Make my day - punk.....!

16th June 1982.

We are acting as the guard ship at Ascension Island.

This is particularly boring although the sun shines constantly.

A party of us go ashore for a tour of the defence stations on the island and a shoot in the afternoon. Yes - the fools allow me to fire a weapon - bloody crazy if you ask me!

Let me explain - a naval medic gets to carry a weapon, in this case a 9mm browning pistol, in a combat situation. The objective, of course, is to protect any casualty you have in your care. Yeah - right! I agree with this in theory but reality bites. If I see any enemy approaching me, regardless of casualties or not, I will definitely have a pop!

The shoot in the afternoon goes well. I am, in fact, a pretty good shot. That is providing, the target is no more threatening than a stationary oil drum. God knows what would happen if presented with a moving target.

So, there you have it, fear not, Leeds Castle's very own 'Dirty Harry' is on hand. Blimey!

Is it a bird, is it a plane....?

1982 in the TEZ, South Atlantic.

Well, I'm back were I started these ramblings - I'm in the crows nest again - taking the middle watch duty (midnight to 0400).

Again I'm up here keeping lookout for signs of enemy aircraft. A pretty boring, but necessary job. I continually scan the horizon looking for tell tale signs of aircraft above. We are particularly concerned about Hercules bombers who have already bombed a tanker; these planes have a range of 1800 miles so are an obvious threat.

I've been up here for a couple of hours and am feeling pretty tired. It's difficult to keep awake and concentrate but I manage it.

The ship is rolling gently as we make our passage. Wait a minute! Is that a light? As the ship rolls a light high in the black sky comes into view and then fades again. As the ship rolls I see this light a couple of more times. Bloody hell! Could that be the light from a high flying plane - does anyone else see it?

I phone the bridge and talk to the officer of the watch to report what I see. A couple of minutes pass before he gets back to me. Well, I feel a bit of a pillock.

The light in the sky that comes into view when the ship rolls is, in fact, the moon! Amazing what tricks fatigue can play on the senses.

Mind you, the officer of the watch thought that it was better to be safe than sorry!

Leaning......

Well, here we are, steaming from ascension to the TEZ with more supplies to deliver throughout the fleet.

The Leeds Castle from the superstructure to aft is all flight deck - this probably accounts for half of the length of the ship. Pretty big for a ship of this size.

On this particular foray South, we are stuffed to the gunnels with stores - it seems that every nook and cranny has found a home for something. This means that stores have been stacked and secured on the flight deck.

These supplies take up a significant area of the flight deck and are stacked 12-15 feet high or more. No problem while the seas remain relatively benign.

As we get further South the conditions deteriorate with increasingly stronger winds and heavy swells. During this weather things take a dramatic turn.

It is early in the morning, maybe 5 or 6 am - it's still pretty dark outside. The seas are heavy and the winds strong. I am awoken with a start. 'All hands to the flight deck' is piped over the tannoy. As I struggle to get aft, I can't help but notice that the ship is listing severely to starboard - we are, in fact, at a crazy angle!

As I reach the flight deck it is now obvious what the problem is - the stores have slid across the flight deck and now lie starboard. The only thing keeping them from Davey Jone's locker appear to be the guardrails. The crew is turned to and gets rapidly to work.

We spend the next few hours shifting the stores back to a centre position on the flight deck. We then make sure they are firmly strapped down - panic over.

Mind you - it was a little hairy for a while. Being no seaman, I have no idea how severe a ship can list before it capsizes - I sure as hell didn't want to find out. I'm no Gene Hackman!

It could have been me..........

HMS Antelope took part in the Falklands War. On May 23, 1982, while Antelope was on air defence duty at the entrance to San Carlos Water, protecting a beachhead established two days earlier, she came under attack by Argentine A-4 Skyhawk jets. Not long after the ship exploded while bomb disposal worked onboard.

This was a particularly sobering experience for me. Let me explain...

Back in 1980, I think, my mate Andy Till and I were serving at the naval airbase - HMS Osprey in Portland. Now, both of us had not yet had a draft to a ship - this is 7 years after joining the Navy. This was not particularly unusual, there were a lot of medics and not too many ships. Nevertheless, both Andy and I were keen to serve on board a seagoing warship - after all, that's what we had joined and trained for.

