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"FREE
VERSE FROM FORGOTTEN MEN - Falklands War 1982"
Author's
introduction
The
war memorial at Stanley in the Falkland Islands has engraved upon it
the names of all the UK military units that took part in the
Conflict. From Ships and Squadrons to Regiments and Special Forces,
all are represented - even down to the Field Post Office Unit and the
Catering Corps. It is interesting to note that, despite a twenty year
campaign to have their presence in the conflict recorded, FLEET
CLEARANCE DIVING TEAM 3 has yet to be included. This is particularly
surprising in view of the fact that 66% of its members received
gallantry awards. This is by far the highest percentage achievement
of any unit involved and an enviable record for such a small team of
Bomb-disposal Divers - the Royal Navy's own and largely unsung
Special Forces. The eighteen-man team amassed between them: one
Distinguished Service Cross, one Distinguished Service Medal, four
Mentions in Dispatches and six Commander-in-Chief's Commendations for
Brave Conduct.
From the moment of their appearance in the combat
zone, the Team was in the thick of it. Immediately after HMS ANTELOPE
was sunk (the day the Team arrived), nine of them began the long and
arduous task of removing dangerous explosives from her upper-deck and
reducing the height of the wreck. This essential work continued,
despite the many air-raids that were occurring, to allow freedom of
manoeuvre for the rest of the landing force. Simultaneously the
second half of the Team was removing live, unexploded bombs from RFAs
SIR GALAHAD and SIR LANCELOT, thus saving those ships and returning
them to vital service. After the loss of ANTELOPE, it had been
decreed that bombs should not be defuzed but lifted out 'still alive
and kicking'. It was these two incidents that won the Divers their
bravery awards.
FCDT3 was based at the Red Beach Hospital where,
in their spare time, they taught themselves to be nurses - a skill
much in demand after the Buff Cove incident when the casualty unit
was overwhelmed with badly burned survivors. Among those treated by
the Divers was the now celebrated soldier - Simon Weston; although he
was too much in extremis to register the fact. When the Hospital was
bombed, the Team was responsible for building the vast sand-bag wall
between the operating theatre and the unexploded bombs to protect
patients and staff from the imminent danger of explosions. By moving
their messdeck into the void space left between the blast-wall and
the theatre, they not only eased the accommodation problem but also
gave the Red Beach people added confidence in the efficacy of the
bulwark.
The Buff Cove incident saw a small Element of FCDT3 as
the first men to board both TRISTRAM and GALAHAD (again) after the
attack. Having extinguished what fires they could and checked the
ships for UXBs, they then explosively removed the stern ramp of
TRISTRAM to allow vital ammunition to be saved and sent to the
bombarding guns around Stanley - and all this while fires raged and
explosions rumbled deep in the hold of GALAHAD.
Finally, the same
Element was responsible for recovering a sea-mine in a gale off
Stanley, beaching it and, with minimal equipment (they had not been
allowed to bring with them the specialist tools from UK), de-fusing
it by hand - the first unknown, enemy mine to be rendered safe since
the Korean War.
Three weeks after the surrender, the Team returned
quietly to UK having suffered no casualties. Within a month, two of
its members had been killed - innocent victims of other people's bad
driving.
In order to put the record straight and give the
'Forgotten Men' the recognition they deserve, Fleet Clearance Diving
Team 3's story has been told by its Commanding Officer, Bernie Bruen,
in his book 'Keep Your Head Down' (Parapress 1993, Book Guild 1998);
and yet twenty five years later, they remain forgotten and unsung.
They are not even mentioned in the Government's official war history,
recently published.
Perhaps these poems will give an insight into
the quiet, yet fraught world of the Clearance Diver at work in that
most significant of all conflicts.
Bernie
Bruen
To
top of page
On
the way 'down South' to join the Task Force, feelings about the sheer
audacity and ill-mannered behaviour of the Argentinians in forcing
themselves upon the population of these British islands ran
high.
THIN OUT!
These are our
Cousins, peaceful
folk.
These are their
farms, their sheep, their beef.
Stand by
your mettle (which I doubt).
You have no
invitation - thief!
Shout
if you like and yell and scream.
Send all your
fighters
overhead.
Strafe us with
bullets, rockets, bombs;
Cripple those
Ships you coveted.
Or slink and
hide and run away,
Cowering
behind barbed wire and mines;
Shiver and
shake in quaking
holes.
Hide in your
scant defensive lines.
For it is ours,
that
earth you dig;
Possess - enjoy
it for the day.
Six thousand
miles we've come to state,
"The Falklands
are British.
GO
AWAY!"
When
people began to die as a result of the inevitable confrontation, a
cold determination could be found among the troops about to enter the
war-zone.
WE SANCTIONED NO REQUEST
We sanctioned
no
request
From you to
claim this land.
You found no
warmth nor
welcome here,
No friendship's
open hand.
