RadiantHistorians

Mount Kent, East Falkland, South Atlantic. 1100 local (1500 GMT), 9 July 1964. Take one moderately high hill. That was it. Despite the designation of “Mount”, Kent was only technically a mountain under the old classification system, as its peak was barely over 1,000 feet above sea level. This should be a picnic compared to some of the shit the Royal Marines had trained for, but as far as Colonel Ian Gourley was concerned, the emphasis in that statement ought to be on the word “should”. Gourley had been appointed commanding officer of 42 Commando Regiment the previous year and had been recalled to the UK from Singapore when the Marines were sent in to retake Cyprus in April. When the Soviet-backed Red Dawn terrorist movement dissolved in the face of actual resistance, he and the rest of 4-2 had been brought back to the UK and sent south to recover this collection of unloved islands. If Goose Green and the air raids over San Carlos Water had been anything to go by, resistance here

Goose Green, East Falkland, South Atlantic. 1950 local (2350 GMT), 5 July 1964. Events had gotten somewhat screwy in the last few days. From American and Commonwealth forces clashing in the Persian Gulf, leading to the sinking of HMS Centaur, USS Kitty Hawk and half a dozen other ships; to President Kennedy suffering a stroke and being replaced with Lyndon Johnson; to terrorists seizing the British Embassy in Philadelphia; to Soviet forces nuking Basra to cut off the Commonwealth/Iranian advance towards Baghdad, apparently after a palace coup in Chelyabinsk installed a new leadership. Major General Norman Tailyour, RM, had held off on advancing ever since the British amphibious force came ashore at Port San Carlos, initially because poor weather made helicopter operations impossible, but later just in case the orders came down from Edinburgh that the Marines and squaddies employed in this operation would be dragged off the beach and sent directly to the Persian Gulf. That worry had

San Carlos Water, East Falkland, South Atlantic. 0800 local (1200 GMT), 30 June 1964. This was an idiotic idea. Nobody in their right mind could think any different, yet here they were. The previous 24 hours had seen six air raids against the British anchorage in San Carlos Water, as a mix of Argentine F-86 Sabres, F9F Panthers and Gloster Meteors tried to bomb the collection of ships there. Anybody with half a brain would realise that offloading all the men and materiel from the landing ships Bulwark, Fearless, Mounts Bay and Cardigan Bay was the priority, before getting those ships the hell out of there. So far, the mix of Sea Cat missiles and Tiger interceptors on standing patrol had proved effective and eight enemy aircraft had been shot down. The only damage so far was to the Type 12 frigate Eastbourne, which was now sporting several holes in her superstructure from 20mm cannon hits and a cracked propeller from a bomb near-miss. There was no way that could continue. Especially

Holyrood Palace, Edinburgh. 1030 BST (0930 GMT), 26 June 1964. The news was, at best, confusing as far as Denis Healy was concerned. On the one hand, the Royal Navy’s Task Force South Atlantic had retaken South Georgia with no fatalities on either side, crippled Argentine air power over the Falklands and sank both the Argentine navy’s two submarines. On the other hand, First Sea Lord Sir Varyl Begg did not seem very happy about it. ‘The only reason we managed to dispose of these two submarines, Prime Minister,’ Begg reiterated, ‘is that we were dealing with old, outdated technology. Both these submarines are 1940s vintage and have been barely modernised since, yet one got within spitting distance of HMS Eagle. I’m worried about how well our anti-submarine forces would fare against a more capable force.’ ‘That’s something to work on when they come back, Sir Varyl,’ Healy sighed. He was distracted, that much was clear to even the most casual of political observers. The reason was that

3 miles north-west of Port San Carlos, South Atlantic. 0900 local (1300 GMT), 23 June 1964. Sergeant Mark Andrews, RM, squinted through his binoculars through the murk and sea fret that was hanging over San Carlos Water. Clearly there were several ships here, tied up at jetties and offloading supplies, but it was one in particular that was drawing Andrews’ attention. ‘Take a look at this, Jack,’ he said eventually, handing the binoculars to Sgt John Page, lying in the damp grass next to him. Nobody ever said that life in the Special Boat Service was glamorous. ‘Looks like she’s leaking fuel oil like a sieve,’ Page said, ‘probably got popped with an anti-submarine torp when the sub boys ran out of anti-ship ones.’ ‘Look at what’s being unloaded,’ Andrews said with forced patience. ‘Shit,’ Page responded, seconds after refocusing the binoculars to what was on the deck. ‘Fucking Sherman tanks.’ ‘Yep,’ Andrews nodded, ‘and they will make a mess of any landing attempt.’ ‘So what the

