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General Joe Talk / Codename: Bodycount (AF fan-fic)
« on: April 03, 2011, 04:48:08 AM »
Somewhere over Central Europe
The passenger transport Action Force was using to fly its personnel across Europe was a lot better than a noisy, cold Hercules you had to admit, Bodycount decided as he relaxed in the comfortable seat. But considering the size of the force being moved, it needed an RAF VC-10 transport to deliver them to their stopover in Poland. Another six transports of various types were flying behind the VC-10, carrying the vehicles the force would use on this mission.
A hand suddenly clapped down on Bodycount’s shoulder and the commando looked up to see the smiling face of Digger, one of the Z-Force infantrymen.
Digger wasn’t dressed in the usual British-style camouflage uniform with a cap and a hooded jacket. Instead, the Australian wore a uniform closer to his native nation’s, including a bush hat with one side of the brim turned up. His blonde moustache didn’t hide his friendly grin.
“G’day, mate. How’s it goin’?” Digger greeted him.
“Fine,” Bodycount replied, wondering what the Australian wanted.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” Digger went on, in his thick accent.
Bodycount shrugged, “Go ahead.”
“How’d you get the name ‘Bodycount’? Strewth, how’d you even end up in Action Force? Some of the stories the other cobbers have told me about you, make you seem a bit like you ought to be in the secret service or somethin’.”
Bodycount smiled. “That’s a long story. Can I ask you a question before I tell you?”
“No worries, mate. Go ahead.”
“Why the hell do you talk like that? You sound like a bad Castlemein advert.”
Digger laughed. “Just cuz it’s a stereotype that Aussies talk like this, don’t mean there aren’t Aussies that talk like me, mate. It’s just the way I am, I guess.”
Bodycount shrugged again. “Fine. But don’t expect me to moan about the weather and go on about cricket and tea, just because I’m English.”
Digger laughed again, “Fair enough.”
Bodycount shifted in his seat to face Digger as the Australian took the empty seat across the aisle.
“To understand why I ended up in Action Force, you need to understand why I joined the Army. Along the way, you find out why I’m called ‘Bodycount’. Sure you want me to go on?”
“Yup.”
“Fine. It started with me failing my A-levels.”
“What’s an A-level?” Digger asked, puzzled.
“Exams we take in Britain at eighteen. You do one lot at sixteen. Used to be called O-levels, now they’re GSCE or something. After you them, you pick subjects to do for A-level, if you want to go to university. Me, I did English Literature, Politics and History.”
1978
Eighteen years old, not quite a man, the youth who would become Bodycount stared at the sheet of paper his head of year had handed him. Below his name, Scott Fry, and the other administrative minutiae were the stark results.
English Literature: E.
History: N.
Politics: E.
Despite doing his damnedest to study hard and pay attention, Scott had managed to achieve a dismal set of results.
Scott thanked the head of year and walked out of the office, down the stairs and out the building. He shoved the piece of paper in to his pocket and headed back into the town centre to meet his mum, brooding on his fate.
When he and his mum got home two hours later, he walked into the front room and handed his father the piece of paper, without saying anything.
Scott stood and watched his father. Inevitably, his dad wasn’t impressed.
“What the hell are you going to do now?” Scott’s father asked. “You’re not going to get into university with results like that, are you?”
Scott shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Well, you better come up with something. You can’t do much without a job or without a university place, can you?” his dad went on.
“I know.”
Five days later, Scott stared out the window, as his father ranted on again about his need to find a job or do something else and soon, or else he’d wind up living on government handouts.
Scott made a decision. The following morning, he borrowed money from his mum and left the house just after nine in the morning.
Two bus trips later, he was in Gloucester, the nearest city, walking around looking for the place he wanted. Eventually, he found it: the Army recruitment office.
The sergeant inside wasn’t overly impressed with the youth as he asked him the routine questions.
Reason for joining? Failed me A-levels and I dunno what else to do.
Physical fitness? I’ve had some problems with asthma.
Nevertheless, the sergeant helped him fill out the forms and told him the Army would be in touch.
Within a week, Scott received the letter telling him where to go, and when, for basic training.
Scott didn’t look his father in the eyes as he said goodbye. His father was an ex-soldier himself and was doubtful Scott would make the grade.
Over the weeks of training that followed, Scott almost doubted he would make it through himself. But he did.
He may not have been academically minded, nor was he particularly fit, but Scott managed to pass basic training in the top fifty percent of his class. He immediately volunteered for P Company, the British Army’s notoriously harsh training regimen for prospective paratroops.
Scott’s training instructors could scarcely believe it when he told them he wanted to try out. There seemed to be a collective decision of ‘what the hell?’ and he was allowed to join the next intake.
Somehow, against the odds, which included the fact that he was six feet and one inch tall, yet weighed less than ten stone, Scott made it through the course. He was assigned to the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment and went into jump training.
1982
Scott had spent four years training hard as a member of 2 Para. He’d filled out from his beanpole physique and was now lean and muscular. He was in the mess getting lunch when the news started on the radio.
“The headlines today; Argentinean forces have invaded the British Falkland Islands in the South Atlantic.”
The room went silent as the radio announcer went on, “The Royal Marines garrisoned on the island were forced to surrender after becoming outnumbered, although they did inflict some casualties on the invaders before surrendering. The governor of the Islands is understood to be in Uruguay, having been expelled by the Argentine military commanders on the islands. The Prime Minister has announced a military task force will be sent to the islands to re-establish British sovereignty over them.”
As the bulletin continued, Scott took a seat and began eating his lunch, he had a feeling that the Parachute Regiment may well wind up being sent south…
May 21st 1982
San Carlos, Falkland Islands
The landing craft bucked and rocked in the rough sea of San Carlos Water. Scott was feeling sick, not with the expected seasickness, instead he felt like throwing up because he was so worried. He’d read somewhere that war was supposed to be bloody drills and training bloodless war. That was all well and good, but in training he’d never had to really worry about getting shot. If you made a mistake in an exercise and got administratively ‘killed’, it meant a chewing out by the platoon sergeant or the section leader and a promise to make sure you got it right next time.
Making a mistake here would either kill him or cripple him. He prayed to whatever deity was paying attention that he got through this.
Finally, the landing craft’s ramp hit the sand of Blue Beach 2 and Scott gripped his SLR tightly and ran off the ramp, following Corporal ‘Davey’ Davison. The section ran up the beach and linked up with the rest of the company as the platoon formed up.
The sun had yet to rise and so far, aside from a pair of Gazelle helicopters being shot down, the landings were going well. Somehow, Scott had a feeling that wouldn’t last…
May 28th, 1982
Near Burntside Pond, Falkland Islands.
The Paras had marched from San Carlos to Camilla Creek House a few days earlier. Then, after resting up they’d moved down to Burntside Pond, a small lake, near the settlement of Goose Green.
At 3:30 in the morning, A Company of 2 Para moved out, down the left flank of the isthmus toward Burntside House, where the Argentines were believed to have a position. At 4:10, B Company moved out down the right flank, whilst Scott and the rest of D Company moved down the centre, supporting B Company.
The night was soon lit by artillery fire from both the Paras own fire-support unit and the Argentine mortars. Scott flinched every time he heard a shell, even when there were none landing near him.
As they advanced through the dark, gunfire could be heard from some of the Argentine positions. A Company, Scott realised, were now engaging the enemy.
Scott just kept trudging along through the short grass and small bushes.
The sound of gunfire to his right snapped his head around. B Company was engaging an enemy force. He kept his attention on his fellow and reaching the objective, an enemy trench position. With his section bringing up the rear, Scott was insulated from the firefight that erupted at the trench.
Suddenly, a gun opened fire behind him; he threw himself down, as he saw tracers rip through Private Martin ‘Smudge’ Smith of the next section.
Somehow, in the dark, they’d missed an Argentine position. Scott wriggled around and opened fire with his SLR as the rest of the section fired. The Argentine gun fell silent.
Another gun opened up. This time someone threw a grenade, which did its job, silencing the position.