We shun that
arrogance
That brought
you to these shores;
You only showed
aggression's greed
To steal what
was not yours.
Did we
invade your homes?
Did we close
down your schools?
Did we
dictate your way of life?
Did we impose
our rules?
Or did
we bolster up
Your way of
life - gone mad,
And did we
still
regard you for
The dignity you
had? - Well,
We are the
British Dead
Who speak. You
are accused!
By us and
yours, the
men you killed
And those you
have abused.
We are the
British Dead,
We are your
slain as well.
We tend the
fires that
wait for you
Within the
gates of Hell.
The voyage to the South was long and gave plenty of time
to reflect on a previous generation, whose long struggle against
similar tyrants gave their children the freedom that is so much
'taken for granted' these days.
"I remembered a Sunday
service in the Wellington College chapel. As the boys filed out past
the Headmaster's pew, sitting next to him in the place of honour was
my father, Commander Bill Bruen, the highly decorated Fleet Air Arm
fighter 'ace' of the Second World War. I remembered how proud I felt
and how much I hoped that I would some day be able to achieve as
much."
BEQUEST OF HONOUR
I wonder what
our Fathers
would have thought,
Could they have
witnessed Sons
Trading on
their Sires' heroic deeds,
With vehemence
of pride,
To heighten
their small standing in the School?
For though an
undertaking
thus discharged,
With little
thought for self,
Changes one
small section of the whole,
So in
transition can
It cause the
greater issues to unfold -
- Thereafter,
as the years progress
in turn,
To reach along
that span,
Growing weaker
in its
potency,
Yet able still
to shape
The course of
other actions by
and by.
Thus did our
Fathers' exploits when at War,
Indexed
by the Ribbons
Proudly born,
bestow upon their Heirs
Esteem and
rank, conferred
By
rule-subjected schoolboy parallels.
How
would they think if they could but observe
Those same, if
fewer,
Sons
Take up Mantles
laid aside in Peace
And, never
doubting,
stride
Away to earn
authentic accolades?
To top
of page
Further,
it was time for assessing one's place in the scheme of things and
one's value to the Service. It was an opportunity to look back at
what one had achieved and to wonder if, being regarded as 'a bit of
an odd-ball', this was perhaps the last chance to do something useful
before being discarded.
TASK FORCE
They don't want
us,
they want our bodies;
Need our
talents, not ourselves.
Conflict
calls for dedication,
Expertise
enhanced by nerve.
Now ascends
the banished Leader,
Outcast of
promotion's cull,
Weaving
spells of valour's mystic
Vital whisper,
"Follow all!"
But
do not bring your conscience;
Do not bring
your soul.
The first
you'll not be needing;
The second will
be stole.
And, after years of training for such a situation as
this - one's own worth.
THE ACCOUNT
What do I have to
offer my country?
My
Services - they are already bought.
My
Loyalty - that is understood.
Duty
- Honour - were they not always
there?
My
Enterprise - without it I am nought.
My
worldly Worth
- would that I had to give.
Love
of Country - that was never
questioned.
No.
What I have is reckoned now to be
But
a
gesture, an overkill; and yet
Despite
the mock, the denigrating
words,
I
have a Life - and that I volunteer.
No
man can offer
more.
Sadly, not everything was as it appeared to be.
Survival-suits, issued to the Team and designed to save a life in the
freezing cold of South Atlantic waters, were found to be slashed,
knotted and condemned - suitable only as test weights for parachute
drops; and yet they had been issued as life-saving equipment.
ON
ISSUE WAR STOCK
Slashed
Survival-suits
Survived as
slashed
suits, not as
Suits/(slash)/
Survival;
But a slashed
Suit
(survival),
As a
Survival-suit (slashed),
Survives
suitably
To
splash below parachutes.
After reaching the Islands, the Team was kept hard at
work on many different and hazardous tasks which culminated in being
bombed in the Hospital at Red Beach, four days later. Many of these
500lb'ers failed to explode and the Team worked all night to build a
huge defensive wall of wet, gravel-filled sandbags to protect the
operating theatre and wounded in the wards. At certain pre-determined
times work stopped while the next notch on the bombs' time-delay-fuze
ticked off - everyone taking cover. The expected explosion not being
forthcoming, work resumed until once more interrupted by a possible
detonation 'window'.
HOSPITAL BLAST-WALL
Softly, now,
and mind your noise.
Don't disturb
the wounded boys -
sleeping.
Though they
dribble down your neck,
Put the
sandbags
on the deck - weeping.
Use the shingle
from the shore.
Bring
a couple hundred more - dripping.
Roundly, with a
turn
belay!
Detonator's on
delay - slipping.
Time is short,
so
lift and haul;
Got to thicken
up this wall - stacking.
"Beat
the Clock to Beat the Bomb!"
Such a fitting
axiom -
cracking!
Strip to
trousers, boots and belt.
Push yourself
until you melt - sweating.
