Some task, some force
Max Hastings
SS Canberra, South Atlantic Tt is a journalistic reflex remorselessly to SS Canberra, South Atlantic Tt is a journalistic reflex remorselessly to harass the powers that be for the improb- able, in the hope that after much haggling one will be granted a small portion of the Possible. Throughout six weeks of confine- ment and boredom aboard the Canberra, amidst tales of open mutiny by the reporters on Invincible and Hermes who seem to have spent most of their operation battened in the bilges, we have fought ferociously for the right to report a possible landing in the Falklands from somewhere near the van. It was rather an alarming anti-climax when the staff considered, consulted, and Came back to say that everybody would be delighted to take us, and would we like to go with the forward companies, or the next ones behind? The Ministry of Defence, who are normally reluctant to allow journalists to travel in a three-ton lorry since they are only insured for fire and theft, concurred by return of signal. The spirit of even their most skilled obstructionists appears to have been broken by the torrent of abuse that has been heaped upon them since the first scrap merchants' invasion. Thus it is that the 16 reporters and cameramen on Canberra have been launch- ed upon preparations the like of which have not been heard of in Fleet Street since Suez. There have been a series of first aid lectures given by an enchanting young naval medical attendant with recent practical experience of sewing up Argentinians outside Govern- rvie.nt House in Port Stanley. One of the n:flistrY of Defence public relations men 'SUIned to be suffering from an astonish- ing variety of injuries was trussed like a mummy by the combined efforts of ITN and the Daily Express. Dog tags were issued, and the first instalment of a mass of web equipment and camping gear. Reporters who had never shown the faintest enthusiasm or aptitude for digging even their Own gardens have listened in solemn Silence to a talk on the creation and camouflage of a slit trench. IN After so many years in which every great orld event has been reported by a vast Europeans, circus dominated by Americans and ',,..uroloeans, it is a strange sensation to know ,'at whatever tale there is to be told or plc- events of to be frozen in history from the r the ,next few weeks here, it will be our so alone to produce them. After the inany weeks in which we — together with eude Men of the landing force — have laugh- ed and played the fool to fight off the hasthe. isolation from which every British col- oenial .expeditionary force must have sof- t red in the 19th century. We are deeply
conscious that the eyes of the world are following this fleet, and yet to the men on the ships our existence seems utterly detach- ed from that of the remainder of the planet.
In the early hours of this morning, I could not sleep for the bucking of the ship, and climbed up for a cup of coffee on the bridge. It was in total darkness like the rest of the ship — one of the natural precau- tions of the night — except for the pinpoint of light above the chart table where a young officer was marking our track. Intermit- tently the radar flicked on, and we watched the convoy crawl across the screen like so many sea slugs, invisible in the darkness to the naked eye. In the howling wind, one of the marine look-outs huddled against a bulkhead. It is not so easy to be nonchalant or even sceptical about this experience, this moment of history that may appear absurd a year, a decade, or a generation from now, but today seems one of the most extra- ordinary dramas of the post-war period. It is odd how readily the reporters, by trade and habit the most anarchistic of men, have become institutionalised in the midst of a large military force. We have slipped into their speech, demanding a 'wet, whenever there is tea to be had, scouring the ship for 'gash' camouflage material or Antarctic clothing. We agree thoughtfully that we think we could 'hack' that, a phrase I had never heard before boarding the ship except to describe journalists, but which is here applied as a verb to express the plausibility of everything from running round the deck 20 times to overrunning Port Stanley. On the matter of running, incidentallY, any one of us could sketch every bump and rivet on the Canberra's promenade deck from memory. Even the least athletic of soldiers and reporters has run remorselessly to stave off complete stagnation. The alter- native is to exist around the clock in a blacked-out, hermetically-sealed space sta- tion below decks, deprived of all air and light. Latterly, when the weather has been tolerable, we have run in packs and equip- ment. Questioned about the participation of most reporters in this business, I admit- ted frankly that if the moment comes for the Royal Marines to run very fast in either direction on the battlefield, we have a mor- bid terror of being left behind.
But it would be foolish to pretend that the reporters are now accepted by the am- phibious landing force as honorary com- mandos. After six weeks living cheek by jowl, the best that could be said about our relationship with those who are going to do the dirty work ashore is that we are regard- ed as extraordinary but inevitable items of equipment that will have to be lugged up the beach in the same spirit as anti-tank launchers and missile gear — clumsy, heavy, but presumably necessary.
The resident naval psychologist with the task force, himself like most of his kind scarcely a run-of-the-mill sort of human being, announced in the first week of the voyage that he expected the press to prove the weak link on Canberra, and no one has yet rushed to shout him down. As for the reporters, even those of us who like to see a soldier about the place feel that by the time this is all over, we will not mind missing the Royal Tournament for a year or two. Every daylight hour of every day, every corner of this ship is crowded with groups of men practising ceaselessly with every variation of weapon and instrument of war. By the time I get home, I shall feel ready for a quiet dinner without the sound of clashing breechblocks to provide orchestral accom- paniment.
And now it is dawn, and even this large ship seems to be moving like those motoris- ed children's space ships that stand at the entrance to supermarkets. There will be a demonstration of the assembly of fighting order at ten, a lecture on the cooking of Antarctic rations at eleven, and an issue of hessian for camouflaging packs some time in the late afternoon. When one thinks of war from the comfort of home, or even from the dining room of the Canberra in the Bay of Biscay, it is the tactical and strategic problems that predominate.
It is only now, on the very edge of action, that one remembers with such dismaying certainty that all military operations take place in darkness, wind and rain, when one is chronically tired, hungry, wet and cold. If only the Argies throw in the towel as soon as they see us ashore. If only the Harriers can maintain absolute dominance over the beach-head. If only the weather is tolerable and the politicians don't dither too long, could we be in Stanley within a week and have the runway repaired to get us out of these godforsaken islands as soon as the vic- tory parade is over?
I think we could hack that.
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