Sing Like You Know the Words (17 page)

Still, she was a lucky ship. The
Japanese had not managed to wound her at Pearl Harbour, and she had
the reputation of being unsinkable: a reputation that would more
than probably be put to the test.

He was aware of all kinds of
talk aboard ship; rumours flying at every level. Everyone was
nervous: it was normal. The British would back down: they were
afraid to fight and not prepared to risk their ships. The Americans
would insist on a negotiation. Some of the junior officers believed
that the navy’s ships would not be attacked if they remained
outside the imaginary exclusion zone that some British admiral had
drawn on a map: as if war was a game, like soccer, that you played
within the context of a marked out field. All kinds of nonsense,
and everyone willing themselves to believe what suited their mood
at the time.

A captain could smile at such
talk, within limits. There was always talk on a ship and mostly it
was harmless. He kept his orders to himself; and in any case they
did not reveal so much as he might expect; but he did not believe
that any navy in the world would send so many ships on such a
voyage only to make a show. No more than he believed that his
generals would admit that they had made a serious miscalculation
and abandon the reoccupation of the islands.

These islands that were only of
interest to a few sheep farmers. It was the fault of the
politician, Peron. Years ago, everyone had forgotten about the
Malvinas before he revived the stupidity. Anything to get the
people excited and to present himself as the spirit of the nation.
That was the problem with elections; politicians talked all kinds
of dangerous rubbish and afterwards they couldn’t wash it off their
hands. The generals should have quietly dropped the nonsense as
soon as they were rid of him. No-one doubted that the islands were
Argentine, and eventually they would be recovered, but the recent
strategy had been mistaken. The British would probably have
preferred to be free of the islands, if a handover could be
achieved without loss of face, but they would never accept this
slap in the face of an invasion.

So there would be a war, only
for honour, over land that no-one cared about, and yet there is no
honour in a war that is fought without good reason.

At least the British would be
far from home, and the plan, so far as the Captain could guess it
from his orders, was not a bad one. His ships were to patrol the
area to the south: Groups 79.1 and 79.4 would hold position to the
north. The British force would have to sail between them to reach
the islands, and when they did his fleet would have its chance.
Much depended on them coming within range of the air force before
they were engaged, and the weather would play its part.

For now the sea was kind. The
men knew their work, and the cruiser made way with a quiet
efficiency that was satisfying to her captain. If there was tension
on board, it was good that the crew should feel tense, so long as
it did not wear them out. It was important to keep up the drills
and the discipline this close to the action. If the engagement
came, the men must react as if it were no different to their
training, thinking of what they were expected to do, not of what
might happen to them.

He felt an impact.

-What was that?

-Torpedo Capitan, port bow

-Damage report, quickly.

Already men were running to
react to the situation. If there was a fire, if the magazines
caught: well, it would be the end.

A second impact.

-We lost the engine room
Capitan.

-The bow is gone sir.

-Signal Piedra Buena and
Bouchard, tell them we are attacked and dead in the water.

-No power sir, the electrics are
down

-Pumps

-Nothing sir

-Are we holed?

-Front bulkheads are holding
Capitan, but the main deck is blown out. It’s a big hole, taking in
water heavily

-Casualties?

-None in the bow sir, heavy
casualties aft. Two of the messes were hit.

Smoke was coming from all parts
of the cruiser. The bridge seemed to be the only area free of it.
They could sink or explode at any moment, it was a question of
which came first. With no power and a fifteen metre gash in the
hull, there was only one order to give, but he requested more
detailed reports just to be sure. Not unsinkable after all, he
thought.

The life rafts were got off
without difficulty. The practised manoeuvre went as smoothly as if
it had been a drill. He could still be proud of his boys; everyone
did what they needed to do. There was no panic; it was done
professionally and with respect for the ship.

He ordered the officer in charge
to cease signalling the destroyers. Either they had seen the
distress rockets or they had not. The last few life rafts were
waiting. When they cast off she was already going down, bow first:
no explosions or fires thank goodness. He would have preferred to
have seen the finish of her, but at least there was time to say
goodbye. Three hundred men and maybe more going down with her.

No more orders to give now. The
men in charge of the rafts knew the rules: stay as close together
as the weather allows and wait. Maybe the destroyers would get the
sub: he hoped so. The knowledge that it must have been watching him
for hours, waiting for the right moment to strike, and him knowing
nothing about it, was annoying. You had to admire the accuracy of
the kill though, one hit on either side of his hull reinforcement.
And that is war, he thought, imagine being in that engine room when
the torpedo ripped through it. Most of the time, in war as in life,
you don’t get to see what hurts you.

***

A reader of the Examiner that
went to press on 2 May 1982 might note that several articles seemed
to be variations on a theme of “Job Losses in our Region”. Next to
a report on the proceedings on the last meeting of the city
planning committee and just before the TV guide and classified
advertisements there was a small piece compiled from the news
agency handouts headed “South Atlantic Peace Hopes Still Alive”.
The morning nationals went to press later; their banner headlines
announcing what the country already knew from its TV and radio;
that the cruiser Belgrano had been sunk by an English submarine
with the loss of around one thousand Argentine sailors.

After the Belgrano went down,
even Matthew understood at last that this was a real war. No
possibility of a last minute negotiation because the last minute
had passed.

He was put in mind of a small
tin globe that had been on the window sill of his room throughout
childhood, showing the places in the world that were part of the
British Empire, or Commonwealth, whatever it was supposed to be by
then, coloured in bright red. The illusion that there were parts of
the world coloured red, was the idea that this war would be fought
to defend. It was a pretence like the child’s toy, made of cheap
tin that would crumple under a heavy blow.

