June 8

Tuesday June 8, 1982

30 minutes after first light, the daily Wessex launched from Ajax Bay with a load of post-treatment injured. Our HQ LFFI (Land Forces Falkland Islands), or Divisional HQ as it was sometimes called, had told us, quite categorically, that Uganda would be in close this morning to make up for her absence yesterday. Foolishly, I believed them - without checking first.

With its fuel almost exhausted from inspecting Grantham and Falkland Sounds, our Wessex returned and landed outside the door for the second time. The wounded tried to hide their disappointment and pain from me, but I was really upset. Div HQ replied to my ill-concealed fury with a 'Wait - Out' on the radio.

An hour later, there was still no explanation, but a different voice came on the net as the watch-keeping officers changed over. Perhaps they had been too busy to discuss my 'minor' problem of Uganda's whereabouts? Once again, the word from on high was 'Wait - OUT'. I was feeling very frustrated and irritated by their apparent indifference.

The time had now come to investigate HMS Intrepid's potential as a large-scale forward hospital for the final battles, possibly by using the flight deck, ramp and tank decks for medical purposes, instead of just the wardroom and adjacent compartments up forward as had been previously proposed. This time, the order for a recce and report came down from Brigade, so Bill McGregor, Erich Bootland, Ian Geraghty and I took a ride out to the LPD, where we were met by a very frosty RM Major, the Amphibious Operations Officer. He must have thought this was all a fantastic plot to undermine him, because apparently this was the first time that he had even heard of a 'floating hospital' concept for his ship!

I was very surprised by this news and said so to Captain Peter Dingemans, the model of courtesy and hospitality up in his cabin. Was this another of the wretched NE's intrigues to get himself established on the operational map? I had no real way of finding out. Besides, there were a lot of far more important things to worry about.

After our brief inspection of Intrepid, we returned to report to the Captain, and found that our analysis very much concurred with his. His ship could certainly be made into an emergency medico-surgical facility and parked in Barclay Sound, to the north of Port Stanley, but she would be a very poor choice. No seafarer likes to remain static and anchored while at war. Equally worrying were the large quantities of field engineer stores tucked away down below. These would obviously be needed for the rebuilding of Stanley. So, why should anyone think of ditching them, in order to make room for emergency hospital facilities that might not be required for anything other than the short term?

After a quick lunch we then went over to the Atlantic Causeway by landing craft. The big container-ship, sister of the ill-fated Atlantic Conveyor, was a far better bet. The vesseel had three large but empty vehicle decks, a lift, and a helicopter platform. There was only one key unknown in the profile of her potential - just how close could she get into Stanley Harbour?

The rest of the party flew back to Ajax Bay, thanks to a friendly passing Wessex crew, while I journeyed to HMS Fearless by dory, in order to find some answers to my questions. The responsible staff officer, one of Gerry Wells-Coles' team there, was most apologetic. Apparently, the new concept of using HMS Intrepid as a 'forward floating hospital' had just gone out of fashion, although it had not been dismissed entirely. He asked me instead to look at Goose Green as a more suitable location for this 'forward' facility, because here we would be just a little closer to the front lines around Stanley. There was no serious objection to this plan, apart from the overcrowding already extant at Goose Green. Bombs, or no bombs, I argued that Ajax Bay still looked like good value, operating as a back-up in support of the Teal Inlet and Fitzroy forward surgical facilities.

Further discussion was interrupted by an 'Air Raid Red' warning. I finished my coffee at carpet level, and was then distressed to hear the bridge's Tannoy information about HMS Plymouth having been hit by enemy aircraft out in Falkland Sound. For the next ten or fifteen minutes the Executive Officer's voice kept his ships' company silent at their duties with a description of the battered Rothesay Class frigate limping into the San Carlos anchorage under a cloud of smoke and steam, listing to starboard but apparently refusing help because they could cope on their own. Then the tone changed. Plymouth had reported that they were short of fire fighters and breathing apparatus, so Captain Larken began to muster his available resources and prepared to get them across.

Back aft in Flyco, I chatted to Lt Cdr Ed Featherstone, Fearless's Aviation Officer. My suggestion that the frigate's request for fire fighters would probably mean they also had casualties, in need of evacuation, was accepted gratefully by the Command team on the bridge. Within minutes I was on my way to the stricken frigate, in a commandeered Wessex that had been passing by.

Shades of Ardent! It was just like May 21st and D-Day all over again, only this time there were no fires apparent, only smoke pouring from the mortar well, flight deck hangar and funnel. Fire-fighting hoses snaked across the flight deck as HMS Avenger pulled up along her starboard side, to play cooling streams of sea water onto the hottest danger areas. Our only access point was up on the foredeck, in front of the gun turret, so I was winched down here.

