This life for me didn’t begin in August 1957 when I was born; that episode belongs to another life. It began on the 8th June 1982 when I was 25 and married with two children, Kerry three and Stephen one year old. I was a ‘Kilick Stoker’ serving on HMS Plymouth a Royal Navy type 12 frigate and we were on station in the notorious ‘Bomb Alley’ in the Falkland Islands. Every day was the same with air attacks during the day and defence stations during the night, sleep was rationed and so was the food. The ship closed up for action stations at 06:00 every morning to prepare for the inevitable air raids and it continued until night gave the cover of darkness. It would start with a pipe, ‘air raid warning red air raid warning red take cover take cover.’ If you were stationed between decks you had to lie down on the deck and cover your head with your hands. Then you would hear the 4.5 inch guns firing as the attack came in and the smaller calibre guns started firing as the aircraft got closer then the small arms fire. It was very claustrophobic inside the ship because you never knew when a bomb or a missile would come through the ship’s hull and kill you.
It seemed almost daily one of our ships was hit and one of the worst days was the 21st of May; HMS Antrim, Broadsword, Brilliant, Ardent and Argonaut were all hit and damaged and Ardent sank the following day. Plymouth sailed out of San Carlos water to give assistance to HMS Argonaut which had been hit by rocket and cannon fire then by two un-exploded bombs. She had lost all power and Plymouth went out to tow her to relative safety and supply her with power and fresh water. I was part of the boarding party that went over to assist. Two of her crew had died in the attack and I could see the ship’s company was devastated; most were sitting on the deck with their heads in their hands. It was terrible to see; those men were exhausted from fighting their ship trying to keep her afloat and moving. The death of a shipmate is like losing a family member because in a ship you live and breathe as one.
We buried their dead at sea the following night and it’s something that has stuck in my mind after all these years it’s still very clear in my memory. The only light allowed was green and red because white light carries for miles at sea and could invite an attack. The padres came out ahead of the bodies which were covered with a white ensign, one Catholic waving burning incense, and one Protestant. The priests gave their service and the young men were committed to the sea. What I remember the most was the sound of the canvass bags which contained the bodies sliding down the plywood board as they were tilted towards the sea, then each individual splash as they entered the water. The ship was silent as I looked around the faces of our ships company eerily bathed in green and red light; they all looked solemn and as if like me they were deep in their own thoughts. Later when I served in Northern Ireland I often thought about those two young men of different religions; they lived together, fought together, died together and now they rest together in the deep. They probably didn’t give a damn about their differences in religion because they were shipmates and that was all that mattered.
On the night of the burial at sea I dreamt that the ship was sinking and I was trying to get to an escape hatch the cold water was pulling me back as I struggled to open the hatch but the hatch was stuck and couldn’t be moved. When I woke I felt strangely calm, and at that moment I felt that if we did get hit I might survive or I might die, it no longer bothered me either way. I didn’t tell anyone about my dream; they would have thought me strange and taken the piss, servicemen are remorseless when it comes to taking the piss out of each other.
On the 8th of June we were anchored in San Carlos Water and I was at my action station in the engineer’s workshop. My job was to lead the mobile repair party; if the ship was holed we had to stop the water coming in. It was a quiet Sunday and we hadn’t had any damaged ships in ‘Bomb Alley’ for over a week. The air raids seemed to be abating as the land forces moved towards Port Stanley. The Captain received a request for naval gunfire support from the SAS which required us to leave San Carlos Water and make passage through the open
sea of the Falkland sound. This would have normally been impossible during daylight hours because of Argentine air attacks. However intelligence reports said there were no inbound aircraft and it was safe to go out. I was training for my boiler operator’s ticket and the Petty Officer in the boiler room asked me if I wanted to steam the boilers when we lifted anchor. I arranged for my friend Chris to take over my duty and told him to keep an eye on the after fuel tanks; we were running them low in preparation for re-fuelling that night. I told him if we go up in speed to change over the tanks before we lost suction and then I went below to steam the boilers.
