The Last Days of Disco Page 18

  ‘I believe that we can as a House of Commons transform what has occurred into benefits for our country as a whole. I believe that that is the way in which we on the Opposition Benches will wish to proceed. There are many fruitful lessons in diplomacy and in other matters that we can draw from this occasion, and that will be the Opposition’s determination.’

  Mr Michael Foot, Leader of the Opposition, MP for Ebbw Vale

  15TH JUNE 1982: 9:45AM

  The British Army is the ultimate procedural organisation, especially in times of war. Although the families of those involved in the fighting would be aware from every broadcast that their husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, boyfriends were now fully engaged in war, they also knew that the Army – after its years of experience in Northern Ireland – was never drawn on the subject of casualties until every possibility of doubt was eliminated. In the British Army, next-of-kin should only learn of a death through official channels. With a few notable exceptions, the media cooperate in this respect. The Army adheres to another strict procedure: bad news should never be broken to next-of-kin in the middle of the night. And so, on the morning of 15th June, almost twenty-four hours after their son had been charging across the light-snow-covered slopes of Sapper Hill towards the Argentine defences with a bayonet attached to the end of his rifle, Ethel and Harry sat in their living room with Bobby standing behind them, facing a very official-looking Scots Guards officer, who was accompanied by two chaplains. The elder of the two chaplains spoke first; the other comforting Ethel as his colleagues broke the news.

  As soon as they had approached the front door, Hettie had run, screaming, up the stairs to her room. Gary had once told her about all of the formal procedures that happened in wartime. From this, Hettie knew that if two padres came to your door, it meant there had been a death. If it was one, it meant an injury. Ethel had barely moved from her seat for two days. Harry had paced the floor between the radio in the kitchen and the television in the living room. And Bobby had tried to take his mind off everything by making tea and answering the countless telephone calls, enquiring if there had been any news. The officer had some official business first. He handed over a collection of letters written by Gary in the last month. Procedural mix-ups had prevented them from getting through to their intended recipients. The Army was officially sorry for any distress that this had caused. Ethel was in complete shock and, although she heard it, she took in nothing of the official story relayed by the officer. He told the following expansive account:

  On the morning of 13th June, Gary’s Battalion was moved by helicopter from their position at Bluff Cove to an assembly area near Goat Ridge, west of Mount Tumbledown. The British plan called for a diversionary attack south of Mount Tumbledown by a small number of Scots Guards, assisted by the four light tanks of the Blues and Royals, while the main attack came as a three-phase silent advance from the west of Mount Tumbledown. In the first phase, G Company would take the western end of the mountain; in the second phase, Left Flank would pass through the area taken by G Company to capture the centre of the summit; and in the third phase, Right Flank – of which Gary was part – would pass through Left Flank to secure the eastern end of Tumbledown. A daytime assault was initially planned, but was postponed at the British battalion commander’s request. In a meeting with his company commanders the consensus was that the long uphill assault across the harsh ground of Tumbledown in daylight would be suicidal.

  At the time of the battle, N Company held Mount Tumbledown. Mount William was just south of Tumbledown and the Marine battalion’s O Company was on its lower slopes. B Company 6th Regiment was in reserve behind N Company. M Company occupied Sapper Hill. The Argentine defenders held firm under the British ‘softening up’ bombardment, which began at seven thirty p.m. local time. At eight thirty p.m. on 13th June, the diversionary attack began. The 2nd Battalion Scots Guards’ Reconnaissance Platoon, commanded by Major Richard Bethell and supported by four light tanks of the Blues and Royals, attacked the Argentine marine company entrenched on the lower slopes of Mount William. On Mount William’s southern slopes, one of the tanks was taken out of action by a booby trap. The initial advance was unopposed, but a heavy firefight broke out when British troops made contact with Argentine defences. The Argentines opened fire, killing two British soldiers and wounding four. After two hours of hard fighting, the British troops had secured the position.

