In a Flap about Flapper! - 1984

During our tour of duty, we regularly carried out tests (exercises) on our readiness to repel enemy forces, (sounds exciting but isn’t).  At the Combat Support Boat office this meant ensuring our kit and ourselves was up to task and involved inspections of the boats and only once, (thank god), an inspection of our porta cabin by a senior officer and in that instance, a Colonel.  Our cabin consisted of a general area, comprising, desks, seats, a settee, kettle etc.  A door off this room led to the equipment storage room, where floats, life jackets, fenders, ropes, chains, CSB Engine and Hydro-jet  spares on shelves, the usual stuff.  Most was actually on shelving, except for the life jackets which were strewn across the floor.

As with all inspections, a “pre-inspection” was carried out by our SSM and our troop commander (a lieutenant).  We passed with flying colours and that night had a “few” beers to celebrate.  My recall of the inspection was that I and the other 3 guys in our team were all up and about the day of the inspection none the worse for wear.  The same could not be said for Flapper, who had actually gone into town that night and was nowhere to be found the following morning.  He was not in his pit (bed) and no one had seen him. 

The flap was on (we flapped he never did, hence his nickname) as we searched high and low for our Corporal in charge.  Eventually we gave up looking and while we waited for the inspection to commence, one of the guys entered the store room to tidy up the life jackets and discovered Flapper, lying amongst them sound asleep.  He woke momentarily, to tell us to fuck off, but that was it and no amount of coffee or shouting was going to change that.  He was out of it and we were then tasked with creating a diversion to manage the situation and save Flapper from a major kicking and charges.

First off we concocted a cover story, whilst one of us nipped down to the boats and removed various mechanical bits from one of them, the others contacted the stores based in Stanley at the docks to request the same parts saying they were broken/missing.  The story would be that “Flapper had gone to collect parts” and was therefore “not about sir”!  Secondly, we collected all spare life jackets from the jetty by the boats and carried them back to the office and laid them all over Flapper.  This he appeared to approve of, as he snuggled up quite nicely and let out a voluminous and hearty fart and belch combination, which required the windows to be opened and left ajar.

So our story was set and we were soon welcoming the inspection party, accompanied by the SSM.  “Where is Corporal Farmer” asked the SSM and we relayed the story regarding boat parts to him.  “He knew there was an inspection, why not send one of you” (I paraphrase here, but this was the general conversation taking place).  “Flapper, sorry Cpl Famer, said he needed to go as he was getting crap from the stores, sir”.  “Ok” he said and we looked at one another relieved, stage one worked a treat.

“The office is just an office sir, would you care to inspect the boats?” we enquired of the Colonel.  “Certainly” he said, so we all wandered down to the boats, he looked at them, commented on how sparkly they were and we wandered back to the office again.  “That just leaves the office then” said the SSM, the twat.  We all entered and he looked at the radio, kettle, chairs, settee and bits of paper and then said, “What is in there?”  “Stores” was the universal reply.  With that he walked forward and opened the door and went in, we followed and held our breath.

The SSM looked at the heap of life jackets and looked at us, “tidy that lot up” he said, followed by the Colonel who said “right, all in order” and out he went.  We saluted and that was it, they went out, got in their jeep and went onto the next poor sods to be inspected.  As for Flapper, he slept most of that day, appearing only to wander off down the bridge the Coastel, his bunk and more sleep.  I never knew a more lucky bloke than Flapper, but the SSM did let slip later on that he knew Flapper was in there but could hardly say anything then, as it would reflect badly on him and Flapper and probably forgave the incident as we did such a good job in covering for him.

The best part of the trips out and about to the Merchant ships was the fact that they had great cooks and free bars on board and we were regularly invited on board to eat and drink taking turns as designated CSB drivers.  No matter the weather, or the swell in the ocean we turned out and we were welcomed aboard like long standing friends of those merchantmen.  The “fuel tanker” crew were mainly from the UK, but had a Chinese cook and some crew from the Philippines.  They also had the obligatory homosexual/cross dresser, who whenever not on duty, would glam up and entertain anyone in their mess with songs and stories. 

An obvious physics fact about a fuel tanker or any ship for that matter is that as she off-loads her cargo, she rises higher in the water.  When she had arrived fully laden, it was possible to step from the deck of the CSB straight onto the deck of the tanker, in a flat sea, as she was so low in the water.  After five months at anchor pumping jet fuel ashore, the side of the tanker now rose some thirty or forty feet above our deck, in a flat sea, and access to the deck was achieved by climbing a ladder dropped over the side.  If I was required to tie up alongside and go onboard, I would leave a large amount of slack on the ropes to take account of the swell and movement of my boat against the tankers side.

On one occasion, I was duty driver and was taking a number of the tanker crew back out to the ship.  The weather was awful, and that’s an understatement.  As we came about to head into the swell and edge alongside, a feat of some skill I might add (!!), it was clear that this was going to be a difficult drop off for the crew.  Such was the swell that once almost alongside, (maybe ten feet apart), we’d be level with the deck one second, then lower by some fifty feet.  I was dropping off crew and provisions, the crew had life vests on and I edged as close as possible and they threw the stores onto the deck and to the guys stood there, ready to pull their mates aboard.

The idea was that as we lifted up on the swell, and drew level with the deck, the crewman would jump across the gap and his mates would grab his arms and heave him aboard.  The number of times we had to come about and take up station alongside the tanker were numerous as the wind and rain lashed into us and the waves crashed over the front of the boat.  None the less, we succeeded and headed back into Port Stanley harbour, proud to have delivered everyone safe and sound.