Cautiously, the soldiers picked themselves up. Besides Smudge, another of the Paras had been shot, whilst two more were wounded. A detail was formed to evacuate the wounded and the dead back to the starting positions near the lake. The rest of the company pressed on toward their objective.
By 5AM, the Paras had their initial objectives captured. The next was the ridge above the settlement of Darwin, which was A Company’s objective. B and D companies held position whilst A advanced on the hill.
The two companies on the left flank were taking fire from Boca House, an Argentine strong point on the edge of the ridge and near the shore. Scott could hear Major Neame nearby, arguing with someone on the radio about the need to move up and take the house.
As the section tried to find cover among the sparse vegetation and open ground, Scott snuck a chocolate bar out his jacket and quickly wolfed it down.
Neame moved carefully from his position and word was quickly passed. A Company’s advance on the ridge was more important. B and D companies were to hold position to support them.
As the messenger moved off, Scott looked across at Davey. “Dunno which is worse, holding here while A Company get on with it or assaulting that bloody house,” Scott said.
Davey shrugged. “The bloody Colonel’s not helping,” he opined, referring to Lt. Col ‘H’ Jones, the battalion CO. “He jogged past just now with his Tac. HQ.”
Scott frowned. “He’s going forward?”
“Bloody looked like it,” Davey confirmed. “Looks like the silly bugger wants to lead the sodding charge.”
Scott kept quiet, but had to admit, he thought the colonel was crazy, it was all well and good wanted to lead by example, but that could just as easily get you killed.
The sun was coming up and more enemy fire was coming in. Scott and his section huddled out of the way as best they could.
A Company was pushing up the hill, Scott could see, but was taking casualties doing so. It seemed to be turning into an attrition battle.
Over an hour later, still lying in the gorse, Scott suddenly heard a message over the radio.
“Sunray is down!”
The colonel had been shot. Scott looked at Davey. “Silly bastard,” Davey muttered. Despite his words, Scott could see the cynical NCO was still affected by the death.
It took A Company nearly three hours in total to secure the Argentine positions on the hill, giving them the high ground looking over Darwin and toward Goose Green.
Finally, Major Neame gave the order; D Company moved out and headed for Boca House, flanking the ruin from the right.
As the Paras moved forward, even Scott could see they had no way to approach the enemy with any cover. The Argentines were secure there with machine-guns covering the approach.
The manoeuvre did however bring the ruin in range of the company’s machine guns and as the rest of the unit provided cover-fire, they were quickly set up.
Twelve of the eighteen machine-guns opened fire, a deafening fusillade which made Scott wince. He popped a few rounds off as he saw a head moving in one of the window-frames, but wasn’t sure if he hit anything.
A team from Support Company moved up as he fired another burst. They were carrying a MILAN anti-tank rocket launcher. The launcher was quickly set up as the guns kept blazing at the ruin.
Two missiles were swiftly launched at Boca House. The explosions shattered the remaining walls and the gunfire from the Bren guns and L7s began to reach inside the ruin to deadly effect.
Scott saw white flags being waved and Major Neame quickly ordered a halt to firing. After a brief radio conversation, Neame passed word and the company moved swiftly across 600 yards of open ground to the ruin. Scott practically sprinted across the ground. He was keen to avoid being shot.
Once the company had consolidated at the ruin, they had twenty prisoners. Twelve dead Argentines lay on the floor. The rest had apparently fled toward Goose Green. Scott didn’t think that would do them much good.
D company held its position whilst the commanders sorted out what was going on. After a short while, A Company remained in place atop Darwin Hill to dig in and hold it, B Company moved further south along the isthmus to turn and come toward Goose Green from the south, whilst C Company was brought up to approach Goose Green, while D Company moved in from Boca House.
Scott and his section were moving in when 35mm and 20mm anti-aircraft guns near the Goose Green airstrip opened fire. Scott threw himself to the ground as bullets whipped overhead.
Cursing the Argentines for using anti-aircraft guns on infantry, Scott crawled forward under the hail of fire. Eventually, the Company was able to move into a small, narrow pass between two of the hills. This provided cover from the guns, but was taking them off the axis of their approach.
It soon became a moot point when the company’s leading elements stumbled into a minefield near the Goose Green schoolhouse.
Scott stayed put near the rear of the company, whilst the lead and middle elements sought to extricate themselves without getting blown up.
“Hey, Davey,” Scott called. “We’ve got company coming down the ridge.”
The Corporal looked around to see where Scott was indicating. Sure enough a large group of men were moving toward them.
“Must be C Company. No one told us they were coming. I just hope…” Before Davey could continue, the AA guns raked the formation with heavy fire and several men were cut down.
“Hellfire!” Davey shouted.
D Company finally moved out, moving closer toward the schoolhouse. When Scott’s section reached the main body, Major Neame was on the radio requesting artillery support on the schoolhouse, which seemed to be a strong point.
Suddenly there was a shout from someone else, “INCOMING!”
An artillery shell crashed to the ground near the company’s position. Everyone ducked for cover.
Another shell crashed down and there were screams from wounded. A third shell slammed down and more screams could be heard.
Scott cringed and pulled his helmet down tighter as another shell crashed down.
Shells continued to land as a large group of Paras sprinted up.
Scott was close enough to hear the two platoon leaders reporting into Major Neame. They were C Company’s Recon and Patrols platoons. Somehow, they had made it forward whilst the rest of the company was still taking fire on the ridge.
The school was providing some cover for the D Company troops, but the Argentines were still returning fire from the main building.
Neame took charge of the situation.
“I want 10 Platoon to clear out that position north of the airfield. 12 Platoon, give us covering fire on the schoolhouse. Let’s get the wounded tended to, we’re not going to be able to get them evacuated them under this kind of fire.”
Scott joined the rest of 12 Platoon as they moved forward and unslung his SLR as 10 Platoon moved out.
12 Platoon engaged the schoolhouse as the rest of the company moved further away, keeping the school buildings between them and the Argentinean positions for cover.
Once again, Scott was firing at the enemy with no idea whether he was hitting anyone or not. He decided it didn’t particularly matter, though, as long as the enemy kept their heads down.
Private Kenny ‘Chalkie’ White was standing near one of the outer buildings when he suddenly called across to the Platoon commander.
“Hey, boss! There’s a white flag over at the Argies’ position on the airfield!”
The lieutenant dashed across to Chalkie’s position to get a better look as Scott and Davey kept up their fire to cover him.
Moments later, the lieutenant dashed back to the main group of the platoon.
“Alright, lads, keep them busy here. Davey, get your section together and we’ll go and accept the surrender,” the lieutenant ordered.
Davey snapped off a salute, “Rightyewaresir!”
The Corporal turned to Scott and the rest of the squad. “You ‘eard the h’officer, get yourselves together and let’s go and accept the surrender and then we can all have a nice cup of tea!”
Moments later, as the rest of the platoon continued to engage the house; the lieutenant led the section toward the position, which had been dubbed ‘flagpole’.
Scott was slightly nervous as they made their way forward, but tried to set aside the feeling. He remembered what he’d been taught in Basic and what had been reiterated on the journey south, enemies surrendering had to behave in certain ways under the Geneva Conventions and were highly unlikely to turn around and shoot them all in a trick.
The group was nearing the ‘flagpole’ position when a machine gun behind them on the ridge opened fire.
“What the..?” Scott muttered as tracers hit near the Argentine position.
Suddenly, the Argentines opened up with return fire. Scott dived for cover, but several of the others weren’t so fast.
As Scott lay on the grass, firing back, he saw the Lieutenant go down, with several rounds hitting him in the chest. Davey and Lance-Corporal ‘Kid’ Young were hit next.
Scott took charge. “Pop some smoke!” He shouted. “Give us cover. Grab the wounded and get back to the school!”
Someone thankfully was listening and two smoke grenades were set off, creating a screen for Scott to grab Davey’s limp body and throw it over his shoulder.
Half the section had been hit and the other half was now forced to carry them back to the school.
When they reached the school, Corporal ‘Sweeny’ Todd was shouting to someone on the radio.
“No, they weren’t bloody attacking, you prick! The Argentines were surrendering! Didn’t you see the sodding white flag?!”