Heave 'em up;
no time to lose,
Only
minutes on the fuze setting.
Hacked it! -
with a bag to
spare,
Finest bulwark
anywhere - lasting.
Let the sucker
detonate;
No way it can
penetrate - blasting.
Everywhere
there was mud, cloying, black, peaty mud that clung to boots and
puttees with a tenacity that defied countermeasures.
MUD
As
curved as an eastern slipper,
The black,
glue-like San Carlos
peat
Clings to the
toe-cap of my boot
And overlays
the
camouflage
That renders me
invisible.
Cracking like a
blood-stiff bandage,
Each puttee,
steeped in quagmire ooze,
In
loosing, shows the cloth beneath
As brightly
clean and livid
as
The pink of
newly healing wounds.
After such exciting times, in moments of night-time
calm, thoughts returned to home.
PRESERVATION
Sink
slowly into green and windswept hills,
Whose purple
rocks are
buttresses of thruth.
Defy the
cunning, soul-ensnaring ills
And
leave them chase their vigil after youth.
Let passions
fly, nor
yet your will enfold
But join the
creatures of the moors and
streams.
Think their
thoughts, their freedom always hold;
Make
this belief the linchpin of your dreams.
Protect it in
the mantle
of your heart
And walk where
only others' thoughts can be.
Allow
your capture - so to 'come its part
And thus, in
such communion,
set you free.
To top
of page
For sailors ashore, it was sometimes difficult to know
just what rank Royal Marines held.
The embroidered insignia,
blended skilfully into the disruptive pattern camouflage, could only
be recognised from close to, but as saluting was suspended for the
duration it scarcely mattered.
PIPS
Officers'
badges,
Frequently
indistinct on
Camouflage
parkas,
Become
buried by Action.
Rank holds no
structure, except
To enhance
the spur
Of natural
Leadership.
Being
based at the Hospital on Red Beach, the Divers, when not engaged in
their own work, lent a hand to anyone who required it - from building
sangars to digging latrine pits. They trained themselves as nurses in
case they should be needed, carried in the wounded from the
helicopter pads and, occasionally, those who had not survived.
AT
AJAX BAY
Legs lie
crooked, but a fag don't help;
Bodies,
shrouded with canvas tenting,
Hastily
concealed, yet
undisguised,
Struggle in
vain for my attention.
Heavily
pregnant with wounded men,
Camouflaged
helos pass
overhead,
Darting like
birds of prey for the Pad
And the Medics
of the Life Machine.
The downdraught
tears the air to
pieces.
Silent with the
casualties' torment
Yet stunned by
the
engines' agonies,
It sets the
ripped tarpaulin flapping.
The
silver body-bags start shaking
As if their
occupants,
awakened
From a
horrifying nightmare, were
In dread panic,
thrashing to escape.
Later we shall
bury them at dusk
And,
on the hill, a Piper playing
The Flowers of
the Forest,
gravely
And with
comradeship bid them farewell.
The
Team suffered only one casualty. 'John Boy' Walton, after diving for
UXBs near the latrine outflow from the prisoners' compound, was struck
down by a virulent tummy-bug.
He
was, in the opinion of the surgeons, lucky to have survived.
And
yet he always stayed cheerful and buoyant.
Later,
for his selfless attitude, along with conduct in the face of great
danger that was '...in the highest traditions of the Service..', he was
Mentioned in Dispatches.
'JON
BOY' WALTON -
MENTIONED
IN DISPATCHES
They
say young John-boy's
On
the danger list;
He'll
be lucky to survive.
How
bloody stupid,
All
the risks he's run,
To
be killed by a microbe.
He
caught it diving
On
a U-X-B,
Next
to the sewer.
They
say young John-boy's
In
the danger ward
And
he's fighting for his life;
Yet,
always smiling,
He
hugs his Trainers
To
him, like a talisman.
Come
on, John-boy!
You're
our lucky Mascot,
You've
got to pull through.
To top
of page
Existence
in the old meat-packing plant, or the 'Red and Green Life Machine', as
Surgeon Commender Rick Jolly termed his Ajax Bay Hospital, was a
mixture of hard worked, dangerous days and long, stifling but more
relaxed nights; all in the very close proximity of all the other
occupants.
Only
the Divers had any room to move. They had set up their Messdeck
(complete with hammocks) in the void-space between the sandbag wall and
the operating theatre - a space designed to dissipate residual blast
should any of the UXBs decide to go 'bang'. It became a favourite venue
for parties, music, song and, sometimes, even cabaret.
(Note:
a 'bluie' was an issue letter-form that might one day reach the
postman.)
AT
THE RED AND GREEN LIFE MACHINE
(unfinished)
He
was bathing in a pint of tepid water
And
shaving in the remnants of his tea.
Coldly
standing in a bucket in the passage
Was
the Triage Dental Surgeon's nudity.
