Thirty years on, soldier looks back at the Falklands War

By IAN GARDINER
Published on Sunday 12 February 2012 12:00

AT 5am on Friday, 2 April, 1982 – the day we expected to go on Easter leave – I was at home in bed when the phone rang. Even half asleep, I was worried. No-one rings at 5am with good news.

“45 Commando has been recalled. Get into barracks now: you are deploying on operations to the South Atlantic.”

My first thought was: “But surely April Fool’s Day was yesterday?”

An hour later I was on my motorbike with my rucksack on my back, on my way into Arbroath in the gathering daylight. It’s a strange, eerie feeling being called to war from one’s bed. Time has not dimmed the memory of the sensation.

The British response to the Argentine invasion of the Falkland Islands in 1982 was about rescuing British people from an unpleasant dictatorship. But there were other considerations too. Britain was a major player in Nato, an alliance to protect Europe against the Soviet Union. Nato’s strategy was based on deterrence, which at its heart depends on convincing the other side that you are willing to fight for what is yours. Deterrence depends on credibility.

It was never thought likely that the Soviets would launch an invasion without a prelude. Long before the application of overwhelming force, they would threaten isolated spots such as Berlin, north Norway or the Balkans to test our will. Depending upon Nato’s response, the Soviets might then take things a stage further, or they might back off as they did with Cuba in 1962. Our response to the Argentine invasion would be watched, noted, and taken into account in our future relationship with the Soviets.

Deterrence had clearly failed with Argentina. When deterrence fails, either you fight, or you surrender and lose credibility. A failure to fight the Argentines would send all sorts of dangerous messages to the Soviets. And how would the Americans react? Would they back up their so-called closest ally, or would they fold their arms and turn away? Peering through this long range, wide-angle lens, it was possible to see the greater security of Britain and her allies at stake in this squabble between Britain and Argentina over some remote, under-populated islands. So Margaret Thatcher took huge risks in sending a force to recover the Falkland Islands. But she knew that the risks, if she did not send a force, would be even greater still.

After the British landings in San Carlos Water, the Argentine Air Force made a concerted attempt to destroy the Royal Navy. We saw Argentine pilots press home their attacks with skill, determination and great gallantry. With no airborne early warning, the Navy was gravely handicapped, but our ships and Harrier fighters exacted a steady attrition and we watched Argentine aircraft crash into the sea and the hillsides, sometimes after the pilot had parachuted out, and sometimes not. One evening I was watching HMS Antelope when a massive explosion ripped through her. She was soon burning uncontrollably and we saw her crew being rescued most courageously by landing craft. We watched fascinated while Antelope burned and exploded throughout the night.

I had been in her, I knew people in her, and here she was, a British ship, sinking before our eyes. How could something made of metal be so combustible?

Although we were all rather shocked, this did nothing to affect our spirits, or our conviction that sooner rather than later we were going to sort this business out. Soon after dawn the following day, Antelope, her back broken, folded like a deckchair and sank slowly in a cloud of smoke and steam. Her bow remained visible for some hours, still anchored to the bottom. When that finally disappeared, there remained one solitary life raft attached to the sunken hull, as if as a marker buoy to indicate the wreck below.

Before we could beat the Argentines, we would have to beat the weather and the geography. The terrain was not unlike Rannoch Moor or the Outer Hebrides – without the Gulf Stream. We would have to “yomp” across it in mid-winter without vehicles or tents, and short of food. Each man would have to carry upwards of 120lbs. Wind would be our constant companion, and rain, snow, and sun would all assault us several times daily.

There would be occasions when not even our sleeping bags would be available, and sleeping without one in –10C is not pleasant. But for Royal Marines trained on Dartmoor, the Cairngorms and North Norway, this would not be new. After a while our bodies and minds went through a strange transformation. We neither knew nor cared whether it was raining, snowing or blowing a hooligan. We had become almost like wild animals, in complete harmony with our surrounding. We envied nobody their vehicle, ship or tent. Soon we preferred it out of doors.

War is the province of the unexpected and no plan survives first contact with the enemy. Our battle for the key mountains, the Two Sisters, was a gutter fight in the dark up a 1,000ft hill in a snowstorm. It’s difficult to describe the chaotic nature of a night battle. Logical reasoning is suspended. It’s not a matter of trying to think straight: more a case of trying to think at all. If I managed to take a decision, it was by snatching the first idea which came into my head: as much instinct, or even panic, as anything else. The dividing line between the two becomes indistinct. Desperation is never very far away on a battlefield. One loses all sense of time. Communications break down. Men get deafened by noise. Shouts become shrieks. Instinct takes over from reason. The only sure way to communicate is to thump a man in the back and bellow in his ear.

The dark is slashed by tracer and shattering explosions. Usually you can’t see each other, and if you can see someone, you all have blackened faces and you don’t know who it is unless he speaks – and then you may not hear him. One’s control depletes exponentially as the enemy is engaged. Eventually one has to rely upon the most junior people to know what needs to be done, and to do it without asking you what to do.

This comes as a surprise to some civilians, even today. Many think that being a marine is all about obeying orders, and junior ranks are cannon fodder. Nothing could be further from the truth. The reality is that success depends on ten thousand decisions taken at the lowest-paid level. But only if your people are properly trained can they use their brains and initiative to make it work for you. The battle for Two Sisters was won by the skill, training and stout hearts of marines, corporals, sergeants and junior officers knowing their jobs, taking decisions, taking risks and taking responsibility. My personal intervention might have been required if things had gone badly wrong, but my job was to get them to the right place, at the right time, with the right equipment; mentally, physically, intellectually and spiritually prepared for battle. But ultimately it was up to them.

For ever after, I have been keenly conscious that my reputation, and my life, rests upon the shoulders of teenage marines, some of whom were not yet 18 years old, but who knew their jobs. Fortune does not favour the brave, or the bold. Fortune favours the professional.

The bond that exists between men who have fought a battle together is not something readily described, but it is different to all other bonds. I watched 17-year-old marines bloom into mature men in 27 days. I learnt that every day one lives hereafter is a bonus to be cherished, and I have tried not to waste a minute ever since. Your health, your family and your friends are all that really matter.

And what is it like to have led men successfully in battle? No winning captain of any Six Nations Grand Slam or any Football World Cup can ever have experienced the elation and satisfaction that comes with having fought a night battle in a snow storm up a 1,000ft rocky mountain, and won. The gratitude for our survival was strong, and in later life, when I have encountered the occasional piece of barbed wire or broken glass in my path, I have found it helpful to recall the surge of relief and gratitude we felt then.

Furthermore, many a commander who has had men killed under him is struck with a sense of guilt. He may often ask himself: “Would I have lost those men if I had done it differently?” I had already survived desperate battles in the mountains of Dhofar in Oman, where I had suffered the sorrow of having good men killed under my command. I knew this feeling of guilt. I knew how precious and fragile life is, and how easily things can go wrong. But now, to have fought and won a battle without loss of the lives of my own men – to have brought home the same number of live marines that I had taken to war – this was a privilege and a joy which has abided with me all my life, and barely a day passes without a humble, grateful thought. «

The Yompers: With 45 Commando In The Falklands War, by Ian Gardiner, is published by Pen and Sword Military on 16 February. The Great Falklands Gamble: Revealed, which looks at the war through Ian Gardiner’s eyes, is on Channel 5 next month.

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