Crown Jewel: The Battle for the Falklands (11 page)

“This is quite good,” he said.  “I can see you’re a fan of impressionism.”

Linda smiled gratefully.  Had she been born elsewhere—away from the farm, perhaps in a city like London—Linda would have been an artist.  Her attic was crammed full of pieces she felt unworthy of display.  Although many were gems that could populate an exhibit, they had long been banished to collect dust and cobwebs, reminders of a life that could have been, but never came to be.  Linda looked to her dry callused hands, and thought:
Not the hands of a painter
.  Albert rubbed his tired itchy eyes again.

“Tea?” Linda offered.

“That would be lovely, thank you.”  A nice hot cup was just what Albert needed.

Ten minutes later, Linda had set the table for a ‘smoko,’ a traditional Falkland serving of tea and toast usually reserved for mid-morning.  She had even boiled a fresh egg for the weary Prince.

“Hope you don’t mind sheep’s milk,” she said as she poured it into his cup.

“Not at all,” he said, and thanked her.

Linda offered Albert a slice of thick grain bread and set out an assortment of preserves and honey.  “All from the garden,” she added with a smile.  There was a long quiet moment as both Albert and Linda sipped from their cups.  “Annie,” Linda belted, jarring Albert from his tranquility.  The delivery of the child’s name was enough to chase the little girl from where she had been peering between the banister rails and back to bed.  

They detected heavy breathing from the living room.  Henry was sound asleep again in his favorite chair.  Its worn fabric and overstuffed pillows embraced his skinny body.  Albert smiled and had another sip.  He found the tea quite aromatic, dark, and hot, and it washed down the chewy bread nicely.  “The butter is so sweet, is it not?” Linda queried.  Albert hummed contentedly in answer.  “Our only cow spends all day chewing grass and eating my flowers.”

“It’s delicious,” Albert declared.  He had not tasted anything this good in some time.  “The honey…it tastes of rapsflower blossom.”

“It’s pale maiden, actually.  The bees love them,” Linda added thankfully with a smile.  “When you’re done, I’ll find you some clothes.  My Dad made up a bed for you, as well.”  She saw worry spread over Albert’s face and read his thoughts.  “Will they come after us?”

“Yes,” Albert spoke bluntly.  “I should not linger.”

“We can care for ourselves,” she looked to the rifle propped beside the door, and then to the shotgun at her father’s feet.  His gasping snore made them both laugh.

“I need to make my way back to base; back to Mount Pleasant.”

“I know a few fellows that may be able to help.”

“Your husband?  Anne’s father?” Albert took advantage of the opening to find out more about his savior and host.

Linda did not answer.  She just shook her head.  Albert understood that her husband, whoever he was, was gone.  From her expression, Albert also surmised the man had passed away.

“I’m sorry,” Albert offered uncomfortably, and took another bite of jam-smeared toast as he stirred his tea.  She removed the tea cozy she had knitted, tipped the pot, and filled his cup again.  When Albert sat back and rubbed his belly, Linda pointed the way upstairs.

In order to avoid waking Annie or her father, Albert and Linda were both careful to tread lightly when they climbed the creaky stairs.  Linda guided the way to her bedroom.  There was mostly silence as she went through the drawers of her husband’s dresser.  She held articles of clothing up to Albert to judge their size against his body.  Albert could see sadness and loneliness in the emeralds of her moist eyes.  As she held a wool sweater over his torso, their gaze met and held.  Albert wanted to kiss her, and suspected she would welcome it.

“This looks like it should do,” she turned away with a blush.  “You are a little taller--” Linda sighed instead of finishing her sentence.  “Well, then.  Off to bed with you.”  She pointed to the room just down the hall.

Albert peeled the smelly flight suit from his sticky skin, and crawled between the cool, soft, clean sheets.  He stashed his Glock beneath the deep, fluffy pillow, lay his head down, and fell deep asleep.

◊◊◊◊

Albert awakened to serene morning light streaming through lace curtains.  However, a worrisome pounding at the cottage door jarred him.  He bolted from bed and down the stairs.

7: ARAPUCHA

“
Guerrilla war is a kind of war waged by the few but dependent on the support of many
.”—B. H. Liddell Hart

“Q
uickly; in here,” Henry said, as he gestured toward an opening in the floor.  The thunderous rapping at the door became even more insistent and was accompanied by yelled Spanish.

“No.  Where is your shotgun?” Albert countered as the Glock in his hand would not suffice against an enemy breech team.

