wonder how Tony took it, being hauled out of the action like that.'
'I shouldn't imagine he'd be too pleased,' Fox said.
'Well that would make sense, knowing our Tony,' Ferguson said. 'After all, it's the only war he's got.'
9
On the day previously it had been quiet at first light in the mountains of north Falkland, the only sound a dog barking from one of the hillside farms far, far below in a valley.
The four-man SAS reconnaissance team had been operating behind the Argentine lines for ten days now, having been put ashore by submarine before the British landings at San Carlos on the twenty-first.
The team consisted of Villiers, Harvey Jackson, the radio operator, Corporal Elliot of the Royal Corps of Signals; and the fourth member of the group, a trooper named Jack Korda, a volunteer to the SAS from the Grenadier Guards like Villiers and Jackson.
It was bitterly cold. When Villiers had first awakened he had found his sleeping poncho covered in hoar frost. He stood now in the hollow beside a small cave, not much more than a fissure in the rocks, inside which Korda was heating tea on a small chemical stove.
Villiers, like the others, wore a black woollen balaclava, more against the cold than anything else. His camouflage uniform was soaking wet, his fingers numb with cold as he ate from a mess can with a spoon. Jackson sat cross-legged on the ground, a guardsman to the end, and scraped shaving foam from his chin with a plastic razor.
Villiers' spoon rattled against the bottom of the mess tin. He stowed it away in his pack and accepted the mug of tea Korda passed him.
'I've had enough chicken supreme to last me a lifetime. How about you, Harvey?'
'Oh, it keeps me going as well as anything else, ' Jackson said. 'Food's not all that important. When I was seventeen the food in the guardsmen's mess at the Depot was so awful, I've never been able to take it seriously since.'
Elliot was crouched by the radio and Villiers moved across. 'Everything okay?'
Elliot glanced up and nodded. 'Through in a minute.'
The patrol's task was simple enough: to pick up as much information as possible about Argentinian troop movements in the area. The information would be of the utmost importance when British forces broke out from the San Carlos beach-head.
The equipment Elliot carried was of the latest kind. There was a small typewriter-style keyboard and through this system, messages could be entered and stored in code. When Elliot was ready, the touch of a button was sufficient to send a message of a few hundred words in a matter of seconds. They were on the air so briefly that it was impossible for the enemy to have any hope of tracing them.
Elliot looked up and grinned. 'That's it.' He started to pack his equipment.
Korda crawled out of the fissure with more tea. 'When do we go in, sir? How much longer?'
'Rations for four more days,' Villiers reminded him.
'Which means we can last a week,' Harvey Jackson said. 'Longer, if you don't mind raw mutton. Sheep all over the place. The Argies have been doing very nicely on that diet.'
Before Korda could reply, Villiers said, 'Just a minute. Something coming.'
There was a murmur in the distance that grew louder. Villiers and the others crawled forward cautiously to the edge of the hollow and peered over. They each carried the same weapon, a silenced sub-machine gun.
An Argentinian truck was approaching along the rough track about a hundred yards away, its front wheels spinning on the frozen ground, only the half-tracks at the rear keeping it going.
The driver and the man who sat beside him in the front seat with a rifle across his knees, were muffled up to their ears against the intense cold, scarves bound around their faces.
'Sitting ducks,' Elliot said. 'Even if there's somebody in the rear.'
But the patrol's task was to seek information, not confrontation. Villiers said, 'No, let them go.'
And then the truck slithered to a halt, half-slewed across the track directly below
'I shouldn't imagine he'd be too pleased,' Fox said.
'Well that would make sense, knowing our Tony,' Ferguson said. 'After all, it's the only war he's got.'
9
On the day previously it had been quiet at first light in the mountains of north Falkland, the only sound a dog barking from one of the hillside farms far, far below in a valley.
The four-man SAS reconnaissance team had been operating behind the Argentine lines for ten days now, having been put ashore by submarine before the British landings at San Carlos on the twenty-first.
The team consisted of Villiers, Harvey Jackson, the radio operator, Corporal Elliot of the Royal Corps of Signals; and the fourth member of the group, a trooper named Jack Korda, a volunteer to the SAS from the Grenadier Guards like Villiers and Jackson.
It was bitterly cold. When Villiers had first awakened he had found his sleeping poncho covered in hoar frost. He stood now in the hollow beside a small cave, not much more than a fissure in the rocks, inside which Korda was heating tea on a small chemical stove.
Villiers, like the others, wore a black woollen balaclava, more against the cold than anything else. His camouflage uniform was soaking wet, his fingers numb with cold as he ate from a mess can with a spoon. Jackson sat cross-legged on the ground, a guardsman to the end, and scraped shaving foam from his chin with a plastic razor.
Villiers' spoon rattled against the bottom of the mess tin. He stowed it away in his pack and accepted the mug of tea Korda passed him.
'I've had enough chicken supreme to last me a lifetime. How about you, Harvey?'
'Oh, it keeps me going as well as anything else, ' Jackson said. 'Food's not all that important. When I was seventeen the food in the guardsmen's mess at the Depot was so awful, I've never been able to take it seriously since.'
Elliot was crouched by the radio and Villiers moved across. 'Everything okay?'
Elliot glanced up and nodded. 'Through in a minute.'
The patrol's task was simple enough: to pick up as much information as possible about Argentinian troop movements in the area. The information would be of the utmost importance when British forces broke out from the San Carlos beach-head.
The equipment Elliot carried was of the latest kind. There was a small typewriter-style keyboard and through this system, messages could be entered and stored in code. When Elliot was ready, the touch of a button was sufficient to send a message of a few hundred words in a matter of seconds. They were on the air so briefly that it was impossible for the enemy to have any hope of tracing them.
Elliot looked up and grinned. 'That's it.' He started to pack his equipment.
Korda crawled out of the fissure with more tea. 'When do we go in, sir? How much longer?'
'Rations for four more days,' Villiers reminded him.
'Which means we can last a week,' Harvey Jackson said. 'Longer, if you don't mind raw mutton. Sheep all over the place. The Argies have been doing very nicely on that diet.'
Before Korda could reply, Villiers said, 'Just a minute. Something coming.'
There was a murmur in the distance that grew louder. Villiers and the others crawled forward cautiously to the edge of the hollow and peered over. They each carried the same weapon, a silenced sub-machine gun.
An Argentinian truck was approaching along the rough track about a hundred yards away, its front wheels spinning on the frozen ground, only the half-tracks at the rear keeping it going.
The driver and the man who sat beside him in the front seat with a rifle across his knees, were muffled up to their ears against the intense cold, scarves bound around their faces.
'Sitting ducks,' Elliot said. 'Even if there's somebody in the rear.'
But the patrol's task was to seek information, not confrontation. Villiers said, 'No, let them go.'
And then the truck slithered to a halt, half-slewed across the track directly below
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