There was soon another exercise to test our readiness and this time we were required to simulate an invasion coming across the outer harbour, a helicopter crash at sea (in the port) and to assist the Port Naval authority with crew recovery.  However, the exercise was to take place at night, in a storm of probably close to hurricane proportions (I shit you not), and we were to be prepared to go out whatever the weather.  The CSB is a very robust craft and could stay above most swells and waves; so we motored from our base to the docks at Stanley and tied up the two CSB’s.  Flapper and I were on one and the other CSB was manned by the 3 other guys in our team.  There were a number of naval tenders (launches) tied up at the end of the dock, side onto one another and we tied ourselves on to them.

It was pitch-black, no moon, and we scrambled across the decks of the launches and onto the floating dock and into the offices, to get a brew and warm up.  We were to await orders from there; my mates in our squadron were apparently out on a hillside, firing blanks at non-existent enemies, soaked through and pissed off.  After sometime, a call came through that we had to carry out a patrol of the harbour heading west away from the docks, north toward to the RAF accommodation, East towards the entrance to Port Stanley and across the harbour entrance and on towards the Airfield, then south towards our Coastel and back west again to the docks.  Flapper and I again skidded across the decks of the naval launches and I started the CSB up as he untied us.  Protected as we were by the dockside and launches, it was only as we turned into the full force of the storm that we both considered the sanity of this situation.

The waves were so numerous and high that the CSB was not able to climb them.  We could not put on power to gain speed enough to get up a wave.  As soon as we’d do that, we’d get swamped by the next wave.  We did persevere and without actually making any forward progress bar fifty metres or so, we were soon realising this was not a healthy place to be.  Flapper was calm as usual and as a Cornishman, his West Country accent added an air of confidence, “Fuck this”, said Flaps.  I concurred and we then realised we had to turn around and ride the waves back to dock.  I threw on the power and we shot across the tops of the waves towards the dockside.  As soon as we slowed again, the waves crashed across our stern and into the open cabin.  I spun the wheel and brought us alongside a launch, Flapper tied her up and I closed down the engines and made her safe in the storm.  I turned round for an instant and Flapper was gone!

I stood on the mast supports and shouted out his name, only the sound of the storm came back.  There were plenty of opportunities to slip between the CSB and the launch we’d tied ourselves against, or between the four or five launches between ourselves and the dockside.  I clambered and skidded across them towards the dock, shouting out his name and becoming ever more concerned; he was nowhere to be seen.  He was not a runner and there was no way he could have covered the distance across the dock to the offices in the time it had taken for me to close the boat down.  I turned back to the launches and decided to look around each side of every boat, shouting out his name and worrying myself sick.  Nothing!

I turned back to the docks and then noticed a small light appearing and then disappearing again in the wheel house of the middle launch.  I slipped my way across to the doorway and opened the door.  I heard voices coming from below and went across the wheel house and opened the door to the room below.  There, brandy (large one) in hand, laughing his bollocks off and jollying it up with the crew of the launch was Flapper.  “You prick” I shouted, “I was worried sick that you’d fallen in, and have spent the last fifteen minutes looking for you overboard”!  “Sit down and have a drink” said Flapper, totally oblivious to the worry he’d caused.  He had no concept of worry, haste, angst, concern, in fact any feeling or emotion apart from happiness, idleness, and contentedness and was most at home with a beer and his mates talking shit.  Now I am in my late forties, I can see his point.

The exercise was cancelled sometime later that night, too dangerous and not worth the potential loss of life.  I continued to work in the CSB team until my tour was over and when everyone’s, “Days to do are getting few” calendars arrived at zero, we boarded our troop ship home via the Ascension Islands, remarking to the newly arrived squadrons in the same way we’d been greeted by those we’d replaced.  Generally, “good luck twats”!  The nice thing was that my troop ship turned out to be the SS Uganda, the very same ship I had travelled on when 14 years old and on my School Cruise around the Mediterranean (see http://jw-alifeofsurprises.blogspot.com/2010/08/is-that-rifle-i-see-before-me.html).  I even took the chance to go down to the dormitory I had slept in some six years or so earlier, Magellan Dormitory, and sat on the same bunk, the bottom one, next to the bulkhead .  The further we went north, the more the sun shone and the happier we became.  A quick hop across to the Airport and we flew home, again via Dakar, and this time had a few hours to kill in the airport itself before flying onto Brize Norton and then onto RAF Gutersloh on Germany.

As soon as I was back I looked up Honk (Mark Cameron) and we hit Hannover like it was going out of fashion.  I then had two weeks leave and spent a few nights out with Julian (my brother) succeeding in getting into another fight/mass brawl with some wanker’s who had decided they did not like Jules.  Only one prat was involved initially and once I had told him he was only being the big man because he had ten mates behind him, he soon shut up, until they came over and he then said I had gone quiet.  So I smacked him in the mouth and then took a good kicking, leaning against a Jewellers window outside the Samson and Hercules nightclub in Norwich.  Ho hum! 

I no doubt spent time with Helen and David, going on runs with David and babysitting Claire and Katie.  Mum had a new boyfriend, Fred, a nice guy whose son Tony got on well with Jules, too well as they got into the shit a number of time, but hey, that’s his story.

