IT WAS a tinny voice overhead that first told me the Falklands conflict was over. The captain of HMS Plymouth came over the Tannoy and announced it to the crew. Immediately a cheer went up, but it was followed by grim reflection. Our crew had buried men at sea. There was cause for both joy and sorrow.
I was never supposed to be a sailor in the conflict. I had already resigned from the navy. I had a young child who was hyperactive and I felt the navy's welfare and support system was poor.
But when I left Rosyth for my final tour I could not have been happier - we were scheduled to go to America and the West Indies and for HMS Plymouth to dock in Plymouth in New England on 4 July. What a party that would have been.
Even when the ships gathered in Gibraltar, and we got wind that something was up, I don't think anyone ever thought it would come to a fight. You looked around and saw warships everywhere. We thought we'd just sail down and the Argentines would surrender at the sight of us.
I had many close calls in the conflict. I was on my way to the Port of Leith, on South Georgia, one of the Falklands islands, to pick up the Argentine Captain Alfredo Astiz - "the white angel of death", as he was known - who had told our captain that he planned to surrender. But no sooner had I left the ship when I was called back. One of our spotters had seen a machine gunner hiding under the landing jetty, waiting to ambush me. Read It Here
© Mack (RG) The thoughts of a Falklands War Veteran.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Pointless leaving spam it wont be published.