Sleeping
soldiers packed the corridors and crossings
While
Divers dumped the sandbags by the wall
Where
an unexploded bomb lodged in the ceiling
And
another in the 'frigeration stall.
For
a hammock slung between the meat-hook girders
Can
host a brief, impromptu cabaret;
But
it is not easy writing home a 'bluie'
When
the nearest light is twenty feet away.
With
a pocket full of Rum and one of Whisky,
In
a cammy-jacket's mottled brown and green,
Comes
the bear-like, three-ring-surgeon title-holder
Of
Rick Jolly's multicoloured Life Machine.
(chorus)
Keep
your head down, Mate, until this raid is over;
I
would not have your job - not if you paid.
Keep
your head down, Mate, until the night conceals us
Or
"Warning Red" plays "Yellow's" serenade.
Then
came Buff Cove and a flood of casualties. The Divers answered the
call and acted as nurses and orderlies, with special responsibility
for burn victims. One was even helping the surgeons at the operating
tables! All the Divers' spare clothing, what little they had, was
distributed to the survivors, leaving them literally 'with what they
stood up in' - a distinction that would be much misunderstood
later.
One young sailor from HMS PLYMOUTH, which had been hit
badly on the same day, grabbed the attention and admiration of the
Team: although grievously hurt himself, he was greatly concerned for
his 'oppo', wounded in the head, next to him.
CASUALTIES
The
stretchered Sailor, by his friend
Whose
hand he clasped and willed
his pain to mend,
In
whispers to the Medic, raised
Imploring
eyes whose sparkle, morphine-glazed,
Said,
"Help my Oppo,
please, not me.
He's
hurting bad and worse -
He
cannot see."
Immediately
after this, as soon as it became light, an element of the Team
helicoptered to Buff Cove to try and save GALAHAD - again - and
TRISTRAM too. It was a sad sight to see their old friend Sir G,
abandoned and burning, a large pall of blackened smoke roilling up
out of her hatchway, as explosions shook her hull beneath.
'THE
DERELICT' -
RFA SIR GALAHAD AT BUFF COVE
She lies as lies the
rabbit or the doe,
With broken back and rapid, shallow breath,
Who
rises even yet before its foe
And shouts defiance; shouts it unto
death.
She lies and cries from pity and from shame;
Looks
up to give a blind and helpless call
Whose answer echoes, calling
out her name,
"No-one will come. There is no hope at
all."
She lies and sighs so lonely in the dawn,
Her
bulkheads at the mercy of the tide,
Her lifeboats gone, their
ladders left forlorn
Who slowly swing and scratch and scratch her
side.
She lies and dies; she sees the waves advance
And
waits to feel them wash her life away;
Until the long, grey ships
her pleas entrance
And softly come to help her on her way.
The
Divers jumped from the helicopter onto the still-burning TRISTRAM's
deck (the pilot would not land) and set about hunting for UXBs within
her. Totally dark, cold and dank, they searched with torches, their
heart-beats almost audible in the unaccustomed silence. Far separated
though they were, each one somehow always knew just where the other
was and they emerged simultaneously on the deck - - 'all
clear!'
TRISTRAM AT
THE COVE
It
was all too easily
definite.
All
it required was to take our kit
Into
a twisted
Ship and climb
Ladders
and walkways, a step at a time,
Down
and
through her cavernous bowels,
Ignoring
the damage's groans and
growls,
Past
the engines, looming and damp,
With
only the
warmth of a battery lamp,
Hanging
from girders blackened with
soot,
Gauging
the strength of the plates underfoot,
Thoroughly,
doggedly, further apart,
When
all you can hear is the beat of your
heart,
Finding
the source of the havoc to know
That
nothing
else lurked and was waiting to blow,
Cautiously
peering in corners
to see,
Silently
searching - Tommo and me.
To top
of page
After
putting
out the fires and explosively removing the stern ramp to allow
salvage of the desperately needed ammunition in the hold, it was time
to board GALAHAD and see what could be done there. Fires still raged
aboard and explosions from deep within rocked the ship. There was
little that four men could achieve, beyond salvaging what gear they
could. There was only one other man on-board, a young soldier who had
failed to escape the Argentinian attack and lay where he fell.
TO
A YOUNG GALAHAD
Naked is no way to die, nor yet to lie
Frozen
in the act of living;
At first I thought you caught in
spasm,
Locked into a callisthenic dorsal arch,
Muscles -
shoulder, thigh and arm -
Straining with the effort.
Then I
saw your face half burned away to show
The grin of teeth that lies
beneath the skin,
Your fingers burned to stubby stumps
And
dog-tags gone;
Only your boots and one arm thrust
Into a shirt
marked your haste to leave.
(Did you once sun yourself,
running your hand
Lazily over some girlfriend's thigh
As she in
turn smoothed oil upon your back?)
Somehow you died whole,
unbroken
Until you tumbled to that griddle deck
That burned and
scorched and seared,
Welding you to it.