Quinta de Olivos, Buenos Aires. 2200 local (0300 GMT), 20 June 1964. Two hours. For two whole hours, President Arturo Illia had listened to the military men in front of him pontificate, bellow at one another and shift blame for the chaos that had befallen Argentine forces on the Malvinas that morning. So far as Illia had been able to determine from the snatched accusations, the British had sprung a trap to lure the Argentine air defences away from Puerto Argentina, destroyed the eight fighter aircraft and then proceeded to sink a supply ship and three tug boats in the harbour, before razing the temporary airfield that had only been completed a month earlier. No matter how you cut it, that was a balls-up of borderline epic proportions and all these idiots seemed to be concerned with was whose fault it was. ‘Gentlemen, please,’ Illia said, standing and managing to silence the three feuding officers in front of him. ‘You convinced me of the need for a cause to unite our people. You

400 miles east of Puerto Argentina (Port Stanley), South Atlantic. 0600 local (1000 GMT), 19 June 1964. The ward room of HMS Eagle was packed. Every senior officer in the Task Force, including ships’ captains, squadron commanders and battalion commanders from the land forces, were crammed into this small space as they were told in detail about what was going to happen in the coming days. ‘Gentlemen,’ Rear Admiral Richard Janvrin said, bringing the room to order, ‘the successful recapture of South Georgia has allowed us to move the timetable for operations up. Commander?’ Commander Daniel Guest, commander of HMS Eagle’s air-wing, stood and indicated a map of the islands. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, acknowledging Janvrin. ‘Our first airstrikes will go in tomorrow at dawn. Considering how close we are bombing to civilian targets, we did not want to rely only on our aircrafts’ navigational instruments. The intention is that 806 Naval Air Squadron’s Sea Hawks will attack the harbour

Wideawake Airfield, Ascension Island, South Atlantic. 1200 GMT, 25 May 1964. The assembled officers watched the silent 8mm film without flinching. No matter how horrifying the subject matter, a British officer had a certain decorum to maintain. Dozens of civilians were marshalled out of an unidentified building in a harsh spotlight, illuminating the exterior wall. All were suffering varying levels of distress: some were crying; some milling around looking for loved ones; some even looking into the harsh glare of the light, trying to see what the hell was happening. Without warning they began jerking in an obscene parody of human movement, splashes of red blooming like horrific flowers on their clothing. This went on for several seconds, presumably as whoever was manning the machine guns hosed the area down with automatic fire. As the civilians stopped moving, the camera suddenly panned around and showed a young soldier in an Argentine Army uniform yelling into the face of a tall

ARA Independencia, 140nm North of West Falkland. 0650 local (1050 GMT), 21 May 1964. It was an impressive sight to anyone not familiar with naval aviation. The amount of skill needed to marshal all these aircraft around without anyone being killed was impressive, as was the sight and size of the ship itself. To anyone familiar with the naval aviation capabilities of the British or especially the American navies, it was nothing of the sort. What’s more, Carlos Batista knew the prowess on display here would matter for absolutely nothing at all, should the Armada de Republica Argentina lose this colossal gamble. Batista was an old hand on Argentina’s only aircraft carrier. He had served as an aircraft fitter both ashore and at sea ever since the former HMS Warrior came into Argentina’s possession in the late 1950s. While technically the largest warship in Argentine service, at least since the pre-WWII dreadnoughts and heavy cruisers had been retired, she was dwarfed by the carriers

Puerto Argentina (Port Stanley), South Atlantic. 2337 local (0337 GMT), 15 May 1964. It is fair to say that, in the grand scheme of things, a one-ton high explosive missile detonating a couple of thousand feet above your head is enough to put the fear of numerous gods up anyone. This, of course, presupposes that the subject was expecting it. Roughly one long ton of high explosive had been packed into the nose of two Blue Steel cruise missiles – known as a “stand-off bomb” in British parlance – and fired at Buenos Aires and Port Stanley, fused to airburst at 2,000 feet altitude. There was no military reason for this, it was merely a message being sent by the British government to its Argentine equivalent that the invasion of British sovereign territory would not be tolerated. This “message” had woken 20-year-old Capao Hugo Cruz and everybody else barracked in the converted warehouse they called home. In the six weeks he had been stationed on what was now known as Las Islas Malvinas