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  At about midnight again, Taffy, who was scouting ahead, reported he was in a deep marsh. We couldn't find a way around and were forced to walk on the road. Each time we tried to strike off to the side we found ourselves sinking into mud again. This went on for four or five miles.

  Eventually we came to an iron bridge spanning a wide river. "Tom, take the scope and check it out," Andy ordered as we hovered near the southern end.

  Tom slipped away into the darkness. For a big man he was light on his feet. Ten minutes later he was back. "The bridge is clear but there's a building at the far end. I could see a light in an upstairs window."

  "Any vehicles, military trucks?"

  "I didn't see any but they could be parked out back."

  Andy took the scope and studied the river below. It was wide and fast flowing and it looked deep. There was no way it could be crossed except by the bridge. We took turns looking at the building. It was close to the far end a two-storey construction with outbuildings. It looked like a farmhouse.

  "Bet there's a fucking dog in there," Taffy said.

  "No takers," I answered. Almost any place this remote would keep at least one guard dog. It would hear us go past and give tongue. Chances were the owners had already been warned to be on the look-out for a party of British soldiers. If they had a phone or a radio they could bring a search party down on our heels.

  "If there is a dog it's downwind of us; it can probably smell us already," Guy chipped in.

  "So why isn't the fucker barking?" Doug wanted to know.

  "We're not on its territory yet," Taffy told him. Taffy had been a dog handler before he joined the Regiment. "Step off on to the other side of the bridge and it'll be a different story."

  "So what do we do?" I asked Andy.

  "We wait."

  "For what, a miracle?" said Doug. "Piss this for a laugh. I'm sick of freezing my bollocks off." He slapped the butt of his 203. "I say we make a dash for it across the bridge, kick in the door and let 'em have it." He was in earnest. Doug wasn't the kind of man to let a family of Argentine farmers stand between him and escape.

  "These are civilians," Taffy said.

  "They're fucking Argies, man. They'll set the army on to us, you fucking puke."

  "We could tie them up," I suggested. "Cut the phone wires, smash the radio if they have one."

  "And suppose they have a gun?" Doug countered. "This is the outback, not bloody England."

  "There could be soldiers in there for that matter," I said.

  Andy was peering through the night scope again. "I can't see if there's a barrier or not."

  A pole barrier to halt traffic would be a certain indicator of a military control post. And this would be an ideal place on a wide river with no other crossing point for miles.

  "It's too risky," Andy said. "We'll have to swim it."

  I had been afraid he would say that but he was right, there was no other way.

  "Fuck it!" Doug spat. "Fucking weather, fucking country,

  fucking Argies. Fuck the lot of them."

  We moved off the bridge and tabbed along the riverbank till we found a bend out of sight and earshot. The banks were firm here where the water had drained out, but the river was flowing fast. It was about twenty metres across and the edges were encrusted with ice. We checked the far bank with the night scope in case the Argies had a patrol out, but it was deserted.

  "Right, everyone strip off," Andy ordered.

  We peeled off our clothes, bagged them and stuffed them in our berg ens taking off our socks but replacing our boots in case we had to leg it suddenly. We put our waterproof outer jacket and pants back on to cover our white skins against being seen. It kept the wind out some not much, but some. Then we tied the berg ens together to make a raft.

  "Wrap them in the ponchos first," Andy said. "It makes more buoyancy and keeps them drier. Taff, see if you can find some bits of wood and grass to stuff in to help."

  Shivering, we tied the weapons on to the raft and carried it down to the water's edge. The ice splintered under our boots. The river was flowing fast underneath. The raft floated well with plenty of air trapped inside the berg ens and the ponchos. Andy had chosen a point where the bend in the river meant the current should carry us across to the far side. There were no rocks that we could make out to impede our swim. With one hand on the raft each, we pushed off.