On the slippery deck surface, the main rotor downwash threatened to push me over the side. I had time, as I struggled to regain balance, to notice a pile of empty shell cases beneath the twin 4.5 inch mountings. HMS Plymouth had been in a stiff fight. The bridge staff looked pale and dazed beneath their anti-flash hoods as they wrestled with their various damage control problems. It took me a minute to manoeuvre the stretcher up through the starboard wing, then down and aft into the main passageway below. There was just time for a cheerful salute, in transit, to Captain David Pentreath, then the acrid smoke engulfed my face. I was soon choking, with fiercely watering eyes, and only managed to continue by tying a towel scarf around my face.

In the main passageway, or 'Burma Road', the fire fighters were briefing carefully in their fire-resistant 'Fearnought' suits, all wearing compressed-air breathing apparatus. There was a clear layer of air next to the actual deck, along which a man could crawl in comfort. The fire fighters were quite cool and collected - the whole thing could almost have been just another Portland damage control exercise generated by Flag Officer Sea Training. That was probably the best way to play it, too.

In the wardroom, the ship's medical staff were very busy. The young MO was Surgeon Lieutenant Alasdair Walker, and he was here as well. They were tending to one man with severe smoke inhalation, another with a fractured arm, and a third with a broken lower leg. Lying against a bulkhead was the most severely injured member of the ship's company, a stoker named Warner, with a depressed fracture to his skull. Sticking out of the top of his head was a piece of metal support bracket, embedded in the bone. This chap needed Bill McGregor, and soon.

Very carefully, I led MEM Warner up on to the main deck level, having passed the empty stretcher up to the deck via another companionway. One of the First Aid Party then helped me to strap our patient in, and we carried him aft to the listing Flight Deck. The tilt to starboard appeared much greater now - perhaps they were having trouble with their counter-flooding. It was no problem for the Sea King which arrived. The big helicopter came and hovered right in over the deck, until we could practically hand the stretcher up to the waiting crewman.

Five minutes later we were round the corner, and once again walking into the 'Red and Green Life Machine'. So concerned was I about HMS Plymouth - and my chance involvement with her problems - that it took me a little while to realise that nobody really wanted to know about what was happening just outside our door in San Carlos Water.

Instead, some terrible event had occurred down on the southern flank, with rumours of fifty or sixty men from 45 Commando killed! I remembered thinking that this made no sense, because 'Four Five' were 'yomping' towards their final objective via a northern route.

Gradually the true picture emerged. It turned out that the LSL Sir Galahad had been bombed by a gaggle of A-4 Skyhawks while anchored near Fitzroy; her sister ship, the LSL Sir Tristram had been attacked too. There were apparently large numbers of casualties, including some from our own sister organisation, 16 Field Ambulance of the Royal Army Medical Corps.

A Gazelle aircrewman then rushed into the Command Post with a scribbled note to me from the CO of 16 Field Ambulance. John Roberts' message was terse and direct: RICK, GALAHAD HIT BEFORE SURGICAL TEAMS UNLOADED. MANY (NOT YET COUNTED) BURNS CASUALTIES. NEED FLUIDS / MORPHIA PLUS PLUS. THANKS JOHN

We responded to this cri-de-coeur as best we could. John Williams grabbed some kit and flew off immediately in the waiting Gazelle. Mike von Bertele followed soon after in a Scout, with a couple of intravenous fluid resupply boxes. Very gradually, the scene around us degenerated into a complete and utter nightmare.

As darkness crept in over the horizon, load after load of helicopter casualties began to arrive at Ajax Bay. Each new patient seemed worse than the last; eventually the Triage and Resuscitation areas were completely choked. Helicopters continued to clatter in, and stretcher-borne casualties kept appearing in the main door. No one knew for certain how many more were coming, only that we had received about a hundred and twenty victims of the bombing, mostly with burns. The phrase 'Mass Casualty Situation' flicked into the forefront of my memory.

By NATO definitions, this was said to have occurred when an overwhelming number of incapacitated or injured people arrived in a limited medical facility which, as a result, could not cope. Hell, we could certainly deal with some of them, but we were duty-bound to try and bring the greatest benefit to the biggest number. After a quick discussion with Erich Bootland, on the ball as ever, I raced down to Log HQ and got on the radio to Division HQ. I asked them, urgently, to prepare a list of ships that could take about a hundred of the lightly burned or injured. The total number we had received (150 and rising) rather staggered the duty officer, but by the time he had recovered enough to query it, I was back up in the hospital. Our ever-reliable Regimental Adjutant, Paddy George, then took over those negotiations.