  Fearing a counter-attack, the British platoon withdrew into an undetected minefield, and were forced to abandon their dead. Two men were wounded covering the withdrawal and four more were wounded by mines. The explosions prompted the Argentine troops on Mount William to open fire on the minefield and the likely withdrawal route of anyone attacking Mount William. The barrage lasted for about forty minutes and more British casualties would have been suffered if the mortar bombs had not landed on soft peat, which absorbed most of the blasts.

  The fighting was hard going for Left Flank. The Argentinians had well dug-in machine guns and snipers. At two thirty a.m., however, a second British assault overwhelmed the Argentine defences. British troops swarmed the mountaintop and drove the Argentinians out, at times fighting with fixed bayonets. By six a.m., Left Flank’s attack had clearly stalled and had cost the British company seven men killed and eighteen wounded. On the eastern half of the mountain the platoon of Argentine conscripts was still holding out, so Colonel Scott ordered Right Flank to push on to clear the final positions. Major Simon Price sent 2nd and 3rd Platoons forward, preceded by a barrage of 66mm rockets to clear the forward RI 6th platoon. Major Price placed 1st Platoon high up in the rocks to provide fire support for the assault troops. Lieutenant Robert Lawrence led Gary’s 3rd Platoon around to the right of the Argentine platoon, hoping to take the Argentinians by surprise. They were detected, however, and the British were briefly pinned down by gunfire before a bayonet charge overwhelmed the Argentine defenders.

  Advancing out of the central region of Tumbledown Mountain, the British again came under heavy fire from the Argentinians, but by advancing in pairs under covering fire, the British succeeded in clearing those RI 6th Company platoons as well, gaining firm control of the mountain’s eastern side. Right Flank had achieved this at the cost of five wounded, including Lieutenant Lawrence. The Argentine sniper with a FAL rifle had helped cover the Argentine retreat, firing shots at a Scout helicopter evacuating wounded off Tumbledown and injuring two Guardsmen, before the Scots Guards killed him in a hail of gunfire.

  Gary had been confirmed as one of the Guardsmen who had killed the sniper. Shortly after this there was some final shelling from the Argentine encampment. This had disorientated and scattered 3rd Platoon and, although his remaining comrades hadn’t witnessed their deaths or been able to recover their bodies in the aftermath, Gary – and one other private, Benny Lewis – was now officially Missing, Presumed Dead.

  Just before Ethel collapsed, the officer informed them that Gary had been recommended for the Distinguished Conduct Medal.

  PART IV

  ‘With permission, Mr Speaker, I should like to make a statement on the Falkland Islands. Early this morning in Port Stanley, seventy-four days after the Falkland Islands were invaded, General Moore accepted from General Menendez the surrender of all the Argentine forces in East and West Falkland together with their arms and equipment. In a message to the Commander-in-Chief Fleet, General Moore reported: “The Falkland Islands are once more under the Government desired by their inhabitants. God Save the Queen.”’

  Mrs Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister House of Commons Statement, 15th June 1982

  THE LAST POST

  21ST JUNE 1982: 9:38AM

  ‘Ethel. Ethel, love? C’mon, hen. We need tae get ready.’ Harry was struggling to get through to his wife. For the majority of the last week, she had sat in the chair nearest the window of her house, watching as people walked past, staring in; some even pointing. There had been a lull in the number of photographers camped outside and most had gone on Tuesday �
�� after Bobby’s pleading, and Harry’s anger. Last night though – the night before Gary’s memorial service – a significant number had returned.

  ‘Bobby, can you go and see tae yer sister?’ Harry was struggling to hold it together, but he knew it was his final duty to Gary. ‘Bobby, dae ye hear me?’ he shouted. He was desperately trying to keep his anger in check. Harry knew that his youngest son wasn’t coping well with his brother’s death, but disappearing to his girlfriend’s house for three days midweek, while her father had taken his expanding family to a caravan at Butlin’s, didn’t help. Harry suspected Bobby was away watching the Scotland v Brazil game – he couldn’t really criticise, as Harry had watched it, too, and he couldn’t deny that, for a wee while after David Narey had scored, it had distracted him a bit. Nothing short of regularly administered industrial-strength Valium was able to do the same for Ethel, though, and Harry was seriously concerned about her ability to make it through the day. In the first forty-eight hours after the Scots Guards Family Liaison woman had left, Ethel said little other than implying it was all her fault.