Who was the man who
caused your death?
Was he like those who yesterday
Pilfered
through our kit, while we
Hunted bombs and rockets
Deep in a
dying ship?
Your Ship is dying too, burning,
Rumbling to
the explosions that
Rock the pall of blackened flames.
I cannot
help her.
Excuse me if I leave you now
But there are jobs
to do and fires to fight.
Snow is in the air and bleakness
coming
With the winter wind.
Although you can feel nothing,
yet
This tarp will keep away the chill
And clothe you for a
while from prying,
Vulture eyes.
I leave you with your
ship
To guard as you have done in lonely vigil;
But I will tell
them where you lie
And, if tardily, someone will come
To tend
you.
Back
at
Ajax Bay it was time to say farewell to friends and move back to one
of the RFAs, SIR LANCELOT this time. One person who loomed large in
the Team's estimation was the indomitable Royal Marine Chef, Lennie
Carnell, who contrived to feed them well, despite having had his
first galley blown up in the bombing raid and being short on rations
('chicken supreme' and powdered mashed potato becoming staples). He
was particularly helpful to the Divers after some of their more
hazardous undertakings, putting on special meals for them at very odd
times in the night. He also much appreciated the Team's Boss playing
fiddle to the dinner queue to take their minds off the repetitive
nature of the grub, as they threw money onto a collection plate -
labelled "RNLI - support the Lifeboats - you may just need
one!"
CHICKEN
SUPREME
By
crossing the stonefield,
into the bog,
And
heading en-masse for Len's Cafe,
At
dawn or
at dusk, in drizzle or fog,
From
vehicles, shelters, secure or
unsafe,
Or
the shingle-bag sangar we all improvise,
The
Royals,
the Matelots ask with aplomb,
"So,
what have you got for us?"
- Lennie replies,
"Chicken
Supreme and Pom!"
Although
it 'comes natural, after a while,
To
crave something
different....one learns;
From
fiddle-tuned dinner queue - Lennie's
broad smile
And
passing the 'oeuf a´ la coque' in the
ferns,
For
the Lifeboat will prosper, and no cause to beg,
With
money they threw in the plate for that Prom
But,
what was it
followed the sight of the egg?
Chicken
Supreme and Pom.
A
Tank Landing Craft can be fetid and cold,
Abandoned
without any
power;
While
UXBs, shifted by chain-hoist, I'm told,
Can
hold
one's attention for hour after hour;
But
the candle-lit quiz, when
invited to dine,
Since
lifting and shifting the thousand pound
bomb,
"What
feast can we have with that bottle of
wine?"
"Chicken
Supreme and Pom."
"Chicken
Supreme and Pom.." says he,
"A
spoonful of each; that's
your lot.
"There
ain't nothing else, apart from the tea,
"But
it's tasty, nutritious and hot!"
To top
of page
And, on leaving, it
seemed appropriate to take stock of the peculiarities that the Team
had experienced while guests of the indomitable Red and Green Life
Machine.
RED BEACH
Yes Mate, this is Falkland,
Find
a sangar over there.
Bain't no demarcation.
Put your kit down
anywhere.
Always keep your weapon handy
For the Argies
flying low;
Air raids Red and Yellow,
Any time - you never
know.
That's the Navy Divers' Castle
(called Fort
Thompson); they're all mad,
Though the first to carry
In the
wounded from the Pad.
There's a little extra water,
Seldom
any half-way hot;
Medics take what's needed,
We can have the
stuff that's not.
Them as crouching in the compound,
Argie
prisoners, young and cowed,
Live on 'rat-pack' Sundries
From
the half that we're allowed.
That's a hole made by a bomb
that
Bounced right here upon the track.
Inside two more
fester,
Stopping us from moving back.
Yea! that Frigate's
always waiting
Close inshore like that each day,
Since they
bombed us, so's to
Keep they Argie planes away.
Oh to get
there for a dhobi
Or perhaps a beer or two!
Well, it's all
yours, Matey.
Keep your head down!
Aye - and you!
Came
the
surrender amid much rejoicing and thoughts of jobs well done; yet
there waited perhaps the most hazardous one of them all - the
recovery, in a gale, of a swept mine and the subsequent defusing of
what was a completely unknown weapon. There was no information to go
on.
The specialist tools that are required for such an undertaking
had been left behind in UK; the Team had been told that
they......
"...would not need them..." and that they
were.....
"...too valuable to be taken into a war zone."
!!
So the job had to be done by hand with improvised tools. The
chances of survival were put, at best, at 50%. The information
transmitted by microwave from UK was that the device would be fitted
with anti-stripping 'booby-traps', put there to take out the
operator.
"As a Navy boxer, my feelings the night before
embarking on this task were much akin to those I had prior to
contesting the Navy Open final against the Commonwealth Silver
Medallist, four years previously; and I felt that I should leave
something of my thoughts behind, in case things went awry. No-one had
done anything like this for thirty years - but then they had had the
tools for it. - - I did not."