Leave over, it was back to Germany, early 1985, I was the proverbial party boy, girl after girl after girl.  I was happy so why not.  By March 1985 I was having back pain when I ran in the morning runs as a group and could only go at my own pace.  In fact the low back pain was such that I ended up on light duties, no running for me.  I took a lot of shit for that and ended up going out on my own runs in the evening.  Lynsey Horten saw me and cried and bleated to the SSM that if I was fit enough to run on my own I was fit enough to run in the group.  The SSM called me into the office and tore me up about it, but I showed him the sick note from the Dr and it noted I should try and run alone to keep up my general fitness.  I found Lynsey and told him to fuck off, although I did so quietly, as he was a nutter and as hard as fuck.

However, my back problems had started and would come to be the major contributing factor in my life and its course from then on.  Bollocks..................................................................................

Playing Skittles with a General - 1984

Mark (Flapper) Farmer was not your typical Corporal, in that it seemed apparent to me that whilst he wore two stripes on his arm they were of no particular importance other than they attracted a higher pay packet. He told me that he had been bust (demoted) a number of times for what we shall call errant behaviour, but as he was such a good guy (everyone got on with Flapper), the powers that be could not avoid promoting him back to his last rank. I was, as noted in the last blog (http://jw-alifeofsurprises.blogspot.com/2011/06/falkland-islands-bennys-and-more.html ), sent to join the Combat Support Boat (CSB) section, after a rigorous game of indoor rugby ended my playing career early, and so sporting a pair of crutches I pitched up to the Porta Cabin on the landward side of the bridge to our Coastel. I found Flapper and two other guys drinking coffee and Flapper welcomed me to the team. Without further ado, set out test my skills using the CSB and made our way across the bridge to the boats, moored against a pontoon alongside the Coastel. The picture below shows me in my shitty pancake beret (for which I took a ton of crap daily), stood at the controls of my CSB.

My Boat

CSB’s, in fact any piece of military kit beyond underpants required an intensive inspection before you even dared turn the key to start the engines (actually underpants were inspected should they be inadvertently left lying around the sick bastards). The large covers over the Sabre Marine engines were lifted and engine oil checked and water levels noted, along with checks to the various hoses and other technical bits, I’ll not bore you with. Then the heavy steel covers over the Hydro jets were lifted and the lids on the hydro jets themselves were unscrewed and the insides were checked for reeds and obstructions. The boats is propelled by sucking water into the hydro jets, huge amounts of water, then expelling it out the back at a rapid rate. The direction of the boat was controlled by use of two throttles and large levers that operated the buckets (or scoops) that sat in front of the water exhausts. Levers forwards, you went forwards, levers back, you went backwards! There was also a wheel to control the horizontal angle of the scoops that allowed one to turn left or right (port or starboard me ‘hearty’s).

CSB Controls and Hydro Jets

Once all checks were complete, I started her up, dropped the lines and gently edged away from the Coastel and out into Port Stanley Harbour. When we were some one hundred feet away from the Coastel, I gradually opened her up, until we were shooting across the harbour and towards the natural opening that lead out into Stanley Sound. As one exits the harbour, to the left are a number of inlets and lagoons and to the right the South Atlantic Ocean. The boat itself could manage a very heavy swell and being so manoeuvrable easily sliced through or over the high swells that came in off the ocean. As one heads out towards the ocean, to the right, on land was Stanley airfield, so memorably bombed to shit by the RAF during the Conflict and now being so memorably repaired by the Royal Engineers. Anchored just off the headland that was an airfuel tanker, this pumped, by way of a heavy hose laid between ship and shore, airfuel for the jets and other aircraft stationed there which included Hercules transporters and Phantom jet fighters.

CSB Half Speed

I put the CSB through its paces, much to Flappers enjoyment, including going from full speed to dead stop within the length of the craft, achieved by killing the throttles, reversing the scoops over the water jets and going back to full throttle in one smooth motion. The CSB would stop dead and such was the effect that the whole craft would dip down nose first into the sea and then bob back out of the water. Anything not tied down and strapped in place on deck would shoot forward into the cabin at a rapid rate of knots, including people who were not expecting the stop. And we took much enjoyment from demonstrating this particular capability of the craft to unsuspecting passengers using the CSB, read on for a very real example of this!!

Test over, we shot back to base and had a well earned cuppa. The practice was that anyone needing a CSB would radio the office, book a craft and we’d be ready to go. Just some of the regular tasks we undertook, were;

• Taxi for RAF Pilots from accommodation on the other side of Stanley Harbour to our base, where they’d then jump in their Merc Jeeps to the airfield.

• Security checks of the area inside and outside Stanley Harbour.

• Running merchant sailors and supplies to and fro between the Fuel Tanker and Port Stanley town. At night this usually involved a group of very drunk merchant sailors.

• Taking parties of men and officers out to the lagoons and inlets on fishing parties.

• Taking the Officer Commanding the Falklands Garrison out to arriving and departing troop ships (such as the Keren) to welcome/thank incoming and outgoing troops.

• Acting as an ambulance for ship’s crew injured aboard and requiring transfer to shore.

• Ferrying men and kit between Royal Navy frigates and Royal Fleet Auxiliary ships.

It’s difficult to know which escapade to relate first, due to their number, so I am going to simply go with the flow and write as they come into my mind! And it’s going to take a few blogs to do it justice!!

