Lion Resurgent (40 page)

In front of him, he could see that the Argentine advance was stalling. It hadn’t taken much. They’d lost one man certainly dead and two wounded, but few of the swimmer-commandos seemed keen to mix it with professional Marines. They’d laid down a lot of fire on the center of the presumed British line. That had probably forced the other two members of the unit, Harding and Meriwether, back. Stroud and Miller had also dropped back after they’d drawn blood. That left Gillespie as the only one in their original positions. It also meant that it would be his torn. With that thought, another movement in the icy rocks caught his eye. It was the shape of a man moving forward, probably trying to probe the British positions. Gillespie took careful aim and squeezed out a ten-round burst. The figure lurched and was still.

It was the extra size of his weapon and the length of the burst that killed Gillespie. They delayed his move from his firing position by a fraction of a second. That brief pause was enough to expose him to the counter-fire from the Argentine unit. The 7.65mm bullets raked his position, ricocheting of the rocks around him and sending splinters of rock and ice through the air. One of the ricochets hit Gillespie just above his right temple and exited through the nape of his neck. The tumbling and distorted bullet killed him instantly.

Field Exploration Camp, Penguin River, South Georgia

Georgina Harcourt gasped at the explosion of gunfire. It was one thing to go through the motions of handling a rifle and learning how to use it, quite another to hear the crackle of gunfire and know that the shots she was hearing were intended to kill. She was also a quick learner and could tell the difference between the ripple of light cracks from the British rifles and the heavier, rhythmic thudding of the Argentine weapons. There was a disturbing preponderance of the latter.

“Cynthia, it’s started.”

Across the hut, her companion nodded. The hut seemed strangely empty after accommodating seven people for so long. She started to say something but was interrupted by another barrage of rifle fire. This exchange was noticeably closer than the earlier one. It ended with something new; the blast of a grenade exploding. Both women looked down at the hand grenades they had been given, suddenly understanding the lethality of the heavy metal eggs. “We’d better get out of here.”

Georgina nodded and led the way out of the hut into the rocks that lay between it and the shore. Once outside and moving north, the noise of the fighting behind them was drowned out by the clamor of the hysterical penguins.

SBS Unit, Penguin River, South Georgia

Miller cautiously looked over the edge of his new position and tried to spot where the Argies were pushing forward.
Everywhere
was the answer that forced itself on him. He and his men had killed at least three and left two more badly wounded but they had lost two of their own in the process. Gillespie caught by gunfire and “Happy” Meriwether killed by a grenade. Odds that had started at eighteen to five were now thirteen to three. The problem was that the situation they faced was a nightmare for units like the SBS. Normally, faced with these kind of odds, they would disengage and slip away. Here, there was nowhere to slip away to and they were anchored in place by the two women. That left them very few tactical options.

Another blast of fire saturated a pile of rocks off to his left. The Argies were predictable all right. They would lay down a heavy blast of covering fire, then a few of their men would try and rush forward to seize a new position. Sound basic tactics but against the tiny handful of SBS men scattered in the rocks, the covering fire served only to give notice of the impending move. Sure enough, a group of six swimmer-commandos broke cover and tried to move up to another line of rocks. Five of them actually made it but the advance cost them the sixth. He was left sprawled over the rocks, the shining white of the rock disfigured by the flow of red down its sides. The odds were now twelve to three but the Argies had seized another few yards of ground.

Swimmer-Commando Team, Penguin River, South Georgia

Almost a third of his unit was dead or wounded. That alone made Rafa believe that he was up against a much more powerful force than he had originally thought. He now seriously questioned whether it would be possible for him to clean out this observation post the way he had been ordered to.
There had to be at least a dozen or so British troops in front of him, probably the survivors of the garrison at Grytviken.
Thinking about the damage those troops had inflicted on the
Punta Alta,
a dozen was the smallest number he could expect. Rafa did the calculations quickly.
Assuming twenty or so troops had been in the small port, six had been killed there and probably two more here. That made a dozen sound right.
It also meant that he was, at best, now equal to the defenders in numbers and might well be outnumbered by them.