Mercifully, at around 160, the numbers began to slow. With around ten wounded from HMS Plymouth, that meant we now had around 170 injured, standing or lying around in the building. The medical teams got to work on the more severely afflicted as Paddy's runner came up from the beach with a new message. HMS Fearless, HMS Intrepid and mv Atlantic Causeway were standing by, each ship willing, and getting ready to receive around three dozen injured each when we could get them over.

Down at the Beach Unit, Colour Sergeant McDowell then produced the necessary landing craft from somewhere, and suddenly, we really were coping reasonably well. It was the old human nature bit of helping out your mates. People turned up from the most unexpected quarters and offered their services. The RN Clearance divers came to help, as did some boys from 40 Commando who had come over earlier from Port San Carlos for some rest and relaxation in relative warmth, under a tin roof.

The main question now was how we were going to decide which of our patients would stay, and who would be passed on. In the demanding circumstances of a Mass Casualty Situation, the normal principles of priority for medical treatment get completely inverted. With normal casualty loadings, you tackle the most severely injured first, while the least injured have to wait. That instinctive reaction had to be suppressed now.

Instead, we had to do the best we could for the largest number, and recognise that some of our potential customers might be too badly injured for us to treat - because they would take up too much in the way of time and resources, and thereby reduce the chances of many others. At the opposite end of this spectrum was another sub-group which might be classified as too lightly injured to deserve any effort from us, and for the very same reason. So, exactly who was going to determine the entrance fee to Ajax Bay? There was only one answer, of course. It had to be me.

The responsibility was huge, and I knew that I had to get it right first time. Luckily, my instincts proved correct. About half of the waiting Welsh Guardsmen had flash burns to face and hands only - about 10% of the total body surface. I decided that these men would constitute the 'too lightly injured' category, but at the same time felt very guilty about the dismissive aspects of this judgement. We also had to tell them, as individuals, why we could not take them in, and where we proposed sending them to.

I expected some ranting and raving, perhaps even accusations of betrayal or flint-heartedness, and prepared myself mentally to apologise for my personal decision which, even as I made it, felt absolutely right.

However, the young Welsh Guardsmen were stoical and cheery as we broke the news of another move to them. Fred Cook and I moved amongst them, each holding a lit cigarette cupped and shielded in one hand so that they could have a smoke without getting a stinging pain in their cheeks from the glowing red tip. Standing near the doorway, blowing on their tattered and painful hands to keep them cool, many of them were totally pathetic sights. Strips of skin hung from their fingers like thin, wet muslin, and their faces were blistered and raw, the hair singed short. But by God, they were brave.

The bad news of another half hour in a landing craft before they could be treated was simply accepted without demur. Each man seemed to know of someone else in the building more seriously injured than himself, and all of them would rather have had him treated first. The sing-song accents of the Welsh valleys repeated the same sentiment to us, again and again: "Don't worry about me, sir. What about Evans 36/ Williams 49/ Jones 27? 'Ave you seen him? He's the one that needs you, not me..."

It was simply heartbreaking to turn nearly ninety young men away from what was the Accident & Emergency Department door that they had paid so much to reach, but there was no other way. I shall never forget the magnificent moral courage of these splendid young men, whose instinctive response did so much to ease my own moral burden in dealing with the collective problem. We only knew how many there were because each man had a field treatment card attached to his clothing, and these had been pre-numbered. There was no time to record any other details, and we never knew or learned their names.

I watched them as they marched away into the night, still blowing on their hands as they went, still maintaining good order and discipline, and with not a single word or gesture of dissent. With the serious overcrowding problem solved now, it was time for an all-out effort directed at the other burned and wounded.

A simple treatment plan was developed for each individual; this was assessed and written down by a medical officer, and then carried out by either a medical assistant, or more frequently, one of the marines. Bernie's divers had turned to as well, to lend their capable and willing hands. For each patient there was one attendant, sometimes two. It was a heartening sight as order was imposed on chaos, and calm returned to a rather frenzied scene.

The fused and charred clothing was cut away, and the total percentage of burned skin area assessed and recorded on the treatment card. When necessary, an intravenous infusion was set up, with the flow rates and volumes calculated individually depending on the burns percentage. Careful titration of intravenous morphine was then embarked on, to control the pain. Then, carefully and lovingly, Flamazine was spread thickly over the affected areas. The cool white cream contained a silver and sulpha drug mixture which was pain-killing, antiseptic and promoted healing. Hands and fingers were enclosed in sterile plastic bags to avoid the risks of bandaging.

