Scram! Read Free

location. Dressed in their white Arctic clothing, the soldiers were in varying stages of hypothermia after exposure to a night of sub-zero temperatures, gale force winds and driving snow. Seated just below and behind Tidd, Leading Aircrewman Tug Wilson helped them stuff their kit into the cabin of the Wessex. As they clambered wearily aboard, he poured each of them hot soup from a thermos.
    â€˜I think we’d better get out of here.’
    Tidd’s voice on the intercom sounded electronic, distorted by the throat microphone attached around his neck. He looked out to his left, past the M260 missile sight suspended from the cockpit roof that partly blocked his view. He could just make out the two other Wessex helicopters nearby, still loading their troops. A lull in the weather, between the wild and unpredictable snow showers, presented a window of opportunity.
    â€˜Thirty seconds, boss,’ called Wilson. ‘I’m just getting the last ones in now.’
    â€˜Four Zero Six, Yankee Fox. I’m loaded and would like permission to depart. It looks clear right now.’
    Tidd radioed across to mission leader Lieutenant Commander Ian Stanley in the adjacent Wessex 3. Equipped with radar and flight control systems, the single-engine Wessex 3 was there as pathfinder for the radar-less twin-engine, troop-carrying Wessex 5s. Stanley had led Tidd in Yankee Foxtrot and his colleague Lieutenant Ian Georgeson in Yankee Alpha, the second Wessex 5, in close formation up to the top of the glacier. The plan was for all three helicopters then to fly back down in formation the same way they had come up, the Wessex 3 keeping them clear of the mountains through the snow and poor visibility.
    In the cockpit of the Wessex 3, Stanley and his co-pilot Sub-Lieutenant Stewart Cooper looked at each other and nodded.
OK. Let him get out of here while the going is good
. He had done the same yesterday when they dropped the guys off. Ian Stanley was confident that Tidd would know what he was doing. Both Tidd and Georgeson were far more experienced at flying in these Antarctic conditions, having trained with the Royal Marines in the Arctic.
    â€˜Roger Yankee Fox, you’re clear to go. See you back there.’
    Tug Wilson leaned out of the back of the Wessex, restrained by his aircrewman’s harness, and checked that all was clear behind. ‘OK boss. Let’s go.’
    With the wind blowing hard up the glacier, Tidd had only to ease the collective lever upwards a little for the seven-ton machine to jump eagerly into the air. Half a mile ahead lay a snow-covered ridgeline before the glacier sloped steeply downwards towards the sea and relative safety. The escape route ahead looked straightforward enough, passing between the giant forbidding mountains that rose high above them on both sides. The very edge of a snow shower appeared just as Yankee Foxtrot lifted. Tidd accelerated to sixty knots, staying low over the glacier in case he needed to land again. Wilson slid the rear door closed to shut out the icy wind and make best use of the cabin heating system for the benefit of the frozen SAS troops.
    The speed and ferocity with which the weather changed was astonishing. Without warning, the snow shower encompassed the helicopter like a tidal wave. ‘Tug we’ve got a problem,’ shouted Tidd whose world had suddenly turned white. It was like being submerged in a glass of milk. The ridgeline at the end of the glacier, and the sea behind it, had vanished into the snow. As Wilson quickly slid open the rear door to help look for visual cues, Tidd banked left to try to return to the rocks he had seen a few seconds earlier. It was a fifty-fifty decision that ended up saving their lives.
    Disoriented by the sudden whiteout and complete lack of visual references, Tidd glanced into the cockpit at his instrument panel. The radio altimeter (radalt) was now unwinding at an alarming rate. Realising that collision with the ground