April 7

April 8

April 9

Wednesday April 7 to Friday April 9, 1982

Southampton degenerated into something of a nightmare. Canberra lay alongside a narrow wharf that was opened on to by a series of large baggage sheds. The drizzle fell from a leaden sky as Vosper Thorneycroft's skilled workforce began to cut metal and clear away any upper deck fittings that would obstruct a helicopter's approach to the midships area. Tons of steel girder lengths with mysterious chalk markings appeared in and amongst the quayside jumble of freight and stores. These were lifted carefully up and across into the empty main swimming pool, then bolted together. The weight of water in the pool, when full, had been calculated as about seventeen tons; the new steel forest that would underpin the welded flight deck plates had to be about the same.

The edge for the midships flight deck was the aperture cut in the upper deck for the pool; concept and design soon became reality thanks to some rapid engineering drawings and the diverse skills of the workforce. By dusk, on the day they started, all traces of the swimming pool on the upper deck had disappeared, and a quarter of the old gap had been replaced by a flush-fitting deck surface which was completed the next day.

The next problem concerned how to get casualties (received on the flight deck) down one level to the Stadium night club, which had been selected as the only suitable area for their Triage, Resuscitation and Treatment. The main passenger lifts were smooth and silent, but quite incapable of taking a loaded stretcher. We had to make some different arrangements.

This time, the men from Vospers, plus one of the RN medical officers and a Royal Marine carpenter, combined forces to come up with a fantastic solution. A vertical bulkhead was surveyed and then cut out, to reveal a storage locker behind. Some more sheet steel was acquired and used to extend the length of the original piece. The whole assembly was then angled away through 45 degrees to form a sloping steel ramp which was firmly secured, and sheathed in plywood.

Next, it was fitted with a Southampton dock porter's trolley, which was tilted backwards to rest against the slope. At the bottom end, a buffer stop was fitted and the trolley made to run in the space between two 3" high wooden edges fitted to the ramp, and which extended all the way up to the flight deck above. At the top lip, a wide roller mechanism was installed, around which was fed a long manilla rope, in turn secured to a pulley on the top cross-bar of the trolley. The rope had a decoratively knotted end which, when pulled towards the stern of the Canberra, caused the trolley to move smoothly up the ramp, and had the benefit of some mechanical advantage.

When I showed the transparency of our 'funicular' trolley ramp in the Pentagon a year later, it produced gasps of disbelief. Apparently, what we Brits describe as being created by 'Heath Robinson' they label over there as being derived from the drawing board of a chap called 'Rube Goldberg'! One US Marine Corps voice growled about 'a million dollar problem and the ten-cent solution'. It really didn't matter, because the design worked perfectly, and was absolutely typical of many successful 'lash-ups' and 'bodgits' that were devised at various levels throughout the Force.

Along with ammunition and other bits and pieces, boxes and boxes of medical stores were also delivered to the quayside, then carefully netted and lifted up on to A Deck aft. The wharfies and crane drivers were tireless and cheerful - but almost religious about their tea breaks. Eventually, after moaning about this apparent waste of valuable time, we realised that they were absolutely right. I learned an important lesson from them, which proved vital later on - hot sweet tea, at appropriate and regular intervals, leads on to more productive working hours when coping with a crisis.

A pallet load of Argentine corned beef was then delivered, causing great hilarity amongst the shore parties. In the other direction, piles of furnishings materialised from the bowels of the ship to be piled up on the quayside, all to be replaced later at the Ministry of Defence's expense.

The Royal Marines of 40 and 42 Commando arrived, laden with kit, followed by 3 Para disembarking from their buses, their camouflage smocks contrasting sharply with the blue dress uniforms of their Regimental band. On the medical side, Surgeon Captain (Frank) Roger Wilkes also joined as Medical Officer in Charge, accompanied by the newly-created Surgical Team Three (SST 3) His team looked dejected and tired. I had very little idea of the 'stop-start' routines that they had been subjected to throughout the day; orders and counter-orders had washed over them, combined with rumour and misinterpretation of national and world events. The main news was that all their female members had eventually been removed from potential front line service, and it was a thoroughly hacked-off Roger Wilkes that finally boarded the Canberra.

He was a short, stocky firebrand. As a young medical officer in an aircraft carrier he had been awarded the MBE for his initiative and determination in caring for a Naval Air Mechanic who had suffered a 'flail chest' in a flight deck accident. The man's breastbone had been crushed as a jet fighter's cockpit canopy closed without warning. By inserting six thick catgut sutures around the ribs to each side, Roger Wilkes had managed to stabilise the chest by securing it to a wooden frame hastily constructed by the Chief Shipwright. His actions played a key part in saving the man's life.

I had worked for him previously when doing a recall from the Royal Naval Reserve in the hospital at Stonehouse, and had liked what I saw. He was a rumbustious, no-nonsense sort of consultant who enjoyed teaching, loved his patients and would leave no stone unturned in his efforts on their behalf. I greeted him personally, and told him excitedly about everything that had happened - the way we had advanced our plans for designating the medical areas within the ship, and how well I was getting on with the ship's surgeon, Dr Peter Mayner.

