers and heavy boots in the heat of Ascension Island was a distinctly uncomfortable way of undergoing so-called ‘special training’. As for the training itself, given that the Arctic climate of the Falklands had to be simulated in a very different environment, very little new, relevant training could be managed. They tested their weapons on the firing range, rehearsed in canoes and Gemini inflatable assault boats in the shallow waters just off the beach, and practised abseiling from noisily hovering Wessex helicopters. But most of it was fairly basic stuff and all too familiar.
‘We’re just wanking here,’ Gumboot said, summarizing the widespread feeling of frustration. ‘Just passing time. Those Navy choppers are cross-decking troops every day, so they can be shipped on to the Falklands – it’s just us being left here. I’m gonna go mad with fucking boredom if they don’t move us on soon. Completely out of my mind.’
‘Right on,’ young Danny said, looking yearningly at all the ships anchored out at sea. ‘I know what you mean.’
Pretty soon, just to keep the men busy, the instructors were resorting to the well-known torments of Continuation-and-Cross Training, including four-man patrol tactics, signalling, first aid, demolition, hand-to-hand combat and general combat survival. While most of it was of obvious use, it had all been done before, and after a few days the men were sick of it. To make matters worse, the Navy had placed many restrictions on what could be done on the island. This further displeased the members of the Regiment.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Corporal Paddy Clarke said two days later in the Volcano Club. ‘I’m fucking tired of playing amateur soldiers every morning on this bit of volcanic rock – just learning the terrain and repeating the lessons of Sickener One. Then listening to the green slime givin’ their boring lectures every bloody afternoon. Bullshit, bullshit and more bullshit. If we have to retrain, let’s do it properly – not all this basic REMF stuff.’
REMFs was the SAS term for the boys at the back – the ‘rear-echelon motherfuckers’.
‘It’s the Navy’s fault,’ Baby Face said. He was yearning for Darlene and looking lovelorn. ‘As the Head Shed said at the briefing back in the Kremlin, the Navy’s limiting the numbers of troops who can be ashore at any time – and that limits our training. It’s always the Navy.’