“Don’t be daft.  Leave this to me.  We need you to stay alive and out of enemy hands.  Now, do as I say,” Henry left little room for argument.

Albert began to climb down into the hide.  He paused on the rickety ladder.

“Where’s Annie and Linda?”

“Tending the herd,” Henry answered and pushed down on the top of Albert’s head.  The hatch closed and he was swallowed by the pitch black of the old root cellar.  Albert heard the carpet being dragged back over the hatch.  He shivered.

The cottage door splintered.  The soldier with the battering ram stepped aside to allow his armed comrades to enter in a practiced fluid motion.  Once inside, they formed a semi-circle around the immovable Henry.  Each soldier—Argentinian flags on their shoulders—pointed their assault rifles at his chest.  Vargas strolled in, pistol in hand.  Henry saw something unsettling in the cold stare of Vargas’s dark brown eyes. 
This one would kill without hesitation
, Henry knew, and he swallowed hard.

In the black of the root cellar, the sounds of creaking boards and stomping boots echoed, and dust from the creaking floorboards overhead rained down upon him.  Muffled voices, and then a stubborn shout from Henry: “God save the King.”  As the last syllable of the old man’s battle cry was enunciated, Albert heard a single pistol shot, followed by the thud of Henry’s body as it collapsed to the floor.  Albert was filled with equal parts fear and rage.  He heard footsteps climb the staircase to the second floor of the cottage.  When the sounds retreated, and Albert heard an engine turning over outside, he got up on the ladder and pressed his shoulder against the hide’s hatch door.  With some effort, he raised it enough to roll Henry off, and peeked through.

Albert felt like a rat leaving a nest.  He had hid while an old man stood his ground.  As he scampered out, Albert resolved to never again accept sacrifice in the name of his position.  He looked to Henry.  Blood streamed from his mouth and nose, and there was a single red hole torn in his chest.  While barely alive, he locked eyes with Albert, and, with a painful last breath, muttered, “Annie.  Linda.  Tell them I--”  Albert closed the man’s eyelids and finished the sentence on his behalf:

“Love them.  I will tell them, sir.”

◊◊◊◊

Albert decided he would find Annie and Linda before the Argentinians did.  With his rucksack, Henry’s shotgun slung over his shoulder, the Glock in its holster, and Linda’s .303 in hand, Albert ran from the cottage to the barn.  He tried not to slip in the mud and manure as he made his way, and he then spotted the sheep trail that snaked up to the pastures beyond a rocky crag.  He hiked that way.

Albert saw the herd wandering aimlessly in the pasture as Eight-ball the dog lay dead upon a grassy gnoll.  Annie and Linda were not to be seen, though two muddy ruts told Albert that a truck had been there.

Someone yelled from behind him, and Albert turned towards the cluster of rocks.  Several men stood with rifles pointed his way.

“Lay down your weapons,” the man with a grey beard, tweed jacket, and cockeyed hunting cap commanded in English.  Though the accent was like nothing Albert had heard before, it was certainly British English.  Albert lowered his rifle.

“Annie…and Linda Jones?” Albert huffed, exasperated by their absence and unknown fate.

“Who are you?” grey beard asked.

“Captain Albert Talbot.  We have to find them.”

“Talbot?  Albert Talbot.”

“Prince Albert Talbot?”  Grey beard’s scowl became squinted as he studied Albert’s face.

“They cannot be far,” Albert urged.

“Far enough.  But we will catch up, don’t you worry.  Captain Talbot, I am Gubbins.  This is McGregor,” he pointed to another.  McGregor was a stick of a man decked out in plaid flannel; “Calvert,” the young blonde-haired man nodded; “Fairbairn,” this one looked gin-soaked with a web of blue veins tattooing his face and red nose; “and Sykes,” this last man was a six-foot-four pile of muscle with just a hint of moustache.  “We’re ‘The Warrahs.’  Partisans.  Like in ‘82, we will fight until no foreign soldier walks our land.”  Albert looked them over.  Other than young Sykes, the men looked like they belonged in a pub recounting old tales over a pint, not walking about a combat zone.  Albert decided, however, he would not underestimate them, or judge them by their age or looks.

Pleasure,” was all Albert could say as he took a moment to soak it all in, feeling weak in the knees.

“Captain Talbot,” Gubbins said: “I believe you are now in command.”  Gubbins looked over Albert’s civilian clothes.  “Last I read you were in Afghanistan, am I right?”

