Scram! (40 page)

‘Don't shout and keep calm.'

Doughty smiled to himself as he talked Short around a tight left-hand circuit and into an uneventful landing near the medical tent. Doughty unhooked his despatcher safety harness and walked over to the medics. There were already some twenty wounded men. Numbers were mounting. The first group to go would be three stretcher cases and four walking wounded from both sides, British and Argentine. While he helped arrange the stretchers, he reconnected his harness and plugged back onto the intercom. ‘Back on, sir. You're clear to go. We need another Wessex out here to help us.' As they lifted away, reversing up the valley and back towards the field hospital at Teal, Short radioed MAOT for a further aircraft to help out.

The second Wessex was quickly airborne. Given the ferocity of the battles raging just a mile or two away, the two aircraft completed the casevac from Mount Kent with remarkable ease. Yet throughout what turned out to be a
fairly
routine mission for both aircraft, the thoughts of pilots and aircrew alike were dominated by a single relentless nagging fear: Where were the Pucaras?

I have no idea how or why I managed to sleep so well. Apart from seeing the first flares way off in the distance, I missed the distant booms of the British 105mm howitzers on Mount Kent and a high-level attempt to bomb them by five Argentine Canberras during the night. But I was wide awake and packing away my sleeping bag by the time I heard X-Ray Juliett's port engine power into life.

I was tasked as co-pilot with RAF Flight Lieutenant Andy Pulford. Our crewman was Jan Lomas, survivor of the second Fortuna crash in Yankee Alpha (no relation to 845 detachment commander Jack Lomas). All three of us were new arrivals to the Falklands and looking forward to the action.

With the likelihood of a very long day ahead, it was important that we ate while we had the chance. My favourite item in the Arctic ration packs was rolled oats. Tear open the foil packet, pour the powder into a mess tin with a bit of hot water, and you have a delicious hot sweet porridge. Together with my green plastic mug of hot sweet tea and some ‘AB' – tooth-breaking biscuits, nicknamed ‘Ard Bastards' – it was an excellent breakfast with loads of calories.

After a short brief from MAOT in the shed, we gathered our bergens and crossed the hard ground towards our cab, X-Ray Tango, parked on the edge of a small valley and stream. Two telegraph poles leant in precariously toward the aircraft. So we were the unlucky crew who'd have to sort out Major Short's mess. It seemed extraordinary that neither wire nor helicopter had given way. We ducked under the telegraph wire to get the covers off the Wessex.
All
the windows were frosted up from the cold night air and the green skin of the helicopter had a faint white tinge from the frost.

A second Wessex started up behind me as I climbed up the side of X-Ray Tango. I slid open the lightweight window and eased myself into the left seat of the cockpit, unsure whether to be relieved or not that there was no window armour. On the one hand, I wouldn't have to haul the heavy shield up into place and I would be able to see a lot better; on the other, this was the one day when I could definitely have done with a little more protection.

Once the engines were started and the rotors turning, I busied myself with adjusting the heating system to defrost the windscreen and rearranged my map for the first task of the day. We were to return to San Carlos to pick up passengers from HMS
Fearless
.

Take-off was very ginger. Pulford eased the aircraft slowly off the ground in order not to let the wire snap up behind our tail wheel and into the tail rotor. From the cabin, Lomas gave us a running commentary as the two telegraph poles established something close to their former upright position.

We headed west, back towards San Carlos, passing the distinctive marker of Bombilla Hill. It was a stunning morning. As first light dawned, thin wisps of fog hugged the ground like cotton wool. We raced just above the white carpet which we knew would clear as soon as the sun rose. Back on
Fearless
, we refuelled, picked up our passengers and headed back towards Teal. Like schoolboys eager for a thrill, we were hoping like mad to be given a task up near the front line. Flying onward from our drop-off at Teal, we headed at low level towards the forward operating base up near Estancia House. As we approached, we heard Adrian Short's voice over the radio inviting us to join him
to
pick up wounded soldiers from 3 Para's battle on Mount Longdon. A Royal Marine Gazelle would show us the way. It seemed like Short had forgotten his own brief and was as unable to resist the pull of action as the rest of us.

The two Wessex joined up. X-Ray Juliett led with X-Ray Tango following about thirty yards behind in loose tactical formation. The formation slowed to sixty knots and dropped down to ten feet above the ground. We climbed over a small ridge north of Mount Kent, both aircraft rolling quickly through the skyline and downhill into a valley. We then wove our way south towards Two Sisters which loomed in front of us. The two Wessex were now on the rear edge of the battle area and yet there was no sign of life anywhere.

The eerie feeling of impending doom suddenly shattered. As if in slow motion, I watched a small green Gazelle helicopter emerge out of nowhere to our right and fly straight into the path of X-Ray Juliett in front of us. There was no time for a warning as Pulford and I held our breath. We were about to witness an appalling mid-air collision. Amazingly, the Gazelle shot from right to left in front of the X-Ray Juliett. We breathed again as the Gazelle, flown by Navy pilot Lieutenant Commander Gervais Coryton, radioed instructions: ‘Follow me boys!'

The three aircraft formation headed north to our left, slowing further and dropping even lower. Our wheels were now practically running across the grass. If it was possible to hide a twelve-foot-high Wessex helicopter in a five-foot deep valley, we managed it. By now, I had total confidence in Pulford's superb flying. I followed our progress across the featureless terrain as best I could on the map, occasionally glancing across the cockpit instruments to make sure the Wessex was doing what it was supposed to, and mostly scanning the skies for Pucara.