Flapper was in charge and was easy going as regards what we did and how we did it, all he asked was that we turn up on time and did not attract unwanted attention from the higher ups! Knowing me as you do, this attention was likely to come our way sooner rather than later. The Officer Commanding the Falklands Garrison whilst I was there, was (or now is) General Sir Peter de la Billière (General Sir Peter Edgar de la Cour de la Billière, KCB, KBE, DSO, MC & Bar, MSC to give him his full name and titles). With a list like that after your name you deserve and get respect, from everyone, unless you are me and manage to piss off one of the most decorated soldiers of our time.

As noted, every time a new batch of soldiers, a ships company or aircrew arrived or departed, Sir Peter made it his mission to wish them au revoir. This meant getting out to the transport ship and back again. Co-incidentally, Sir Peter was accompanied down South by his family, for the whole year he was on station. I had managed, without incident to take him and his adjutant out to a number of farewells. Of critical importance, when carrying Sir Peter the CSB would obviously be gleaming and would have, clipped to the front of the cabin, a plaque with his regimental colours and 3 stars attached and we flew his colours as a flag from the mast. I was again on call for this particular trip and trimmed the boat, cleaned the windows and washed the decks. Sir Peter pitched up with his Adjutant, his wife Bridget and son Edward (14) and once they had stepped onto the boat we set off.

CSB at Coastel Dock

Young Edward sat with his Mum on the engine covers, as I’d advised them that it was where they were least likely to get splashed, Sir Peter and his adjutant stood holding the mast. We set off across the harbour towards the ship, a ten minute journey. Edward stood and asked his Dad if he could come into the cabin, to which Sir Peter, asked me if this was ok. I said it was and Edward walked forwards. Typically of me (talk to anyone) I asked him “did he fancy joining the army like his dad?” and some general chit chat about the islands. I then asked him whether he fancied driving the boat (having a cabby), to which he said yes. I turned to Sir Peter and asked if this was fine and he agreed. Edward took over and I showed him how to operate the wheel and throttles, pointed out the various gauges and buttons and the scoop controls. We approached the ship and I took over, bringing us alongside, I tied her up and off they all got. Half an hour later, they were back and we set off, young Edward stood next to me so let him have a cabby again and he was soon swooping across the waves in wide arcs. I told him about the ability of the craft to stop dead in the water and he wanted to see it happen. I told everyone to hold tight and threw the craft into a dead stop as it buried itself into the water nose first.

I did tell everyone to hold tight, but as we stopped, Lady Bridget, Sir Peter and the Adjutant came flying across the decks, slamming into the cabin, with Lady Bridget taking young Edward out at the knees! I was trying to act nonchalant and helped everyone up, their hair, caps and berets askew. “What do you think of that then”? I asked young Edward, “That was great!” he said. Sir Peter and Lady Bridget gave me a look that suggested something rather the opposite! Once everyone had recovered their composure we shot back to the Coastel dock and I dropped them off. Sir Peter could hardly complain as his son had asked for the demo, he had agreed to it and they had been told to hold tight.

I guess that would have been the end of it had one of my mates not been waiting for me to return. As soon as the top brass had wandered off, he jumped in and asked for a cabby. I had no more trips on, so off we went. We shot across the harbour towards Port Stanley, pulling wide arcs, sending huge plumes of water up into the air in our wake. We performed loads of dead stops, and I even made the thing turn circles on its circumference like a hackney cab. After about half an hour of pissing about, in particular parading up and down in front of Port Stanley, passing the Governor Generals house a number of times and generally having fun, we headed back to the dock, locked her down for the night and I signed out at the office. I grabbed my crutches and hobbled back to the Coastel for some food, and a movie, my post and a long and relaxing Barclays no doubt.

The following day, I signed in at the office and a call came from the Squadron Sergeant Major’s office, my presence was required (about half a mile away) double quick. I jumped a lift with a passing jeep and hobbled my way into his Porta Cabin. To say he was angry, (the fucker did not like me anyway due to my extracurricular activities back in Germany) would be a colossal understatement. He was incandescent. With a pause between words he said “What, The fuck, were you, doing yesterday, tell me, about, your day?” he screamed, a tinge of sarcasm edging his insanity and the pause after each word was to summon up the strength to scream out the next. My Spidey Sense was tingling; I expected danger, so I smiled my nicest smile, (mistake) and said I had been on my boat most of the day. “Too fuckin right you was, and did you have any special trips or passengers?” (If you want to picture his rant, this clip of Michael Palin playing a Sergeant Major serves the purpose http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nLJ8ILIE780.) I told him about the General and his kid and the cabby he’d had and said they’d quite enjoyed the trip and thanked me as they disembarked. “I know, all about that, put Mrs De La Billière on her arse that’s what you did, but what about after that, you moron?” “I took Andy Orton out for a cabby” I said. “I fackin know that too, prick, what did you not do, that you should have done, but didn’t?” his voice had reached a pitch quite unheard of before, in a male anyway, and I was frankly becoming concerned for his health.

Clang!!! The realisation hit me like a hammer blow to the head. I had not taken off the Generals Pips and colours nor lowered the Generals flag.............. By now a small gathering had appeared in the doorway. He told me (screamed) that the General had been driving back towards Port Stanley, when his wife had pointed out that the boat they had just gotten off, was prancing around the harbour again and wasn’t that his flag? The General had told his Adjutant, he, once they had arrived back at base, had called upon our Commanding Officer, a Major, who had grabbed his Adjutant, who in turn kicked the bollocks of our Platoon Lieutenant, who had then castrated the Squadron Sergeant Major. Hence my taking the full effect of a Force 9 gale blowing across his porta cabin. Corporal Farmer (Flapper) appeared in the doorway and entered to a verbal lashing. The SSM then turned to punishment, what to do? “I can’t throw you in nick, because your legs fucked, I can’t give you restriction of privileges, because your legs fucked, so, much as it pisses me off to do it, the only sanction I have is to make run as fast as you can back to the CSB Porta Cabin!” That was it! “I am going to watch you from here, because I can see the CSB office, and if I see you walking, I’ll sign a rifle out of the armoury and fucking shoot you!” I looked at Flapper and he was trying to hide the smirk on his face, “Fuck off Corporal Farmer” said the SSM. We left his office and walked away, “fuckin run you arse!” came the CSM’s voice.