If a scar formed under a hand dressing it would probably have remained undetected until too late, and a claw-like contracture might well have been the severe and unwelcome penalty. In the worst cases, Phil Shouler and the other surgeons now performed escharotomies, deliberately slitting the sides of each bloated finger to allow tissue fluid to leak out, and thus prevent strangulation of the digital circulation. He showed me how to do the procedure, as there were dozens to be done. This technique was surprisingly painless, even for the patients! It was a night of 'see one, do one under supervision, plus a few more without a mentor - and then start teaching others to do the same'...

The concrete floor of Ajax Bay was soon ankle deep in rubbish, littered with torn paper dressing packets and cellophane wrappings. We ran out of Flamazine on the last patient, a Guardsman with flash-burned forearms. Bryn Dobbs then remembered that he had a tube of the stuff secreted in his First Aid kit, so he retrieved it. There was now less than an ounce left for any further casualties, so we could only hope that we had finished for the night. Bill McGregor had earlier completed an unpleasant surgical case, revising the traumatic amputation of a lower leg that had been, surprisingly, the most serious item in our workload - that was apart from Guardsman Simon Weston.

This young man had a terrifying appearance, with his face and scalp reddened, blistered and swollen, and some of his hair charred. The whole thing must have been a complete horror show for him. Ironically, some of the least burned areas of his upper body were the most painful, because the flash burning caused by the bomb detonations had lifted the superficial layers of the dermis (skin) and exposed the nerve endings beneath. His pain was severe, and although we did our best with intravenous morphine, the poor chap was still suffering terribly.

It was Malcolm Jowitt who solved the problem for him, using intramuscular Ketamine, a steroid-based anaesthetic that he had particular experience with. Prior to relaxing into a pain-free and trance-like state, Simon had actually been begging me to put an end to his overwhelming pain and misery.

Afterwards, he became a media star thanks to his autobiography and a couple of television films about his recovery, and he put this to good use by creating The Weston Spirit, a benevolent trust that works to help youngsters who have to face the consequences of crippling accidents or deforming injury when they are young. Simon is a shining example of how extraordinary such 'ordinary' people can be.

Within us all there are deep and powerful resources that don't usually get tapped into, because we lead comparatively safe and predictable lives. Hooray for him, but in his Simon's subsequent 'autobiography', the ghost writer did not get the description of his time in Ajax Bay quite right. There was a description of Simon joking and laughing as we looked after him that night, but the reality was in fact very different...

When I reported our situation to Divisional HQ, I found that they were being a bit obtuse again. They were unable to grasp the sheer magnitude of our problem, and even tried to query our need for Uganda to get in close the next morning! A one-syllable word picture to the poor duty officer brought him up to date at the rush, and suddenly all was understood. Someone had told him that Uganda had been just over the hill from us, in Middle Bay, throughout the day, but without any business! An hour later he was back on net with welcome news from London. Uganda would indeed be close in, at first light, although there was an embargo on telling them exactly why.

I thanked him gratefully and told him to forget our differences, although at the back of my mind was an even more important, but unanswered question. Why had neither of the two senior medical officers - either Barrie Blackstone or the chap we had labelled as 'NE' not come ashore to see for themselves what was happening? I never got an answer to that particular query...

One of the RM officers in charge of prisoners of war then started to behave like an idiot, and needed some 'Rembrandting', or 'picturising' in the superb vernacular of the Corps. Apparently ignorant of events on our side of the building, he had demanded to know why our galley was not serving hot meals to his staff at the usual time! He was shown the galley chefs all helping us to spread Flamazine on burned faces rather than margarine on dry biscuits, but continued to grumble. I came very close to losing my temper completely, but one of the HQ team, sensing the impending explosion, whispered a splendid alternative suggestion in my ear. As a result, the selfish idiot was invited as an individual, from now on, to use the main Regimental galley some 200 muddy metres away, rather than our facilities.

John Williams was very worried about a lad from HMS Plymouth with smoke inhalation damage to his lungs. Steroids and bottled oxygen via a mask seemed to be holding the problem at bay, but even in the dim light of our 60 watt light bulbs, it was easy to see the cyanotic, bluish tinge of the young sailor's lips. Captain Terry McCabe and WO2 Brian Apperley led the nursing effort. Once again, there was a constant round of soothing, checking, adjusting, recording and checking again.

The marines had been simply magnificent throughout the night. One little group containing Jan Mills and Jock Inglis were secretly very pleased to have survived the test and done so well. As I poured out another 'Arduous Duty' tot, whisky for the Army, rum for Jack and Royal, their delight was expressed in a slightly oblique fashion, tinged as usual with Corps humour.

One of the boys - it was John Thurlow I think - took a long pull from his somewhat strengthened mug of hot chocolate, and looked at me with an innocent expression on his face: "Cheers, Boss! Bloody good wet that - and now we've done the practical, any chance of getting the theory some time?"

How could we lose, with men like that on our side?