To top
of page
APOGEE
Sing
no sad songs for me
If
I come second in tomorrows race;
The
opposition, mine to leave,
Could,
with deception,
All
my skill
outpace.
Play
no lament for me
If
I misread the signals of
the game;
The
steadiness I must achieve
Should,
with
attainment,
Stay
the waiting flame.
Shed
no soft tears for
me
If
I am vanquished in the coming bout;
The
uppercut I might
receive
Would
far surpass the
Ultimate
knock-out.
In the
end, after some hours of careful work, it came down to a straight
choice between turning the fuse to the right or turning it to the
left. One way would extract the detonator safely - the other would
not - a fifty per cent chance of survival. What to do? Which way to
turn?
The successful completion of this highly dangerous task
marked the end of the Team's involvement in other than straight
diving jobs and there was again time to reflect on life.
By
now 'peace' had arrived with a vengeance, along with many
'Johnny-come-latelies', whose sole concession to the war zone
appeared to be the fact that they did not wear ties. They had no idea
who were these rather scruffy divers, with their hotchpotch uniform,
nor did they ask. However they were voluble in their rather loud
comments regarding the 'cowboys', who they considered to be 'letting
the side down'. The Divers kept their own council and held their
tongues;
but they thought, "So, you reckon that....
WE
ARE THE COWBOYS
We are the Cowboys.
I've heard you say it
loudly in the Bar,
Although well hidden by the smoke of your
cigar.
We are the Cowboys
Because our hair's too long
And
uniform is wrong;
We are the Cowboys
In spite of our
success
And 'coz of wearing gym shoes in the Mess.
We are
the Cowboys.
It must be so, 'coz Staff are never wrong.
You do
not know us - but we'll jolly you along.
We are the Cowboys,
A
denigrating word
To make us seem absurd;
We are the
Cowboys
Because we wear no rank
And hold that certain
'Johnny-Lates' are dank.
We are the Cowboys.
You think that
Sailors should be awed and cowed
But we dare to be different - and
that ain't allowed.
We are the Cowboys
Because we are
'alive'
And that we Clearance Dive;
We are the Cowboys,
We
have unique rapport
And talk with 'Super-Secrets' and the
Corps.
We are the Cowboys
And I suspect you'll quash us if
you can;
You have the Admiral's ear. You are the 'precious
man'.
We are the Cowboys.
You make that very clear
To anyone
who'll hear.
We are the Cowboys
Because we look so 'bad'
But
what do you know of the jobs we've had?
To top
of page
Yet
relationships with those 'Super Secrets' (SAS and SBS) and the Royal
Marines were marked by the mutual respect enjoyed by most men of
action. When in discussion regarding the various tasks that had been
allotted and carried out, each side would invariably say, "I
wouldn't have your job, mate!"
CLEARANCE DIVER
With
all the art of practised hands
And simple, fluent moves,
Deftly
he turned his complicated task
To easy-actioned flow that spoke
Of
skill and knowledge hard attained,
That every watcher
recognised.
And all the while he chatted, talked
Of little
things we knew;
Stood as an equal and with smiling poise
Responded
to our questioning
Or entertained with jest and tale
That drew
us ever closer still.
We looked with awe upon the man
And
what he had to do.
Knowing his presence was required and why
He
came at this small time and here,
We marvelled at his
friendliness
And calm in face of such a trial.
But then the
time for talk was past.
He hefted up his gear,
Slipping it on
his shoulders with the grace
Of long experience. The straps
He
settled to their proper place
And shrugged some comfort into
them.
Again with practised moves, he checked
The operation
of
Levers and valves; then with a final sigh
He stopped, inert
and motionless,
As in unspoken harmony
Each man became as quiet
and still.
He looked at us and we at him.
His eyes behind
the glass,
Calmed by the wait, had managed to retain
That
sparkle that we knew; until
With sudden, almost frightening
speed
That peaceful moment vaporized.
The time for action
now at hand,
How flew that last routine.
Final and vital checks
were carried out;
A last exchange, a muffled word,
A nod, an
all embracing wave
Before he vanished from our sight.
The
waters were soon smooth again,
No trace to mark his path;
Silent,
we thought of what he went to face.
But which of us could ever
now
Forget those special moments when
He briefly shared our
coterie?
One senior 'Johnny-late' was particularly
patronising, speaking from a point of hear-say rather than
knowledge.
THE SENIOR
LEECH
Should we remark, "How
right you are."
Or with forthrightness say,
"Despite
mistakes we may have made,
It was not done that way.
No doubt
you will hypothesise,
Our actions to decry,
But it was us who
made the grade.
It was not you - 'twas I."
We listen,
dutifully bound,
As younger men must do,
While condescending
patronage
Our comments honeydew.
Perhaps he's right, this
pedagogue,
Pretentious, unconcerned,
But he had never seen that
wreck
From which we had returned.