For some reason Flapper ran alongside, as I struggled to move faster than a slow walk, every now and then the SSM shouted profanities in our direction, to keep us moving and we eventually arrived back at the CSB office, laughing ourselves silly. More Flapper and JW escapades to come!

The Falkland Islands, Bennys and more beatings........1984......

Our home from home in Port Stanley was a Coastel, an oil rig accommodation block floating in the harbour about 50 metres offshore and linked to the land by a steel walkway. I shared a room with 3 other guys, Andy Cruickshank being one of them, the other was Mick Hayes and the 3rd was Andy Orton, who was hilarious 24 hrs a day and kept everyone laughing. The early part of the tour was spent mending roads and generally tidying up the locale around Port Stanley. A great book to read that shows more detail on the day to day life of us Sappers based in the Falklands during the immediate aftermath of war is “Diary of a Sapper” by Julian Beirne.

Our Lieutenant would take us on long walks around the hills surrounding Stanley, to see the battle fields and minefields left by the Argentineans. Most minefields by then were fenced off and only the carcasses of dead sheep, who would get under or past the wire fences and wander aimlessly across the minefield, until the leader was launched skywards by a mine. They would freeze, Baa, and then move forwards, until the next was launched skywards and so on, until they moved out of the field again. Twats. Now I have committed some stupid acts, but none so stupid as our Lieutenant, who along with a few of the others, decided where the throwing of heavy objects (rocks) would be enough to set off a mine!! Honestly, they threw rocks until I think our Sgt spotted them and had a discreet word in the Lt’s ear. Twats!! Times 2.

Port Stanley was a bit of a shit hole back then, apart from the one shop, and the hotel there was bugger all to do. The islanders had welcomed the British Forces rapturously and well deserved that welcome was, but some 18months in, the welcome was wearing a bit thin, as drunken squaddies were eventually banned from the town in the evenings (too noisy and rude) and unwelcome to a great extent in town during daylight hours as well. The islanders had been named “Benny’s” after the character of Benny from the ITV Soap Opera Crossroads, for those non British readers; basically Benny was thick, large and smelly looking. This links shows a quick movie clip of him.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xq8MsQ0AcLo.

The islanders had no idea who Benny was as they did not get ITV television programmes, well, not until Video’s started appearing, sent by families to their husbands and wives serving on the island. Then they found out who Benny was and an order was posted that calling Islanders Benny’s was to cease forthwith as they were now aware of who Benny was and had taken exception to this. They were then called “Stills”, as they were “Still Benny’s”. Squaddie humour sometimes is best to ignore.

After a few weeks of unloading ships full of construction gear, loading helicopters with the same and endless days of boredom, the “exciting” news came through that Jim Davidson, a British stand up comedian, was coming down for a series of shows. The Coastel had a large Gym in the roof space and this was to be the theatre. Jim was coming down accompanied by female dancers (woohoo), Bob Carolgees and Spit the Dog.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKjPosgpxlw&feature=related.
I was walking back to the Coastel one afternoon and Jim was being dropped off so I saluted him and he saluted me right back, gosh I was proud!! The Argentineans’ had left all sorts of kit when they were kicked off the islands, amongst the crap were jeeps made by Mercedes Benz, which knocked the spots off the Army Land Rovers, so anyone who was anyone (officer types) were driven around in those and the good old Land Rovers were left to the rest of us. After a while, jeep parts became a problem, so the higher your rank, the better your chance of keeping your Merc, as your driver would cannibalise the Jeeps of the lower ranked Officers.

Our Coastel

Jim Davidson was driven around in a Merc of course, much to the distaste of the Officers. Jim referred to them as Rupert’s and sided at all times with the lower ranks and so was cheered wherever he went. He even played cowsheds in far off villages like Goose Green and San Carlos Bay and was a brief ray of light to us all, as we wanted to slag off the officers, but of course could not. He was disliked by the officers from the off and pissed them off at meal times as he would prefer to eat with the lads.
We flew to Goose Green for a few weeks working on a helicopter refuelling depot. We lived in porta-cabins and used large earthmoving diggers to excavate earthworks which we lined with plastic and then dropped huge rubber bladders which were filled with air-fuel. They invariably leaked and we stank of kerosene for days at a time. Nights were spent lying in our sleeping bags listening to Sony Walkmans and playing cards.

Update: -
In the battle for Goose Green and number of the Parachute Regiment lost their lives.  The picture here is the memorial and grave site where these brave men are buried, among them Colonel H Jones.

One light moment was when we challenged the RAF boys to a game of soccer. I have attached some photos of this game, hope they come out!