There was a garbled reply, then Sweeny shouted, “If we’re going to attack we’ll bloody well ask for support next time!”
He turned to Scott, “Get the wounded over to the medical post with Neame and the CP. We’ll stay here and cover you.”
Scott started organising the section, and as he went to pick up Davey, someone said, “The Lieutenant’s dead.”
“So’s Kid.”
Scott checked Davey’s neck. “Corporal’s dead too,” he said after a moment.
The wounded were moved to the medical and command post and Scott, blood streaked down his camo tunic, reported what had happened to the major.
Neame took the news stoically, but congratulated Scott on ordering the use of the smokescreen to cover their withdrawal.
“We’ve got friendly air cover coming,” he said. “Tell Corporal Todd to expect it.”
Scott nodded and hurried back to Sweeny.
“Friendly air incoming, Corp. Keep an eye out.”
Sweeny nodded. “Right, Private. Thanks.”
Minutes later, two jets streaked low overhead. They fired their cannon and launched rockets, which caused a few casualties among the other platoons of D Company. Moments later, a pair of Pucara turbo-props flew over, dropping napalm. Thankfully, no one was killed.
Several light machine-guns returned fire, hitting one of the Pucaras. The pilot ejected as the plane broke up.
Major Neame was quick to dispatch a squad to collect the pilot.
A runner came up and told Sergeant Walsh to form up 12 Platoon and join the major.
Neame quickly organised things. D Company’s Recon and Patrols platoons along with 10 Platoon were dispatched to attack the schoolhouse and destroy it. Neame made sure they had several M79 grenade launchers to do the job.
12 Platoon, now under Sergeant Walsh’s command was rounded up and sent to take out the Argentine ‘Flagpole’ position on the airfield.
As they were headed forward again, Walsh found Scott. “Good work with organising everything after your section got hit,” the sergeant said. “Might have to put you in for Lance-jack for that.”
Scott smiled, “Uh, thanks, Sarge, but anyone else could’ve done it.”
“Maybe so. You keep your head like that and we’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
Scott nodded, but didn’t say anything.
It didn’t take long for the ‘Flagpole’ position to fall to 12 Platoon, thanks to judicious use of their light machine-guns, grenade launchers and hand grenades.
Someone, Scott never knew who, exactly, decided to blow up the Argentine ammo dump, which created a nicely entertaining fireworks display, but meant the position was untenable. 12 Platoon fell back to Neame’s CP.
As they were moving out, three Harrier jump-jets streaked in, finally arriving with their air support, and dropped cluster bombs and rockets on the Argentine positions. Some of the strikes, Scott could see, were barely 200 yards from the Paras’ leading positions. ‘Talk about ‘danger close’ he thought to himself.
By 09:30 on Saturday morning the Argentines in Goose Green were in discussions with Major Keeble, the Battalion’s second in command about surrendering. Overnight, Argentine reinforcements had arrived and been greeted by artillery fire from the Paras. The Argentine commanders had quickly become aware of the precariousness of their situation. They were surrounded and under threat of further Harrier strikes.
What amazed the Argentines, however as they moved out of their positions to surrender was the size of the enemy force.
The Para force was around a third of the size of the Argentines, with fifteen hundred prisoners being taken by 2 Para, fifty-five confirmed dead and another hundred or so wounded.
June14th, 1982
Wireless Ridge
Scott stood in his trench, looking down in to Port Stanley, the capital of the Falklands. The battle of Wireless Ridge had ended earlier in the morning. 2 Para had had an easier time than at Goose Green, since they’d had major artillery support from the Royal Artillery, armour support from the Blues and Royals and naval gun support from HMS Ambuscade.
Wireless Ridge, so called because of the telegraph poles which dotted it, was one of several hills that overlooked Port Stanley, each of which had fallen to British forces over the past few days. The Scots Guards held Mount Tumbledown, the men of 3 Para held Mount Longdon, the Royal Marines held Two Sisters and Mount Harriet. Now, it was just a matter of waiting for the Argentines to surrender.
Scott rooted through his backpack and found a letter he’d started writing before the San Carlos landings. He figured now would be a good time to finish it.
The letter read:
Dear Mum and Dad,
Hope you and the girls are all well. Looks like I got myself into a mess, this time doesn’t it? By the time I get to post this, it’ll probably be all over.
We’re heading towards the Islands where we’ll be landing. Hopefully, the head-shed know what they’re doing and the landings go off okay. Where we’ll go next is anyone’s guess.
Okay, so we got ashore with no problems. We’re heading for some village nearby. Apparently they want us to take it to make things look good for everyone at home. Hope I get through this.
By the time you read this, you’ll have heard about the battle. It was pretty bad; several of my mates and the Corporal got killed. I’m okay, though. My platoon sergeant’s talking about putting me in for promotion and apparently I got mentioned in despatches after I helped save some of the lads from an Argy attack.
We’ve been helicoptered to a holding point for the final attack. I hope I make it through this.
Scott found his biro and carried on writing.
This time the battle was a lot easier. We were held in reserve whilst some of the other units were taking the hills over Stanley. Then we got our chance. It was a walk in the park compared to our first battle. We had a lot of artillery support and four tanks backing us up. Now we’re dug in on the ridge, and waiting for the Argentines to surrender.
I hope I can get some leave when we get home and come see you. All the best to you and the girls.
Love, Scott.
‘The girls’ was a reference to his two older sisters. Scott methodically folded the letter up, tucked it into his pocket of his camouflage tunic and put his biro away.
“Writing home?” asked the sergeant.
Scott nodded, “Yes sarge. Don’t worry, I didn’t put any names in of where we’ve been.”
The Sergeant laughed. “Wouldn’t make much difference when the Beeb’s got bloody reporters with the head-shed and on the carriers.”
Scott easily parsed the meaning, BBC reporters were with the officers, nicknamed the ‘head-shed’ by the enlisted men, and on board HMS Hermes and HMS Invincible the two aircraft carriers.
“I wonder how long we’ll have to wait for the Argentines to surrender,” Scott commented.
They’d been occupying the hills over Stanley now for several hours. The situation should’ve been clear to the Argentinean commanders.
The sergeant shrugged. “Couple of days, tops,” he answered. “I’ve spoken to the platoon commander. You’re being put in for promotion once we get back. You might wanna add that to your letter.”
The sergeant grinned at the sight of Scott’s shocked expression.
Summer, 1984
Wiltshire, England
Scott shifted position uncomfortably in the seat of the Puma helicopter. He never seemed to be able to get comfortable in the damn seats.
In addition to his promotion to Lance Corporal two years earlier, he’d been made commander of a four-man squad within 12 Platoon, D Company. D Company had just completed a training exercise on Salisbury Plain and was flying back to Aldershot in several Pumas.
The helicopter lifted off as Scott finally managed to settle into the least-uncomfortable position he could find. On board were sixteen members of 12 Platoon, whilst the others were in two more of the Pumas in this flight. Three other flights had already lifted off, carrying the rest of the company.
The platoon sergeant was in the helicopter, with Scott. The lieutenant was in the helicopter call sign Delta 5-2. This one was call sign Delta 5-1.
Five minutes into the flight, Scott heard the pilots shouting at one another cross-cockpit, he looked around, as did several of the other Paras that hadn’t managed to catch a nap.
Scott glanced out the window next to the door and saw a strange red and black craft speed past the helicopter. The Puma made an evasive move, then Scott could hear the pilot shouting into the radio.
“This is Delta 5-1 we are under attack from two unidentified aircraft,” the pilot yelled, “We are five minutes out of Bulford camp over Salisbury Plain. We need air…”
The pilot cut himself off as Scott saw an explosion in the air outside the window. The burning wreckage of another Puma was plummeting toward the ground.
“Oh my God,” one of the other Paras muttered. The strange aircraft sped straight at the Puma, firing machine guns.
For a second Scott thought he was hallucinating, the craft looked like a large red skull, with guns projecting from it and two black panels at its sides…
He didn’t have time to think any more about it as a loud alert began shrieking in the cockpit and the pilot and co-pilot tried to keep the aircraft flying as the red skull craft flashed away from them.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is British Army helicopter Delta 5-1; we’re going down, we’re going down. Mayday, mayday, mayday,” the pilot called into the radio.
