Ghost Force

At 1800, they ordered the Governor out of his residence and drove him and his family and staff to the airfield, shipping them out immediately by air, to Rio Gallegos.

At fifteen minutes past six o'clock, on Sunday evening, February 13, 2011, the Argentinian flag flew over Port Stanley for the first time since June 1982, when Britain's Second Battalion Parachute Regiment had ripped it down and replaced in once more with the Union Flag of Great Britain. It was ten o'clock in the evening in London.

CHAPTER FOUR

The most astonishing aspect of the lightning-fast Argentinian military action on that Sunday in mid-February was the failure of the British land forces to make any form of communication with their High Command. The same applied to the survivors in the Royal Navy garrison.

Under normal circumstances one would have expected Lt. Commander Malcolm Farley to have instantly contacted the closest Naval Operations base. The problem was, Lt. Commander Farley had a 1,400-ton warship on fire right outside his front door, with many dead and some wounded. The nearest help was all of 2,400 miles away — the north-heading frigate — and his home base was 8,000 miles away in Portsmouth.

The problem for Major Bobby Court was much the same. There had been a ferocious attack on the missile system that protected the airport, his men were under serious small-arms fire, and generally speaking everyone was just trying to stay alive. The nearest help was thousands of miles away, and they were all in a life-or-death fight with the Argentinians.

Neither Lt. Commander Farley nor Major Court lived to make the communication, and it was not made by anyone until six p.m. (local) on a telephone in the passenger terminal at Mount Pleasant Airfield.

Sergeant Alan Peattie, who had manned one of the heavy machine guns, and somehow emerged unscathed, called the British Army HQ in Wilton, near Salisbury, where the duty officer, stunned by what he heard, hit the encrypted line to the Ministry of Defense.

That represented another duty officer absolutely stunned, and he in turn called Britain's Defense Minister at his home in Kent.

At 10:24 p.m. the telephone rang in the British Prime Minister's country retreat, the great Elizabethan mansion Chequers, situated deep in the Chiltern Hills, in Buckinghamshire to the west of London. The Defense Minister, the urbane former university lecturer Peter Caulfield, personally relayed the daunting news.

The Prime Minister's private secretary took the call and relayed the communique:

Argentinian troops have invaded the Falkland Islands. The British garrison fell shortly before ten p.m. GMT. Port Stanley occupied by Argentinian Marines. HMS Leeds Castle destroyed. Governor Manton under arrest. The national flag of Argentina flies over the islands.

The color drained from the PM's face. He actually thought he might throw up. Twice in the previous month he had been alerted to the obvious unrest in Buenos Aires. He had been informed by his own Ambassador of the shouted words of the Argentinian President from the palace balcony on New Year's Eve.

There had even been reports from the military attache in Buenos Aires of troop movements, and more important, aircraft movement at the Argentinian bases in the south of the country. He also recalled ignoring reports of Argentinian anger at the oil situation on East Falkland.

He had three times spoken to the Foreign Minister in Cabinet, mildly inquiring whether there was any need to sit up and take notice. Each time he had been told, 'We've been listening to this stuff for over twenty years. Yes, the Argentinians are less than happy. But they've been less than happy for the biggest part of one hundred eighty years. In point of fact we've had exceptionally agreeable relations with Buenos Aires for a very long time. They won't make a move. They wouldn't want another humiliation.'

The Prime Minister had accepted that. But the decisions in the end were his, and so was the glory, and so was the blame. And this was a Prime Minister who was allergic to blame, at least if it was pointed at him.

He excused himself from the crowded dinner table and walked with his secretary through the central hall, past the huge log fire that permeated this historic place with the faint smell of wood smoke in every room. He entered his study and picked up the telephone, greeting the Minister of Defense curtly.

'Prime Minster,' said the voice on the other end. 'Not to put too fine a point on it, Argentina just conquered the Falkland Islands. Our troops defended as well as they could, but we have at least one hundred fifty dead, and HMS Leeds Castle is still on fire, with her keel resting on the bottom of Mare Harbor.'

'God almighty,' said the PM, his thoughts flashing, as they always did in moments of crisis, on to the front pages of tomorrow's newspapers, not to mention tonight's television news.

'I'm sure you realize, sir,' continued the Minister, 'we have no adequate military response for thousands of miles. I regret to say you are in an identical situation to Margaret Thatcher in 1982. We either negotiate a truce, with some kind of sharing of authority, or we go to war. I firmly recommend the former.'

'But what about the media?' he replied. 'They'll instantly compare me with Margaret Thatcher. They'll find out about the warnings we received from Buenos Aires, then blame me, and to a lesser extent you, for ignoring them. The Foreign Secretary will have to resign, as Mrs. Thatcher's did. And then they'll ask what we're made of.'

'Prime Minister, I do of course understand your concerns. But right now we have one hundred fifty dead British soldiers, sailors, and airmen on East Falkland. Arrangements have to be made. Someone has to speak to the President of Argentina. I am happy to open the talks — but I think you are going to have to speak to him personally.

'Meanwhile, I think the Foreign Office should start by making the strongest possible protest to the United Nations. I'm suggesting an emergency Cabinet meeting in Downing Street tonight, perhaps attended by the military Chiefs of Staff.'

'But what about the media?' repeated the Prime Minister. 'Can we stall them? Can we somehow slow it all down? Call in the press officers and our political advisers? See how best to handle it?'

'It's a bit late for that, Prime Minister. The Argentinians will have the full story on the news wires, probably as I speak—Heroic forces of Argentina recapture the Malvinas — British defeated after fierce fighting — the flag of Argentina flies at last over the islands…Viva las Malvinas!! We can't stop that.'

'Will the press blame me?'

'Undoubtedly, sir. I am afraid they will.'

'Will it bring down my government?'

'The Falklands nearly brought down Mrs. Thatcher. Except she instantly went to war, with the cheers of the damned populace ringing in her ears, and the military loved her.'

'They don't love me.'

'No, sir. Nor me.'

'Downing Street. Midnight, then.'

'I'll see you there, sir.'

The British Prime Minister walked back across the central hall of Chequers with a chill in his heart. He was not the first PM to feel that emotion since first Lord Lee of Fareham gifted the great house to the nation in 1917, during the premiership of David Lloyd George.

And he probably would not be the last. But this was a situation in which there was no room for maneuver. And it was a situation that would require him to address the nation, immediately after the Cabinet meeting. He knew instinctively the press would give him a very, very rough ride…

Surely, Prime Minister, you were aware of the unrest in Buenos Aires…? Surely, you must have been told by your diplomatic advisers that all was not well in the South Atlantic…? Stuff like this never happens without considerable preparation by the aggressors…surely someone must have known something was going on?

But the one he really dreaded was…Prime Minister, you and your government have spent years making heavy cuts to the defense budget, especially to the Navy…do you now regret that?