When I had finished, FRW (as we all knew him) eyed me coldly and said that he very much resented being talked down to by a subordinate officer (I think he meant figuratively rather than literally, as I was over a foot and a half taller than him) and that he did not take kindly to either my attitude or approach. I was rather surprised and disappointed - but knew from past experience that FRW could be difficult at times.

That bit of unpleasantness over, I greeted the rest of my colleagues, trying to welcome them on board. Some were old friends from time in the RN hospital at Stonehouse, and the links were quickly re-established. However, one chap, an oral surgeon, looked at me with a rather disdainful expression on his face and refused to shake my extended and welcoming hand.

That surprised and rather hurt me. He obviously blamed Rick Jolly for the lengthy period of being messed about that he and the rest of SST 3 had been subjeced to. Of course, the indecision and vacillation had occurred way above my level, but with this calculated slight coming on top of Roger Wilkes's public dressing-down, my heart was sinking fast. We simply had to get on in a spirit of co-operation and shared effort, but this was not really happening. I went back to my cabin and sat down to think about the problem.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. One of the SST 3 ratings stood outside, and his message was blunt. Surgeon Captain Wilkes wanted to see me immediately in his cabin, which was one deck below. I swallowed hard and went down to get another bollocking. When I knocked on FRW's door, a gruff voice shouted from within. As I entered, I noted that the cabin's only occupant had his back to me. His terse order that I should shut the door was obeyed. Roger Wilkes then turned round to face me, with a sparkling gin and tonic in each hand. In a genuine and contrite way he apologised for being so sharp with me, and said that he very much appreciated the preparatory hard work that I had put in on his behalf, and that I did not deserve any of the bad things that he had said on arrival. He then offered me the gin with a big smile on his face.

The relief that washed over me was so strong that I can still remember the sensation. It may have been a deliberate management ploy, but I was now ready to die for him. I learned so much from that wonderful man. He was a joy to serve, and the whole experience of working for him, from then on until we went ashore in the Islands, proved to be stimulating and happy. He was tough, uncompromising, devoted, thoughtful and utterly loyal to his team. Why the system subsequently missed him out from the South Atlantic Honours List remains another of those strange mysteries that are beyond the understanding of us ordinary mortals.

And the 'gnasher-basher' (dentist)? He did not apologise or explain - but luckily, I never had to speak to him again.

To my surprise I then discovered that although we now had the Plymouth-based Surgical Support Team Two (SST 2) embarked, someone had ordered their colleagues in SST 1 to return to their base at Haslar, in Portsmouth, and then take passage south in HMS Hermes, instead of remaining with us. It was a strange decision, because they were supposedly earmarked and dedicated to the Royal Marines, and had been given both the appropriate equipment and training for this task. I assumed that this unforeseen dilution of our surgical capabilities had been authorised by the Brigade Commander in my absence. After all, he was the ultimate 'owner' of this wartime asset, but it later transpired that Julian Thompson had not been consulted at all. As a result, half of our surgical capability and expertise had been chopped out without his permission...

I tried to console myself with the thought that they would be available to the 'Carrier' part of the Task Force in the event of some disaster before we got to the Falklands, and indeed was delighted later on that they proved useful in the aftermath of the attack on HMS Sheffield, but it was the first inkling of the kind of attitude that Julian and I would encounter later on, when the Brigade's medical organisation was subject to a hijacking attempt by another senior Naval medical officer who suddenly turned up down south.

The medical officers (MOs) of 40 and 42 Commando were Surgeon Lieutenants Mike Hayward and Ross Adley respectively, both green-bereted. 3 Para's MO was Captain John Burgess of the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC); as his reinforcement, he had a charming Ulsterman named John Graham, also a RAMC Captain. Worryingly, I noticed that neither JG nor his staff were Airborne trained; they had not completed P Company, or acquired their parachute 'wings'. This would seriously limit my options to deploy them forward as battle casualty replacements in the event of death or injury in the 3 Para medical team. An amusing incident then took place which resulted in disciplinary action having to be taken later on. Five Royal Marines driving heavy lorries in 42 Cdo had brought the embarking unit's baggage up from Plymouth, and also brought their own kit along as well. They parked the vehicles neatly, handed their 'work tickets' in to the military Command Post that had now been established on the dock, and then smuggled themselves on board. They owned up eventually, and were paraded in front of their CO who, while trying to keep a straight face, sentenced them to 'stoppage of shore leave' for a month!

Finally, and almost unbelievably, everyone was over the brow, inboard - and we were ready to go. As the sun dipped below the horizon and daylight slowly faded, we cast off. The Para and Royal Marines bands struck up Sailing and Land of Hope and Glory as the liner edged out into Southampton Water. Cars honked their horns and flashed headlights as Canberra gathered way, her decks lined with thoughtful men, some shedding silent tears as the town of Hamble slipped slowly by along the port side. It was a most emotional moment. Twenty-seven of us would never see England again.