The Puma dropped toward the ground, several of the sleeping Paras now awake as the helicopter shook and bucked in the air.
The helicopter hit the ground, bounced back up, tipped over, hit the ground again with a loud shriek and several screams from those inside. The rotors were snapped off and flew away in several directions as the helicopter hit the ground a second time.
The nose hit next, the cockpit windows caving in and showering the pilots with glass. The helicopter flipped over, snapping off the tail boom, before crashing down onto the chalk plain.
Scott managed to free himself from his restraints. He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. Several of the Paras were clearly dead. At least two had broken necks from the unnatural angles their heads were at. Scott felt himself over, and couldn’t find any broken bones. He did find a large gash across his forehead and cuts on his face.
Scott moved toward one of the other members of the platoon who was unconscious and who had his leg was pinned by a piece of bent metal.
Straining, Scott bent the metal back and then hauled the man clear of the seat, lifted him over his shoulder and staggered to the door, which had been ripped off in the crash.
Staggering outside, Scott laid the soldier down carefully, before going back into the wreck and hauling out three more of the Paras. As he was heading back a fourth time, he saw the two flying skull craft coming back around on what was clearly a strafing run.
Scott dashed in to the wrecked helicopter. Inside, at the back, was an armoured crate. Luckily for him, the crash had broken the locks. Scott lifted the lid and pulled out two assembled Stinger shoulder-launch surface-to-air missiles. He then pulled out two reloads.
One of the other Paras had woken up and struggled to get out of his seat as Scott hurried past. The lance corporal cannoned into him and knocked the wounded man flying as he dashed outside.
Scott quickly brought the first Stinger up on to his shoulder.
He ran through the instructions he’d been given in the training exercise the day before, powering up the missile’s seeker head, deactivating the safety and arming the missile.
He pointed the Stinger at the aircraft, waited for the IFF aerial to get a negative result, lock on and then squeezed the trigger as soon as the seeker started beeping to indicate a solid lock.
The missile whooshed out of the launch tube and flew several feet before the main rocket ignited and the missile flew straight toward the aircraft.
Scott wasted no time dropping the empty tube, grabbing the second loaded Stinger and repeating the process.
As he’d expected, both the strange flying skulls fired off flares and evaded the missiles. Scott worked quickly to reload the first launcher as the wounded soldier he’d shoved aside came out of the wreck.
“Wha’s goin’ on?” he asked in a slurred voice.
“I’m saving our asses,” Scott replied. He got the tone for a lock and fired the third Stinger. The missile streaked away and detonated, blowing the black panel off the side of the craft, which heeled over and plunged toward the ground.
Scott reloaded the second launcher and brought it up, to aim. The second skull craft was now speeding straight at him, firing its machine guns.
Scott held his nerve as the bullets ripped up the ground toward him and fired as soon as the Stinger locked on.
The missile slammed into the aircraft’s belly and it flew over them, trailing fire and smoke.
A bullet pinged off the wrecked helicopter, making Scott duck. He turned toward the source of the noise and saw several vehicles and a large infantry force approaching.
“Oh, that can’t be good,” he said noticing the soldiers’ red uniforms.
Scott moved back into the helicopter. Five of the Paras were now conscious.
“Get up!” Scott shouted as he grabbed his SLR. “We’ve got enemy troops incoming.”
“How’d you know they’re enemy?” the sergeant asked, cradling a broken arm.
“They’re wearing red uniforms. They might be those Red Shadow creeps we’ve heard about on the news,” Scott answered.
“Good answer. Get on the radio, son, see if you can get us some help from Bulford,” the sergeant ordered.
Scott nodded and grabbed the radio pack next to one of the unlucky Paras, who’d died in the crash.
Remembering his training in how to use the radio for emergencies, Scott started broadcasting.
“This is Paratroop Puma Delta 5-1 to Bulford, do you read, over?”
Static answered. Scott tried another frequency, then another.
“They’re jamming us, sarge!” he called out.
“You know the military distress frequency?” the sarge asked.
“No!”
“243 MHz! Use that!” the sergeant called.
Scott set the frequency and started over. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, Paratroop Puma Delta 5-1 is shot down on Salisbury Plain, under attack by suspected Red Shadow terrorists, need immediate assistance, over!”
Scott repeated the call, then a voice with a faint accent he couldn’t place replied, “Delta 5-1, this is Action Force, repeat your situation, over.”
“Action Force, Delta, we’re a Puma helicopter out of Bulford camp, we were shot down by a pair of unidentified aircraft resembling flying skulls. We now have a large force of red uniformed infantry and several vehicles, also red, coming our way.”
“Five-one, Action Force, we copy. Can you give us your position, over?”
“Negative, Action Force, I have no idea where we are, I’m just a lance-corporal. I ain’t the pilot and the flight crew’s dead.”
Scott had been able to see that from the mess the cockpit was in.
“Keep transmitting Five-one, we’re scrambling a team to assist you.” The other voice paused. “You said ‘flying skull aircraft’, you think they were Roboskulls?”
“No idea, mate, what’s a Roboskull?”
“It’s an aerospace craft used by Baron Ironblood’s Red Shadow forces. It resembles a red skull with guns sticking out of the eyes and mouth, with black panels on each side, with a red engine at the top and bottom.”
“That’s the sods, alright,” Scott answered. “I shot the buggers down with Stingers.”
“Say again, Five-One?” a new voice asked.
“We were on an exercise at Salisbury Plain learning to use the Stinger missile,” Scott explained. “We had a case on the chopper which crashed with some Stingers in. I managed to launch two at the Roboskulls, they decoyed them with flares. I fired another pair and shot both down.”
“Bloodiell, nice work, mate.” The second voice had a distinctly Scottish accent.
“Okay, Five-one, we’ve got a flight of three SAS Force Hawks en route, along with a Puma carrying a team from SAS Force. We’re trying to triangulate your position, stand by.” The first voice sounded impressed as well.
Scott acknowledged the report from the radio and turned toward the sergeant, who’d organised the Paras into something resembling a proper defensive formation. Most of them were using the snapped-off tail-boom of the helicopter as cover, whilst Private Alex ‘Jim’ Kirk, the best sniper in the survivors was concealed under the side door of the helicopter.
“Sarge, we got Action Force en route for assistance. They’re trying to triangulate our position,” Scott reported.
The sergeant turned toward Scott and nodded, “Good work, Scott. Tell ‘em the Red Shadows are about two minutes from reaching us and we’re about to fire.”
Scott nodded and passed the information along. The Scotsman on the other end asked how big the Red Shadow force was.
“Estimate company strength infantry, plus four large tank type vehicles and four smaller vehicles.”
“Four Hyenas and four Shadowtraks,” The Scotsman noted. “I hope you’ve got some anti-tank weapons with you.”
Scott frowned, “Uh… I don’t think so, sir.”
For a moment, neither of the men on the other end answered. Then the first speaker said, “You better hope Eagle and his men get there soon.”
“Any luck triangulating our position?” Scott asked.
The crackle of automatic fire from the SLRs cut off the reply and Scott had to ask the unnamed Action Force radio operator to repeat himself.
“They’ve got a rough fix and estimate they’re two minutes out,” the other man answered.
Scott replied, “Good, we’re hanging on for now. Delta 5-1 out!”
Scott dumped the radio and snatched up his SLR and moved to join the others.
The vehicles were holding back and not firing. The Red Shadow infantry was charging forward, not heeding the return fire or their losses.
There was a scream off to Scott’s right and he saw Tom Grey lying on the ground, with Jack Mann trying to tend to his injury.
Bob Day was killed next, taking a headshot from an unseen sniper. Terry Hitchens was raked by a long burst from a Shadow carrying an RPD light machine-gun. The gunner was picked off by Kirk.
Nigel Gibbs fell to a burst next as he tried to help the pair.
Only four of the eight surviving Paras were left.
Suddenly a pair of rockets streaked overhead and slammed into one of the tanks the Scot on the radio had called a Hyena. The tank exploded, taking out the Hyena and Shadowtrak either side of it in its death-throes.