“Yes.  I’m a pilot.  I fly a helicopter.”

“What are you doing out here?” Gubbins asked.  Albert did not answer.  Gubbins smirked, and added: “Shot down, then, eh?”

“Linda saved me,” Albert said and surveyed the grasslands.  He was eager to follow the trail.

“Yes.  She called this morning.  She told me everything.  Sounds like you owe her a debt.”

“I do.  I have to get her and Annie back.  Then I need to get to Mount Pleasant.”

“We need to check on Henry—Linda’s father—at the farm.  Then we’ll help you get back to your base.”

“He’s dead,” Albert shook his head.

The men looked sad.  Then they got angry.

“Right, then.  So long as we kill as many Argies as we can along the way, we are with you.”  The men acknowledged his statement with nods and grunts.

“Do we need to bow before you?” Fairbairn asked sarcastically.

Albert shook his head, and, to deflect talk of his status, asked: “What is a Warrah?”

“It’s an animal.  A cunning and ferocious fox native to the islands,” Styles replied.  Albert liked the answer.

“We have a truck at my farm,  It’s the next one over,” McGregor offered.

Keeping within the hollows of hills and among the folds of land, Albert and his new-found mates set out for McGregor’s house.

◊◊◊◊

An old pick-up truck pulled a trailer full of hay along the road, winding between boulders jutting from the grass.  McGregor drove.  The truck rounded another hillock and slowed when a road obstruction became visible.

“Checkpoint,” McGregor mumbled with disdain.

The Argentinians had set up a series of crates to slow approaching vehicles and force them to weave among them.  A tent had been set up beside the road and a troop truck with a pintle-mounted machine gun watched over all.  A soldier manned the weapon and swept it toward the pick-up as it drove his way.  Immediately, when they saw the approach of the old truck, other soldiers that manned the position snubbed out cigarettes and raised rifles to the ready.  McGregor passed a red and white sign that ordered ‘
HALTO
;’ stop in Spanish.  He pressed the brake pedal.  The brakes squeaked, and the old truck coughed and threatened to stall.

“
Buenos dias, señor
,” the soldier greeted McGregor when he lowered the truck window.  McGregor nodded hello.  “
Papeles
.  Uh…papers.”  McGregor fished out his vehicle permit, his license, and his passport.  The man examined them and asked: “¿
A donde vas
?  Where are you going?”

“To a sheep farm outside Darwin.  I have a load of hay for them.”  McGregor gestured back toward the trailer he hauled.  The soldier signaled one of the men to check the load.  McGregor shifted in his seat.

“You must pay a fee to use this road: 50 pounds sterling,” the Argentinian said as he leaned back into the truck’s window.

“Sterling?  I have only Falkland Pounds.  Anyway, I’ve already paid for this road.  Every year I pay for this bloody road.  It is called, ‘taxes,’ mate.”

“You paid those to the occupiers, to London.  From now on, you will pay your liberators in Buenos Aires.  Today,
señor
, you will simply pay me.”  McGregor wanted to draw the Beretta .380 hidden at his side and put a bullet between the eyes of ‘his liberator.’  Instead, McGregor smiled and stole a peek at the side-view mirrors.  He saw a soldier take out a knife and begin to stab the bales of hay stacked on the trailer.

“¿
Señor
?”

“Yes, yes, I will pay,” McGregor declared and looked into the rear-view mirror.

“Yes, I know you will.  Or, I will be forced to seize your vehicle and trailer.”

The soldier probing the hay caught the tip of his knife on something.

“
Jefe
,”
he called out to his superior.  “
Algo esta adentro
.”

“You have something inside your hay?” the soldier asked McGregor.  “
Por favor
, you will step out now,
señor
.”

McGregor shuffled across the seat, and used the cover of his motion to grab the pistol.  He swung it up and fired a shot at the chest of the soldier.  With that gunshot, the trailer’s hay bales erupted.  Automatic fire sprayed from within.  Like a jack-in-the-box wound to its limit, Sykes popped out the top.  He immediately chucked a grenade into the bed of the Argentine troop truck.  The resultant explosion lifted the soldier up and out, and splayed him on the cracked blacktop.  The Warrahs’ truck began to roll again, and, before Sykes closed the wood and chicken wire-framed hay hide, Albert peeked out.

The Argentine troop truck was on fire and dead enemy soldiers were scattered in a circle.  The truck sputtered and drove off, its trailer of hay in tow.