The Yompers

Press proof – Ian H – 20/02/12

THE YOMPERS With 45 Commando in the Falklands War

Ian Gardiner

Press proof – Ian H – 20/02/12

Dedicated to all ranks of 45 Commando Group Royal Marines 1982 and to the families of the soldiers, sailors, airmen, marines and civilians of the United Kingdom and Argentina who bore the real burden of the Falklands War.

Press proof – Ian H – 20/02/12

Press proof – Ian H – 20/02/12

List of Maps

List of Maps Map 1. War at the Other End of the World

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Map 2. East Falkland Island

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Map 3. The Approach to Port Stanley

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Map 4. The Battle for Two Sisters

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Foreword This book tells the story of 45 Commando Royal Marines in the Falklands War from the perspective of the point of the spear; a rifle company: Ian Gardiner’s X Ray Company. When all the manoeuvring has been done and the time has come to take a piece of ground held by the opposition, a rifle company is the sharp end of the spear thrust into the antagonist’s flesh, sometimes literally. I have used this analogy because, in any battle, surprisingly few men actually close with and kill the enemy; the spearhead is small compared with the haft. Take 3 Commando Brigade in the Falklands War of 1982 consisting of some 5,500 ‘braves’ mostly wearing green or red berets, a handful with hats of a different hue.

Together the infantry element: three Royal Marine Commandos and two parachute battalions produced fifteen rifle companies, each of around 100 men, say 1,500 total. Add recce troops, patrol companies, and special forces, and the total rises to around 1,700. So the other two thirds are the haft of the spear. At any point in time, a good proportion of these 1,700 will not be fighting, because the whole brigade will not be engaged. So in a typical brigade attack the number of rifle companies engaged might be nine, say 900 soldiers and marines, sometimes far fewer. Everybody else will be in reserve, or form part of the haft of the spear.

Of course without the haft, the point lacks striking power and direction, and soon becomes useless. For the haft contains all the supporting elements, in terms of additional fire-power (artillery, armoured vehicles, naval guns, ground attack aircraft), ammunition, food (logistics), and means of delivery (helicopters, landing craft, and vehicles). Some of these belong to the brigade, but much is owned by others – Royal Navy, Air Force, Merchant Navy and so on. So the proportion of point to haft is actually tiny. Consider that some 29,000 people are entitled to wear the South Atlantic medal, indicating that the wearer took part in the ix

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Falklands War in some capacity or other, in a ‘pipeline’ stretching all the way from Ascension Island 4,000 miles to the South Atlantic. All that so that Marines Dave O’Connor, Howie Watson, and Alex Gibb, and others like them mentioned in this book, and many, many more not mentioned, could engage the Queen’s enemies at close quarters; and take their bayonets to them.

Those in the ‘haft’ also encountered death and destruction. Ship’s companies were trapped in flooded compartments or burnt alive, gunners shelled, crews of light tanks and other vehicles blown up on mines, and logistic units bombed. Ian Gardiner pays tribute to the ‘haft’, acknowledging the vital part it played. But only the infantryman – and those from supporting arms, gunners and sappers, actually moving with him – had to expose his body to enemy fire again and again, and again; to get up and advance when his instincts were telling him to stay behind cover or take advantage of darkness to ‘opt out’; not by running away, but by lying doggo. Sometimes he had to get so close to his enemy that he could smell him; before sticking a bayonet in him. He has, as Ian Gardiner has written, ‘the most difficult job in the world’. He is not, as some civilians might imagine, a mindless automaton. Even the most junior member of a rifle section has to master numerous skills and put them into practice in rain, snow, darkness, cold, numbed by exhaustion and half starved, while under fire: field craft; fire and movement; map reading; using the radio, controlling gun and mortar fire; and firing all his section weapons, rifle, machine gun, and two types of shoulderlaunched anti-tank weapon. Without warning he may be called upon to take over command of his mates from his section commander, if the latter has been killed or wounded. Very different from the crew of a gun, a tank, or a ship, many of whose tasks can be carried out by rote within prescribed limits; often under close supervision.