So, when that breeze of
platitudes
Increases to a gale,
When he, unknowing of our
part,
Creates some fairytale
Of our attainments, using me
As
springboard to his rank,
I muse, "You swill your Brandy,
pal,
But it was Rum we drank."
To top
of page
Suddenly
came news that
the Team would be on the next available aircraft for
UK.
LEAVING
Oh, how I long to see
The colours of
England;
Green on green,
Gentled by
The wind-riven rain.
The
countryside's alive there,
My spirits will revive there.
Oh,
how I long to see
Her rivers once again.
The
flight home was long and uncomfortable. It afforded time to put on
paper thoughts about all that had been experienced, while still fresh
in the mind. The Team had been to 'the Edge', had looked over - and
was now returning safely.
THE VIEW
FROM THE EDGE
Peering
from a Landing Craft stuck in the kelp,
Watching
an air-raid
filled with Rapier flares,
Ducking
as the bullets flatten
overhead;
Scrutinizing
tension in a cable hoist,
Contorting,
wrestling with a thousand pounder,
Waiting
for the 'click' of its
fuse 'going live';
Squinting
at the brightness of molten
metal
Showering
from the bulkhead being cut away,
Wetting
down
the weapon to put out the flames;
Glimpsing
the underside of a
plane at dusk
Shrieking
low over the hospital building,
Hearing
its bombs detonating all around;
Seeking
the route through a
twisted skeleton,
Swinging
above the smoulder of shipborne
fires,
Hefting
weighty explosives in a backpack;
Scanning
bulkheads glowing in a burning Ship,
Feeling
explosions stagger
the hull beneath,
Covering
a body - welded to the deck;
Finning
backwards in a breaking wave at sea,
Fending
off a Mine, a beach
ball in the surf,
Recoiling
from horns that one must not
bend;
Reaching,
later, in amongst its circuits, while
Viewing
the stillness of the Falkland evening,
Musing
on the Detonator, -
right or left?
Here
and here the limits are.
Here
the
unknown is revealed.
It
is the View from the Edge.
Now,
on the way back, similar mind-questions were asked as on the way
'down South'. Some had been answered but yet others remained. But
over all rose the fact that the Team had taken no-one's life, had
maybe saved a few and certainly had saved ships. None of the Divers
had been injured and all had shown themselves to be of the finest
stamp of men. The questions uppermost now were - 'where to next?' -
and - 'would things ever be the same again?'
THE MEN OF
THE
SEA
What
men are these who ply the seas,
What
forms of
self-destruction?
What
living symbols of our fate,
What
victims
of reduction?
What
right is given them to kill,
What
rite
for preservation?
What
right to take a human life,
What
price
its conservation?
What
knowledge do they use for good,
What
knowledge use for evil?
What
acts can help? What acts can
harm?
What
homage pays the Devil?
And
when will they be
free again;
And
will they be contented?
And
will they have the
life they chose
Or
will they be prevented?
And
is the rocky
land a curse
Or
is it just depressing?
And
have they left their
God behind
Or
do they ask his blessing?
So,
is the sea
their only world
Or
is the land their ally?
Or
do they wish to
turn again
And
then repent their folly?
Are
they pure
kindred to the sea
Or
are they souls tormented?
And
do they
speak their mind out loud,
And
is their case presented?
The
answers .... they cannot be told,
The
questions .... answered
never.
They
are the men who search the seas,
Their
quest goes
on for ever.
To top
of page
Much,
much later, when awards for gallant conduct
were being bestowed (when there had been time to come back to earth
and carry on life as normal), The Press were there to seek out the
bare bones of a story to embellish; and a different view became
apparent.
FAME
Solitude's mantle,
Ripped apart by
the grasping
Fingers of the mob,
Although retrieved in
tatters,
Offers no sanctuary
To shroud our secrets
Nor yet
our imperfections.
COURAGE
Viewed in
battle;
Demonstrated by ribbons;
But how often shown
By the
Widow answering
To the knock of a Stranger?
To top
of page
Four
years afterwards, Bernie returned to the Falklands for a second Tour.
A final task was to clear the wreck of a newly discovered Argentine
aircraft that had crashed during the hostilities, and to help recover
the Pilot's widely scattered bones.
BLUE RIDGE
PILOT 1986
It
is a strange feeling to take a man's hand,
In pieces, from the
peat where it has lain four years,
Scraping his finger bones from
the frozen ground
With a bayonet point, to stack them neatly
aside.
How odd it is to find his hair still ruffled
In that
rocky cranny where the cold wind explores,
And to glean scattered
bones, left by the scavengers,
Seeking to catalogue his percentage
presence.
The wreckage of his plane tells us how he
peered
Through the blizzard, to see the ridge looming above;
How
he might have cleared the scarp, but for the rock,
The outcrop
that became his natural tombstone.
