If you can remember that far back, my friends, in 1982 Great Britain was at war with Argentina over some small but so very proudly and defiant British Islands called the Falklands. Naturally the argentines would claim the Islands to be theirs, and called the Malvinas.
Such is the nature of man, - that what in reality is just there, and not meant to belong to anyone in particular but to everyone and everything in general, including animals and neutrinos who most certainly do not recognize or have any concept of the terms border and national sovereignty, - is claimed by man and his petty governments.
Perhaps you remember about a British bomber, the Avro Vulcan being involved in a raid on Stanley Runway. The missions; there were actually several of them, were also known as the Black Bucks Raids.
History records the details of these missions:
Black Buck One: April 30th Black Buck Two: May 4th Black Buck Three: May 31st Black Buck Four: June 3rd
Black Buck One and Two were targeted to bomb the runway at Stanley airport, Three and Four were missile strikes at the Argentine Skyguard Radar.
Three Vulcans were flown out to Wideawake airfield on Ascension Island and in support for refueling purposes they had no less than 11 Victor tankers.
However, history holds no records, at least not until now, regarding the fifth, and extremely clandestine Black Bucks Five mission.
Read on, as your eyes will pop out of your eyes, your jaw will hit the floor and you will quietly be thinking to yourself that you cannot believe that these events actually took place. Well they did, because I was there.
Here’s What Happened:
BEGINNINGS
In 1982 I was in the Royal Danish Air force and the Danes being part of the NATO alliance and always on a good footing with our British friends, airmen from both nations had soccer matches and drinking parties almost every night, after which said parties the Danes would retire to their luxurious wooden quarters built by the Germans during the four-year long occupation by the Nazi’s of our peaceful country – centuries of fighting the Swedes, the Prussians, the French, the British, the Russians and who knows what number of internal battles had finally left us exhausted and with no more land to lose were we to remain on the face of the Earth - and the British would generally just lie down in the mess, for once actually being quiet while going to bed, resting on the floor of our mess which was littered by their sleeping bags and kit – It is my best guess that this is where the thing about placing your towel and gear on the best sun-chairs at the pool in Torremolinos started - and just waiting for their Sergeant Major to gently sing them from their slumber the next morning as they were required to rise before everyone else to perform their duties which by and large consisted of being marched up and down, standing in line and standing to attention all day long.
On one fine day our blue skies were filled by a large and thunderous delta shaped aircraft on finals to land at our station, blocking out the feeble and low hanging sun as its undercarriage gently touched the ground and settled the heavy Avro Vulcan on the tarmac.
On occasions we had the equivalent of WAAF’s visiting but as none were to be found these days, out of boredom we feigned interest in the newly arrived bomber, capable of carrying a nuclear cargo across the globe.
When we arrived at dispersal we could see a group of men having what looked like a heated discussion. Each man in the small group wore so many medals on their uniforms that we had to get out sunglasses out we were blinded by the refracting the light from the low sun.
Thinking we looked very soldierly and hardened we attempted to get closer to the group of “brass” to perhaps catch a word or two of their discussion. Knowing a bit about things we were not supposed to know would earn us beer credits in the mess from our comrades and we were always on the lookout for more beer credits.
TRAPPED
“Oi, Private, what are you gazing at?” the station commander yelled in our direction and we were duly escorted to a nearby office. Looking dumber than usual – it was not hard – why had he used the singular, “private” and not the plural?
I shot off a quick glance around me and discovered that I was alone, my mate nowhere to be found. The chap had boggered off at a most opportune moment just before our eavesdropping was discovered.
As it turned out what they had been discussing and what we have tried to find out was now revealed to me in all its horrifying detail.
As a sign of cooperation between our two Air forces it had been decided that a person from the RDAF should accompany – as an observer – the crew of the Vulcan on its next mission. The problem was, from my point of view, that somehow the station commander had got it into his head, no doubt persuaded by my master sergeant, that I would be a prime candidate for that position as observer, and that the next mission was so secret and clandestine that I had to completely disappear for the next week, effective immediately.
If you think I could have felt a sort of excitement or adventurous at the prospect of the coming activities you would be very wrong. Without the shadow of a doubt I knew I had been picked because I was completely and utterly expendable.
WHAT’S THAT NOISE?
So there I was, less than 48 hours later strapped into a thunderous Vulcan at service ceiling en route from Ascension to Stanley.
If you remember the Vulcan, you probably know that the aircraft featured and ingenious method of saving the crew in case of having to abandon ship due to some misfortune as being hit up the tailpipes by a missile: The pilot and copilot occupying the flight deck would open an escape hatch and simply jump off a stricken and doomed aircraft. The unfortunate crew however did not enjoy such luxury. They would, to put it mildly leave the aircraft after it had hit the ground, or water.