I maintain that an infantry company commander from the Second World War would have felt almost at home in the Falklands. He might have found the helicopters a bit strange. He would certainly have enquired why we lacked the array of swimming armoured vehicles and other assorted hardware with which he had assaulted beaches, or crossed the Rhine. But he would not have been baffled by the total absence of mobile phones, iPods, computers, the internet, and television sets to while away off-duty hours. He would not have asked why he could not e-mail or telephone his wife or girlfriend on a regular basis, indeed ever; and why the mail only arrived about every four weeks, if he was lucky. He would have taken comfort from the fact that we still used the same cumbersome low-level code: Slidex. He would have found it perfectly normal that nobody could tell him how long this ‘do’ was going to last, or when his R&R was due. He would have found x

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living for an indeterminate time without benefit of a roof, or even a tent, unexceptional. That was the land campaign in the Falklands in 1982. It was not as bloody as, say Normandy or Italy, but bloody enough. In just under four weeks, my Brigade had 90 killed, and 186 wounded, with another 132 non-battle injuries, mainly trench foot and cold injuries caused by lack of cover in the South Atlantic winter, and broken bones, mainly the result of moving over the rough terrain at night when heavily loaded.

Ian Gardiner conveys this atmosphere and more besides with clarity, understanding and humour. He is well qualified to do so, having fought in the Dhofar for eighteen months, where he saw a great deal of action in a tough and at times extremely bloody war, about which very little is known to this day.

It is high time the story of 45 Commando Royal Marines in the Falklands was told, and Ian Gardiner is the man to do it.

Major General Julian Thompson CB, OBE

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Introduction Soldiers don’t fight for big things. Queen, country, democracy, freedom, family: all these and many more may help to get people into the armed forces, and to the battlefield, but they are not the motivators which inspire a man or a woman to fight to the threshold of death, or to accept death with equanimity. Men and women ultimately fight for each other.

A man doesn’t want to let his friends down. He doesn’t want his mates to think he is a waster. A soldier will endure to death itself in order to retain the good opinion of his fellows. It is this need for self-respect in the individual which binds together all men and women in adversity.

It is this eternal truth which allows governments to embark on wars without the wholehearted support of the military or the populace, yet still rely upon their soldiers to fight. A soldier knows he can’t choose his enemies. His enemies are the Queen’s enemies and so he gets on with it because he is with his friends.

But if there is doubt or ambiguity about the validity of the cause, it can do long-term damage to the trust that must exist between the armed forces, the people and the government. In the long term, soldiers don’t like fighting for causes that do not have the full support of their countrymen. They know, even if only instinctively, that final victory always goes to the side that is most motivated, and if they feel that the people are not resolved to endure to the very end, then the war will ultimately be lost and the soldiers’ sacrifices will be in vain.

Three decades ago, Britain and Argentina went to war over a small group of islands in the South Atlantic. Even today, the very idea has a whiff of absurdity about it. It was all the more remarkable because it was fought with the near wholehearted, patriotic enthusiasm of the populations of both countries and it was evident right from the start that the government of one of those countries must fall as a result. The eyebrows 1

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rise a notch further when one remembers that the British were prepared to risk the greater part of their navy and the lives of many soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen and civilians in pursuit of victory.

Moreover, in one respect it was a colonial war. Territory, prestige and resources were up for grabs, but the traditional imperial colonial power, Britain, was on the other side of the fence this time. It had hitherto been British policy to hand the Falkland Islands over to Argentina, provided a respectable means could be found of so doing. In the end, the British were forced to fight for the freedom of the Falkland Islanders from colonial oppression. It was Argentina, herself a former colony of Spain, that tried to impose an unwelcome, unrepresentative, foreign, colonial government upon the people who lived in the Islands. And so, irony joined absurdity.

