Bramley - Forward into Hell

This book is dedicated to the soldiers of 3 Para, whose comradeship and determination throughout the campaign make the author proud to have served with them. So that those members of 3 Para who never returned are not forgotten, their names and ages at death in action are listed below.

Private Richard Absolon, Military Medal 19

Private Gerald Bull 18

Private Jason Burt 17

Private John Crow 21

Private Mark Dodsworth 24

Private Anthony Greenwood 22

Private Neil Grose 18

Private Peter Hedicker 22

Lance-Corporal Peter Higgs 23

Corporal Stephen Hope 27

Private Timothy Jenkins 19

Private Craig Jones 20

Private Stewart Laing 20

Lance-Corporal Christopher Lovett 24

Corporal Keith McCarthy 27

Sergeant Ian McKay, Victoria Cross 29

Corporal Stewart McLaughlin 27

Lance-Corporal James Murdoch 25

Lance-Corporal David Scott 24

Private Ian Scrivens 17

Corporal Alex Shaw 25

Private Phillip West 19

My grandfather fought in the Second World War, although the family know little of what he went through, for he remained silent about his war. Perhaps he was right to forget and carry on. But I have always been saddened when history dies with a soldier.

One veteran did share his memories with me and I was always intrigued by his reminiscences of the 191418 war. Mr Smith told me when I was seventeen that I would make a soldier and later, after his death, I became one. His stories have remained with me and inspired me to write an account of my own war as a soldier of junior rank. I have described what I saw and felt, not what an officer or tactician experiences, nor for that matter what any other ordinary soldier goes through, for every soldier sees war differently and has his own tale to tell.

CONTENTS

March 1982. Our battalion was on twenty-four-hour standby Spearhead, ready for emergency action. Early that morning, I was seated with other members of Support Company in the Intelligence lecture room at our barracks in Tidworth. The Intelligence officer stood in front of the squad.

Well, lads, the picture is as normal every time we get lumbered with Spearhead. The only possibility at the moment is that the situation in Northern Ireland may require our assistance. The Gulf situation is really well out of our hands.

After a half-hour brief, we were packing away our notebooks when he suddenly said, Oh, yeah, this little island near the South Pole has been getting some bad vibes from the Argentines, but its really very little. As far as the latest report is concerned, we can, and must, concentrate on the Ireland problem.

Whats the island called? shouted a lad from the back.

Ireland, came the reply, everyone turning to face the lad who had asked the question.

No, sir, I meant the one down south.

The Intelligence officer looked more closely at the map on the wall and turned around, still smiling at his little joke.

Its called the Falkland Islands.

Skip and myself had just arrived in Aldershot for a three-week course with 9 Squadron. We were on Pioneer Procedures, which would include one week on explosives the main reason the thirty members of our battalion had grabbed the opportunity to come, the other being that we all wanted to go on the town in Aldershot and get away from battalion bullshit for a while. Once we had finished the course, we would straight away go on Easter leave.

At the end of the first week, riding back to camp in a four-tonne lorry, Dennis OKane said to me, The news of the day is that some island down south has had some Argies raise a flag on it and the island is British, stupid fuckers. Anyway, are you staying in town, or heading home?

Home, I reckon, I said.

The second week of that course saw me go down with the worst bout of flu I have ever had. To this day, I have never been as ill as I was that week. Dennis, who was in charge of the party, told me, Go home tonight and forget the homework.

My body was shaking and sweating with fever. I sat at my in-laws house and Holly, my mother-in-law, gave me hot whisky to help me sleep.

Next day, feeling very weak, I tried to get to my class but this bug was unreal. For three days, it had me flat out. By the time I felt a bit better, we had finished week two of the course and were to have the afternoon off, so it must have been a Friday. We arrived back at camp and I packed my weekend kit into my grip and made my way to my in-laws, where I watched TV with Holly.

My wife, Karon, rang from the officers mess to tell me that Dennis had been trying to contact me to return to camp as soon as possible. She said it was something to do with an invasion of some sort.

Yeah, yeah, Karon, winding me up like that is the oldest one in the book.

Well, this is what Dennis says, anyway, she answered. Karon, you know what the lads are like. Ill see you down here later, OK?

An hour after I put the phone down, it rang again.

Vince, is that you? It was Dennis.

Yeah.

Well, for fucks sake, get back up here or make your way back to Tidworth, mate. Havent you heard the news?

No.

That fucking little island down south has been overrun with a full-scale invasion by Argentina.

Dennis, is that a wind-up?

No, gen. up.

OK, Ill see you at camp.

Dennis was doing his best to round everyone up, but the lads who hadnt heard about the invasion laughed and said it was a cracker of a rubber dick.

I turned the channels of the TV over and over, still thinking that it might all be a joke. Ten minutes later, a grim-faced newscaster confirmed Denniss story. Looking at Holly, I simply said, It looks like Ill be doing an on the bus, off the bus until something is decided.

I met Karon outside the Queens pub, then made a fast return to camp. When I arrived back at camp, it was calm, with only a few bodies running about. Walking into the storeroom, I found most of the platoon sitting around chatting. Tommo grinned and said, Took your time.

We will probably sit here all night until someone up top decides to tell us whats happening, shouted TP from the back.

Well, can anyone tell me the score so far? I asked.

Argentina one, England nil, said Johnny Cook, laughing as usual. His sense of humour had always been an asset to the platoon.

As predicted, we did sit around for some four hours. Then GD, our platoon sergeant, came in with Lieutenant Oliver and told us, Go home. Be back at 0900 hours tomorrow, OK?

Walking home with Tommo, I said, Looks like a hurry up and wait job again, doesnt it?

Yeah. As usual, itll fuck up our leave too.

When I got home, Karon was standing there with hands on hips, looking sternly at me. Well, she said, I suppose youll be going off again, and I have to tell you this, Vince: in the six months weve been married, you have been away four of them.

Karon, its not just a little fucking exercise this time, OK? I said. We may go, we may not. Ill find out tomorrow.

Saturday, 3 April. At 0800 hours, we arrived at the platoon storeroom to be told a briefing would be held for the whole battalion at lunchtime. Until then, we were to pack our kit and clean our weapons. So all morning we packed and unpacked kit. Young Rob Jeffries walked in just before dinner, late for the call-back. Every member of the battalion had been called back from all walks of life and throughout Britain, some even from abroad. Wob, as we called him, placed his grip on the floor and asked, Whats all this crap about the Argies invading Scotland?

We all looked at him and laughed and threw items of kit as he retreated from the storeroom.

At dinnertime, we paraded in the square and formed up, waiting for the CO. The RSM arrived just ahead of him and called the battalion to attention.

Gents, just to let you know the full implications and developments. We will be going to Southampton on Wednesday or Thursday to embark on a ship yet to be named. We will then sail south. There will be a lot of running about and a lot of changes between now and then, so please be patient. You will have tomorrow (Sunday) off and then, by Monday the fifth, you and I will have a better idea of the coming events. Good day.