As we rounded the corner of a small river bed, the Gazelle led us uphill onto Mount Longdon itself. There was still virtually no wind and so we had no worries about turbulence and downdraft from the lee of the hill. The yellow grass turned to grey rocks and scree as we climbed the slope. Occasional puffs of smoke from mortar fire exploded far out in front of us as we approached a line of sheer rocks overhanging a ridge at the top of the hill. Underneath this protective wall were several troops crouching amongst the scree. It was the 3 Para regimental aid post. The Gazelle cleared away to the left and X-Ray Juliett hovered up toward the troops. We dropped our front wheels on to the grass fifty yards back down the hill and watched as stretchers were lifted across into the other aircraft.

In the final days of the war, we flew our commando helicopters right up to the front line, often coming under artillery or mortar fire, taking ammunition in and casualties out. This is one of our Wessex on Two Sisters, which had just been captured by the Royal Marines of 45 Commando.

* * *

From the moment Coryton had radioed his request to Short, there was never any doubt that the rescue mission should go ahead. X-Ray Juliett had already changed course when Short asked Doughty: ‘Are you happy to fly into the battle area?'

It was not really a question.

Now high up on the northern side of Mount Longdon, the two Wessex were hovering just below the skyline and a matter of yards from the battle over the hill. Doughty was talking to his pilots, Short and Ric Fox. The angle of the slope made it impossible to put three, or even two, wheels down. Short lowered the aircraft so that only the starboard wheel was in contact with the ground. The rest of X-Ray Juliett now hung suspended above the slope. Doughty jumped down from the cabin that was higher off the ground than normal. Two soldiers rushed in under the hovering helicopter with the first stretcher containing a wounded paratrooper. Doughty could hear the occasional shouted words picked up by Short's throat mike. ‘No fucking stiffs,' he bellowed down. The situation was incredibly tense. They needed to get out of there as soon as possible.

Sitting next to Short in the cockpit of X-Ray Juliett, Fox was doing the same job of co-pilot as I was behind him in the cockpit of X-Ray Tango. His eyes frantically scanned the horizon on all sides for Pucaras. It barely occurred that the more immediate threat was from the Argentine artillery. Yet the roar of the two Wessex presented a very obvious target. Short and Fox watched the first round explode into the soil a few hundred yards out in front. As an artillery man, Short knew exactly what was coming at them. ‘Look at that Foxy,' he said gleefully, ‘that's a 155. It must be Argie as we don't have any of those.'

It was taking longer than usual to get the wounded on board because Doughty had to strain to lift the casualties
an
extra few feet above the ground. Two Paras were trying to lift up an injured Argentine soldier who was shaking with terror. He refused to board. There was no time for polite discussion. Doughty grabbed his lapels and gave him a full-blooded head butt, hard enough to crack his own helmet visor. The soldier was knocked out and bundled into the cabin.

The next round was far too close. The ground erupted with a puff of smoke just yards in front of X-Ray Juliett's cockpit window, sending clods of earth up through the rotor blades. ‘Definitely a 155,' said Short excitedly.

‘I think we need to go,' urged Fox.

‘One more,' shouted Doughty as two Paras dragged another Argentine soldier down the hillside in a poncho. His legs flapped over the rocks; it looked as if his spine was broken. He was hauled unceremoniously on board. ‘Go now,' shouted Doughty as he manned the machine gun. It seemed they had been on the hillside for an eternity. In reality, it was little over a minute.

The Wessex in front of us called ‘Lifting' and sped away at low level to our left. We lifted off and edged forward to take our position next to the first-aid post. More puffs of smoke exploded directly in front of us, further away than the round that nearly took out X-Ray Juliett, but still much too close for comfort. The artillery fire seemed less of a concern than the possibility that we would be caught out in the open by a Pucara.

Our situation remained extremely precarious. X-Ray Tango was now balanced on one wheel on the front line of the battle, under artillery fire and with Argentine soldiers just a few hundred yards away behind the cliff face of Mount Longdon. I looked across the cockpit past Pulford at the few soldiers and medics sheltering from the violence of our downdraft. A medical officer dressed in
combats
accompanied a wounded Para on a stretcher into the back of our aircraft. One of the soldier's legs had been blown off, but he was smiling. With only one casualty on board, the doctor waved us off. We didn't need a second invitation. Pulford eased up on the collective lever and, as the helicopter rose from the ground, executed a classic over-the-shoulder take-off. I looked behind me out of my window and called ‘Clear' as we pirouetted around our tail wheel. Adrenalin was flooding through us as X-Ray Tango sped away down the hill.

From the cabin beneath, Jan Lomas started to give graphic and gruesome details of the field dressings and bloodstains on our passenger who was still smiling and awake, though clearly in shock. In the cockpit we concentrated on the task in hand. We hugged the ground and stayed in whatever valleys we could find until we were completely clear from the battle area to the north of Mount Kent. The cockpit banter became overexcited and immodest as we headed back east toward Ajax Bay. Lomas and I both congratulated Pulford on a fabulous piece of flying. We all congratulated each other on our teamwork.

Our Wessex was still required for lifting and shifting in the forward area. So we deposited our wounded friend back at Teal Inlet for transfer to the field hospital at San Carlos.

After refuelling, we moved our aircraft into position to pick up an underslung load. Flying a little higher this time, we made our way up toward the artillery position on the top of Mount Kent and brought our load in to a flat area at the top of the peak – taking care to approach
behind
the array of 105mm artillery guns and shells. As we dropped off our load there was an almighty blast from one of the guns; it ripped through the huge noise of the Wessex and almost caused me to jump out of my seat.

A few lifts later and we were back at FOB Teal, shut down and waiting for new instructions. As we waited in the hall outside the ops room, a tall man dressed in combats wandered in smoking an enormous cigar. After the adrenalin rush of the morning, it was an incongruous sight that made me laugh for quite some time afterwards. I assumed he must be a special forces officer. In fact it was the journalist Max Hastings.