The passenger transport Action Force was using to fly its personnel across Europe was a lot better than a noisy, cold Hercules you had to admit, Bodycount decided as he relaxed in the comfortable seat. But considering the size of the force being moved, it needed an RAF VC-10 transport to deliver them to their stopover in Poland. Another six transports of various types were flying behind the VC-10, carrying the vehicles the force would use on this mission.
A hand suddenly clapped down on Bodycount’s shoulder and the commando looked up to see the smiling face of Digger, one of the Z-Force infantrymen.
Digger wasn’t dressed in the usual British-style camouflage uniform with a cap and a hooded jacket. Instead, the Australian wore a uniform closer to his native nation’s, including a bush hat with one side of the brim turned up. His blonde moustache didn’t hide his friendly grin.
“G’day, mate. How’s it goin’?” Digger greeted him.
“Fine,” Bodycount replied, wondering what the Australian wanted.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” Digger went on, in his thick accent.
Bodycount shrugged, “Go ahead.”
“How’d you get the name ‘Bodycount’? Strewth, how’d you even end up in Action Force? Some of the stories the other cobbers have told me about you, make you seem a bit like you ought to be in the secret service or somethin’.”
Bodycount smiled. “That’s a long story. Can I ask you a question before I tell you?”
“No worries, mate. Go ahead.”
“Why the hell do you talk like that? You sound like a bad Castlemein advert.”
Digger laughed. “Just cuz it’s a stereotype that Aussies talk like this, don’t mean there aren’t Aussies that talk like me, mate. It’s just the way I am, I guess.”
Bodycount shrugged again. “Fine. But don’t expect me to moan about the weather and go on about cricket and tea, just because I’m English.”
Digger laughed again, “Fair enough.”
Bodycount shifted in his seat to face Digger as the Australian took the empty seat across the aisle.
“To understand why I ended up in Action Force, you need to understand why I joined the Army. Along the way, you find out why I’m called ‘Bodycount’. Sure you want me to go on?”
“Yup.”
“Fine. It started with me failing my A-levels.”
“What’s an A-level?” Digger asked, puzzled.
“Exams we take in Britain at eighteen. You do one lot at sixteen. Used to be called O-levels, now they’re GSCE or something. After you them, you pick subjects to do for A-level, if you want to go to university. Me, I did English Literature, Politics and History.”
1978
Eighteen years old, not quite a man, the youth who would become Bodycount stared at the sheet of paper his head of year had handed him. Below his name, Scott Fry, and the other administrative minutiae were the stark results.
English Literature: E.
History: N.
Politics: E.
Despite doing his damnedest to study hard and pay attention, Scott had managed to achieve a dismal set of results.
Scott thanked the head of year and walked out of the office, down the stairs and out the building. He shoved the piece of paper in to his pocket and headed back into the town centre to meet his mum, brooding on his fate.
When he and his mum got home two hours later, he walked into the front room and handed his father the piece of paper, without saying anything.
Scott stood and watched his father. Inevitably, his dad wasn’t impressed.
“What the hell are you going to do now?” Scott’s father asked. “You’re not going to get into university with results like that, are you?”
Scott shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Well, you better come up with something. You can’t do much without a job or without a university place, can you?” his dad went on.
“I know.”
Five days later, Scott stared out the window, as his father ranted on again about his need to find a job or do something else and soon, or else he’d wind up living on government handouts.
Scott made a decision. The following morning, he borrowed money from his mum and left the house just after nine in the morning.
Two bus trips later, he was in Gloucester, the nearest city, walking around looking for the place he wanted. Eventually, he found it: the Army recruitment office.
The sergeant inside wasn’t overly impressed with the youth as he asked him the routine questions.
Reason for joining? Failed me A-levels and I dunno what else to do.
Physical fitness? I’ve had some problems with asthma.
Nevertheless, the sergeant helped him fill out the forms and told him the Army would be in touch.
Within a week, Scott received the letter telling him where to go, and when, for basic training.
Scott didn’t look his father in the eyes as he said goodbye. His father was an ex-soldier himself and was doubtful Scott would make the grade.
Over the weeks of training that followed, Scott almost doubted he would make it through himself. But he did.
He may not have been academically minded, nor was he particularly fit, but Scott managed to pass basic training in the top fifty percent of his class. He immediately volunteered for P Company, the British Army’s notoriously harsh training regimen for prospective paratroops.
Scott’s training instructors could scarcely believe it when he told them he wanted to try out. There seemed to be a collective decision of ‘what the hell?’ and he was allowed to join the next intake.
Somehow, against the odds, which included the fact that he was six feet and one inch tall, yet weighed less than ten stone, Scott made it through the course. He was assigned to the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment and went into jump training.
1982
Scott had spent four years training hard as a member of 2 Para. He’d filled out from his beanpole physique and was now lean and muscular. He was in the mess getting lunch when the news started on the radio.
“The headlines today; Argentinean forces have invaded the British Falkland Islands in the South Atlantic.”
The room went silent as the radio announcer went on, “The Royal Marines garrisoned on the island were forced to surrender after becoming outnumbered, although they did inflict some casualties on the invaders before surrendering. The governor of the Islands is understood to be in Uruguay, having been expelled by the Argentine military commanders on the islands. The Prime Minister has announced a military task force will be sent to the islands to re-establish British sovereignty over them.”
As the bulletin continued, Scott took a seat and began eating his lunch, he had a feeling that the Parachute Regiment may well wind up being sent south…
May 21st 1982
San Carlos, Falkland Islands
The landing craft bucked and rocked in the rough sea of San Carlos Water. Scott was feeling sick, not with the expected seasickness, instead he felt like throwing up because he was so worried. He’d read somewhere that war was supposed to be bloody drills and training bloodless war. That was all well and good, but in training he’d never had to really worry about getting shot. If you made a mistake in an exercise and got administratively ‘killed’, it meant a chewing out by the platoon sergeant or the section leader and a promise to make sure you got it right next time.
Making a mistake here would either kill him or cripple him. He prayed to whatever deity was paying attention that he got through this.
Finally, the landing craft’s ramp hit the sand of Blue Beach 2 and Scott gripped his SLR tightly and ran off the ramp, following Corporal ‘Davey’ Davison. The section ran up the beach and linked up with the rest of the company as the platoon formed up.
The sun had yet to rise and so far, aside from a pair of Gazelle helicopters being shot down, the landings were going well. Somehow, Scott had a feeling that wouldn’t last…
May 28th, 1982
Near Burntside Pond, Falkland Islands.
The Paras had marched from San Carlos to Camilla Creek House a few days earlier. Then, after resting up they’d moved down to Burntside Pond, a small lake, near the settlement of Goose Green.
At 3:30 in the morning, A Company of 2 Para moved out, down the left flank of the isthmus toward Burntside House, where the Argentines were believed to have a position. At 4:10, B Company moved out down the right flank, whilst Scott and the rest of D Company moved down the centre, supporting B Company.
The night was soon lit by artillery fire from both the Paras own fire-support unit and the Argentine mortars. Scott flinched every time he heard a shell, even when there were none landing near him.
As they advanced through the dark, gunfire could be heard from some of the Argentine positions. A Company, Scott realised, were now engaging the enemy.
Scott just kept trudging along through the short grass and small bushes.
The sound of gunfire to his right snapped his head around. B Company was engaging an enemy force. He kept his attention on his fellow and reaching the objective, an enemy trench position. With his section bringing up the rear, Scott was insulated from the firefight that erupted at the trench.
Suddenly, a gun opened fire behind him; he threw himself down, as he saw tracers rip through Private Martin ‘Smudge’ Smith of the next section.
Somehow, in the dark, they’d missed an Argentine position. Scott wriggled around and opened fire with his SLR as the rest of the section fired. The Argentine gun fell silent.
Another gun opened up. This time someone threw a grenade, which did its job, silencing the position.
Cautiously, the soldiers picked themselves up. Besides Smudge, another of the Paras had been shot, whilst two more were wounded. A detail was formed to evacuate the wounded and the dead back to the starting positions near the lake. The rest of the company pressed on toward their objective.