Matthew did not know much about
Argentina, except that it was ruled by a military dictatorship. He
never doubted that its armed forces would be no match for Britain’s
professional soldiers, even operating at such a distance; and he
didn’t notice the imperialist bias implicit in that casual
assumption of superiority. Probably the Argentine forces were
conscripts; teenagers with no real training, as the tabloids
claimed. It was a case of one playground bully picking on a smaller
bully.

As for the Belgrano incident;
Matthew believed it a war crime, pure and simple. The ship was
outside the exclusion zone unilaterally set by Britain; sailing
away from it even. The early reports said that the ship went down
in minutes, and that most of the twelve hundred on board were lost.
Probably the young crew had no idea what to do and panic broke out.
For Matthew, the cruiser had been sunk, not to guard against the
damage it might cause, but to defend against the possibility that
there might not be a war; that the Americans would force Britain to
negotiate and that instead of a military success that would allow
the failing government to drape itself in victory, there would be
an embarrassing climb down. Suez all over again.

All this Matthew knew, or
thought he knew. But worse than knowing, was the realisation that
most people felt happy about events. In a war, they said, you
support your own side, and of course there are casualties. Would
you rather it was our boys who went down with the ship? The
important thing for them was not that people were dying over some
insignificant speck on the far globe, but that Great Britain was
standing up to aggression.

For both sides, the situation
was very clear. They only disagreed as to what situation it was,
which made dialogue impossible. After this event, whatever happened
next only provided the raw material that fuelled the preconceptions
of each side of public opinion.

And worse still for Matthew was
that he knew without a word being said that there was no way to
express his views in the Examiner. His war would be about local
interest: homecomings romantic, tragic or glorious, the sad
obituaries for boys and men of the region. The question why always
carefully brushed out of the picture.

At work, he tried to engage
Richard and Ralph to talk about the war. They were supposed to be
journalists after all. Ralph would only say that the war showed
that history was not quite over and that this was a good thing, as
the present state of humanity was so pitiful that change could only
promise improvement. When Matthew complained that he was being
flippant about wasted life, Ralph said that he had lived through a
great war, and found that people were never happier than when they
were being called upon to lay down their lives for some allegedly
noble purpose. Richard only muttered something cryptic about bread
and circuses and claimed that he had nothing more to add.

It turned out that Argentines
were equally as capable as British of bravery, resourcefulness and
stubbornness, and the war was short but bloody on both sides. The
right wing national press blamed British casualties on the French,
who had sold sophisticated weapons to Argentina in peacetime, in
competition with British suppliers.

When it was all over, the nation
was enjoined to rejoice and celebrate a famous victory. Matthew
wrote a short opinion piece for the Examiner, analysing what had
been achieved and concluding that at a heavy price the nation had
retained another imperial millstone round its neck, an unpopular
government had achieved an unassailable lead in the opinion polls,
but at least the military dictatorship of Argentina had collapsed.
He even submitted the article for publication. Naturally it was
rejected without comment.

At least he could look forward
to seeing Tim, who was supposed to have been injured in action, but
not badly. No-one knew much about it except that he wasn’t maimed
or disfigured. It was after the victory parade when he finally came
home. Matthew and he had exchanged telephone calls and a few short
letters, but only about what they were both doing and when they
might meet: nothing personal. Matthew was looking forward to
hearing the full story, though he was half prepared to find that
Tim would be traumatised by experience and unable to speak about it
at this time.

Still the questions came out
almost straight away after their greetings.

-So, what was it like?

-Oh, you know.

Tim only seemed a little bored
by the question. He was more interested to hear what everyone else
had been doing.

They were meeting in a small
city pub, a cheerful vulgar place that had been repainted in its
original Victorian colours. There were three small rooms set on
different levels packed with after-work drinkers and no-work
drinkers as well as the pre-theatre crowd. The hum of conversation
and the businesslike rhythms of beer consumption gave them a
comforting anonymity.

But Tim was something of a
disappointment to Matthew. He didn’t seem scarred or even
different. It seemed that he had no need of the father confessor
that Matthew had steeled himself to be.

-You were under fire, right?
Matthew asked eventually.

-I see I´m going to have to give
you a story, or there’ll be no peace. There´s about three minutes
worth of telling. And don’t believe those tales about squaddies
cutting ears off bodies or any of that other crap that gets said.
There is always someone ready to talk shit and someone else willing
to believe it. I didn’t see any men turned into monsters. All I saw
the same bloody confusion you get everywhere in life, just more so.
That talk about atrocities pisses me off. It´s a joke isn’t it? As
if a war’s not atrocity enough.

-I never imagined you’d be
bringing body parts home as souvenirs?

-And it pisses me off even more
that since I came back everyone’s been tip-toeing around me,
talking in concerned voices, as if I’m not really here or I must be
in shock. I’m getting to feel like I should apologize for not being
completely fucked up in myself. I’m so sorry to disappoint you all.
I mean, things were fucked up, of course, what do you expect? But
why does everyone need me to be some kind of basket case?

-Only tell me about what did
happen.

Tim took a long drink. For
another moment he seemed angry, and then it passed.

-Nothing much to tell. You know
we had that bit of a cruise to get there. It was cold and there
were too many of us for one ship. My god, they could have picked a
better place for a war. Then we arrived and the staff decided to
land us on an island somewhere; to do some fighting I suppose. So
we were packed into these little troop carriers, that are
guaranteed to make you proper seasick, and off we went. That was
horrible, with the waves and the rolling about; just uncomfortable
you know.