The Navy attempts to send you on draft (new posting) to the ships or establishments you asked for. Often this is not possible. Andy and I both put down Antelope as a choice for our next draft.

At the time, I had been dating my girlfriend, Sue, for a month or so - nothing too serious at this stage (she is now my wife of 26 years and counting). Whilst having a beer or two at HMS Osprey's club, the Flying Fish, I happened to mention to Sue that I had put in for the Antelope. Well! She rushes out of the club in tears. Now, what the hell had I done? Women, eh!

It was obvious that our relationship was a little more serious than I had thought. So, I withdrew my request for the Antelope. Subsequently, Andy got the Antelope as his next draft. So there you have it, my best mate sailed to the Falklands in 1982 on the Antelope and the rest is history. Fortunately, Andy survived the fate of the Antelope, at least physically. I saw him a few years later - he wasn't the same happy go lucky guy I used to know.

There are no guarantees that I would have got the Antelope if I had left my request in place - there is a good probability that I might have. I do know, that Sue, inadvertently, stopped me making what could have been a fatal mistake....

Footnote. The Antelope had been in the TEZ for one day before it was crippled.

First Aid.......

Steaming towards Ascension Island from the UK.

We have now settled into the routine. There are constant exercises - obviously, very necessary. An effective crew is one that has been well drilled. The aim is to practice for all eventualities - attack, fires, damage control, men overboard, aircraft ditches etc. As you can see, an awful lot can occur on board a Royal Navy ship.

So, although repetitive exercises can seem a drag it is clear that they are vitally important. You never know when you might be called upon to put into action all that practice.

One of my duties is to train the first aid teams. These sessions would usually be undertaken on the flight deck (when not in use for other things). Remember, the average age of the crew is around 19-20 years old. Sometimes it is difficult to get the first aid teams to take the training to seriously - their minds are often on their normal duties and I don't think that they really believe that they'll need first aid skills.

The light hearted approach to first aid training was to change quite dramatically. I always believed that it was highly likely we would suffer losses; the Argentinian forces weren't up to much, really. But, the law of averages were against us.

May 4th saw an event that changed the attitudes of my first aid teams to training and one that concentrated the minds of the whole crew. This was the day that HMS Sheffield was hit by Exocet and sunk with the loss of 20 crew. It was now, obvious to all, that this was a bloody serious situation that we approached.

To their credit, my first aid team members, paid serious attention to my lectures and training. Although not called upon to perform under fire, I have no doubt they would have performed admirably.

Grytviken..............

23rd July 1982

We came alongside the jetty at Grytviken yesterday and spent the day shifting stores - that's what we do! Of course, Grytviken and Leith is where this conflict kicked off. It was on the 26th April that South Georgia was retaken with the help of the Plymouth and Antrim - the Argentinians didn't like their fire power at all.

The day before the Argentinian submarine - Sante Fe was bombed by the Brilliant's 2 Lynx helicopter - it then limped into Grytviken bay and there it still lies. As you enter the bay you can see the turrets breaking above the water line.

South Georgia is an amazing place. Beautiful and unspoilt. It is a place of striking contrast. One moment you can be in bright sunshine gazing at the snow covered mountains and then the next you can find yourself in a blizzard. A truly spectacular place.

Grytviken, itself, is an old whaling station abandoned many years ago. This is truly an eerie place. As you walk up the old slipway, used for dragging whales out of the sea before processing, you are struck by the quiet of the place - a bit like a ghost town, I'd guess.

As you walk through the station you realise things are 'preserved' by the climate conditions here. It's almost as though the whalers were here just yesterday - old equipment looks like it would still work. There a large containers full of bits and pieces of equipment still in relatively good shape. You come across gloves just left behind, still in good condition. This is a really spooky place, almost like stepping back in time.

I will revisit this place in 1984 with the Yarmouth. Until then, I will leave you with this image. A little ways behind the whaling station is an old football pitch. As I looked across this expanse a small herd of reindeer, yes - reindeer, hove into view. They ran across the pitch in front of me and disappeared into the hills. A quite amazing site - I cursed myself that I was not armed with a camera!

South Georgia is blessed with some amazing wildlife - more of that when we come back to South Georgia with the Yarmouth.

