In those early days, there was a lot of talk about 3 Commando brigade sailing to war in a luxury liner – Canberra. In truth, almost every hint of comfort and every vestige of culinary talent was taken out of that huge ship before we sailed. The Royal Navy was bitterly hostile to taking any correspondents to sea at all. The admirals wanted to go south, fight the war, and tell the world afterwards who had won. Having been obliged by Downing Street to take some journalists, they first allotted us berths in the Lascar stokers quarters in the bilges of Canberra. Only when a press officer with difficulty persuaded the senior naval officer on the ship that this might have an unfavourable impact on press coverage were we grudgingly moved higher up, and eventually found cabins in which we spent the next long, dreary six weeks at sea.
The Royal Marines and Paras aboard spent that time training, of course. Each morning at seven, squads of supremely fit young men pounded around the promenade deck, wearing T shirts of shocking political incorrectness, and chanting ‘We are strong, we are tough, because we eat our wheatipuffs’. As for me, I was so ashamed of my flaccid, white, early middle-aged body that I got up two hours earlier, to run alone. I knew that if we were to fight, I needed to be in a lot better shape than I had been as a mere civilian writer, occupying a desk in Northamptonshire.
We spent countless hours in the Crows Nest bar with the officers, speculating endlessly about what might, or might not happen. Our own news came from BBC World Service. Every day, as we ploughed south, we heard of the fluctuating fortunes of the diplomacy. And every day, the possibility that we might really fight seemed to become just a little more real. Although I had joined this extraordinary expedition because I wanted to see the action, now as it grew closer I started feeling scared. I thought: somehow I’d survived a lot of wars when I was younger, without a scratch. Had I pushed my luck too far, by signing up for just one more ?
One occasion at sea, I shall always remember. The band of the Royal Marines, in full-dress uniform, staged a concert on the deck of Canberra. It was a beautiful tropical evening, far out on an empty ocean save for the rest of the little amphibious convoy our frigate escorts. Thousands of young men crowded the ship’s upperworks as the band played all the great military and naval standards: Sailing, of course, which became a sort of theme tune of the expedition; hearts of oak, Rule Brittannia. I sat entranced, moved as we all were by the spell of the moment. The world was watching, and wondering where we were. We represented the commitment of all the hopes and residual military power of the nation, engaged on the sort of venture that British forces had undertaken a hundred times before in our history. Now, surely for the last time, we were doing it all again. I felt a deep sense of privilege, to be there at that moment with these men whom I respected and indeed loved so much, to witness this great occasion. All my own doubts and scepticism about the purpose of the expedition were set aside, I just wanted to see us do this thing, win, and myself have a chance to decribe it in terms worthy of those who would do the business.
SEASLUGS
The first real crisis of the amphibious operation came within days of the initial naval clashes – the sinking of the cruiser Belgrano, the loss of the Sheffield. We knew now that we were to fight, and to land in the Falklands. It was necessary to move 3 Commando Brigade from Canberra and the ferry Norland, into the assault ships. But how to do it? It was vital to conserve helicopter hours, which had already been dangerously stretched moving supplies from ship to ship. There was serious talk of transhipping three thousand men one by one by breeches buoy, winch and pulley, which would have been a nightmare. Then there was a miracle. The South Atlantic, through which we had been ploughing amid heavy seas for so many days, suddenly lapsed into a near flat calm. For eight hours, long columns of men filed down through the big ships to galley ports by the waterline, and leapt one by one into landing craft pitching alongside. ONE DRAMA IN BOAT I JUMPED
NEXT DAY 20 key day GREAT DRAMA AS WE CLOSED IN ON FALKS, KNOWING WE HAD NO AIR SUPERIORITY. THICK FOG.
AT LAST NIGHTFALL, FELL ASLEEP. WOKE AND WENT ON DECK, BLACK, DIM SIGHT OF ISLANDS, SILENCE.
THEN SUMMONED INTO LANDING DRAFT, GOOD LUCK MATE GIVE EM HELL. WAR IS FULL OF CLICHES.
SIX WEEKS AFTER SITTING IN NORTHANTS IMAGINING D DAY FOUND SELF CROUCHED IN LANDING CRAFT.
RAN UP SHORELINE INTO SETTLEMENT, KNOCKED ON DOOR PAT SHORT, SET TLEMENT MANAGER.
NEXT FEW HOURS DIGGING IN, COOKING. THEN AIR ATTACKS STARTED. UNREAL. JETS STREAKING IN, BOMBS DETACH. SHIPS SINK. FRIGHTENING, COS SO FAR FROM HOME.
People talk funny and old in wars, cos reared on movies like Cruel Sea. LARKEN ROBERT REDFORD. CAPTAIN GIVE EM HELL. YOUNG MEN ON BRIDGE WINGS.
CURIOUS LIFE ON SHIPS COMFORT, SET TO MUSIC
THOSE DAYS THE WORST, COS WE WERE DOING SO LITTLE. NOT KNOW WHAT A BAD TIME JULIAN THOMPSON HAVING ABOUT GOOSE GREEN AND SUPPLIES. GOV AT HOME TERRIFIED UN WOULD IMPOSE CEASEFIRE AND AMERICANS INSIST WE ACCEPTED.
NIGHT ATTACK STARTED WELL, THINGS GOT BAD WHEN DAYLIGHT CAME. LITTLE AMMO, HADNT SENT TANKS.
GOOSE GREEN DID THE BUSINESS. LEARNED MUST FIGHT AT NIGHT, NEEDED FIRE SUPPORT.
GOD IT WAS COLD. THEN STARTED WALKING. WET, COLD. UNHEARD OF FOR A MODERN ARMY TO DO THIS. SOME UNITS RAN OUT OF RATIONS. COOKING FUEL
IF ARGENTINES HAD BEEN A SERIOUS ENEMY, WOULD HAVE INTERRUPTED US. BUT THEY WERENT- THEY FLATTERED US.
BACK ON SHIP 25 MAY COVENTRY AND CONVEYOR ROSE LINE
GALAHAD done six things like that
MOUNT KENT PLUS ROSE WHO DARES WIN. WHEN SAW MOODY BROOK BELOW, lobbed a few shells REALISED WINNING.
THERE WAS AN INTIMACY- CIVILIAN LIFE IS SELFISH YOU LOOK HUNGRY- PEOPLE WANTED TO HELP EACH OTHER- BEAUTY AS ON FLIGHT DECK OF FEARLESS AT DAWN.
Correspondents had it lucky, could get back to ships
MOUNT HARRIET PLUS 42 COMMANDO, LONG WALK UNDER ENEMY FIRE.
2 Para Wireless Ridge
STUNT WALK INTO STANLEY.
We were all utterly exhausted. Julian Thompson and every other senior officer knew that it had become essential to finish this thing quickly, because after so many weeks sleeping in the cold and wet, their men were near the limits of their survivability.