The pitch was marked out and we played a great game, with our guys doing really well, until some twat decided that it was a good place to land his helicopter, right in the centre circle! Staff Sgt Gallagher walked up to the copter and enquired what the guy thought he was doing? Apparently, our pitch was the helicopter landing area and we had to stop our game whilst the pilot and some bigwigs marched off into Goose Green for meeting with the Stills. Game resumed after an hour or so and we won I recall. Just up from the pitch and across a dirt track (the motorway between San Carlos and Goose Green) was an airfield with grass runways. Littered around one end were 2 Pucara’ Ground Attack Aircraft, anti aircraft ground to air rocket launchers and machine guns and various bits of kit. We had a fine time clambering all over it, again see the attached pics.

We went back to Port Stanley and played annoy the Benny (Still) and after a month of such fun, we were told we were to board the Landing Ship Logistic (LSG) Sir Geraint (they were all named after King Arthurs Round Table Knights, Galahad and Lancelot etc).


We sailed off and after 2 days were at anchor outside the somewhat inappropriately named (seeing as there were no women anywhere) Shag Cove. We were airlifted off the ship along with our kit to a disused and pretty decrepit old sheep farmers holding, which consisted of a farmhouse a couple of outhouses, a well and a paddock or two. Our task, as tradesmen, was to renovate the whole lot into liveable accommodation for future groups of squaddies to use as an R&R base (Rest and Recuperation). Basically, this would consist of being dropped off with enough food and beer to last 2 days and left to your own devices. There was an almost landlocked bay (Shag Cove) about 300 metres away and plenty of good hills to walk! How fun! In fact the cove was about 400 metres across and 800 metres long. The water was so shallow you could walk across it and it actually looked as if you were walking on water.

Our group consisted of electricians, bricklayers, carpenters, painters, plumbers, basically all the artisan trades required and within a few days, timber, boarding, bricks, paint, nails, pipes, you name, turned up. Staff Sergeant Gallagher was our senior NCO and we bedded down in the rooms we would later be doing up. Things swiftly moved on and it was decided that the main room in the building would be the bar and lounge and would be called the Skulls Room. This was down to the fact that the area all around was littered with the bones of dead sheep and the odd pony. The skulls were taken back to the house, painted white; bulbs fitted into the eye sockets and hung up on the walls. Class.........

As the work approached its final two or three weeks, (we’d dug the well out again and got the wind pump working) a delivery of beer (loads of it) turned up by helicopter. The copters were mainly run by Bristow’s, a civilian contractor, but there were plenty of military copters buzzing around as well. The Bristow’s would ferry men and mail around the islands and in our case, shed loads of beer. To celebrate a game of indoor rugby was commenced. That was once everyone was truly drunk and up for a fight in most cases. The ball was a load of black tape wound around paper to resemble a rugby ball. The game rules were, beat the fuck out of each other before someone beat the fuck out of you. There were no “goals” to put the ball in, all you had to do was hold onto the ball and avoid a serious twatting. Being (as my Mum would say) of a sensitive disposition, I aimed to avoid the ball, and fists, by gamely circling the ensuing melee’ and occasionally leaping onto bodies, slapping someone and then quickly withdrawing, lest I be clouted. This tactic worked well, until the bloke I was sat astride of rolled over and I lay flat on my back, but worse, I was somehow holding the ball. Bollocks!

I sat up and threw the ball away, but both my legs were straight out in front of me, my feet pointing upwards towards the ceiling. One of the larger members of the group decided to launch himself at me but was sideswiped by another and they fell across my feet, pushing the toes of the right foot back towards my shin and therefore stretching the tendons and more flimsy content of my foot to breaking point. The pain was of a sort I had yet to experience and I yelled out for them to “get the fuck off” and tried to pull myself backwards across the floor. More bodies piled in to the scrum and I was left screaming like a girl as time and again my toes met shin. Try it sometime. It’s not good.

I eventually managed to manoeuvre myself away and called over Sgt Gallagher and in between tears told him what had happened. I was picked up and carried to my sleeping bag, on the floor of another room and a few of my mates came in to see me. My foot was killing me and Sgt Gallagher said he thought it was broken. Now these words were slurred as he was more pissed then most and I had quickly sobered up. Sarge decided to check for breaks by asking the guys to move aside, he took hold of my foot and proceeded to move it back and forth, side to side. He stopped as soon as I smacked him in the mouth (where I got the bravery to do that I don’t know) and said “yep, that’s a break”. I was bought coffee and cigarettes and made comfortable. There was no morphine or pain killer of any type in the first aid bag, but hey, we did have our rifles and ammunition, just in case the Argies attacked again, so basically we could fight the buggers off, but were we to be wounded, we were screwed.

I tried to sleep, but occasionally some pissed up squaddie would try to climb over me to get into his pit, kick me and receive a verbal and a slap for good measure. Come the morning, a call was made to Port Stanley on the radio for a Casualty Evacuation and a Puma turned up mid-afternoon and flew me back to Stanley. The “hospital” (a collection of tents) was next to the heli-port and I was taken on a stretcher into A&E. X-rays revealed no breaks but torn ligaments and tendons, so I was given light duties, a pair of crutches and some strapping and sent down to the Coastel.
The one thing good to come of this was that I was no longer able to run around, mending roads, clearing up and generally getting in the shit, so I was assigned to the CSB (Combat Support Boat Section), which was as easy a number as one could hope for. See Picture of me outside my new home.

Having passed the course anyway it seemed stupid to me that I was not assigned there anyway, until told that the competition to get into that section was huge and I could expect not to join at anytime, by the CSM (Company Sgt Major). So he was not too impressed at being told to assign me to the CSB team.