By 5AM, the Paras had their initial objectives captured. The next was the ridge above the settlement of Darwin, which was A Company’s objective. B and D companies held position whilst A advanced on the hill.
The two companies on the left flank were taking fire from Boca House, an Argentine strong point on the edge of the ridge and near the shore. Scott could hear Major Neame nearby, arguing with someone on the radio about the need to move up and take the house.
As the section tried to find cover among the sparse vegetation and open ground, Scott snuck a chocolate bar out his jacket and quickly wolfed it down.
Neame moved carefully from his position and word was quickly passed. A Company’s advance on the ridge was more important. B and D companies were to hold position to support them.
As the messenger moved off, Scott looked across at Davey. “Dunno which is worse, holding here while A Company get on with it or assaulting that bloody house,” Scott said.
Davey shrugged. “The bloody Colonel’s not helping,” he opined, referring to Lt. Col ‘H’ Jones, the battalion CO. “He jogged past just now with his Tac. HQ.”
Scott frowned. “He’s going forward?”
“Bloody looked like it,” Davey confirmed. “Looks like the silly bugger wants to lead the sodding charge.”
Scott kept quiet, but had to admit, he thought the colonel was crazy, it was all well and good wanted to lead by example, but that could just as easily get you killed.
The sun was coming up and more enemy fire was coming in. Scott and his section huddled out of the way as best they could.
A Company was pushing up the hill, Scott could see, but was taking casualties doing so. It seemed to be turning into an attrition battle.
Over an hour later, still lying in the gorse, Scott suddenly heard a message over the radio.
“Sunray is down!”
The colonel had been shot. Scott looked at Davey. “Silly bastard,” Davey muttered. Despite his words, Scott could see the cynical NCO was still affected by the death.
It took A Company nearly three hours in total to secure the Argentine positions on the hill, giving them the high ground looking over Darwin and toward Goose Green.
Finally, Major Neame gave the order; D Company moved out and headed for Boca House, flanking the ruin from the right.
As the Paras moved forward, even Scott could see they had no way to approach the enemy with any cover. The Argentines were secure there with machine-guns covering the approach.
The manoeuvre did however bring the ruin in range of the company’s machine guns and as the rest of the unit provided cover-fire, they were quickly set up.
Twelve of the eighteen machine-guns opened fire, a deafening fusillade which made Scott wince. He popped a few rounds off as he saw a head moving in one of the window-frames, but wasn’t sure if he hit anything.
A team from Support Company moved up as he fired another burst. They were carrying a MILAN anti-tank rocket launcher. The launcher was quickly set up as the guns kept blazing at the ruin.
Two missiles were swiftly launched at Boca House. The explosions shattered the remaining walls and the gunfire from the Bren guns and L7s began to reach inside the ruin to deadly effect.
Scott saw white flags being waved and Major Neame quickly ordered a halt to firing. After a brief radio conversation, Neame passed word and the company moved swiftly across 600 yards of open ground to the ruin. Scott practically sprinted across the ground. He was keen to avoid being shot.
Once the company had consolidated at the ruin, they had twenty prisoners. Twelve dead Argentines lay on the floor. The rest had apparently fled toward Goose Green. Scott didn’t think that would do them much good.
D company held its position whilst the commanders sorted out what was going on. After a short while, A Company remained in place atop Darwin Hill to dig in and hold it, B Company moved further south along the isthmus to turn and come toward Goose Green from the south, whilst C Company was brought up to approach Goose Green, while D Company moved in from Boca House.
Scott and his section were moving in when 35mm and 20mm anti-aircraft guns near the Goose Green airstrip opened fire. Scott threw himself to the ground as bullets whipped overhead.
Cursing the Argentines for using anti-aircraft guns on infantry, Scott crawled forward under the hail of fire. Eventually, the Company was able to move into a small, narrow pass between two of the hills. This provided cover from the guns, but was taking them off the axis of their approach.
It soon became a moot point when the company’s leading elements stumbled into a minefield near the Goose Green schoolhouse.
Scott stayed put near the rear of the company, whilst the lead and middle elements sought to extricate themselves without getting blown up.
“Hey, Davey,” Scott called. “We’ve got company coming down the ridge.”
The Corporal looked around to see where Scott was indicating. Sure enough a large group of men were moving toward them.
“Must be C Company. No one told us they were coming. I just hope…” Before Davey could continue, the AA guns raked the formation with heavy fire and several men were cut down.
“Hellfire!” Davey shouted.
D Company finally moved out, moving closer toward the schoolhouse. When Scott’s section reached the main body, Major Neame was on the radio requesting artillery support on the schoolhouse, which seemed to be a strong point.
Suddenly there was a shout from someone else, “INCOMING!”
An artillery shell crashed to the ground near the company’s position. Everyone ducked for cover.
Another shell crashed down and there were screams from wounded. A third shell slammed down and more screams could be heard.
Scott cringed and pulled his helmet down tighter as another shell crashed down.
Shells continued to land as a large group of Paras sprinted up.
Scott was close enough to hear the two platoon leaders reporting into Major Neame. They were C Company’s Recon and Patrols platoons. Somehow, they had made it forward whilst the rest of the company was still taking fire on the ridge.
The school was providing some cover for the D Company troops, but the Argentines were still returning fire from the main building.
Neame took charge of the situation.
“I want 10 Platoon to clear out that position north of the airfield. 12 Platoon, give us covering fire on the schoolhouse. Let’s get the wounded tended to, we’re not going to be able to get them evacuated them under this kind of fire.”
Scott joined the rest of 12 Platoon as they moved forward and unslung his SLR as 10 Platoon moved out.
12 Platoon engaged the schoolhouse as the rest of the company moved further away, keeping the school buildings between them and the Argentinean positions for cover.
Once again, Scott was firing at the enemy with no idea whether he was hitting anyone or not. He decided it didn’t particularly matter, though, as long as the enemy kept their heads down.
Private Kenny ‘Chalkie’ White was standing near one of the outer buildings when he suddenly called across to the Platoon commander.
“Hey, boss! There’s a white flag over at the Argies’ position on the airfield!”
The lieutenant dashed across to Chalkie’s position to get a better look as Scott and Davey kept up their fire to cover him.
Moments later, the lieutenant dashed back to the main group of the platoon.
“Alright, lads, keep them busy here. Davey, get your section together and we’ll go and accept the surrender,” the lieutenant ordered.
Davey snapped off a salute, “Rightyewaresir!”
The Corporal turned to Scott and the rest of the squad. “You ‘eard the h’officer, get yourselves together and let’s go and accept the surrender and then we can all have a nice cup of tea!”
Moments later, as the rest of the platoon continued to engage the house; the lieutenant led the section toward the position, which had been dubbed ‘flagpole’.
Scott was slightly nervous as they made their way forward, but tried to set aside the feeling. He remembered what he’d been taught in Basic and what had been reiterated on the journey south, enemies surrendering had to behave in certain ways under the Geneva Conventions and were highly unlikely to turn around and shoot them all in a trick.
The group was nearing the ‘flagpole’ position when a machine gun behind them on the ridge opened fire.
“What the..?” Scott muttered as tracers hit near the Argentine position.
Suddenly, the Argentines opened up with return fire. Scott dived for cover, but several of the others weren’t so fast.
As Scott lay on the grass, firing back, he saw the Lieutenant go down, with several rounds hitting him in the chest. Davey and Lance-Corporal ‘Kid’ Young were hit next.
Scott took charge. “Pop some smoke!” He shouted. “Give us cover. Grab the wounded and get back to the school!”
Someone thankfully was listening and two smoke grenades were set off, creating a screen for Scott to grab Davey’s limp body and throw it over his shoulder.
Half the section had been hit and the other half was now forced to carry them back to the school.
When they reached the school, Corporal ‘Sweeny’ Todd was shouting to someone on the radio.
“No, they weren’t bloody attacking, you prick! The Argentines were surrendering! Didn’t you see the sodding white flag?!”
There was a garbled reply, then Sweeny shouted, “If we’re going to attack we’ll bloody well ask for support next time!”
He turned to Scott, “Get the wounded over to the medical post with Neame and the CP. We’ll stay here and cover you.”
Scott started organising the section, and as he went to pick up Davey, someone said, “The Lieutenant’s dead.”
“So’s Kid.”
Scott checked Davey’s neck. “Corporal’s dead too,” he said after a moment.
The wounded were moved to the medical and command post and Scott, blood streaked down his camo tunic, reported what had happened to the major.
Neame took the news stoically, but congratulated Scott on ordering the use of the smokescreen to cover their withdrawal.
“We’ve got friendly air cover coming,” he said. “Tell Corporal Todd to expect it.”
Scott nodded and hurried back to Sweeny.
“Friendly air incoming, Corp. Keep an eye out.”
Sweeny nodded. “Right, Private. Thanks.”
Minutes later, two jets streaked low overhead. They fired their cannon and launched rockets, which caused a few casualties among the other platoons of D Company. Moments later, a pair of Pucara turbo-props flew over, dropping napalm. Thankfully, no one was killed.
Several light machine-guns returned fire, hitting one of the Pucaras. The pilot ejected as the plane broke up.
Major Neame was quick to dispatch a squad to collect the pilot.
A runner came up and told Sergeant Walsh to form up 12 Platoon and join the major.
Neame quickly organised things. D Company’s Recon and Patrols platoons along with 10 Platoon were dispatched to attack the schoolhouse and destroy it. Neame made sure they had several M79 grenade launchers to do the job.
12 Platoon, now under Sergeant Walsh’s command was rounded up and sent to take out the Argentine ‘Flagpole’ position on the airfield.
As they were headed forward again, Walsh found Scott. “Good work with organising everything after your section got hit,” the sergeant said. “Might have to put you in for Lance-jack for that.”
Scott smiled, “Uh, thanks, Sarge, but anyone else could’ve done it.”
“Maybe so. You keep your head like that and we’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
Scott nodded, but didn’t say anything.
It didn’t take long for the ‘Flagpole’ position to fall to 12 Platoon, thanks to judicious use of their light machine-guns, grenade launchers and hand grenades.
Someone, Scott never knew who, exactly, decided to blow up the Argentine ammo dump, which created a nicely entertaining fireworks display, but meant the position was untenable. 12 Platoon fell back to Neame’s CP.
As they were moving out, three Harrier jump-jets streaked in, finally arriving with their air support, and dropped cluster bombs and rockets on the Argentine positions. Some of the strikes, Scott could see, were barely 200 yards from the Paras’ leading positions. ‘Talk about ‘danger close’ he thought to himself.
By 09:30 on Saturday morning the Argentines in Goose Green were in discussions with Major Keeble, the Battalion’s second in command about surrendering. Overnight, Argentine reinforcements had arrived and been greeted by artillery fire from the Paras. The Argentine commanders had quickly become aware of the precariousness of their situation. They were surrounded and under threat of further Harrier strikes.
What amazed the Argentines, however as they moved out of their positions to surrender was the size of the enemy force.
The Para force was around a third of the size of the Argentines, with fifteen hundred prisoners being taken by 2 Para, fifty-five confirmed dead and another hundred or so wounded.
June14th, 1982
Wireless Ridge
Scott stood in his trench, looking down in to Port Stanley, the capital of the Falklands. The battle of Wireless Ridge had ended earlier in the morning. 2 Para had had an easier time than at Goose Green, since they’d had major artillery support from the Royal Artillery, armour support from the Blues and Royals and naval gun support from HMS Ambuscade.
Wireless Ridge, so called because of the telegraph poles which dotted it, was one of several hills that overlooked Port Stanley, each of which had fallen to British forces over the past few days. The Scots Guards held Mount Tumbledown, the men of 3 Para held Mount Longdon, the Royal Marines held Two Sisters and Mount Harriet. Now, it was just a matter of waiting for the Argentines to surrender.
Scott rooted through his backpack and found a letter he’d started writing before the San Carlos landings. He figured now would be a good time to finish it.
The letter read:
Dear Mum and Dad,
Hope you and the girls are all well. Looks like I got myself into a mess, this time doesn’t it? By the time I get to post this, it’ll probably be all over.
We’re heading towards the Islands where we’ll be landing. Hopefully, the head-shed know what they’re doing and the landings go off okay. Where we’ll go next is anyone’s guess.
Okay, so we got ashore with no problems. We’re heading for some village nearby. Apparently they want us to take it to make things look good for everyone at home. Hope I get through this.
By the time you read this, you’ll have heard about the battle. It was pretty bad; several of my mates and the Corporal got killed. I’m okay, though. My platoon sergeant’s talking about putting me in for promotion and apparently I got mentioned in despatches after I helped save some of the lads from an Argy attack.
We’ve been helicoptered to a holding point for the final attack. I hope I make it through this.
Scott found his biro and carried on writing.
This time the battle was a lot easier. We were held in reserve whilst some of the other units were taking the hills over Stanley. Then we got our chance. It was a walk in the park compared to our first battle. We had a lot of artillery support and four tanks backing us up. Now we’re dug in on the ridge, and waiting for the Argentines to surrender.
I hope I can get some leave when we get home and come see you. All the best to you and the girls.
Love, Scott.
‘The girls’ was a reference to his two older sisters. Scott methodically folded the letter up, tucked it into his pocket of his camouflage tunic and put his biro away.
“Writing home?” asked the sergeant.
Scott nodded, “Yes sarge. Don’t worry, I didn’t put any names in of where we’ve been.”
The Sergeant laughed. “Wouldn’t make much difference when the Beeb’s got bloody reporters with the head-shed and on the carriers.”
Scott easily parsed the meaning, BBC reporters were with the officers, nicknamed the ‘head-shed’ by the enlisted men, and on board HMS Hermes and HMS Invincible the two aircraft carriers.
“I wonder how long we’ll have to wait for the Argentines to surrender,” Scott commented.
They’d been occupying the hills over Stanley now for several hours. The situation should’ve been clear to the Argentinean commanders.
The sergeant shrugged. “Couple of days, tops,” he answered. “I’ve spoken to the platoon commander. You’re being put in for promotion once we get back. You might wanna add that to your letter.”
The sergeant grinned at the sight of Scott’s shocked expression.
Summer, 1984
Wiltshire, England
Scott shifted position uncomfortably in the seat of the Puma helicopter. He never seemed to be able to get comfortable in the damn seats.
In addition to his promotion to Lance Corporal two years earlier, he’d been made commander of a four-man squad within 12 Platoon, D Company. D Company had just completed a training exercise on Salisbury Plain and was flying back to Aldershot in several Pumas.
The helicopter lifted off as Scott finally managed to settle into the least-uncomfortable position he could find. On board were sixteen members of 12 Platoon, whilst the others were in two more of the Pumas in this flight. Three other flights had already lifted off, carrying the rest of the company.
The platoon sergeant was in the helicopter, with Scott. The lieutenant was in the helicopter call sign Delta 5-2. This one was call sign Delta 5-1.
Five minutes into the flight, Scott heard the pilots shouting at one another cross-cockpit, he looked around, as did several of the other Paras that hadn’t managed to catch a nap.
Scott glanced out the window next to the door and saw a strange red and black craft speed past the helicopter. The Puma made an evasive move, then Scott could hear the pilot shouting into the radio.
“This is Delta 5-1 we are under attack from two unidentified aircraft,” the pilot yelled, “We are five minutes out of Bulford camp over Salisbury Plain. We need air…”
The pilot cut himself off as Scott saw an explosion in the air outside the window. The burning wreckage of another Puma was plummeting toward the ground.
“Oh my God,” one of the other Paras muttered. The strange aircraft sped straight at the Puma, firing machine guns.
For a second Scott thought he was hallucinating, the craft looked like a large red skull, with guns projecting from it and two black panels at its sides…
He didn’t have time to think any more about it as a loud alert began shrieking in the cockpit and the pilot and co-pilot tried to keep the aircraft flying as the red skull craft flashed away from them.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is British Army helicopter Delta 5-1; we’re going down, we’re going down. Mayday, mayday, mayday,” the pilot called into the radio.
The Puma dropped toward the ground, several of the sleeping Paras now awake as the helicopter shook and bucked in the air.
The helicopter hit the ground, bounced back up, tipped over, hit the ground again with a loud shriek and several screams from those inside. The rotors were snapped off and flew away in several directions as the helicopter hit the ground a second time.
The nose hit next, the cockpit windows caving in and showering the pilots with glass. The helicopter flipped over, snapping off the tail boom, before crashing down onto the chalk plain.
Scott managed to free himself from his restraints. He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. Several of the Paras were clearly dead. At least two had broken necks from the unnatural angles their heads were at. Scott felt himself over, and couldn’t find any broken bones. He did find a large gash across his forehead and cuts on his face.
Scott moved toward one of the other members of the platoon who was unconscious and who had his leg was pinned by a piece of bent metal.
Straining, Scott bent the metal back and then hauled the man clear of the seat, lifted him over his shoulder and staggered to the door, which had been ripped off in the crash.
Staggering outside, Scott laid the soldier down carefully, before going back into the wreck and hauling out three more of the Paras. As he was heading back a fourth time, he saw the two flying skull craft coming back around on what was clearly a strafing run.
Scott dashed in to the wrecked helicopter. Inside, at the back, was an armoured crate. Luckily for him, the crash had broken the locks. Scott lifted the lid and pulled out two assembled Stinger shoulder-launch surface-to-air missiles. He then pulled out two reloads.
One of the other Paras had woken up and struggled to get out of his seat as Scott hurried past. The lance corporal cannoned into him and knocked the wounded man flying as he dashed outside.
Scott quickly brought the first Stinger up on to his shoulder.
He ran through the instructions he’d been given in the training exercise the day before, powering up the missile’s seeker head, deactivating the safety and arming the missile.
He pointed the Stinger at the aircraft, waited for the IFF aerial to get a negative result, lock on and then squeezed the trigger as soon as the seeker started beeping to indicate a solid lock.
The missile whooshed out of the launch tube and flew several feet before the main rocket ignited and the missile flew straight toward the aircraft.
Scott wasted no time dropping the empty tube, grabbing the second loaded Stinger and repeating the process.
As he’d expected, both the strange flying skulls fired off flares and evaded the missiles. Scott worked quickly to reload the first launcher as the wounded soldier he’d shoved aside came out of the wreck.
“Wha’s goin’ on?” he asked in a slurred voice.
“I’m saving our asses,” Scott replied. He got the tone for a lock and fired the third Stinger. The missile streaked away and detonated, blowing the black panel off the side of the craft, which heeled over and plunged toward the ground.
Scott reloaded the second launcher and brought it up, to aim. The second skull craft was now speeding straight at him, firing its machine guns.
Scott held his nerve as the bullets ripped up the ground toward him and fired as soon as the Stinger locked on.
The missile slammed into the aircraft’s belly and it flew over them, trailing fire and smoke.
A bullet pinged off the wrecked helicopter, making Scott duck. He turned toward the source of the noise and saw several vehicles and a large infantry force approaching.
“Oh, that can’t be good,” he said noticing the soldiers’ red uniforms.
Scott moved back into the helicopter. Five of the Paras were now conscious.
“Get up!” Scott shouted as he grabbed his SLR. “We’ve got enemy troops incoming.”
“How’d you know they’re enemy?” the sergeant asked, cradling a broken arm.
“They’re wearing red uniforms. They might be those Red Shadow creeps we’ve heard about on the news,” Scott answered.
“Good answer. Get on the radio, son, see if you can get us some help from Bulford,” the sergeant ordered.
Scott nodded and grabbed the radio pack next to one of the unlucky Paras, who’d died in the crash.
Remembering his training in how to use the radio for emergencies, Scott started broadcasting.
“This is Paratroop Puma Delta 5-1 to Bulford, do you read, over?”
Static answered. Scott tried another frequency, then another.
“They’re jamming us, sarge!” he called out.
“You know the military distress frequency?” the sarge asked.
“No!”
“243 MHz! Use that!” the sergeant called.
Scott set the frequency and started over. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, Paratroop Puma Delta 5-1 is shot down on Salisbury Plain, under attack by suspected Red Shadow terrorists, need immediate assistance, over!”
Scott repeated the call, then a voice with a faint accent he couldn’t place replied, “Delta 5-1, this is Action Force, repeat your situation, over.”
“Action Force, Delta, we’re a Puma helicopter out of Bulford camp, we were shot down by a pair of unidentified aircraft resembling flying skulls. We now have a large force of red uniformed infantry and several vehicles, also red, coming our way.”
“Five-one, Action Force, we copy. Can you give us your position, over?”
“Negative, Action Force, I have no idea where we are, I’m just a lance-corporal. I ain’t the pilot and the flight crew’s dead.”
Scott had been able to see that from the mess the cockpit was in.
“Keep transmitting Five-one, we’re scrambling a team to assist you.” The other voice paused. “You said ‘flying skull aircraft’, you think they were Roboskulls?”
“No idea, mate, what’s a Roboskull?”
“It’s an aerospace craft used by Baron Ironblood’s Red Shadow forces. It resembles a red skull with guns sticking out of the eyes and mouth, with black panels on each side, with a red engine at the top and bottom.”
“That’s the sods, alright,” Scott answered. “I shot the buggers down with Stingers.”
“Say again, Five-One?” a new voice asked.
“We were on an exercise at Salisbury Plain learning to use the Stinger missile,” Scott explained. “We had a case on the chopper which crashed with some Stingers in. I managed to launch two at the Roboskulls, they decoyed them with flares. I fired another pair and shot both down.”
“Bloodiell, nice work, mate.” The second voice had a distinctly Scottish accent.
“Okay, Five-one, we’ve got a flight of three SAS Force Hawks en route, along with a Puma carrying a team from SAS Force. We’re trying to triangulate your position, stand by.” The first voice sounded impressed as well.
Scott acknowledged the report from the radio and turned toward the sergeant, who’d organised the Paras into something resembling a proper defensive formation. Most of them were using the snapped-off tail-boom of the helicopter as cover, whilst Private Alex ‘Jim’ Kirk, the best sniper in the survivors was concealed under the side door of the helicopter.
“Sarge, we got Action Force en route for assistance. They’re trying to triangulate our position,” Scott reported.
The sergeant turned toward Scott and nodded, “Good work, Scott. Tell ‘em the Red Shadows are about two minutes from reaching us and we’re about to fire.”
Scott nodded and passed the information along. The Scotsman on the other end asked how big the Red Shadow force was.
“Estimate company strength infantry, plus four large tank type vehicles and four smaller vehicles.”
“Four Hyenas and four Shadowtraks,” The Scotsman noted. “I hope you’ve got some anti-tank weapons with you.”
Scott frowned, “Uh… I don’t think so, sir.”
For a moment, neither of the men on the other end answered. Then the first speaker said, “You better hope Eagle and his men get there soon.”
“Any luck triangulating our position?” Scott asked.
The crackle of automatic fire from the SLRs cut off the reply and Scott had to ask the unnamed Action Force radio operator to repeat himself.
“They’ve got a rough fix and estimate they’re two minutes out,” the other man answered.
Scott replied, “Good, we’re hanging on for now. Delta 5-1 out!”
Scott dumped the radio and snatched up his SLR and moved to join the others.
The vehicles were holding back and not firing. The Red Shadow infantry was charging forward, not heeding the return fire or their losses.
There was a scream off to Scott’s right and he saw Tom Grey lying on the ground, with Jack Mann trying to tend to his injury.
Bob Day was killed next, taking a headshot from an unseen sniper. Terry Hitchens was raked by a long burst from a Shadow carrying an RPD light machine-gun. The gunner was picked off by Kirk.
Nigel Gibbs fell to a burst next as he tried to help the pair.
Only four of the eight surviving Paras were left.
Suddenly a pair of rockets streaked overhead and slammed into one of the tanks the Scot on the radio had called a Hyena. The tank exploded, taking out the Hyena and Shadowtrak either side of it in its death-throes.