The Sunday Times - UK (2022-04-03)

20

THE FALKLANDS WAR

The conflict led

to Margaret

Thatcher, above,

winning a

landslide in 1983.

Top: a bomb

detonates missile

magazines on

the frigate HMS

Antelope; the

Union Jack flies

again over Port

Stanley; and

celebrating the

Canberra’s return

to Britain

THE CONFLICT IN NUMBERS

A TIMELINE

OF WAR

Length of war: 74 days

How the forces compared

Population of Falkland Islands: 1,

Britain

Troops

Ships

Submarines

Aircraft

Fatalities

Argentina

May 2

The Royal Navy’s Conqueror submarine

sinks the Argentine cruiser General

Belgrano when it briefly enters the

exclusion zone. 300 crew are killed,

making the incident the single greatest

loss of life during the war. It is seized

on by anti-war activists in Britain

May 4

British destroyer HMS Sheffield is sunk

by an Exocet missile with a loss of 20 crew

May 20

Peace talks organised by the

United Nations fall apart

May 28

The battle for Goose Green sees 45 to 55

Argentine soldiers and 18 British troops

killed in fighting that lasts day and night

June 14

British forces liberate Stanley, the capital.

The Argentines lay down their

weapons and surrender

June 20

British forces declare an end to

hostilities and ships return home

to a jubilant Britain

April 2, 1982

The Argentine military junta led by

Lieutenant General Leopoldo Galtieri

launches an invasion of the Falkland Islands

amidst a long-running ownership dispute

with Britain

April 5

Prime minister Margaret Thatcher gives

a speech in which she says: “We have to

recover those islands, we have to recover

them for the people on them are British.”

The first British ships, more than 100

of them, leave Portsmouth, arriving

in the Falklands nearly three weeks later

April 7

Britain imposes a 200-mile exclusion zone

around the islands and troops engage

in a series of naval and air battles

Falkland

Islands Stanley

Buenos Aires

1,150 miles

Portsmouth

8,000 miles

ARGENTINA

CHILE

SOUTH

ATL ANTIC

OCEAN

100 miles

255 British

3 Falkland Islanders

9,000 10,

127 (4 sunk) 3 (1 sunk)

62

70 (34 downed) 200 (around 100 downed)

649

Falklands at 40

A ‘lucky’ war that

changed Britain

HULTON ARCHIVE/GETTY IMAGES; PA

now, lads!” I heard a huge chief petty offi-

cer say to steady a skittish cluster of naval

ratings. “This is serious!”

The voyage south was characterised

by spasms of excitement followed by

many anticlimaxes. As back home the

diplomacy ebbed and flowed, Marines

and Paras jogged relentlessly around the

deck, chanting: “We are strong, we are

tough, because we eat our Wheatipuffs!”

I exercised alone, at 4am: while desper-

ate to be fit to yomp, I was unwilling to

expose my flaccid white body before

those young supermen.

T

he most moving event of those

weeks took place one sultry tropical

evening south of the Equator. At

last we knew the force was going to

fight. Amid a glassy calm on an

ocean empty except for our consorts and

escorts, men crowded the upperworks of

Canberra to watch the Commando Bri-

gade band, in dress uniform, Beating

Retreat. They played every standard

from Rule Britannia! to Sailing, which

became the voyage’s theme music.

When, at last, the band fell out and we

went below, I dismissed all my cynical

thoughts about the folly of conducting

such a struggle. I knew only that I was a

privileged spectator; that I loved the men

with whom I found myself embarked

upon this extraordinary adventure; and I

passionately wanted Our Side to win.

We landed at San Carlos on the night of

May 21. The Argentinians surrendered on

June 14. The story of the weeks between

was that of Britain’s armed forces bat-

tling climate — God, it was so

cold, and the wind seemed

never to die — superior

enemy numbers, all

that yomping, fight-

ing, repeated air

attacks and shocking

command muddles.

There were moments when we were

very afraid, sharing loneliness, under

bombardment so far from home. One day

on the shore, as we watched a ship struck

by bombs, a young Marine standing

beside me said: “Gor, if it goes on like this,

we’ll have to get the Yanks down here to

help!” I broke it to him that we were on

our own.

We heard many bangs in the days that

followed, and good old HMS Fearless —

the command ship on which I now sailed,

under Jeremy Larken, my favourite cap-

tain — survived them all. Larken set a pat-

tern for calm under fire that would not

have been out of place in The Cruel Sea,

and we were served some terrific din-

ners. I was frightened again, as a passen-

ger on an overloaded Sea King helicopter,

contour-chasing through darkness to

land on Mount Kent. “What happens if

the Argies shell the landing zone?” I

demanded of my neighbour, Michael

Rose, commanding officer of the SAS. He

leant over and shouted back over the clat-

yy

e folly of conducting

new only that I was a

r; that I loved the men

nd myself embarked

inary adventure; and I

d Our Side to win.

n Carlos on the night of

inians surrendered on

of the weeks between

s armed forces bat-

d, it was so

seemed

erior

all

ht-

air

king

s.