It was time for another push forward. His remaining sergeant had picked out the most likely point for the British defenders to occupy. The blast of fire from the two machine guns sent tracers scouring into the rocks. A group of his men sprinted forward under its cover. As soon as they were in the open, the volume of fire from the guns suddenly slackened. That appeared to encourage the British. The rifle fire that greeted the assault team was much more intense than the isolated bursts that had been experienced to date. Rafa instinctively made the estimate. There were at least three machine guns firing this time and their effect was obvious. Four of the six men went down. Two obviously dead; two more still moving. The other pair scuttled back to cover.

Furious, Rafa wormed his way through the rocks to the position held by his men.
That latest push might have been decisive if one of the machine guns hadn’t ceased fire
he told himself. In the forward position held by his men, Rafa was met by his surviving sergeant. “Sir, you had better look at this.”

‘This’ was one of his machine gun crews. Both men were dead, neatly shot through the head by bullets that had penetrated their helmets. Rafa had seen damage and injuries like that many times before. They were the result of armor-piercing 7.65mm rounds. The steel-cored bullets had sliced through the protection afforded by the men’s helmets but it was the sheer precision of the shots that was impressive. Rafa looked at the bodies, imagining how they had been positioned while they had been firing on the British in front. That made it very obvious. The bullets had come from behind the Argentine positions.

The sergeant had come to the same conclusion. “Sir, they were killed by our own people. We have traitors amongst us.”

Rafa nodded. It was possible some of the Argentine Marines had followed the Swimmer-Commando unit and decided to take the opportunity of eliminating some of the hated commandos. That was more palateable for him than the possibility some of the men in this unit had turned their coats. He wasn’t able to take that line of thought much further since the air was filled with a curious whistling roar. He looked up as the two Rotodynes started a strafing pass. Observation point or not, it was time to leave.

SBS Unit, Penguin River, South Georgia

Miller looked up. Two Junglie rotodynes swept overhead. Their under-nose gun turrets sprayed fire into the rocks in front of them.
Talk about the cavalry arriving at the last possible minute
he thought. The last Argentine assault had been pushed back, but Harding had been badly hit by the rifle fire. There was a good chance he wouldn’t make it out. The Junglies had arrived in just the nick of time. They passed swiftly over the area and were now circling around, clear of the battle area. A rotodyne was about as fast as a Second World War fighter when the pilot was suitably nervous. They didn’t hang around over hostile ground. One of the rotodynes swept in again, firing its underwing rockets. The other one headed for the location of the camp hut.

Wearily, Miller squirmed backwards through the rocks, meeting Stroud on the way. “Harding?”

The question was terse. Stroud’s response equally so. “Gone.”

The two surviving SBS men made their way back to the camp and the Rotodyne that had landed near it. A group of Royal Marines were already spreading out to secure the perimeter. Conscious that he and Stroud were being covered by half a dozen rifles, Miller sought out their commander, carefully avoiding any suggestion the person he was speaking to was an officer. “You made it just in time. Things were getting pretty sticky out there.”

“We were heading inland but got a radio message to divert here.” The Marine officer looked at the two SBS men with a tinge of awe. They may have been dirty and distinctly malodorous, but they’d secured British sovereignty here on South Georgia for weeks.

“A radio message. Must have been the girls.” Stroud looked around for the two women. To his relief he saw them coming in, escorted by a pair of Marines.

“What happened to the others?” Cynthia asked the question, although she and Georgina must have known the answer. At any rate, they didn’t wait for the answer before starting to cry.

Miller shook his head sadly. “They’re out in the rocks. We’d all be there if you hadn’t got that radio message out.”

Georgina snuffled, then frowned. “Radio? We didn’t get a message out. We just hid in the rocks like you told us to.”

“Women doing as they are told? You got these two well-trained.” The Marine officer faked incredulity then yelped as Cynthia kicked his ankle. Miller shook his head then looked around at the hills. Somehow, they seemed oddly friendly.