So, my roommates were on another island, I was onto a cushy number, had no one to bother me, could sleep in most days and was getting tons of mail from Tina, back in Chatham, who was including plenty of saucy photos, to keep me going. In charge of the CSB Section, was one Corporal Farmer or Flapper Farmer to everyone who knew him better. Flapper was so laid back and easy going (from the West Country, so that may explain it) it was ridiculous. He gave not one shit for anyone higher ranking than he and to top it off, would get gloriously drunk at any time and given any opportunity.
Needless to say, he and I would get along famously and so well in fact that the next blog will be almost entirely dedicated to our exploits down South!

A Sailors Life for me! Not Bloody Likely!! -1984

Going on leave was always something to look forward to and I made sure I always used my allowance. I usually used my annual flight allowance, but once that was used up, I would grab a lift with mates going home and pay my share of the fuel. We did not need passports, as our Military ID Card, served the same purpose. I also had an HM Forces Railcard, for reduced fares on the trains.

One year, I car shared with 3 others from my Squadron and we drove across Germany and down to Zeebrugge in Belgium. The journey was uneventful until we arrived at the port, where I realised I had left my ID card back in Neinburg. All I had was my Railcard, so decided to chance it and see if I could get across using that, as it had my picture on it. We drove up to the Ferry entrance way and were asked for passports, whereupon my mates brandished theirs and I feebly passed across my Railcard. The immigration officer looked at me and asked where my ID card was, I told him, and he asked me out of the car. We went into the little office and he asked me a few questions about why I had left it back in camp, (by mistake!), why I was travelling (going on leave!) and when I was returning (1 weeks time). He said he’d let me travel, but could not promise that the UK Immigration people would let me in.

I took a chance and we drove onto the ferry. We arrived at Dover and drove off the ferry into Immigration, where I again produced my Railcard. The guy on duty said fine, through you go and that was it. I was home again. Andy Hill, the guy whose car we travelled in, lived just outside Norwich and we dropped the others off along the way until we reached Hethersett, his village, which is 5 miles away from my mum’s house. The cheapskate dropped me off on the road outside his village and I had to hitch the last 5 miles! Back then, a short haircut and an Army kitbag more or less guaranteed a lift within minutes and so it proved. I was in my mum’s house, eating dinner and relaying my trip to her. Julian had by now moved out and was living in a squat, quarter of a mile away from home, with his girlfriend. So I had my old bedroom and knocked about with mates who I met in Norwich.

Around this time 1983/1984, Wham! were the big thing and I was a big fan, so much so that I would style myself (dress wise not hair wise, well not yet anyway), on George Michael. I met a few people who remarked that I looked not too dissimilar to George, which at the time, given his then heterosexual nature, felt pretty cool and I paraded around in cut-off jeans, white t-shirts or shirts and espadrilles (very Club Tropicana), whenever the weather allowed. Back in Germany, my army colleagues evidently took this style of dress, to mean that I was gay and Mick Hayes (good guy, good laugh) would spend hours coming up with new and amusing ways of addressing me, examples being; Lemon Meringue Benty Piece/Boy, Bender, Fruit Pie Bendy Boy, Knob Jockey etc.

The banter was light hearted and given my obvious and well publicised experiences with the local and not so local girls, I was never in danger of being pilloried in a nasty way. Unlike for instance a couple of guys, one in our squadron, the other in 4 Field Squadron, who were caught, by the Guard Patrol, one buried into the other. The excuse of, “I slipped and fell on him”, met deaf ears and they were both installed in cells in the guardroom, subsequently charged, fined, imprisoned and dishonourably discharged from the Army.

My leave was coming to an end and I met up with Andy and we drove back to Dover. My Uncle Derek (Dad’s brother) at this time worked for Townsend –Thoresen the Ferry Company and my cunning plan, to be allowed to travel without “ze correct papers”, involved asking him to get involved with the higher echelons at Dover and allow me to travel. Turned out he was the head of training and had no swing whatsoever. But, not knowing this, I had the lads drop me outside the entrance to the immigration room and they carried on with my gear in the car and got onto the ferry. I then begged immigration to let me travel, called Uncle Derek, who as we now know, could not help and with time running out got the immigration men to let me get on the ferry.

The problem was that the ferry was 5 minutes away if I ran like the wind and as I set off could see the ferry closing up. When I was 14-15 years old I loved cross country and the army had improved my stamina quite a lot, but, when your goal starts to move away from you and you realise that you may not make it, well, my guts turned to water. I ran across the roads in the ferry terminal and started up the ramp towards the ferry. The ramp led into the car deck, but the ropes had been dropped and she was actually inching away from the dock. My mates stood as close to the edge as possible and I ran as fast as I could and leapt across clear water landing in a heap on the car deck. I had only just made it and the leap had been a good distance, one that if I had had a minute to consider it, I would probably not have tried. The crew and my mates lead a round of applause as I lay in a jellied heap on the deck panting for air.

Ironically, once we docked in Belgium, we were waved through and travelled without further problems all the way back to Neinburg. I was due to go back to the UK again for my Craft Operators course, before my tour of duty in the Falkland Islands and headed back, this time by plane as it was a course, a few months later. At Chatham they bunked me in a dorm for 10 men, on my own, cool I thought, until I remembered I had no alarm clock and being a crap at waking up, had to trek off to the NAAFI to buy one. My course (Craft Op Specialist) was an 8 week course run at Chatham and included amongst others, Ricky Evans the Welsh Rugby Union Player (then in my squadron and then Corporal Evans) who went onto win 19 international caps. He is now a Buddhist and fire-fighter. There were also 3 Ghurkhas and a selection of other Sappers from across the regiment’s squadrons.