A warm, fuzzy feeling........

24th May 1982

We've just taken up position with the task force in the Total Exclusion Zone (TEZ) in the South Atlantic.

There she is - HMS Hermes, the task force's flagship. Sort of gives you a warm, fuzzy feeling knowing she's close and that you are now part of the ring of ship's around her.

Perhaps, we shouldn't feel so comfortable - why is the Hermes in the middle? Well, it becomes quite obvious on May 25th. This is the day that the Atlantic Conveyor and the Coventry are attacked.

The Atlantic Conveyor is closed up with the task force and is in it's position in the ring of ships surrounding the Hermes.

Here's something to consider - the Exocet - this missile caused untold damage to our ships. It was an Exocet that sunk the Sheffield - our first casualty of the conflict. Now, this missile is very difficult to counter - it can be launched by a Super Etendard at a distance of 47 miles away. It then skims 6 foot above the surface of the sea as it homes, rapidly, in on it's target.

Of course, one possible defence, if you are the flagship, is to surround yourself with other ships. I'm not sure whether this was the intention but it was certainly the effect. The Exocet, as it skims above the water, tends to hit the nearest lump of metal in it's way.

So, the Atlantic Conveyor took the full destructive power of an Exocet - it had no chance. I learned, later, from the Skippers diary that Leeds Castle had been directly between the Atlantic Conveyer and the aircraft while it was on the radar screen - hairy!

That warm, fuzzy feeling has long departed - never to return.

Near miss.....!

29th June 1982

We escorted HMS Plymouth and HMS Glasgow to Ascension island today. The Plymouth looks a right state - not surprising given the hammering they have been through.

My counterpart on the Plymouth is George Peddie - a real salty old sea dog if ever there was one! George invites me on board to take a look around. What a mess!

Plymouth had been attacked on June 8th whilst in San Carlos harbour and had been hit by four bombs. It is hard to imagine what that must have been like. As an aside, I was disgusted to find out that our 'allies' the Americans had refused to help us with AWACS - these could have saved many lives by helping us spot the Argentinian planes before they got to close. That was Reagan at the time but I don't think thing have changed to much since then. So much for our 'friends!'

Sorry, I digress. Back to the Plymouth. Remember Bob on the Ardent? Well, George had a pretty hairy story to tell. We were sitting in George's sick bay having a brew and a chat. I noticed a couple of holes - one on the inner wall of the sick bay and one on the ships' side; they were, pretty much, opposite each other. I, idly, commented on them.

George told me the story of the holes. He had been sitting at his desk when a missile punched through the wall just behind him. It couldn't have been more than a foot, or so, behind his head. The missile then punched it's way through the ships' side before exiting the ship.

Bloody hell! I figure George is a very lucky man. I wonder what odds you could have got against that bomb not exploding!

To all you little old ladies........

One of my duties on the Leeds Castle was to look after the forward hold.

This was used for storing all manner of supplies to be distributed around the task force. You may wonder why this mundane fact is worth a mention - let me enlighten you!

Here we are in the inhospitable waters of the South Atlantic, part of a military task force sent to do a job. This task force consists of many ships, crewed by men aged 17 and upwards. Imagine, you're 17 and at war, but, technically, you are to young to drink!

This task force is 7000 miles away from home, family and loved ones. The conditions can be severe, coupled with the threat of attack. These men are constantly keeping defence watches, this means wearing anti flash and carrying respirators, just in case. You are either on watch or of - usually sleeping. So it can be a pretty miserable existence, if you let it.

Now, the average military guy tends not to let things get him down. There's often a movie to watch, a game of crib to play, a game of Uckers ( a navy version of Ludo) or any number of things to pass the time whilst not on duty. Nevertheless, it's still great to know that people at home are thinking about you. That's where the forward hold comes in.

Alongside bits of equipment and essential supplies - the hold was often packed full of goodies. These goodies ranged from crates of beer to warm clothing. Pretty boring? Well, no, far from it.

In actual fact quite of lot of these items came from the public back home. People had taken the time to send 'stuff' to the troops. I myself, a small perk of the job, benefited from a particularly warm balaclava and a pair of woolly fingerless gloves (these gloves got many years service).