The Argentine invasion was the work of deluded, murderous, immoral men, but they were also expressing the wishes of a society which harboured strange contradictions. However much many Argentines might have aspired to democracy and self-determination for themselves, the people who lived in the Falklands – or the Malvinas – were not to be allowed to choose their own government. The Argentine people in time turned against their evil, inept government; but not because in their wickedness they had murdered 30,000 of their own people, or because in their arrogance and ineptitude they invaded the Malvinas: only because their army was beaten. The British Government acted on behalf of a people who, once they discovered where the Falklands were, and were alerted to the issues, remembered just in time that if you are not prepared to fight for what you hold dear, sooner or later someone will take it away – you will lose it. If you value peace over freedom, you will lose them both. And if you value comfort, prosperity and peace over justice and freedom, you will lose them all.

Lawyers and diplomats trotted out rival sovereignty claims rooted in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and the fag end days of the Spanish empire, but politicians could safely ignore these. For the British people, the only thing that mattered was that all the inhabitants of the Falklands were British, and it was their declared and settled will unanimously to stay so. The question for British politicians was: ‘Should we provide them with the security and protection that is the first duty of every government to its citizens; or do we abandon them to tyranny?’ – a clear choice between principle and expediency. For the Argentines, British suzerainty over islands so close to Argentina was an offence to their national dignity and overruled all considerations of democracy and human rights. The affront must be expunged and national honour satisfied. So the British were fighting for their credibility: the Argentines 2

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for their pride. When all is said and done, it was this paradigm which impelled the two countries to war in 1982.

In the end, it was indeed a matter of motivation. The Argentine move was based on the miscalculation that the British wouldn’t fight. When it became clear that the British not only would fight, but were ready to risk so much to win, the Argentines’ motivation failed them and, despite many individual heroic sacrifices, they lacked the heart necessary to beat the British. For those who were sent by Britain to fight, it was a source of great comfort that the country was soundly behind them. Many unknowns lay ahead but, since national motivation was clear, it seemed that any sacrifices might not be in vain.

The Falklands War has been described as an avoidable war. This idea is born out of wishful thinking. It is possible at some point along the road to every war to see, in retrospect, moments where if different decisions had been taken it might have been avoided. This conflict was no different and was no more avoidable than any other war. It has also been described as futile. If fighting for the principle of self-determination of peoples is futile, then it was a futile war, but we who fought did not think it so.

Much has already been written about the Falklands War, so why yet another book? History hangs on a thousand frayed threads, the breaking of any one of which could have diverted its course. In this case, had the Argentines delayed their invasion by a few short months, the amphibious ships, which were central to the British ability to recover their credibility, would have been either sold or scrapped. Britain would have been helpless to do anything about it. Of all the close shaves in the Falklands War, this was the most momentous. Moreover, the likelihood is that within a few short years, the Royal Marines, who were in the vanguard of the operation, would also have gone. This vital aspect of the war has mostly been obscured by the drama of the fighting and I have sought in some small way to bring it out of the shadows. But most importantly, in spite of the acres of words, it seemed to me that no one has properly covered the war from the point of view of the men who walked it – yomped it – and fought it. Historians, journalists, generals, admirals, sailors, soldiers, airmen and sundry others: all have had a go at telling the story; but no one at the junior levels who experienced the infantry war has fully given his perspective. Others have written firsthand accounts, but the story of the marine, the corporal, the lieutenant and the captain remains substantially untold. I was a captain when these events took place and I lived, walked, shivered, took risks and went hungry with some of these men, while being responsible for the lives and the performance of about 150 of them. This book is their story and 3

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many of them have helped to write it. It is also representative of many others. It can never be the full story of course – no two people will ever paint the same picture of any one event. But I hope that those who were there will recognise this tale, and that those who were not there will enjoy it.