mentswhen we were

ng loneliness, under

ar from home. One day

watched a ship struck

ung Marine standing

or, if itgoes on like this,

e Yanks down here to

him that we were on

bangs in the days that

d old HMS Fearless —

on which I now sailed,

en, my favourite cap-

m all. Larken set a pat-

er firethat would not

lace in The Cruel Sea,

ed some terrific din-

ned again, as a passen-

ed Sea King helicopter,

hrough darkness to

nt. “What happens if

he landing zone?” I

neighbour, Michael

g officer of the SAS. He

uted back over the clat-

S

ome 20 years after the Falk-

lands war, I met the Argen-

tine major who had com-

manded positions on the

western side of Port Stanley. I

asked him why, when he saw

my terrified, exhausted, gan-

gly figure trudge hesitantly

and alone towards him early

on the morning of June 14,

1982, he did not shoot. He responded:

“Well, you didn’t look very military, and

as far as I knew there was no lunatic asy-

lum on the island, so I thought you must

be a journalist.”

Indeed I was. That walk, while British

troops around the Falklands capital

awaited the outcome of negotiations for

an Argentine surrender, was one of those

silly stunts war correspondents often

perform in pursuit of scoops. The colonel

of 2 Para, with whom I had marched to

the edge of Stanley, expressed irritation

that the enemy failed to shoot me,

because I behaved so irresponsibly.

Be that as it may, I forged onwards to

find the Upland Goose Hotel, which was

crowded with Falkland Islanders. My

appearance, harbinger of the British task

force, prompted rejoicing such as I have

never achieved at any other social gather-

ing. At 8am they gave me the largest and

best whisky of my life. Then I hastened

back to the British lines, where Brigadier

Julian Thompson generously ordered a

helicopter to take me to a warship, from

which I filed my pooled story, which any

paper could use.

By the time my dispatch reached Lon-

don, the prime minister, Margaret

Thatcher, had announced to the House of

Commons the surrender of Argentine

forces. Indeed, the naval transmission of

my account was blocked for some hours

until she had done so.

It is hard for anyone who did not live

through those times to understand how

Britain’s national spirit soared at news of

the victory of the South Atlantic task

force in that little war against a tinpot Lat-

in-American dictatorship. Those of us

who were “down south” returned home

to find ourselves in a different country

from the one we had left less than three

months earlier.

My generation of British people grew

to maturity amid endless failures — eco-

nomic, industrial, social, military. Forget

the Swinging Sixties. It seemed ordained

that we should live out our lives in a coun-

try that had been getting most things

wrong since 1945.

In 1981, the unemployment rate was

10.7 per cent. More than four million

working days were lost to strikes. Infla-

tion ran at 11.87 per cent. Trains were

filthy and late. The car industry was noto-

rious for dismal product quality and

worse industrial relations. The British

caricature of a hamburger was the horri-

ble Wimpy.

The coalminers were rubbing their

hands at the prospect of adding

Thatcher’s scalp to that of Ted Heath.

Half the cabinet derided Thatcher. Her

prospects of winning a second general

election were deemed poor.

This was why, when the Argentinians

seized the Falkland Islands on April 2,

1982 — 40 years ago this weekend — and

the prime minister announced that a task

force was being dispatched to recapture

them, many of those who would have to

do the business, starting with an old

friend, General Edwin Bramall, the head

of the British Army, thought the order

bonkers. Better just to accept the inevita-

ble. Raise the white flag. In 1982, that was

what Britain seemed to do best.

To my own embarrassment, in view of

how things later turned out, the Tory

minister Kenneth Baker recorded in his

diary a lunch with me, at which I told him

his leader seemed crazy. “The game was

not worth the candle,” I’d said.

Thatcher sent the task force not

because the national interest required

it — the Falklands were wholly irrelevant

to the real problems facing Britain in 1982

— but to save her own authority. She took

a huge gamble.

Sceptic or no, I was seized by the

drama. Against the pleadings of friends,

colleagues, family, I decided that, if there

were to be a war, I wanted to witness it.

With some difficulty, I secured a berth

as a correspondent on the P&O liner Can-

berra, requisitioned to carry 3 Com-

mando Brigade for what could have been

a ten-day passage, but, thanks to diplo-

matic pauses, took almost three weeks.

Many of us wept buckets as our vast ship

pulled away from the pier at Southamp-

ton amid bands and flag-waving. If we

had missed sailing up the Nile with

Kitchener to fight the Dervishes, we

were experiencing the next most

extraordinary thing: embarking

with Margaret Thatcher — by

proxy, at least — for what must

surely be Britain’s last colo-

nial war. “No

skylarking

g

smission of

ome hours

did not live

stand how

at news of

lantic task

tinpot Lat-

hose of us

rnedhome

nt country

than three

eople grew

ures — eco-

ary. Forget

d ordained

s in a coun-

most things

nt rate was

ur million

ikes. Infla-

rains were

y was noto-

uality and

The British

s the horri-

bing theirr

gg

had missed sailing up the Nile with

Kitchener to fight the Dervishes,we

were experiencing the next most

extraordinary thing:embarking

with Margaret Thatcher — by

proxy, at least — for what must

surs ely be Britain’s last colo-

nial war. “No

skylarking

Max Hastings,

below during the

conflict in 1982,

was the first

British journalist

to reach Port

Stanley. Right,

British troops

head towards the

Falklands’ capital