  God, it was cold! The freezing water crushed my chest in an iron vice, squeezing the air out from my lungs. I was scared I was going to have a heart attack. It was so cold I couldn't breathe. Desperately I kicked out as hard as I could, clutching on to the poncho for dear life and paddling with my free hand. I had done this before a couple of times in Germany and in Norway on exercise, but never in water so fast-moving and cold. I could feel the current rushing us along at a terrific speed. If it didn't sweep us against the far shore we would be done for. Waves, dark and heavy, were breaking over our heads. No way could we survive this cold for more than a few minutes. I thought of the helicopter again. This was worse. My whole body was completely numb. It was all I could do to keep my legs moving. If I stopped I knew I'd freeze up and drown.

  We seemed to have been in the water for ever and still I couldn't see the far bank. I couldn't see anything at all except tossing black waves smashing against me in the darkness. I felt a sudden panic. How long had we been in the river? I pictured ourselves being carried past our landing point and swept downstream under the bridge.

  Just when I was beginning to think we couldn't survive much longer in this freezing water, I felt the motion of the raft alter. Tom, in front of me, had ceased to splash with his free arm and was plunging forward with great lunging movements. All at once I felt firm ground under my boots. Mud and stones. We were nearing the far side. Relief coursed through me. My chest was still in agony, my breath coming in painful gasps, but at least we were making it across. Still kicking and paddling frantically we pushed on, even as the current towed us sideways. Another minute or two and we were able to stand up to our waists, dragging at the raft. The wind shrieked at our wet waterproofs as we struggled to pull the heavy berg ens up out of the water.

  "Guy, take a weapon. Go up and clear the bank," Andy ordered. Guy untied a 203 from the pile on top of the raft and clambered up the bank.

  "All clear," he called back after a few seconds. "There's a hollow up here with shelter."

  Slipping and stumbling in the biting wind, we dragged the raft of berg ens clear. The bank this side was steep and we had a hell of a job getting it up, till Tom hauled himself out of the water and, wedging his legs in the mud, jerked it out as if performing a snatch with weights in the gym. My hands were too numb to untie the knots that bound the packs together, but I had looped my fighting knife around my neck and I used it to cut the cords. Swiftly we sorted out our kit and tore open the bags with our dry gear. It was vital to get ourselves sorted out quickly and be ready to face the enemy.

  My pack had remained almost completely dry, thank God. I shook out my waterproofs and the water spun off them. Just standing in the bitter wind dried us off fast. It was a huge relief to pull on our clothes again. We doubled on the spot, working our arms to restore the circulation. As soon as we were ready Andy called Guy back to change too.

  "Chocolate each," he said.

  I gulped down a whole bar to give me warmth and energy. I don't think I've ever been so cold. Then we helped each other on with our berg ens took up our weapons and started back for the road. We walked fast, burning energy to put warmth back into our bodies. Within a few minutes we were feeling human again.

  "Jesus, I hope we don't have any more of those," Taffy grunted.

  "You've gone soft," Doug taunted him. "Remember in Norway when we had to swim that lake?"

  "Aye, but that was still water. That last bugger was like Niagara fucking Falls."

  We tabbed on for the next five hours taking only a single break of fifteen minutes, and by five o'clock reckoned we were within a couple of miles
of the crossroads where the cave was. We found a shallow depression that was sheltered from the worst of the wind. We daren't risk a fire but we had some more chocolate and a drink of water. We were all tired but the knowledge that we were nearing the end of our long march raised everyone's mood. Even Taffy and Doug were reluctantly cheerful. We had made it this far without being detected, and were confident that if necessary we would find the border on our own somehow.

  Doug set up the satcom to report back to the UK. We told Hereford we were close to the rendezvous point now. If the agent wasn't there to meet us we would strike out for the border on our own. Andy reckoned it was only a matter of time before the Argentines picked up our trail, so to remain any longer in the border zone which was bound to be heavily patrolled was inviting capture.

  We finished our hasty meal and broke camp half an hour later. As always we took care to erase all traces of our presence.

