Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

the overwhelming Argentine forces, returned to the UK, and who on landing insisted on coming back on the troop ships. They crept over to Sapper Hill under the cover of darkness with as much ammunition as they could carry. They placed mortars at the bottom of the hill with several squaddies, with the orders to make as much noise as possible and create the illusion the main attack was coming from their position.

When the Royal Marines obeyed and kicked up a rumpus that made them sound like seven hundred and not seventy, they complied with the orders.

The 2nd Scots Guards, 4 troop Blues and Royals and Ned’s own 42 Commando Royal Marines then marched westward to the sea. They bypassed the minefields and tabbed seven miles.

At one stage, they had been pinned down by machine gun fire for several hours, and thankfully the peat surroundings absorbed most of the energy from the mortars being rained down on the troops.

A brave corporal attacked the gun position and killed the troops; at the same time, he had been shot several times in both legs. In a strange reversal, the corporal had been carried down off the mountain and, full of morphine, had been laid up against a rock. Four deserting Argentines had given themselves up to him and they now were kneeling with their hands on their heads. He maintained his gun on them for several hours through the pain and morphine, and for his bravery that day received the military medal awarded in the British army. Had he been an officer, he would have received the higher award of Medal of Honor. This ignoble practice was only outlawed after this conflict so soldier and officer would attain the same award regardless of rank.

Ned had been nineteen years old when fighting in this conflict. The last charge was one that would change his life forever. The orders were given by Major Kiszeley, “Fix bayonets and charge!” the officer in charge assessing that he would lose fewer men in a charge than being picked off by mercenary snipers and regular troops.

Killing a man from an airplane or mortar or even a rifle is one thing: it is sterile. You do not see the man’s eyes close or the agony that the round or shrapnel has caused him. You miss the visual effects of the blood, the shards of bone and torn flesh.

Using a bayonet is an entirely different matter. Ned was as professional as the others and charged. He plunged the bayonet into so many bodies, saw the horrors of war close up, and like so many that day, it never left him.

Ned was nineteen at that battle and had since suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. With horror, he had re-lived that battle most nights for the last thirty years. Neither the pills nor the countless visits to the psychiatrists had helped. This was a last-ditch attempt to cure him. It had helped other sufferers from this battle in the past. He had received funding for the trip to Stanley from the fund set up to help ex-soldiers.

***

Two days prior to the Classical Expedition weighing anchor in Stanley Harbour, Ned had flown into the airfield at Stanley. The first thing he noticed was that the vast crater from the historic Vulcan bombing of the landing strip was no more. Ned met a local guide. Geoff, who had been a civilian in Stanley at the time of the conflict, now worked as a battlefield tour guide and volunteered in the museum. He also helped veterans from both sides of the conflict.

Ned met him at the Globe Pub and found the surroundings strange. Machine guns mounted on the wall, Union Jack and St. George flags adorned the ceiling, with autographs of members of battalions who had served at the time of the conflict. Geoff gave Ned two options; a short visit to Tumbledown, or he could camp over for a night or two. Geoff assured him that seeing the mountain when it is at peace and the area tranquil would help him deal with the nightmares. Ned opted for the camping.

Geoff gave Ned a black Nissan SUV and directions to get to Tumbledown. In the back of the SUV were lightweight camping equipment and a stove, plus enough food and water in a backpack to last the short trip.

Ned parked up where Geoff had told him to and quickly saw the stone which had a Union Jack painted on the face. This was the stone the severely injured corporal had lain against with his gun pointed at the four prisoners some thirty years ago, now enshrined in history by the local islanders.

Geoff had been right; the serenity of the mountain had been an enormous help. Instead of setting up the tent Geoff had supplied, Ned took out the shovel and did a scrape as he had done every time, so he could get some sleep during the conflict. A scrape is where the soldier scrapes out enough earth for him to lie down in and cover it with his Bergen. Ned slept that night under the stars without the nightmares. The following day he trekked across to Mount Longdon, ensuring he kept clear of the minefields, which thirty years on were still all around the island. He thought he would stay one more night.

It was a little after 11 am, and Ned was just packing up his gear, when he heard the muffled cry. It was not a loud cry, more a muffled sob; just the one, and then it was no more. Ned could not be sure that he had heard it, or if it was in his head. Sound carries across these mountains, and if indeed it was a cry, it could have been around the corner or half a mile away. He could not be sure, so that is why he went to investigate.

Ned could not