The course taught us how to use every craft the Royal Engineers had at their disposal, from small outboards right up to the Combat Support Boat itself. A few facts on the boat; it is powered by twin Sabre Marine 212 Turbo Charged Diesel engines, that powered twin Dowty two stage Hydro Jets, giving a top speed of over 30mph when fully loaded (45mph+ unloaded) and could stop dead in the water in its own length from top speed, if the driver knew what he was doing. Highlight of the course was a cabbie out along the Medway across the Thames Reach to Southend Pier and back.

The seas were fairly rough but we made it there and back, everyone wanting to drive the thing. Put it this way, it was a cool bit of kit. Because the craft had these hydro jet engines, it could turn on it own axis and could be controlled with the sticks that angled the jets instead of the wheel. Delicate touches on the throttles and jets achieved really neat results. One test (pass or you were RTU – returned to Unit) was to edge the craft up to a large buoy, leave the cab, walk around the front and step off the boat and onto the buoy without the boat leaving you stranded. Course finished it was back to Germany for a few months before our move to Port Stanley.

Once back at camp, my compatriots all rushed to tell me that Mark (my best friend you’ll remember) had been seeing Heidi, and they revelled in telling me that he had been seeing her in a Biblical fashion, if you will. I know they expected me to get all Rambo about it; they wanted to see me charge across the camp, launch into Mark and sort it out. Problem for them was that I was no more annoyed than had I stubbed my toe. I did like Heidi a great deal, but I was not about to get out of sorts with my best friend, given that I had not written or called her whilst away and that I had been shagging a girl in the Women’s Royal Army Corp (WRAC’s) whilst at Chatham, who was a Corporal called Tina.

Tina went onto write to me weekly whilst I was in the Falklands, with me getting all excited about seeing her when I got back to the northern hemisphere, only to get a Dear John (you are ditched) letter, a week before we travelled back. Probably for the best, but the letters were rather fruity to say the least, as were the pictures she posted in them, which really pissed of the green brains (blokes who bleed green blood they are so army), as they only got letters from their mums and dads, if they were lucky. Heidi and i had drifted apart and we started seeing other people, Mark met another girl to and that was that.

Our tour (posting) to the Falklands started somewhat boringly, a very early wake up, to clamber onto trucks for a trip to the airport and a flight to Brize Norton in Oxfordshire. We got off that plane and onto a DC10, for another flight to the Ascension Islands in the mid Atlantic and then a helicopter transfer from the island and onto the MV Keren. Some interesting points about that journey are; we had to refuel the DC10 in Dakar Airport, Senegal. If you wanted to smoke (I did), you had to get off the plane and sit alongside the runway, about 200 metres from the plane. It was the middle of the night and there was not a light anywhere as I trudged down the covered steps onto the tarmac. I was met by the blackest face I have ever seen (not unusual for Africa). All I could make out were the whites of his eyes and his big whiter than white smiling teeth as he welcomed us to Senegal and directed us across to the smoking area. Please don’t take that to mean I am racist, as I am as far from racist as it’s possible to be, just relating the story.

We sat and smoked, I lay back, my head against my backpack and I studied the stars. I awoke to see the last of my “mates” skipping up the steps onto the plane. The bastards had left me there, hoping I would not wake up until the DC10 thundered above my head. I jumped up and sprinted onto the plane, all of them jeering me as I walked down to my seat. We took off and flew onwards to Ascension, which is basically a runway on a rock. We were barely on land for five minutes before being uplifted by Sea King across to the Keren.

The MV Keren was an ex-Sealink car ferry called “HMS St Edmunds”, a civilian ship commissioned as the Military Vessel Keren after much wrangling with the Seaman’s Union and some skulduggery by the Royal Navy. She sailed down to Ascension and her job was to ferry troops from Ascension to Port Stanley (start of tour) and back to Ascension (end of tour). The problem with the Keren was that she was a North Sea Ferry, not really built for the high rollers of the Atlantic and therefore, not the most comfortable vessel to take to the high seas in. I have a good stomach for sailing, but others amongst our party did not and the slightest choppy wave would find the decks heaving (literally) with the stomach contents of fellow travellers.

The Keren had a flat keel, so that she did not “cut” through waves, but went up them and slammed down the other side. The “cinema and bar” were located as far forward as possible, when she went up a wave, you grabbed your beer, as when she slammed down the other side, the whole ship vibrated, sending anything not nailed down flying. The highlight of the trip down south was when I got up one morning really early and wandered up to the deck near the hastily installed helicopter platform. The ships tended to carry civilians of all descriptions as well, civil servants, TV crews, wildlife experts etc. I bumped into this guy who was travelling to the Falklands to study the wildlife population and the affects the war had had on it. We stood chatting, looking out to sea, when this huge whale breached some 100 metres away from the ship. The animal launched out of the ocean to some half of its body length and slapped back down in a spectacular show of strength and beauty. It continued to do this for some time, with the wildlife guy next to me, hastily taking pictures for all he was worth.

The ship docked in Stanley harbour (shallow hull meant it could enter quite safely) and we traipsed down the gangway to be met by a line up of soldiers preparing to get on board. The jeers and name calling they gave, quickly confirmed to us that this was not to be the choicest of postings, 6 months and 10,000 miles away from home. The time I was to spend there was to be filled with adventure, boredom, pain, hilarity, anger and sheer frustration. And its story is coming your way in the next blog!