Ian Ritchie Gardiner

Edinburgh 2012

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Chapter 1

Listening Hey folks, here’s the story ’bout Minnie the Moocher, She was a low down hoochie-coocher.

Every war has its music. ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ and ‘Pack up your Troubles in your Old Kitbag’ will forever be associated with British troops in the First World War. ‘Lili Marlene’ (vor der Kaserne, vor dem grossen Tor . . .) was so pervasive in the Second World War that German troops who captured Tobruk found their British prisoners whistling the same tune to keep their spirits up. ‘Lillibulero’, which first seems to have been sung by soldiers on both sides in the Jacobite/House of Orange struggles in the seventeenth century, was more enduring still. Until recently it could be heard in the small hours of the night on the BBC World Service. The Romans, presumably singing in Latin, must have cheered themselves in song as they trudged across the known, and unknown, world, building and policing their empire. Did the Carthaginians sing the same tunes, but in Carthaginian? Did the Spartans at Thermopylae whistle some catchy refrain as they defied the Persian army? Did Alexander the Great’s soldiers sing, hum or whistle while conquering Asia? It is inconceivable that they did not. Soldiers enduring boredom, privation and danger have resorted to music in some form or other for solace and good cheer since time immemorial.

For many, the hauntingly evocative ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’ sung

by Julie Covington or Elaine Page, will trigger memories of the Falklands War, but not necessarily for the Royal Marines of 45 Commando. The music that diverted their minds from the realities confronting them was from the film The Blues Brothers. And it wasn’t just the music. It was the entire sound track. Every ship in the Task Force had its supply of films to entertain those on board. Opportunities to resupply or renew 5

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stocks of films were few and far between in the South Atlantic, so films were shared with other ships. And once they had all been watched by everybody, they were recycled again. But some films got stuck in a groove. The Blues Brothers was one of those. On the Royal Fleet Auxiliary ship Stromness, in which sailed over 300 men of 45 Commando, it was theoretically possible – for those who had the time and stomach to do so – to watch it 24 hours a day. There was only one copy of the film on board, but when it had finished running in the embarked forces galley, it would then be shown in the NCOs’ mess. Then it would appear in the crew’s recreation space, then perhaps the officers’ wardroom, and so on. And in the late, late hours, individual messes might have private showings. I don’t know how many times I watched it: not as many as others, some of whom claimed to have seen it over twenty times. I can well believe it. There would even be sessions where the sound was turned down and men would take on the roles of the screen characters, eventually becoming almost word perfect. I don’t suppose any one marine could recite the entire soundtrack, but between 300 of us, I’m certain we could have pieced it all together. The result was that marines could be heard talking to each other in soundbites from the film. The lyrics of the songs became a means of communicating. The random, absurd utterings of Jake and Elwood seemed to punctuate every conversation. Elwood: It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we gotta full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark, and we’re wearing sunglasses. Jake: Hit it!

After the landings, of course, there was no opportunity to watch the film. For some this was a relief; for others, it was a minor bereavement.

And on the way home afterwards, there were those who made up for lost time. But in the bitter winter march across the island, in the prelude to the battles, and in their aftermath, men could be heard lightening a shared predicament by whistling or singing ‘Rawhide’, or shaking a tail feather with Ray Charles, or ‘thinking’ with Aretha Franklin. Unlike ‘Lili Marlene’ or ‘Lillibulero’, I don’t believe our music permeated to the other side. I don’t know what the Argentines sang but I’m ready to bet it wasn’t ‘Minnie the Moocher’.

Music, like smell, is famous for triggering long-buried memories. For a certain small group of men, now mostly in their late forties and early fifties, the sound of John Belushi, Dan Ackroyd, Cab Calloway, Aretha Franklin and Ray Charles will forever trigger a very particular set of memories: memories of a long, wet, windy walk in winter when, as teenagers and in their early twenties, with their friends and comrades, they went to war and were watched with bated breath by the rest of the world.

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