None of this is special - right? Well, when you know that these items were being knitted by, I think, mostly little old ladies and then sent South, your viewpoint changes. Quite often, these little parcels contained letters of support from these little old ladies. I for one, as did many others, find this uplifting - proof really, that beside our loved ones - there were people we didn't know thinking of us. A great feeling that - believe me.

So, to all you little old, and not so old, ladies who thought of us and did their bit to raise our spirits - THANK YOU!

Do dogs get seasick........?

By dogs, of course, I mean salty sea dogs. Surely, they can't get seasick - well, they can!

Certainly, when I joined the Leeds Castle for my 'jolly' to the Falklands it took me a little time to get my sea legs. It's a physiological thing - your body has to adapt to the new motion it finds itself subjected to. After a couple of days, generally feeling queasy, I soon settled down and was fine with my 'new sea legs'.

You soon get used to living with perpetual motion. In fact, for most of the time, when you are not working it can be quite relaxing. It becomes an automatic reflex to lift a mug of coffee or tip the side of your dinner plate to compensate for the pitch of the ship. You only need to lose you food once to get the idea! So there we are! I've now got my sea legs so no further problems. Wrong.

The oceans can be crystal clear with a smooth surface or they can be a raging cauldron. Certain circumstances will effect all but the most 'salty' of sea dogs. when the ship is rolling from side and rising and falling with the waves, even if they are particularly rough, most sailors cope admirably. Me included.

There is a third motion that when added to the pitching and rolling has very unpleasant effects. Occasionally, a ship will be buffeted quite violently. Now I'm not really a sailor, I'm a medic - a different thing entirely. But as far as I understand, this buffeting is caused when the ship is heading sort of sideways into the waves.

So now the ship is pitching, rolling and shuddering violently. Guaranteed to bring sickness a calling. Sea sick tablets don't seem to have to much effect in these conditions - those that are effected, either go to their pits and sweat it out or, if on duty - tough it out!

On a number of occasions I found my self wedged into my bunk - with a couple pillows jammed against my back to prevent me from moving to much. Really, just lying there hoping to die! What a wimp! Mind you, at least, I was not alone in my misery.

So do dogs get seasick -- damn right they do!

Man overboard...........!

23rd May 1982 - South Atlantic, fifty miles of the Falklands. It is late in the evening and dark. The seas, surprise, surprise, are rough. Difficult conditions to be transferring stores from ship to ship. Of course, that is precisely what we are doing.

We are doing this by sending our Sea-Rider ( a semi rigid small boat) loaded with stores between ships. we are offloading stores to an RFA ship.

This is particularly hazardous for a number of reasons; it is dark, the seas are very rough and to make matters worse, the RFA won't switch on his lights. He is scared that he could be bombed from above.

So, we launch the Sea-rider with a couple seamen on board with the stores. They make the trip across OK and offload to the RFA. It is during the trip back that things go pear shaped.

The Sea-rider is now alongside, we attach lines to enable us to winch the the boat and crew back on board. I am on one of the lines. In a moment, a large wave rolls over the boat and takes with it one of the seamen manning it. In seconds, he is swept aft into the stormy darkness.

Dressed correctly he might have some chance of survival. Unfortunately he is not wearing an immersion suit but, instead, he has on arctic clothing - basically a pair of padded trousers and a padded jacket, plus his life jacket. Keeps you fairly warm but is useless for surviving at sea. Dressed like he is, he should not survive for more that a few short minutes due to the temperature of the seas, combined with the distinct risk of drowning in the heavy swell.

I don't recall who was on duty on the bridge, but their response was immediate. The ship was brought around sharply, no mean feat in itself given the conditions. The seaman was captured and kept visible by a spotlight - again, pretty amazing. Within 15 minutes we had him back on board. That seems like a long time, but because of the conditions this was outstanding. Now, he could be in a bad state.

We got him, quickly, down to the sick bay to check him over. In these conditions, hypothermia can kill pretty rapidly. Amazingly, he was a little cold but not severely hypothermic as I had feared. He was re-heated, gently in a warm shower. He hadn't ingested too much sea water - so no problems there. The Skipper gave him a tot of rum, not a particularly good move, but it wouldn't harm him. Then he was back to duty - no harm done.

