Scram! (6 page)

Two friends on my course were chopped in the final weeks before going front line, one just before milex, one just after. The official explanation was that they weren't good enough. Nevertheless both went on to become highly experienced commercial pilots. The unofficial explanation was defence cuts.

The remaining five of us completed our training and, on 1 March 1982, we joined 845 Naval Air Squadron as
newly
qualified Royal Navy pilots. More importantly, we had become
junglies
.

Friday 11 June 1982, Port San Carlos, Falkland Islands. Neil Cummins and I headed out across the muddy grass in the darkness. It was cold and windless. The first signs of dawn stretched across the horizon. A junior engineer followed just behind us to help with getting the Wessex started.

The huge green bird that was ours for the day sat with its rotor blades drooping heavily, restrained by red ‘tip socks' that tied them to the fuselage like a bonnet. I could just make out the letters XL, X-Ray Lima, on the side. Between the three of us, we removed the tip socks and gathered together the other covers that protected the engine intake and exhausts from rain and water.

Remembering all of the vitally important checks around the aircraft ought to have been unnecessary as the maintainers had already thoroughly checked and serviced the aircraft earlier. But pilots are sticklers for procedure. I did a thorough walk around the helicopter as a final check. Human error is an easy way to kill yourself.

As I clambered over the aircraft, using brief flashes of my torch to check whether oil levels were sufficient and hatches were closed, I could see little flashes around me from the dozen other Wessex pilots getting ready for launch. I wondered what little idiosyncrasies I would find on this particular helicopter. I smiled as I opened the platform that allowed me to check the gearbox oil level. At least I knew there was some oil in this one.

A minute or so later I was putting on my helmet and Mae West lifejacket and climbing up into the cockpit. This aircraft had no heavy window armour, so I slid the door shut, adjusted the height of my seat, fiddled with the
pedals
, and strapped myself in. A hundred switches, knobs, levers and dials stared at me, challenging my next move. I flicked on the battery switch, plugged in my helmet lead, and adjusted my microphone. Neil Cummins was wearing his throat mike which, picking up vibrations in the vocal chords, gave a curiously metallic sound to his voice. I deciphered the inevitable ‘How do you read, boss?' with practised ease.

‘Loud and clear.'

‘Loud and clear also.'

‘Ground power in please.' He plugged the lead from the spare batteries into the side of the aircraft just below the exhaust pipe. It would give us an extra electrical boost when starting the first of our engines.

My hands and eyes ran quickly over the switches on the centre console between the pilots seats, switching some on, leaving others off, testing warning lights and generally preparing the electrics for start-up. I then raised my left hand to the radio panel in the roof and selected all the different frequencies I would require from my four radio sets, checking the numbers against what I had written on my knee pad during the pre-flight brief. Looking down onto the instrument panels I had a good look at every dial, running my eyes over them from left to right. Co-pilot's dials, engine gauges, fuel flow meters, torque, and across to the pilot's flight instruments in front of me that would tell me height, speed, rate of climb and aircraft attitude, amongst other things. With a full waggle of the two sticks, cyclic in my right and collective in my left, and a good kick on both pedals, I was ready to start in less than a minute.

‘Starting port,' I said.

‘Roger,' came the reply as I pressed the starter button down and held it. The engine beneath the co-pilot's feet
wound
up slowly while it waited for ignition. The ignition unit crackers below me did their stuff. With a roar from the port exhaust outside the window to my left, the engine lit. I moved my hand to the fuel cut-off in case the temperature went too high. But after its speedy upward rise, the temperature needle dropped back as the increased airflow through the engine cooled things down. With a slight increase on the speed select lever or throttle, the generators came on line and I called for ground power to be unplugged. After checking that all the generator-powered electrics had also come on, I repeated the start procedure with the starboard engine. The engine roared into life with a loud blast outside below my window. I remembered to switch on the anti-icing system that prevents ice from building up in the intakes and damaging the engines.