  The longer it took the enemy to find our trail the more lead we would have. There was not the slightest doubt they would be searching for us again at first light.

  The wind was fierce still, blowing fine snow, but that suited us. The snow would be in the enemies' eyes and the driving flakes would screen our approach as well as muffling any sound. Even better, the steady fall would rapidly cover our tracks, making us harder to spot from the air.

  We tabbed off, setting a good pace. Visibility was lousy, but the grass was more or less flat. The map showed a river running parallel to us about five miles distant, intersecting the border at right angles. The probability was that if the Argies were in the area they would use that to anchor the right flank of a cordon. If I were their commander I would throw out a light screen to act as a trip-wire, with the main body of troops held back in reserve. Orders would be given for the first section to make contact and pin us down while radioing for reinforcements. With plenty of trucks available, they could quickly rush up additional men and weapons to encircle us. We could also expect assault by helicopter-borne infantry. That was why it was important to take advantage of the poor weather.

  The enemy didn't hold all the cards, though. Distances in this remote land were huge. There were few roads or towns, and it would take an army to seal the border properly. Trucks were slow across country and the weather would affect the soldiers' morale. The temptation to stay in cover out of the wind would be strong. We were experienced and heavily armed, whereas they would have a high proportion of ill-trained conscripts who had probably never been under fire before. So the screen would be thinly held and composed of low-grade troops. With luck, and our concealment skills, we should be able to slip through the gaps into friendly territory.

  We were following a compass heading to the San Sebastian crossroads. Sheltering in the cave there was too fucking good to think about. The snow blew against my forage cap and seeped up my wrists. The heavy pack made it hard to look up. In this sort of work, you got used to walking with your neck cricked.

  The rifle felt heavy again, but I told myself we had only four more hours to go to the border, and I concentrated on walking in the footsteps of the man in front. Walking and waiting, waiting and walking, that's what soldiering is about.

  We had trudged for a good hour in silence, and somewhere above the snow and wind the night was ebbing from the sky. Objects were becoming faintly visible and it made the going that much easier. Snow still blew about, and on the ground was a couple of inches deep. Any deeper and it would slow us down, but it would hide us all the same. Our tracks filled as fast as we made them, and the snow stuck to our backs and shoulders making us hard to spot. Only the wind was constant. I tried to decide whether this was worse than some of the exercises I had been on in Scotland and the Beacons. Not a lot in it, probably.

  Andy was carrying the GPMG again. Earlier he had swapped with Taffy, taking the Welshman's 203 to give himself a change. The 203 is a development of the Ml6, the standard American assault rifle designed by the legendary Eugene Stoner to take the 5.56 Fireball cartridge, and produced by Colt. The M16 was in use in all branches of the American services, and with its high-velocity bullet is effective at most combat ranges. The SAS like it because it is three pounds lighter than the SLR, and weight counts on special operations. In the early days there were concerns that the rifle lacked power; the impact of the smaller bullet was significantly less than the SLR's formidable 7.62 slug. However, the Fireball made up for this by its tendency to tumble on impact, causing massive wounds with severe shock effect. When linked to the 40mm grenade launcher it made a truly formidable weapon.

  I wondered if the main mission was still on. Probably not. It was hard to imagine how two Hercules could make an approach unseen when we had failed using a single helicopter. Certainly the Argentines appeared to be on their guard. Their response to our arrival had been swift. An SAS assault force could expect to take severe casualties, particularly without us on the ground to prepare the way for them. We all felt badly about this, but it looked as though the critics were right the mission was too risky.

  The snow was beginning to ease up when Andy called a halt to check the map. We had tabbed for two hours without a break, and reckoned we were now close to the crossroads. From here on in we could expect to encounter enemy forces. We would have to travel slowly, keeping a careful lookout, and be prepared to detour around them. This was the usual SAS practice. Only rarely do special forces units attempt to fight their way through enemy lines. In any prolonged engagement, the enemy can call up reinforcements to swamp our superior training.