I asked him what went through his mind while he was in the water. He replied "Well, I just thought that I would either be picked up or I wouldn't". There's fatalism for you!

Age of this seaman - 17 years!

Easter break 1982...........!

So, it's been a busy few months. Time for some leave - it's the 23rd April 1982, I'm serving at HMS Cochrane, Rosyth.

My wife, Sue - a serving Wren, and I decide before traveling South that we should get a bit of shopping in. We return a little later to our married quarter to find a note pinned to the front doors. It tells me to report to the sick bay. This can only mean one thing. So should I ignore it and travel South anyway - no-one would be the wiser. A nanosecond later I'm on the way to HMS Cochrane's sick bay. Duty - it can be a bugger!

I present myself to my Divisional Officer (DO) and am informed that I'd be joining HMS Leeds Castle, a fishery protection ship deploying for the Falklands conflict. This is what I trained for and is my duty - so no complaints. I did baulk, a little, at the reasoning behind my DO's decision to send me. Another had been identified to go; my boss cancelled this and got me the gig instead. "This would be good experience for you Wright" he opined. Bloody easy for him - there was little chance of him becoming involved and maybe developing a few extra holes in his body. Well, that's what you get for being an officer candidate!

0900 24th April sees me join the Leeds Castle. Not bad - 24 hours notice to go to war. I, of course, had given up hopes of going to sea after 9 years in the medical branch. well, you better be careful what you wish for. My first ship and it was of to war. Blimey! This first morning is spent with a dental team doing a complete check of the ship's company. Toothache 7000 miles from home is no laughing matter!

I store the ship with medical supplies from HMS Cochrane sick bay on 25th April. This would take all day. The Leeds Castle is ill equipped to take all of the medical supplies required. After all it is a fishery protection ship, not a bloody frigate. So after much thought and discussion with supplies every available nook and cranny is crammed with medical supplies.

Pop back home at 1700 for a somewhat burnt Sunday dinner. Back to the ship at 1830 with Sue, my wife, in tow. Say my goodbyes, all very stoic. However, over the coming months I will worry more about my wife and my colleagues than myself.

1000 26th April we sail from Roysth for Portmouth. It begins.......

Heroes.....?

So, what makes a hero?

Is it a member of the public who takes on a bank robber, a man who saves a child from a burning house or a soldier who storms a machine gun nest? Who knows - I'm sure we all have our views.
The Falklands war saw men hailed as heroes - some were, some were not. I'd like to tell you about a man who was.

Heroism can take many forms; from the person who finds himself in an extraordinary situation and responds with gut instinct, to the military figure who is expected to do his duty. These people don't view themselves as heroes. They were there at a moment in time and just did what they thought was right.

I try not to name people in this blog, but Bob Young deserves mention. I first met Bob in 1973, we joined up at HMS Ganges as naval medics and were in the same class. He is a decent sort, from the west country, down to earth taking pretty much everything as it come with a matter of fact approach.

We move forward to 1982, a time when servicemen were to find themselves thrust into extraordinary circumstance. When we joined up in 1973, I am sure that none of us actually considered that there was the remotest possibility of going to war. We were wrong.

Bob was serving on HMS Ardent at the time and found himself in the heat of the conflict. On May 21, 1982 the Ardent was sunk with the loss of 22 lives. Fortunately I was too meet Bob again, soon after this tragic event.

The Leeds Castle was tasked with transferring troops from the QE2 to the Canberra in preparation for their return home. I was amazed and relieved to meet Bob on board - he had survived relatively unscathed physically, emotionally was probably a different matter. This is what he told me.

Whilst under attack from Argentine planes Bob found himself at one of the Seacat launchers tending to a severely injured officer, unfortunately this man was fatally injured. Bob stayed with his patient, trying to make him as comfortable as possible by administering morphine.

While doing this, Bob described to me, witnessing the incoming Argentine aircraft dropping their bombs - he watched the bombs fall on the flight deck below him. The ships helicopter and the crew attending it disappeared before his eyes. He still remained with his casualty.

I asked him what was going through his mind during this attack. He just said, he had to concentrate on his job. It struck me that he retold this harrowing tale in a calm, matter of fact manner. No histrionics or drama. He was just doing his job.

To my mind, that is true heroism. I for one, salute you Bob.