The bay seemed calm and serene as we lifted anchor, ‘slow ahead both,’ the order came from the bridge through engine order repeater with a ‘ching ching.’ I gave a hand signal to the 16 year old stokers on the boiler front to put on an extra oil sprayer. I increased the blower speed and adjusted the dampers. We came up in speed and I kept an eye on the boiler water level. The boiler room was hot and sweaty and the bilges smelled of diesel oil and grease. We were surrounded by hot pipework some with fuel, some with water, but most with hissing superheated steam. The hatches were battened down because we were at action stations deep in the bowels of the ship where one steam leak could cook us all. We went up in power, ‘ching, ching, half ahead.’ Then suddenly; skimming under the radar came five enemy aircraft like a swarm of supersonic hornets and pressed an unrelenting attack. ‘Ching, ching, ching, ching,’ full ahead. We were more urgent as we heard the gunfire as the acrid nauseous smell of cordite coming through the air vents. The Petty Officer took charge of the boiler, as the turbines in the engine room sucked away all of our steam. The old girl surged with power twisting and turning to avoid the hornet’s sting. The white ensign must have been flying proudly against the grey sky. In the boiler room we were thrown about like drunks on a crazy bus. I felt her lurch and
shudder as the first bomb violated through the screaming tortured steel of her hull. I waited for the explosion but it didn’t come; thank god it was a dud. ‘Ching, ching, ching,’ from full ahead
to full astern. The safety valves lifted with a thunderous roar. Another bomb hit us and this time there was an explosion and the boiler room filled with smoke, we couldn’t see a blessed thing and she was listing to starboard by forty five degrees. Naval discipline and years of training took over as the boiler water level dropped dangerously low and I opened the auxiliary stop valve to let more water in. Everything seemed to be in super slow motion as my adrenaline kicked in. There was a fire above us, the ship was listing, and we were trapped in our central heated coffin. Realising the smoke was coming from above; I put on an escape hood and groped my way to the top plates through the black smoke like a blind man without a stick. I remembered my dream as I felt for the escape hatch and this time it was open. I grabbed the handle and slammed it shut. When I got back down to the boiler front I told the young lads we would be okay, and we were. The smoke cleared because I had closed the hatch, the fire was put out and the pumps worked overtime to get the ship on an even keel again. Not so for my friend Chris though, he was wounded in the head as he went to change over the fuel tanks. He has suffered for 27 years with his wound, his reward for doing my duty.
It seemed almost daily one of our ships was hit and one of the worst days was the 21st of May; HMS Antrim, Broadsword, Brilliant, Ardent and Argonaut were all hit and damaged and Ardent sank the following day. Plymouth sailed out of San Carlos water to give assistance to HMS Argonaut which had been hit by rocket and cannon fire then by two un-exploded bombs. She had lost all power and Plymouth went out to tow her to relative safety and supply her with power and fresh water. I was part of the boarding party that went over to assist. Two of her crew had died in the attack and I could see the ship’s company was devastated; most were sitting on the deck with their heads in their hands. It was terrible to see; those men were exhausted from fighting their ship trying to keep her afloat and moving. The death of a shipmate is like losing a family member because in a ship you live and breathe as one.
We buried their dead at sea the following night and it’s something that has stuck in my mind after all these years it’s still very clear in my memory. The only light allowed was green and red because white light carries for miles at sea and could invite an attack. The padres came out ahead of the bodies which were covered with a white ensign, one Catholic waving burning incense, and one Protestant. The priests gave their service and the young men were committed to the sea. What I remember the most was the sound of the canvass bags which contained the bodies sliding down the plywood board as they were tilted towards the sea, then each individual splash as they entered the water. The ship was silent as I looked around the faces of our ships company eerily bathed in green and red light; they all looked solemn and as if like me they were deep in their own thoughts. Later when I served in Northern Ireland I often thought about those two young men of different religions; they lived together, fought together, died together and now they rest together in the deep. They probably didn’t give a damn about their differences in religion because they were shipmates and that was all that mattered.