These were my musings as I contemplated the potential aircraft failures I suspected were happing around me at this very moment, my grim train of thought being launched as along with the rest of the crew I had been called up on the aircraft intercom and asked to report any unusual sounds: "Crew, report one by one if you are observing anything unfamiliar, especially sounds, smells, anything”.
By way of afterthought the voice on the intercom coming from the cockpit announced: “We are burning a bit more fuel than expected but otherwise were still good to proceed with the mission. I repeat, mission is not in jeopardy at this time.”
I gathered from the ensuing conference that several of the crew thought the engines sounded a bit funny in a non-descriptive way, a sound almost like distressed animals fearing the dark and an unknown future.
The Flight Engineer was sent on a tour of the aircraft in an attempt to discover if there was anything wrong with the engines or if the integrity of the airframe had been compromised.
Trying to take my observer duties seriously I enquired to the nature of our cargo while sipping at a cup of coffee laced with a bit of Kerosene I thought, thinking the bomb bays would hold either a few heavy, big bombs, or a larger number of smaller devices.
The crew member in charge of the cargo, First Leftenant Loud had no time to answer me as he’d apparently nodded off, and I was already uninterested in any answer he would have provided me.
My eyes opened when suddenly the Engineer Simply known as Sqdr. Ldr. A. Streeb-Greebling appeared before us, interrupting the unfinished coffee-table conversation by presenting what obviously had to be a stow-away, however incredulous to contemplate was this fact on our most secret mission. “Look what I’ve found down in the shadows of the bomb-bay lads”, he menacingly declared. “A ruddy stow-away would you believe!”
The reaction on our part was contained in certain singular words I cannot print suffice to relate that they all consisted of four letters.
“Let’s take this chap to the flight deck to meet the Group Captain”, Street-Greebling proclaimed with no attempt to hide the delight in his voice. “He can only be an agent, a saboteur, and Groupie can decide if we throw him out – sans ‘chute.”
“Senor, Senor…”, the captured man uttered insistently but his protestations were cut off by the Squadron Leader tightening his hold on the man’s arms which were behind his back and almost being wrenched from their sockets in the shoulders. “You can explain yourself to the Group Captain in just a moment son, don’t you worry.”
Group Captain Dally had just completed the umpteenth refueling of his aircraft as the unexpected passenger was presented to him. Quickly regaining his composure and stiff upper lip his first remark was; “Hmmm, this explains why our flight engineer reported excessive fuel usage. You’ll be expected to pay HMG for the amount of fuel we’ve unnecessarily wasted transporting you around. Who are you man, explain yourself!” The last sentence was barked and spat in the general direction of the stow-away.
“That will not be necessary Group Captain”, a friendly, soothing, strangely, fatherly and yet commanding voice said.
A VOICE FROM THE SHADOWS
The man behind the voice took one step out of shadows and the faint moon light penetrating the thick and small round windows in the cockpit played on the features of none other than Air Vice Marshal Csilly.
Csilly of Battle of Britain fame. Csilly of the Commons, later, Csilly of the Lords.
“This man is Argentinean and is here by HMG’s request. This may sound strange to you as you have not been fully briefed. Until now, that is.
We have been very successful in the previous four Black Buck missions and our general campaign, and we are now at a stage where we must look towards the future securing our victory and a lasting peace with one of the most cunning plans ever devised in the history of warfare. In fact we have been so successful lately, that our lads on the ground as well as Her Majesty’s Subjects on the Islands have had to endure a serious shortage of fresh meat and milk.
In connection with HMG’s new policy of securing the safety of British Citizens and winning the Hearts and Minds of the remaining Argentinean soldiers, we drop this man and the payload over Stanley and return to Old Blighty”.
“Hearts and Minds”, the Argentinean repeated, showing us the thumbs up sign from both his hands while his lips parted in a grin displaying his white teeth.
BOMB RUN
If you’re in agriculture, or know anyone who is, you know that the farmer rises before any other human being on the planet to tend to his stock and on this early morning the local Falklands farmers shared a spectacle with soldiers on guard duty or simply looking for a convenient place to relieve themselves unfolding in the skies before their eyes.
Still massive in appearance at its height of a couple of miles, a vast tubular container separated itself from the frame of the bomber, its free fall quickly arrested by a pair of immense parachutes, one more immense than the other causing the container to hang in the air at an angle of approximately 45 degrees on its longitudinal angle. The front end of the tubular container was blown off by small charges placed between the end-plate and the flanges and hundreds of sheep – drugged by a mild gas containing a sedative to avoid them going into cardiac arrest induced by shock, the gas distributed by aerosol while they were still tucked away inside the belly of the aircraft - drifted towards the ground, each being held aloft by its own parachute.
And so it happened, that after the Vulcan had delivered its cargo of sheep and dipping, the first take-way and fast-food stand serving mutton hot-dogs to hungry souls on the now almost peaceful island was erected by an industrious native Argentinean turned sheep farmer, flown in from the United Kingdom, initially under a tent constructed from fabric also used in parachutes.