HMS
Lion,
Flagship, Cruiser Squadron, Off South Georgia

It was a sight that had not been seen on the world’s oceans for more than sixty years. A formation of ships had formed line of battle and were about to open fire on the enemy. There had been naval battles since the First World War of course, but they had been wild scrambles between diffuse formations of ships. They had lacked the stately majesty of the sight Admiral Timothy Tyrrell Chupe saw. The three cruisers lined up astern of his flagship was a sight to be viewed with something like quiet satisfaction. The cruiser squadron had only formed up a few days before. Now it was tasked with supporting the South Georgia landings. HMS
Panther
had come in from China Station, although the long high-speed run from Singapore had strained her old engines.
Tiger
had been hustled out of a remarkably accelerated refit while
Leopard
had come in from Mediterranean Station. At first, they had been assigned to screen the two carriers but they had been relieved of nursemaid detail so they could take part in Operation Parakeet.

“Any word from the booties?” Chupe’s question seemed aimed at vacant space but nobody was under any illusions who would have to answer. Chupe ran a taut ship and his officers knew their trade. They also knew how he liked his bridge to run. The key word there was ‘smoothly’.

“The Rotodynes relieved the observation point on the Penguin River Sir.” The communications officer didn’t need to consult his notes. “They rescued the survivors of the SBS team and the two civilians. The SBS were under attack at the time. The Rotodynes gave them fire support but they lost three men out of five. The Marines have the observation point now and are on the radio, prepared to direct fire. One of the Rotodynes is heading over to
Argus
to deliver the survivors, the other inland to pick up the other SBS group and the Antarctic Survey Group survivors.”

It was a neat, concise report that earned the communications officer an approving nod. Chupe turned around and looked at the three cruisers following him again. “Order all ships to commence firing on my signal. One salvo, then wait for range and bearing corrections.” His attention was still riveted on his four cruisers. He had no intention of missing the historic sight. Chupe paused and took a deep breath. “Signal, open fire.”

The sixteen six-inch guns on the four cruisers fired simultaneously, crashing out a single, deafening statement of intent. It was as impressive a sight as Chupe had ever seen.

For a moment, he felt a twinge of nostalgia that the days of line of battle and broadsides had gone.

“We have a fire correction, Sir.” The communications officer spoke quickly. “Drop range two hundred yards, bearing change plus one degree.”

The firing corrections were transmitted to the fire control stations on the four cruisers. The twin turrets on the cruisers shifted slightly. Then the guns crashed again.

“On target, Sir. That lot landed dead center of Grytviken. Spotter says fire for effect.”

“Does he indeed? Order all ships; set rate of fire for 20 rounds per minute. One minute barrage.”

The orders went out. Chupe waited for a moment then gave the signal for the bombardment to start. Eighty six inch shells arriving in a minute would, he hoped, have the desired effect on the Argentine garrison unfortunate enough to be in Grytviken.

HMS
Argus,
Helicopter Support Ship, Off South Georgia

The whistle of the Rotodyne powering down made the rumble of thunder all the more obvious. Georgina Harcourt shivered as she stepped out of the back of the aircraft. “At least that was one thing we were spared. I hate thunderstorms.”

“That’s not thunder Ma’am. That’s the cruisers bombarding the Argie garrison at Grytviken.” Stroud listened to the gunfire with satisfaction. “They’re really working the place over.”

“But there were people in there! I mean our people.”

“Miss Harcourt?” An officer had come out to meet the party. As he got close, Georgina saw his nose wrinkle. She decided to get a shower as soon as humanly possible. “Do you have relatives in the Antarctic Survey Group or the civilians in Grytviken?”

“No, but Cynthia and I met them when we arrived.”

“Well, most of them were evacuated inland just before the invasion. They’re being picked up now. Three were left in Grytviken: the Postmaster, one other fit person and another who had a leg injury making him unfit to travel. All three are reported to have been killed.” The Officer paused, uncertain about how much the two women needed to know. “We have every reason to believe that you two were intended to join them. Anyway, you’re safe now. May I offer you the hospitality of HMS
Argus?”