  Hettie had similarly crumpled into a shell, stepping out of her room only to go to the bathroom or, on the few occasions that Harry had had to nip out, to sit downstairs with her mother. She felt absolutely empty, bereft of any feeling. She felt that she had no more tears left to cry. There didn’t seem to be any point. Up until a week ago her entire life had been focused on passing her O levels, and she had had high expectations of passing all seven with very good grades. A brief conversation, months ago with Gary, had helped her with the momentum required for concentrated studying, but now all of that seemed totally pointless. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t rationalise the events of the last week. She had no concept of time. It all seemed so fluid at the moment. Minutes into hours into days, unpunctuated by sleep. Hettie was – understandably – emotionally exhausted.

  The first time she answered Mickey Martin’s telephone call, she accidentally put the phone down before she heard the whole message. When it rang again, she let it ring out. Her dad was out at the shops, Bobby was away – somewhere – and with her mum almost catatonic there was only her to respond to the incessant ringing. When Mickey phoned again the next day, he immediately apologised and offered his condolences for Gary. Hettie had burst into tears at this and again the remainder of the message was lost in the fog of her despair.

  Bobby had also received a phone call during the week, but it was one intended for his dad, which he’d intercepted.

  ‘Could you let him know that Chief Superintendent Don McAllister would like tae speak tae him, please? It’s about his son,’ the female voice had said. Bobby had panicked at this and bolted to Lizzie’s for a couple of days, to give him time to break more bad news to his father during this, the most difficult week of his life.

  ‘Dad, there’s been a guy looking for you all week. Doc or something … It hasn’t been a great line. An’ ah wisnae really listenin’ properly. Ah’m sorry, Dad.’ Hettie had come downstairs. She was wearing a short purple dress and some make-up, and looked much better than she had since well before the news about Gary had been broken to her. Bobby jumped to attention at hearing this information.

  ‘Eh, Dad. Ah ken this isn’t the best time tae tell ye this but that phone call was about me.’ Bobby was nervously making a knot with the black tie Harry had given him earlier. He turned to face his father. ‘That phone call she’s on aboot … it’s fae the polis … a guy called Don McAllister.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘A while ago, we aw got lifted after a stramash at the Tory Club when we were out wi’ the disco.’ Bobby walked over to his dad who now had his hands over his face. ‘Dad, ah’m really, really sorry. Ah hidnae heard anythin’ an’ …’ As tears had began to roll slowly down Bobby’s face, Harry put an arm around his son’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s a’right, son. Ah’ve spoken tae him already. It’s fine. He was phonin’ tae say they’d dropped any charges.’ Harry could see the relief in his son’s face but he was struggling to contain his own rage. Of all the weeks to phone and hassle his family, Harry couldn’t believe Don McAllister would have chosen this one. He put his other arm around Hettie’s shoulder. ‘Right c’mon … let’s try and help yer mam get through the day, eh?’ Harry kissed his daughter on the cheek and walked out of the room. He had a few tears of his own to conceal.

  The service itself was extremely difficult for the Cassidy family. Although many young men had died in the brief battle on the other side of the world, Gary’s death had special resonance for the Scottish media in particular. A young war hero who had been killed on the last day of a conflict that had not been universally popular north of the border was big news. That his body had not been found and buried along with his colleagues where he fell added a significant emotional poignancy. When the Distinguished Order Medal was part of the story, journalists started dreaming of BAFTAs. But the event had taken the Kilmarnock Police by surprise and camera crews and TV news teams had virtually blocked the cobbled route down Bank Street to get to the Laigh Kirk. It was by far the biggest church in the town, and had been chosen to accommodate the multitude of people who had turned up to pay tribute or simply to be seen.

  ‘I knew a simple soldier boy

  Who grinned at life in empty joy,

  Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,

  And whistled early with the lark.

  ‘In winter trenches, cowed and glum,

  With crumps and lice and lack of rum,

  He put a bullet through his brain.

