Pilgrimage/ San Carlos

Road To San Carlos



The other main place of personal importance to myself and Scouse was San Carlos the place where we landed on D day and spent several months in the freezing hills overlooking the anchorage. So off we set back to where myself 31 Delta and 32 Alpha spent most of the War trying to knock Argentinean fighter bombers from the Sky. We were successful twice at San Carlos and I hit an A4 Sky hawk and a Mirage. I did not feel the same level of trepidation as I did at Fitzroy and was in a macabre way looking forward to returning. My Rapier was to high up on the hills and we did not have the exact position so we went to find the position of Scouse Denmark’s Rapier 31 Delta which was lower down near the shoreline. We parked the 4x4 up and had a quick look at the cemetery and took some photographs.


San Carlos Cemetary.

Bench in memory of Cpl Any Uren RM.


Able Seaman Shawn Hayward KIA on board HMS Ardent from my home town Barrow (17 years old)

We set of up the hill and found a farmhouse where a very kind hearted lady made us a cup of tea and a cream cake, it was really lovely and she was so friendly and had lived in the Falklands all her life. Then we set off further up the hill to find Scouses Rapier position. As usual it was blowing a gale and raining and we moved slowly up the hill towards the top. We came to an area that had been farmed and had cattle grazing. Scouse stood there for a minute getting his bearings. Even though he had been at this position for months on end it was 25 years ago.


Note the cam net in the foreground.

He looked all around and then said something like “There is fuck all left, its gone “ and I felt sad for him and myself as I wanted to find something. I then pointed over to the rear of us and saw some metal poles sticking out of the ground, I suggested we have a look there. As we got nearer Scouses face lit up it was like a child on Christmas day finding that shiny new bike he wanted. We had found 31 Deltas position. You could still see quite clearly where the launcher had been and also the trenches were still visible though they had obviously been filled in. I then looked down and sitting on top of the soil was a metal end cap of the launcher I picked it up and gave it to Scouse, It was as if I had given him a gold bar, and he held it in his hand almost speechless with happiness. It was just a piece of metal but to Scouse it was part of his Falklands War a teasured posession and something he will keep for the rest of his life


We then set about trying to dig out the trenches once again, anyone watching us would have thought we were insane as we frantic dug with our bear hands and pieces of metal bar laying around. There was a layer of dirt and then an layer of wriggly tin, we managed to smash our way through the tin and saw a cam net, the last time this net had seen the light of day was when the very same person (Scouse) was camming up his Rapier 25 years ago. As we pulled a huge chunk of netting out we sat breathless in the San Carlos dirt and looked up at the hills and out to sea. My mid drifted back……

Taken From Watching Men Burn.

I am sitting in my seat, daydreaming thoughts like these, when a warning from Bob blares across the radio in my headphones, bringing me back to the reality of the here-and-now: ‘Air Raid Warning Red, nine bogeys from the west, sixty miles, closing fast,’ he shouts.
Here we go again.
The rest of the unit race to put their tin lids on and get into the cover of our muddy trench.
I’m thinking: Shit, why am I always in the bastard seat when there’s an air raid?
I can’t go anywhere, though: I have to stay put and see what happens.
I am now inside my own world. Nobody else exists excepts me, my rapidly-beating heart and the enemy aircraft screaming towards us. My eardrums are assaulted by a crescendo of noise as the guns on the ships in the bay below open up… every man, Jack, and his dog letting loose with everything from GPMGs to 9mm pistols to hardtack biscuits.
The high-pitched screech of low-flying jets reverberates all around me.
My eyes are pressed firmly into the optics, Bob is screaming ‘targets’ as he slews the optical tracker head in the direction of the attacking jets.
‘Target tracking,’ I shout flicking the swtich.
Which one? It’s strange, like in slow motion.
There’s Sky Hawks and Mirages or Daggers, the Sky Hawks bright, naval white and the Mirages and Daggers with big, delta wings which are hard to see as they tip upwards, camouflaging them against the landscape. I steady my thumb and forefinger on the joystick and the lamp in the bottom left hand corner of the optical sight illuminates.
‘In cover!’
Bob shouts `Engage`
I press the fire button.
BANG! the noise of my missile leaving the beam is louder still than the cacophony around me. It streaks into the air but drops uselessly into the sea a few seconds later.
‘A fucking rogue! Bastard!’
I search for targets, tiny things, fast-moving and incredibly hard to pick up and stay with, and find one. In cover. I fire again. Like the first, this missile veers wildly off target too.
Well, it happens.
I fire yet again.
BANG! ‘Missile in flight.’
Seems OK, this one.
Keep the cross-hairs on the target.
Forget the missile flare appearing in the optics.
Bob’s twatting me on the helmet, shouting ‘Engage Engage’
‘Fuck off, Bob, I can’t see!’
My missile appears in my sight – careful, remember that’s you, not him. It has nearly reached its maximum Speed of mach 2. As I watch, the armour-piercing warhead hits the A4 and detonates inside the aircraft… BANG! Large ball of flame, direct hit, Sky Hawk gone.

I was dragged back to here and now by the unmistakeable sound of jet engines, myself and Scouse both scanned the skys as we would have done in 1982 only this time the fighter bomber bearing down on us was a British Tornado,. He screeched above us and I fell backwards and cut my hand on some barb wire, Scouse also stumbled and banged his shoulder, we lay on the deck numb for a second until we quickly regained our feet and both stood up shouting and waving at the pilot, he must have seen us as he circled around and came back towards us, this time even lower, the ground literally shook and we screamed like survivors on a desert Islands trying to get the attention of a rescue aircraft. Directly above our heads he flew directly above 31 Delta position, with a wave of his wings he was gone over the hills and his patrol of the Falklands Islands. The feeling we both had then was so intense it would be hard for me to describe in words, it was like a religious epiphany. To me it was a sign that my War was finally over the closing chapter. I could now get on with the rest of my life. I left Scouse alone there for a few minutes so he could privately reflect and maybe shed a tear. Setting off back to Stanley with the moody dark skies and the wild horses was a very calming experience I felt true peace for a while, it was as if this Island was my personal church.





View From 31 Deltas position

Catholic Church Stanley.

Perhaps God had spoken to me?


© Mack (RG) The thoughts of a Falklands War Veteran.
Rogue_gunner_32_alpha@yahoo.co.uk
Boycott BP