Stay indoors … the Argies are coming!

Dave Colville, a sub-editor on The News, Portsmouth, witnessed the start of the Falklands War at close quarters – as editor/owner of The Falklands Times from 1977-82.

Here, in the first of four articles, he recalls the news that the Argentines were about to invade.

We always feared the Argentines would invade the Falkland Islands, a fear that was however, pushed to the recesses of the mind. We were used to our moaning ‘neighbours’.

The only way in to the Falklands by air was by courtesy of the Argentine air force and their suspect Fokkers. The food supply boat used to sail from Buenos Aires every three months or so. If the Argentines were mentioned at all, it was in the tone of “Bloody Argies”. They were over there. We were here.

Everyone in the islands was used to the junta’s posturing. Sovereignty was top of the agenda at Anglo-Argentine negotiations. It always led to stalemate, and was seen by all and sundry as a complete waste of time.

We were all overfed with large helpings of Buenos Aires bluster. Anyway, Britain had always said they’d leave the choice up to the Falkland Islanders. If the Kelpers wanted to stay British, then so be it.

Highlight of the times was when the late Nick Ridley MP travelled the 8,000 miles to the South Atlantic to tell us a great plan for us all would be the “leaseback” option. This meant the Argentines would be granted sovereignty, while the Falklands would keep its identity. Sure. We all believed that. Weren’t the Falkland supposed to be the 24th province of Argentina?

Even the Anglican bishop for South America came down to extol the virtues of the leaseback plan. Needless to say, this idea was given short shrift.

One of my friends was the chief of police in Port Stanley. He was also a member of the legislative council and attended an Anglo-Argentine meeting in March, 1982. He told me, in confidence, that the Argentines had made no bones about the fact they would invade if sovereignty was not granted to them.

No-one on the British side had seemed to take this threat seriously, even though this was the first time the Argentine politicos had threatened invasion. Another helping of Buenos Aires bluster? Not this time…

Life carried on. The favourite music of the Kelpers was country and western. Endless twangy songs about the desire to commit suicide because “my gal done gone and left me”. Granted, the radio station did play pop and endlessly aired Boney M’s Rivers of Babylon until some person, who will remain unidentified, scratched the only copy so it was unplayable.

Well, it was up to a few of us to re-educate them by playing some great live music.

In my time out there I was in three bands: Candlepower, Agatha Crusty and the Che Coat Band. The Che Coat Band was so named because of the favourite coat worn by nearly all the population — the ubiquitous snorkel parka. A necessity when battling against the seemingly-constant daily 14-knot winds that rattled the tin roofs.

When greeting someone, we used to say “Mornin’ che” (pronounced “chay”, as in Che Guevara). So, everyone was a che and wore a che coat — hence the name. Get it? Well, we thought it was quite good.

As a vocalist and bass guitarist, there was nothing I liked more than belting out Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, Led Zep and Steppenwolf songs. We used to pull in a fair crowd at live gigs in the town hall, and even made a tape which sold about five copies. We weren’t bad. Remnants of the groups are still playing there as the Fighting Pig Band…

I had just got new digs in the Church Flats. This was a two-storey block next to the school. My mate Peter King lived there with his bird, Rosemary. A teacher lived below them and a FIGAS (Falkland Islands Government Air Service) pilot lived below me. It was a good place to hang your hat. It was next to the cathedral with a good view of the whalebone arch.

I had finished work and was going to Peter’s flat before going on to the town hall for a group rehearsal. Peter, a government officer, came back from his work in the Secretariat and sombrely said we all had to listen to the radio at 6pm because the Governor was making an important announcement. We couldn’t drag the reason from Peter, although we knew that he knew.

The clock slowly edged towards the allotted time for Governor Rex Hunt to speak. I thought it would just be some government bull we were in for. After all, Hunt never spoke to the peasantry much if he could help it.

The radio crackled into life: “This is the Falkland Islands Broadcasting Station etc”. Then Rex came on. We sat in stunned silence after the broadcast. He’d told us that the Argentine invasion force had set sail for the Falklands. It would be off Cape Pembroke lighthouse at 4am

We were to stay indoors. The only people allowed on the streets of Stanley were the small band of volunteers who made up the Falkland Islands Defence Force, and, of course, the detachment of Royal Marines who were stationed at Moody Brook barracks at the far end of town.

The announcement by the governor had just ended life as we knew it…

On to part two of David’s story

On to part three of David’s story

On to the final part of David’s story

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