  We had hardly got the map unfolded though when Tom, who had been detailed to stand watch, called out that he had a contact. An Argentine patrol a dozen strong was heading towards us, about two hundred yards off.

  The situation was critical. The snow had stopped falling and our tracks would be visible. The best course was probably to stay where we were, huddle down into the snow and hope to escape detection. If that failed, we would have no choice but to take them out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I crawled up the slope with my rifle at the ready. If it came to a firefight it would be my job to take out the radioman, followed by the officer and the man carrying the light machine-gun. Without communications, leadership or firepower a small unit will rapidly lose cohesion and break up in retreat. The best thing would be to try to take them from behind and make them flee westwards, leaving the road to the border clear for us.

  Andy moved quickly to the flank with the GPMG, ready to enfilade the enemy line. Other members of the squad tossed down the ammunition belts they were carrying in a heap nearby in case they were needed. Guy was Andy's Number Two. A machine-gun always has two men, one to fire and the other to feed the belt and to spot. The rest of the team were readying their 203s. In the event we were detected, the response would be a shattering burst of fire that would cut down every member of the opposing squad before they had time to react.

  For several long minutes we watched the patrol moving across the pampas. I counted twelve of them in a straggling line all looking towards their front and chattering among themselves with no proper discipline at all. As they neared, they bore away to the right till it was evident they would pass us by a good hundred yards. It appeared as though they were patrolling more or less at random in the hope of picking up our tracks. We had had a lucky escape.

  We waited until they were out of sight before moving on again. As soon as we could, we picked up their line of march and followed it, back tracking in their footsteps. As well as disguising our trail, this would steer us clear of any mines that might have been laid across our path.

  We travelled in single file. Andy couldn't take point himself because he was carrying the gun. So he put Taffy out front, with Doug at Number Two. We walked cautiously, knowing that enemy troops were close by. My weapon didn't feel heavy at all now, just reassuringly deadly. My eyes moved constantly, searching the ground away to my right. We were still in grassland, passing through the remains of a small wood, its low trees bent almost double by
the relentless Patagonian wind.

  All at once there was a burst of firing ahead and Taffy threw himself on his face. Instantly I leapt several paces to my right, dropping to one knee, rifle at the ready, searching for a target. We had made a contact. All the other members of the team were fanning out left and right into an arrowhead formation, ten yards between us each, that brought the maximum firepower to bear ahead. Taffy cracked off a grenade round from his 203 and followed it up with a magazine from the rifle. Tom was firing too. I stood up to see over the rise, searching for a target. Taffy turned and came doubling back, his pack bobbing up and down. The others were firing to cover his withdrawal. I saw a helmet moving among the grass a hundred yards beyond him and ripped off two shots in quick succession. The helmet dropped back. "A hit," I thought dispassionately. I was too pumped up with adrenalin to exult or regret.

  Doug and Tom were doubling back now, the rest of us giving covering fire to protect their retreat. The arrowhead was reforming itself as a line abreast, still firing at any enemy that presented itself. I saw Doug curve his arm back in a throwing motion and smoke burst in front of him as a white phosphorous grenade exploded, obscuring the scene. We began dropping back in threes, sprinting five metres and falling to one knee to cover the others. I loosed off a couple more rounds, reloaded, turned and doubled past them to the rear. My bergen thumped on my shoulders; running with 120lbs of kit was a strain. I made fifteen metres, turned to face the front again and dropped to one knee. At the same time the other half of the section came running past me again. I could hear the hammer of the GPMG as Andy blazed away. We were dropping back in three-metre bounds, firing and dropping back again. Shots whistled overhead but the firing was wild. Nothing came near us.

  We kept it up for about 500 metres till our lungs were bursting with the effort. At last though the firing died away. The enemy had had enough and broken contact. "Break right!" Andy called and we reformed, tabbing off at ninety degrees towards the west in single file again.