But rather than relate the
tale, now he makes
His bed in the cold earth of Goose Green
Cemetery.
Yet there is another, pleasanter feeling,
To know
that at last his long vigil is over.
Later came
the Gulf
War of 1991. Being in the Middle East at the time, Bernie had a
unique insight into the situation. Others had to make do with
CNN.
JANUARY '91
- MEDIA GAMES
Now
is the battle-roar
of Tanks
Seen
to 'splash' through shallows in the sands.
Now
is the smell of Victory
Tangent
from a box within our hands.
Now
is the Pilot viewed, loosing
Smarter
weapons into foreign
lands.
Now
is the Soldier's spousal tear
Watched
in
close-up, as the News demands.
Now
is triumph squeezed, ("Take
- seven!")
From
the Fighter, warlike as he stands.
Now
is used the replay function,
Haunting
TV's colour channel
bands.
But
what of the creatures who lived there, who made the
night bright with their song?
CICADAS
Cicadas,
chirping
Blithely
in acacia trees,
Know
nothing of war
Until
the instant they are
Shrivelled
by its searing flame
And
that
resounding
Song
becomes their epitaph.
A
Soldier of the
Great War wrote about the carnage and destruction that was the Battle
of the Somme,
"This
was a time when a web was woven
across the sky and a Goblin made of the Sun."
The
sheer
size of the destruction and harm done to the ecology of the area made
the brief hostilities in the Gulf seem comparable. But wherever there
is conflict, the same may be said. Think back to ANTELOPE at San
Carlos, the Hospital at Ajax Bay and GALAHAD at Buff Cove.
FALKLANDS
TO GULF, '82 - '91
And in those days a tangled veil
Was
drawn across the sky.
A madness, kindled in the Sun
(made
Goblin there withal),
Convulsed and gibbered in its rage
To
light inhuman pyres.
Now, squatting with a rancid grin,
This
spawn of incubi
Bestirred the earth with turbulence,
Awoke a
tainted squall
And conjured up the retching smoke
Of high
explosive fires.
So Demons, deep in artifice,
Bestow their
gifts - supply
The oily dust to choke and burn
But, in that
reeking pall,
The Goblin meets a darker shroud
And, every
night, expires.
To top
of page
Finally,
after loyal and devoted service the
sailor man passes on to rest in that Valhalla where all mariners go -
the legendary and fabled 'Fiddler's Green'.
This
poem has been
read at many a sailor's funeral since the Falklands War.
APPROACH
TO THE GREEN
I look across the chart that is my life
And
see, like ports and harbours,
Little creeks and streams,
All
the happy times and oft' the ones of strife
That filled me with a
joy of living and of dreams.
Yet many, lying soft like pools
of misty grey,
But half remembered, never whole and clear to
see,
Quietly and unnoticed, slide away
And softly lock their
doors and hide away the key.
No more shall they be seen, nor
bide
With me, that others share what
I still know they
are.
Like unknown shadow shapes of eventide
They fly, they fade
in misty dreams afar.
And as I drift and let life slide me
by,
So one by one each hatch is shut and locked and barred;
'Til
only one direction, one last door I spy
And there a shining
figure, sword in hand, stands guard.
All
poems and introductory remarks copyright, Bernie Bruen ©1982, 2008
Post
script to Free Verse.
Bernie's
Grandfather, Arthur Thomas
Bruen, was too old to fight in the Great War; so in 1915 he drove his
Clement car from his home in Invernesshire to Dover, where he put it
on a cross-Channel ferry and embarked for France. Enrolling in the
Red Cross, he used it as an ambulance in the front lines for the next
six months. He was then inducted as Second Lieutenant in the Royal
Army Service Corps and remained at the Front until 1919, being used
as 'trouble shooter' wherever there were supply problems. His
brother, Eddo, commanded the Battleship HMS BELEROPHEN at JUTLAND and HMS RESOLUTION throughout the rest
of the First World War, ending up as an Admiral.
Bernie's Father, Commander 'Bill'
Bruen DSO DSC RN, commanded the Fleet Air Arm's 803 Squadron during
the fight to supply Malta GC in the Second World War. He was the
youngest man to do so and earned a fearsome reputation as a legendary
Fighter Ace. Admiral Sir Donald Gibson, when head of the Fleet Air
Arm, once said of him, "He was the best damned Pilot the Navy
ever had." His cousin, Francis; was an electrical officer in the
RN and also a DSC.
Bernie himself was the last commanding officer
of the renowned HMS GAVINTON and became the first man to 'hunt' and
find (by high definition sonar) an unknown, enemy sea-mine 'in
anger'; and this in a ship that was thirty years out of date. For
this action in the Red Sea Clearance of 1984, he was made MBE. He
went on to command the Navy's first Maritime Counter Terrorism Team
and, at the age of forty, qualified Airborne.
To top
of page
Pictures show
Commander Bruen
Working on a mine
With his beloved fiddle
His medals
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