Scram! (43 page)

A fourth attack followed the pattern of the first two, but the jet failed to get properly lined up and Clayton
again
managed to stay inside the turn. The two Daggers then disappeared as abruptly as they had arrived. Clayton and Hullett now turned back for their ship,
Cardiff
, giggling with adrenalin and excitement.

For his exceptional airmanship that day, which had saved both their lives, Clayton was awarded a Mention in Despatches.

Back in the relative safety of Port San Carlos, Al Doughty and I had been tasked as casevac helicopter at Ajax Bay for the day. Once again flying the unwanted battle-scarred Yankee Tango, we felt frustrated that we were to spend time away from the front line. But it still felt good that our superiors trusted a baby pilot and junior aircrewman enough to operate in a war zone on our own.

It was a beautiful clear and bright day as we passed between the handful of ships at anchor in the dark waters of San Carlos Bay. As we flew past the refuelling ship RFA
Olna
, with its huge gantries and high flight deck, neither of us had any idea that two more Wessex lay idle, locked away within
Olna
's hangar. Our frustration was as nothing compared to that felt by Lieutenant Mark Salter, my main Wessex instructor from a few months previously. Despite a stream of increasingly heated requests to
Fearless
, and personal contact with two passing 847 Squadron pilots, his team of three pilots and two aircrewmen had been given no tasking whatsoever and told to keep their deck clear for refuelling. It was an inexplicable omission of two serviceable assets during the crucial last few stages of the war.

I set my Wessex on a long curving turn to bring us in to land next to the refrigeration plant that was the Ajax Bay field hospital. The words ‘Welcome to the Red and Green Life Machine' stood out in red letters on the long
sidewall
. We were quickly greeted by the jovial figure of Surgeon Commander Rick ‘Doc' Jolly. It wasn't often that a sub-lieutenant was addressed by a senior officer, especially in such polite and enthusiastic terms. Jolly was a huge fan of the many
junglie
crews, both Sea King and Wessex, who were consistently quick to offer their unofficial services as casevac helicopters throughout the war when official requests for helicopters had been turned down. We were unwitting recipients of this goodwill. Doughty and I were generously given a personalised tour of the impromptu operating theatres inside the plant. Jolly took special pleasure in taking us around a corner and pointing out his unexploded bomb. At this point I suggested it might be a good idea for him to tell us what flying he wanted us to do.

After parking my Wessex next to the main field hospital at Ajax Bay, nicknamed ‘the red and green life machine', Surgeon Commander Rick Jolly took great pleasure in showing me the unexploded bomb that dangled next to his operating theatre. At this point, I thought it best to get airborne as quickly as possible.

After flashing up, we waved in the stretcher bearers to take our first patient out to SS
Uganda
, parked over the hill in Falkland Sound. As I pushed the nose of the Wessex over the top of the Sussex Mountain hillside and down towards the sea I suddenly became very aware that I wasn't wearing my goon suit. Combats and wellies wouldn't quite do the trick if I had to ditch in the freezing cold of the South Atlantic. We had no idea that we were passing over almost exactly the spot where Rick Jolly had voluntarily immersed himself twice, whilst going to the aid of survivors from the burning HMS
Ardent
.

The converted cruise ship
Uganda
stood out brightly against the very blue sea. My landing had to be at right angles to the deck, with the aircraft pointing out to the port side of the ship. So with
Uganda
sailing slowly into wind, I kicked the aircraft around to the left as we came to the hover just to the stern. It felt good to be capable of flying a non-standard approach. The deck landing didn't faze me.

On deck, Al Doughty asked me if I fancied anything to eat or drink. Definitely. A deckhand then ran in under the rotor disc clutching a cup of fresh coffee and a paper bag containing a sausage sandwich. It was the perfect gift to set me up for a long day's flying.

Ten miles to our north, a flight of seven Argentine A-4 Skyhawks from Grupo 5 swept low across Falkland Sound ignoring a British helicopter as they flashed past. An eighth Skyhawk had turned back soon after launch. The remaining aircraft continued on at low level over land towards the line of hills that led towards Port Stanley.

At 3 Commando Brigade headquarters near Mount Kent, Major General Jeremy Moore was in the middle of briefing his commanders. The first group of Skyhawks took the
British
by surprise from the rear. Taking cover in trenches as the jets screamed overhead, the ground forces were quick to fire back, damaging at least one Skyhawk with small-arms fire and light rockets. Bombs exploded near two Army Air Corps helicopters, badly damaging both cockpit canopies and tail booms. There was nobody in the Scout and Gazelle helicopters; their crews were in at brigade headquarters being briefed on the next mission.

Further along the valley to the north-east, my colleague Lieutenant Paul McIntosh was gently easing X-Ray Bravo into the hover by 29 Commando's artillery position, with fresh supplies of ammunition for their guns. Dangling underneath his Wessex was a cargo net and pallet full of shells. McIntosh watched as the gunner on the ground marshalled them into position. The ridgeline of Mount Longdon lay ahead. He wasn't sure whether the ridge was occupied by British or Argentine forces. McIntosh was aware that the visibility was incredible and that the sun was probably glinting on his rotors, making them an easy target. But at least he was outside the range of small-arms fire.

As Petty Officer aircrewman Jed Clamp calmly gave a steady talk down to the landing point, McIntosh switched his gaze back to the gun emplacement out to his right. Suddenly the gunner pointed excitedly and grabbed his machine gun, swivelling it up towards the hills. Through the front of the cockpit windscreen, McIntosh saw a pair of Skyhawks just clearing the ridge, silhouetted against the skyline for a moment. The lead Skyhawk was heading straight at the Wessex. The number two was attacking to his left, flying in strike formation.

McIntosh knew instantly that he was personally marking the target for the Skyhawks. He also knew he was a sitting duck. Reacting quickly, but calmly, he told his crewman:
‘We
need to release the load. Now!' The urgency in his voice was obvious.

Clamp reacted quickly: ‘All clear!'

McIntosh pressed the release button and the net fell away safely to the ground. His instinct now was to break right straight away, keeping the ground in view below him and putting the two big Gnome engines between him and the likely incoming blast. As he pushed the helicopters nose forward to accelerate directly across the firing line of the gunner, the gunner looked straight up at him even as he opened fire. ‘Man the gimpy,' McIntosh shouted at Clamp, telling him to use the cabin machine gun. He already knew there would be little chance to fire it in the few moments available.

The Wessex and Skyhawks were now heading directly at each other. McIntosh watched their weapons release as two 1,000-pound bombs came off the rails. Now that the helicopter had begun to accelerate forwards, he yanked the cyclic control hard to the right. Achieving a crossing rate was standard fighter-evasion tactics. ‘This is never going to work,' he thought as the Wessex rolled onto its side. The two jets roared past as they broke to their left, passing behind X-Ray Bravo and turning to the west.

The bombs landed the length of a cricket pitch away. There was no chance of escaping the blast. McIntosh braced himself. None came. There was no explosion. Both the artillery positions and the Wessex escaped wholly unscathed. The bombs had been dropped too close to their target and the fuses had failed to unwind. It wasn't just the ships that were being spared by the failure of Argentine bombs to arm.

As the first flight of Skyhawks completed their run over 3 Brigade headquarters, they turned to the west to escape.
Right
in front of them was a commando Sea King. Victor Alpha was on its way down from the top of Mount Kent where it had been dropping off ammunition. It was an opportunity target for the Skyhawks.

This really captures the feel of what it was like flying near the front line during the last few days. It's the kind of view my colleague Paul McIntosh had just before two Skyhawks steamed over the ridgeline directly at him and dropped two 1,000-pound bombs right underneath his Wessex. Mercifully, they failed to detonate. Here, the hillside is smoking from enemy artillery fire as a Wessex comes in to land next to a regimental first aid post. A Scout helicopter waits with a stretcher strapped outside: the
teeny weenies
were far braver than us.

At the controls of Victor Alpha were Simon Thornewill and Dave Lord – both experienced instructors who had taught me on the Wessex training squadron just a few months earlier. Their senses were already heightened having just sat in the hover while the big guns next to them were still firing. The two aircrew in the rear cabin, Alfie Tupper and John Sheldon, spotted the Skyhawks through the bubble windows: ‘Enemy A-4s astern of us!'

Thornewill was well versed in fighter-evasion techniques. He knew that the key was to change direction and height to make it as hard as possible for the jet pilot to get a clear shot. Making the break just as the pilot was ready to fire was crucial. Thornewill's response was automatic. Almost instantly, he had made up his mind to break down and to the left into the hillside. Going down was the only option because the Sea King doesn't have the power to climb rapidly. The narrow ravines running uphill might provide some sort of refuge. Thornewill now waited for one of his crewmen to make the call to break.

With the first pair of Skyhawks about 800 yards from them, Tupper gave the call: ‘Break!'

It all happened in seconds. Thornewill rolled the Sea King into a tight left-hand turn and pushed the nose down to descend, snatching full power at the same time. The suddenness of the encounter and change of direction by the Sea King gave little time for the Skyhawks. As the two jets shot over the top, the second pair appeared behind them almost simultaneously.

The Sea King was now dropping fast into a ravine. But the tightness of the turn had also caused the big helicopter to slow down. They were a sitting duck for the lead Skyhawk. The crew heard the rattle of cannon fire from behind them and to their left as they disappeared into one of the ravines. There was no time to think. A mild thud came from somewhere on the Sea King's rotors. They had been hit.

As the second pair of jets sped on past, Thornewill continued manoeuvring the Sea King violently uphill through the narrow valley just feet above the ground. The aircraft was handling well. But watching the hillside flash past perilously close to his cabin doorway Tupper was convinced that the tail rotor was about to hit. It was
equally
unnerving for Dave Lord, having to watch as a front-seat pilot but without his hands on the controls.

After continuing the evasion uphill, Thornewill soon found a Sea King-sized gulley in which to hide and shut down. The crew got out to find out what had been hit; it wasn't obvious at first. A cannon shell had passed through the main spar of one of the rotor blades. Otherwise they were undamaged. Within hours, Victor Alpha was repaired with a new blade and back on task. It was another astonishing escape.

A beautiful day for war. I was flying just about the only helicopter back at San Carlos while this
junglie
Sea King was unloading 5 Brigade troops thirty-five miles away on the front line ready for the final assault. Later this morning, a flight of Argentine Skyhawks attacked our nearby gun positions, damaged a couple of
teeny weenies
with bombs, and put a bullet through a Sea King blade. It was the last air raid of the war.