As first light was breaking, I circled my finger in the air to the maintainer now standing on the ground just beyond the tip of the rotor blades. He had a last look around and replied with the same hand signal. ‘Engaging rotors,' I said as I eased the rotor brake off and checked that it was locked off. I then moved the starboard speed select lever slowly forward to accelerate the engine that was now driving the four huge blades. As the blades sped up, the aircraft started to rock slowly from side to side.

As the blades reached flying speed the rocking slowed. With speed select fully forward, the fuel computer would make sure the engine maintained that speed, neither too fast nor too slow. I put the port engine into drive and advanced the lever to the gate. As it reached the gate, it started to help drive the rotors and I saw the starboard fuel flow reduce as the port increased. With a little tweak of both speed select levers, the fuel flows were balanced, showing that the two Rolls-Royce Gnome engines were now taking equal strain.

With the rotors going, I checked that both hydraulic systems were running and the autopilot functioning properly. Neil Cummins checked the winch and load hook. We were ready to roll. I called out my final pre-take-off checks, called for the wheel chocks to be lifted off the grass and put in the back, and prepared for launch with a final adjustment of the friction on my collective lever.

A nearby Wessex announced on the squadron frequency that he was departing from the east side of the hillside. I called him to check my radio was working. The powerful downdraft from his aircraft then buffeted me as he rose up into the dawn air to my right. I called a quick warning that I was departing. ‘X-Ray Lima now lifting from the western side.' I eased gently up on the collective lever, simultaneously pushing my left foot slowly forward and moving the cyclic stick slightly back and to the left. The faint outline of the disc made by the rotor blades moved upwards and I felt the undercarriage oleos extending as the blades took the strain. With the controls, I felt for the balance needed to keep the aircraft pointing straight and to lift the aircraft vertically. The starboard wheel left the ground followed by the port wheel and finally the tail wheel. A little extra power on the collective and we rose cleanly above the ground.

Normally I would ease off the power and hover at fifteen feet to check the systems were working well. Today, I needed to get clear of the other helicopters that were also starting up. We rose smoothly up into the air and, as I ran my eyes quickly through the cockpit instruments, I eased the cyclic stick forward and increased power a touch more to drop the nose, build up speed and clear the area. A bit of pressure on the left foot corrected the urge to yaw.

As we increased speed, I felt the slight judder of the aerodynamic forces on the blades. I was aware of the other
Wessex
half a mile in front of me as we passed above the farm buildings of Port San Carlos settlement. I accelerated smoothly up to ninety knots, about a hundred miles per hour, and headed out into San Carlos Bay, flying at fifty feet above the sea. It was hugely exhilarating. I headed into the anti-clockwise pattern around the bay, partly set up to avoid collisions, mostly to identify any intruders.

We had been told to get to HMS
Fearless
where we would get our first instructions for the day. In front of the dark shadow of the hills on the far side of the bay lay the dozen or so ships. The huge amphibious assault ship
Fearless
had a
junglie
Sea King from my sister squadron burning and turning on one of its two helicopter spots. The other assault ship
Intrepid
, various frigates, a BP fuel tanker and several landing ships were also dotted around the bay. We flew past the frigate HMS
Plymouth
that had survived a Mirage attack two days earlier. A large black hole in her funnel revealed the target of the bomb that had passed right through it without exploding.

The first breaths of wind were starting to break up the calm water surface. There was patchy cloud at high level above. In the early morning light, the Falklands scenery was stunning. I lowered the collective lever and flared the aircraft to reduce our forward speed, smoothly bringing X-Ray Lima into a hover alongside the flight deck of
Fearless
.

The flight-deck officer waved me across to the spare landing spot clear of the Sea King. My landing was confident and firm, just as it was supposed to be. ‘Good stuff boss, I'm just disconnecting to get our tasking.'

Cummins then walked out to get our instructions from the flight-deck officer now in front of me.

It was a beautiful day to be at war.

Chapter 3

April Fools: 2 April 1982

THROUGHOUT LATE MARCH
, Argentina ignored Britain's protests about the landings in South Georgia. On the morning of Friday 2 April, a large force of Argentine marines landed on the Falkland Islands near the capital Port Stanley. The British force of sixty-eight Royal Marines of Naval Party 8901 engaged the invaders in a brief firefight, killing one Argentine marine and wounding several others. Overwhelmed by sheer numbers, there was no real choice but to surrender. Falkland Island Governor Rex Hunt and the party of Royal Marines were flown out to Argentina and repatriated to the UK. Many of them would be back within weeks
.

