Splash One

I am now inside my own world. Nobody else exists except me and the enemy aircraft. I hear the crescendo as the guns on the ships open up. Every man, Jack, and his dog is letting loose with everything from GPMG’s to 9mm pistols to hardtack biscuits, then the screech of low flying jet engines. My eyes are pressed firmly into the optics, Bob is screaming ‘targets’ and slews the tracker head in the direction of the attacking jets. ‘Target tracking’ I shout. Which one? It’s strange, like in slow motion. There’s Sky Hawks and Mirages, Sky Hawks bright naval white and Mirages with big delta wings, hard to see against the landscape. ‘In cover’ (I can fire). I press the fire button, the noise of my missile leaving the beam seems louder than anything else. It streaks into the air and drops into the sea. I fire again. Another missile goes off target. ‘A f***ing rogue, b*****d.’ Fire again. Seems OK. Keep the cross hairs on target. Forget the missile flare. Bob’s twatting me on the helmet shouting ‘Target, target.’ ‘F*** off Bob, I can’t see.’

My missile appears in my sight, bang, large ball of flame, direct hit, Sky Hawk. The sea is being peppered with rockets and bombs, tracer is filling the sky like a million angry bees shook from a nest. ‘End of engagement, search cancel, fresh target tracking, in cover firing.’ Nothing happens. ‘Shit, I’ve run out of missiles.’ Me and Bob run down to the launcher to reload. It’s usually a two man lift per missile in peacetime and you should take your time, don’t trap someone’s fingers. I open a missile container, it hisses as the air’s let in and a sweet smell enters my nostrils. We put two missiles on each, just pick them up and slot them on as if they are made of paper, connect the firing lines and then leg it back to the tracker. I can see missiles being fired from our ships and other T Battery detachments firing from the hillsides. A second wave of enemy planes roars in and attacks the ships in the sound. HMS Fearless is nearly hit. ‘Target tracking, in cover, firing.’ Another missile streaks off the beam before spinning out of control and exploding into the ground. ‘Search cancel, tracking, in cover, firing.’ It’s a good missile. I have my sights lined up on the Mirage. My finger and thumb gently nudging the joystick, trying to keep the cross hairs in the centre of the fuselage. He swoops in and drops his bombs, then rolls to the left showing me his belly, puts it into top gear and puts his foot down on the after burners heading for the open sea whilst trying to dodge the wall of tracer all around him. ‘Come on.’ I can see the flare of the missile coming into focus. ‘The b******’s getting away.’ I’m tracking his engines, hit. ‘Yes!’ The missile was nearly at the last second of its life when it struck the rear of the jet. I just saw the tail fin explode and separate before it went from view behind the hills. One of our other crews further along the valley watched it plummet into the ocean. Sadly. There was no report of a pilot bailing out.

You haven’t got time to think about the events that have just occurred. My adrenalin was too high to be chuffed to f*** about hitting the target and I continued with my drill of looking for more aircraft. There’s no back slapping or celebrations, it’s a huge part of your young life but a small episode of the war going on around you. Just another day at the office.

I remember after the last of the jets had disappeared, the anti-aircraft fire had petered out to just a few pops. Why do you always get some optimistic b****** who fires the last SMG round at the aircraft’s dispersing vapour trails?
Taken from my book Watching Men Burn





© Mack (RG) The thoughts of a Falklands War Veteran.
Rogue_gunner_32_alpha@yahoo.co.uk
Boycott BP
Boycott Cross Country Trains
Boycott the Metro Hotel
Boycott the walkabout bar



ROGUE GUNNER SUPPORTS