On the night of the burial at sea I dreamt that the ship was sinking and I was trying to get to an escape hatch the cold water was pulling me back as I struggled to open the hatch but the hatch was stuck and couldn’t be moved. When I woke I felt strangely calm, and at that moment I felt that if we did get hit I might survive or I might die, it no longer bothered me either way. I didn’t tell anyone about my dream; they would have thought me strange and taken the piss, servicemen are remorseless when it comes to taking the piss out of each other.
On the 8th of June we were anchored in San Carlos Water and I was at my action station in the engineer’s workshop. My job was to lead the mobile repair party; if the ship was holed we had to stop the water coming in. It was a quiet Sunday and we hadn’t had any damaged ships in ‘Bomb Alley’ for over a week. The air raids seemed to be abating as the land forces moved towards Port Stanley. The Captain received a request for naval gunfire support from the SAS which required us to leave San Carlos Water and make passage through the open
sea of the Falkland sound. This would have normally been impossible during daylight hours because of Argentine air attacks. However intelligence reports said there were no inbound aircraft and it was safe to go out. I was training for my boiler operator’s ticket and the Petty Officer in the boiler room asked me if I wanted to steam the boilers when we lifted anchor. I arranged for my friend Chris to take over my duty and told him to keep an eye on the after fuel tanks; we were running them low in preparation for re-fuelling that night. I told him if we go up in speed to change over the tanks before we lost suction and then I went below to steam the boilers.
The bay seemed calm and serene as we lifted anchor, ‘slow ahead both,’ the order came from the bridge through engine order repeater with a ‘ching ching.’ I gave a hand signal to the 16 year old stokers on the boiler front to put on an extra oil sprayer. I increased the blower speed and adjusted the dampers. We came up in speed and I kept an eye on the boiler water level. The boiler room was hot and sweaty and the bilges smelled of diesel oil and grease. We were surrounded by hot pipework some with fuel, some with water, but most with hissing superheated steam. The hatches were battened down because we were at action stations deep in the bowels of the ship where one steam leak could cook us all. We went up in power, ‘ching, ching, half ahead.’ Then suddenly; skimming under the radar came five enemy aircraft like a swarm of supersonic hornets and pressed an unrelenting attack. ‘Ching, ching, ching, ching,’ full ahead. We were more urgent as we heard the gunfire as the acrid nauseous smell of cordite coming through the air vents. The Petty Officer took charge of the boiler, as the turbines in the engine room sucked away all of our steam. The old girl surged with power twisting and turning to avoid the hornet’s sting. The white ensign must have been flying proudly against the grey sky. In the boiler room we were thrown about like drunks on a crazy bus. I felt her lurch and
shudder as the first bomb violated through the screaming tortured steel of her hull. I waited for the explosion but it didn’t come; thank god it was a dud. ‘Ching, ching, ching,’ from full ahead
to full astern. The safety valves lifted with a thunderous roar. Another bomb hit us and this time there was an explosion and the boiler room filled with smoke, we couldn’t see a blessed thing and she was listing to starboard by forty five degrees. Naval discipline and years of training took over as the boiler water level dropped dangerously low and I opened the auxiliary stop valve to let more water in. Everything seemed to be in super slow motion as my adrenaline kicked in. There was a fire above us, the ship was listing, and we were trapped in our central heated coffin. Realising the smoke was coming from above; I put on an escape hood and groped my way to the top plates through the black smoke like a blind man without a stick. I remembered my dream as I felt for the escape hatch and this time it was open. I grabbed the handle and slammed it shut. When I got back down to the boiler front I told the young lads we would be okay, and we were. The smoke cleared because I had closed the hatch, the fire was put out and the pumps worked overtime to get the ship on an even keel again. Not so for my friend Chris though, he was wounded in the head as he went to change over the fuel tanks. He has suffered for 27 years with his wound, his reward for doing my duty.
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