The following day, a smaller force of eighty Argentines attempted to secure the British Antarctic Survey base at King Edward Point, near Grytviken on South Georgia, little knowing that the position was occupied by twenty-two Royal Marines dropped there days earlier from HMS
Endurance.
The Royal Marine detachment put up a spirited surprise defence, crippling an Argentine Puma helicopter
and
the navy frigate ARA
Guerrico,
killing several Argentines and wounding many more, at a cost of one Royal Marine wounded. Realising that further action would lead to a pointless bloodbath, Lieutenant Keith Mills RM raised the white flag and negotiated a peaceful surrender. As prisoners, their excellent treatment and repatriation by the Argentines helped set the tone for subsequent prisoner handling on both sides
.

We could have let the Falklands go. But the invasion offended British national pride. Most importantly, it offended Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. Within just a few frantic days, a naval task force was assembled to sail the 8,000 miles and retake the islands. Despite the activity, nobody thought we were serious
.

Thursday 1 April 1982. Sub-Lieutenant Paul ‘Hector' Heathcote sat in his flying overalls in the aircrew room of the RAF station at Aldergrove, near Belfast. Heathcote was one of six pilots, three aircrew and twenty maintainers making up 845 Squadron's Northern Ireland detachment. The role of the unit was to support Army operations throughout the province. Co-located alongside the resident RAF squadron, each unit provided two Wessex helicopters on permanent call. It was a considerable source of pride that the Royal Navy
junglies
managed this with just four Wessex helicopters whereas the ‘crabs', as the RAF are known by the other services, needed twelve. The resulting banter between the two services was usually friendly, but occasionally bubbled over into something more fractious.

The lead story in the newspapers that morning was all about the illegal landing of Argentine scrap merchants on the British protectorate of South Georgia. Heathcote thought it would be amusing to play an April Fools' joke on his fiancée Linda back in England. What if 845 were
deployed
down there to deal with them? Later that afternoon he rang her up from the officers' mess payphone. ‘Sorry darling, we're all off to the Falklands for three months. We've got to go and do something.'

He had no idea that this was exactly what was to happen for real.

‘Where are the Falklands? Off Scotland?' she replied, echoing the same question that would resound around the country just a few hours later.

At RNAS Yeovilton the following day, the phones were ringing red hot. Squadron commanding officers had been instructed to recall their aircrew, many of whom had just left for Easter leave, in response to news of the early morning invasion of the Falkland Islands by Argentine special forces. In 845 Squadron staff office, commanding officer Lieutenant Commander Roger Warden, senior pilot Lieutenant Commander Mike Booth and air engineering officer Lieutenant Commander Peter Vowles discussed their plans. The initial requirement was to assign crews and aircraft and send them off as detachments as soon as possible. For a commando squadron, this was bread-and-butter stuff. As well as frequently rotating aircraft and crews to and from Northern Ireland, there were regular detachments of either two or four aircraft to land bases in Norway or Germany and to various Royal Navy and Royal Fleet Auxiliary ships.

As air engineer officer, Vowles was primarily concerned with the usable hours available on each airframe, gearbox and engine. All helicopter parts have a limited lifespan before needing replacement or overhaul. His expertise lay in assigning the right aircraft and components based on their remaining life and likely use. The maintainers in each detachment would take with them a ‘flyaway pack' of plastic boxes filled with basic parts and a spare engine.

While Vowles sorted out aircraft availability, Mike Booth's first conversation was with Lieutenant Nick Foster. Foster and his flight had returned a few weeks earlier from Northern Ireland and were about to go on leave. Instead they were told to get themselves and two aircraft ready to embark in a Belfast transport aeroplane and head on down to Ascension Island on the equator. His second conversation was a phonecall to Lieutenant Commander Jack Lomas at home. ‘Jack, I want you back asap to take a pair of gunships up to
Resource
in Rosyth. You're going with Oily.'