  No one spoke of him again.

  ‘You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye

  Who cheer when soldier lads march by,

  Sneak home and pray you’ll never know

  The hell where youth and laughter go.’

  Bobby struggled to get through his reading of the Sassoon poem, but he knew it would have meant a lot to Gary. When he and his dad were sorting through Gary’s stuff, they found this poem ripped out of a school textbook. When they found the same text written out several times in Gary’s jotters, they both recognised that it must have had an effect on him. Although the second verse told of a different outcome, Bobby felt that its sombre tone summed up that painful disunion between selfless heroism and pointless sacrifice.

  At the end of the short service, the Reverend MacNeil – who had christened Gary nearly twenty years before – led the Cassidy family past the large, framed photograph of a smiling Gary taken on the day of his passing-out, and along the flower-bedecked aisle. As she walked haltingly, supported by her daughter, Ethel looked up and spotted a vaguely familiar female face.

  ‘Aw, God. Mary, no!’ Ethel fainted right after she said this. The tall man to the woman’s right instinctively leapt forward. He called out her name.

  ‘Get back, you!’ shouted Harry. ‘Don’t you fuckin’ touch her!’

  Bobby didn’t think too much of this at the time. With the full blast of the media outside, his dad had been on edge all morning. Many people had crowded around his mum and although it seemed a strange thing for his dad to shout, it had been an unbelievably stressful week for him and, in any case, it wasn’t entirely clear whom he had been addressing. A doctor had taken Ethel back to the vestry, along with Harry and Hettie. Bobby had been asked by his dad to go on with Joey and Hamish – and Hamish’s dad, Stan – to the Masonic Club for the customary wake. Jock Newton had sorted out enough food to have kept all of the Scots Guards going while they were in the Falklands, and, even more magnanimously, he’d organised a free bar.

  ‘He was a guid lad, your Gary,’ said Jock.

  ‘Thanks mate,’ replied Bobby.

  ‘Lazy fucker, mind you.’ Bobby looked up sharply, but he conceded a smile when he saw Jock Newton wink at him. ‘In fact, ah heard his Sergeant was speakin’ tae Gary’s Platoon. He says, “I’ve got a nice wee easy job for the laziest man here. Put up yer haun if you’re the laziest.” Nineteen outta twenty men raised their hauns, and the sergeant asks the other
man, “Why d’you no raise your haun?” Gary says, “Too much fuckin’ trouble, sarge.”’ Bobby looked around before laughing.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Newton. Ah appreciate everythin’ ye’ve done for ma dad.’

  ‘Hey, it’s nae problem, son. Look, aw this’ll get easier, ken? Yer ma and yer da’ll take a while tae get ower it aw, but Gary’s done a great thing. It’ll no be forgotten, an’ it’ll gie ye’s aw real comfort in future.’ Bobby pursed his lips, nodded and carried another tray of whiskies and vodkas away to distribute for the toast to his dead brother.

  Harry only made a fleeting appearance at the Masonic Club, and many people had left after the soup and the sandwiches. The hardcore of Harry’s own mates were settling down for a long night, and Harry felt obliged to show his face for them at least.

  ‘Sorry lads,’ said Harry. ‘Ethel finally went doon. She’s had more sedatives than ah could count this week, but Hettie’s watchin’ ‘er now.’

  ‘Mate, there’s absolutely nae need tae apologise. Everyb’dy kens whit an ordeal this has aw been for ye, whit wi’ aw the papers an’ that.’ From the nods and winks, it was clear to Harry that Chick MacKenzie spoke for everyone. At that moment Harry dearly wished he could go and lock the doors to the club and just stay there for the next few weeks, surrounded by people he loved and trusted. But he knew he had to go home. He knew the situation with Ethel was going to get worse and, most of all, he knew he had to speak face-to-face with Don McAllister. When he finally opened his front door, ten hours after he’d initially opened it to take his family to a memorial service for his dead son, he found a letter posted through the letterbox. There was no stamp and no postmark, and only one five-lettered word hand-written on the envelope. Inside, the brief note read: