The Falklands War (1)

"The killer penguins, how did you get involved in that business in the Falklands? I'm often asked. The truth is dear reader that I did the whole thing of my own accord, no artificial influences or incentives.

It began one day in Skins' kitchen. Skins himself was out, driving Eric to court, or picking him up from prison, I forget which. Johnny P Datmuller had called round while he was taking his King P for a waddle. I let him make us both a cup of tea and a kit kat whilst I played with nature's waiter, taunting him with a piece of fish Skins had carelessly left in his fridge.

Johnny was a penguinoligist at London Zoo I’d met shooting our p-p-p-p-pick up a punk rocker video. We’d stayed friends ever since, as he was a fan of both punk rock and heavy drinking. Johnny sometimes took a penguin to the pub with him on the basis that “as long as I can only see one penguin I know I’m not drunk.”

Returning from the kitchen with a steaming brew of India's finest brownian motion producer and my favourite brand of choccie biccie, he pointed to the current bun, lying open on the table. "It's disgraceful isn't it?"

I looked at the offending article, a picture of General Galtiere, the evil bastard who'd just invaded the Great British empire at its one weak point. "The not so great dictator," the headline joked lamely. There was little in the article worthy of comment as far as I was concerned, but luckily I had a few opinions on the war which I was happy to share with my penguinoligist chum.

"Too bloody right, that fucking tin-pot dictator, sticking his flag in our empirical outposts. He needs a damn good kicking. The man's a fool taking on the British, he should have taken the Falklands when we offered them to him, not picked a fight with us. If I were a younger man," I added, loosening my sleeves.

"No, no" Johnny interrupted, before I could embellish my mime further, "I don't mean the war. I mean the coverage. It hasn't even mentioned the Killair Penguins."

The killer penguins? You mean that bastard's been training penguins to kill people?" I stroked the furry, friendly King P in front of me who waddled happily in response to my affection. "How? Penguins aren't man's natural predators. Completely harmless unless you're a herring."

"Not Killer Penguins Damage, Killair, named after Dr Robert Killair, the Scottish gynaecologist who discovered them."

"I've never heard of any Killer Penguins JP. All the newspapers ever mention are the sheep. Are you sure this doctor Kildare bloke isn't making it up."

"No, no, I've seen them myself Mr Damage. Spend a week out there as part of my thesis. Cute little things, with a green circle under their eyes"

"Are you sure they're not just King Penguins wearing eye-liner?" I guffawed at my joke, but Johnny P remained deathly serious.

"The fact of the matter is that the two hundred or so Killair Penguins that live on the Falklands are the only ones left on the planet. And they're about to get caught up in a war zone. If it goes wrong out there and they get caught in the crossfire, then that's it, end of species."

"Yes, but they're not actually doing the fighting. One or two might get killed by stray bullets, but that still leaves a couple of hundred."

"If only it were that simple Mr D. Two hundred is a dangerously low number to start with, if they're unlucky enough to get caught in the front line or a few bombs near their breeding grounds. Even a slight drop in penguins' sperm-counts due to the shock of war would wipe them out. Not to mention landmines, that could litter their habitat for years to come, gradually picking off penguin after penguin."

At this point Johnny P leant towards me, so that his earnest eyes were staring straight into mine. "And if that happens Mr D it'll be like the Dodo - no-one will ever see a Killair Penguin again."

"Well that's shocking JP, shocking. Why doesn't someone do something? Can't they send a separate task force out to rescue the penguins."

"They're hardly likely to do that Mr D, nobody cares about the Killair Penguins, I've written to all the papers, even the Guardian, but none of them even bothered to print my letter."

I paused to consider this shocking situation. The facts were clear, even to my addled brain. Heroic though the British re-invasion of the Falklands would be, any war on Falklands territory meant that the Killer Penguins' very existence was in danger. A few over-exuberant squaddies on a boredom-killing penguin shoot, or starved unfed Argentine soldiers desperate for their next meal, any one of a thousand things could kill off the last of this great penguin race. Why, one of the soldiers could unwittingly be a carrier for Penguin Flu, and could leave the island with the penguins sneezing their way to extinction.

Johnny and the King P looked at me expectantly, as I weighed up the options. The government was so concerned about recapturing the island that the fate of the penguins had been overlooked. The British soldiers, best in the world though they were, were not trained in the art of penguin preservation. The only people in the universe who cared enough to do anything were sitting here in Skins' front room sharing a joint and a cup of Lady Grey.

Luckily, when it comes to blue sky thinking there's none better than me, probably because I spent my schooldays staring out the window looking up at them. I decided on a plan.

"Only one thing for it then, we'll have to rescue them."

"Rescue them?"

"Absolutely, if we leave them there they'll die. We'll just have to pop over, pack a hundred or so Killer Penguins into a lifeboat, keep them safe 'til the war's over, then pop them back."

"But Mr D, this is the Falklands. Thousands of miles away, middle of the Atlantic. We'll never get there, and if we did we'd be walking into a war zone."

"Nonsense. I've got a chum who's one of the big cheeses on one of the ships that's leading the fleet tomorrow, First Loo-Attendant or something. I'll give him a bell and see if we can hitch a ride. Then we can pop onto the Falklands while the fleet's gearing up for war, bung some penguins into the life-boat, and pop away again before the fighting starts."

It was such a good plan that Johnny was simply lost for words. But the King P liked it immensely and started hopping up and down with joy. I rewarded his moral support by bringing him another piece of Skins' fish, which made him dance even more.

When I returned Johnny was sucking the last remnants of life from the joint. "I don't know Mr D. I just don't know. Neither of us is the heroic penguin-rescuing type. There's a hundred and one things that could go wrong. Even if we manage to capture the penguins without getting shot, we'll have to get them back to the boat. We'll have to keep them in cages, to stop them escaping back to the island, keep them fed and watered, take medication in case they become ill in the cramped conditions. An expedition like that would take weeks to organize, a team of zoologists."

I started rolling the next joint. The plans we made that afternoon were going to have inestimable importance to the future of the Killer Penguin race and it was essential that we thinking as creatively as possible. "Well, you've got about eight hours to organize it. You must be able to pull a few strings with all your contacts. The Head Penguinoligist at London Zoo must have a lot of clout."

"I'm not Head Penguinoligist, I'm second in command. I suppose I could get the cage, medicines and fish together though."

"Great, I'll give Johnny Sailor a tinkle." I picked up Skins' phone and started dialling, which greatly amused the King P, who I guess hadn't seen many telephones in his penguin enclosure. I put the receiver up to his ear so's he could hear Johnny Sailor's voice, which seemed to amuse him even more. I wondered momentarily if he was starting to get high from all the smoke. Then Johnny Sailor answered.

"Hello, hoozat?"

"Not out, not out by a country mile. How's the great invasion coming along?"

"Damage. Fucking 'ell, the lads'll be most impressed you phoned to wish us luck. They're great fans of yours. Dead jealous that we're drinking buddies - mind if I bring them along some time?"

"Absolutely, nothing I like more than going out on the town with a bunch of sailors. We'll celebrate your victory. But I was rather hoping I'd get to meet them before that. Truth is I was wondering if I could pop along to the Falklands with you."

"What the fuck would you want to do that for? Come and do a gig after we've it Damage, don't go putting yourself at risk for our sakes."

"It's not for your sakes, it's for the Killer Penguins." I explained the situation and outlined our plan. Once he knew the full story Johnny Sailor was happy to oblige, offered to smuggle us on board and commandeer us a life-boat when we were near the islands.

"I can't promise anything when we get there mind, we might get the order to invade. But if you're willing to take the risk I'm game."

We arranged to meet up at 1.25 that night, so that Johnny Sailor could smuggle us aboard when no-one was looking. Johnny P had to rush frantically to get everything ready in time, and I had no time at all to decide what to wear. My winter wardrobe was pretty shabby in those days, but I managed to pick out a nice red jumper that was both fashionable and warm enough to keep out those Falklands frosts.

Normally I wouldn't dream of going off on an adventure like this without Skins and The Boy, but there was no time to get hold of either of them. The Boy was out on one of his four-dayers and though I looked in a dozen or so of his favourite haunts couldn't find him anywhere, and wherever Skins was picking up Eric from he didn't get back until after we'd left.

Consequently it was just the two of us standing on dockside waiting for Johnny Sailor's call, which eventually came in the form of a whistle from the deck of a nearby battleship.

"Hallooa," I shouted, trying to blend in with the naval surroundings. In response a loud "shush" was shouted down at me, followed by the clumping of big boots on metal, and before I could so much as recover from the noise Johnny Sailor was in front of me.

"Keep it shush Damage," he whispered this time "This is a ship-full of alert military specialists, if one of the wrong people finds out what we're doing I'm for the Courts' Marshall."

"Sorry JS, got all excited at the adventure. I'll be shush as a terrorist in interrogation. This is Johnny Penguin by the way, he's the penguinoligist who's leading the penguin side of the expedition."

"All right mate," he said proffering his muscled hand. "That's a laugh ain't it, a penguinoligist called Johnny Penguin. Bet you got teased at penguinology school."

"Yes hilarious Johnny Sailor" Johnny P refrained without so much as a smile "So you're surname's Sailor is it"?

"Don't be stupid. Damage just calls me that 'cause I'm a sailor. You spend too much time with your penguins mate, 'your surname's Sailor'. Na, it's Seamen, Johnny Seamen."

"Well" I interrupted, "we could stand her chewing on the intricacies of Seamen all night, but I fancy dossing down. Can you show me to me quarters Sea Captain."

"Yeah, follow me. Here, let me take your bag, can't have punks lugging luggage."

"Thanks JS." I bounced up onto deck, followed by a clunking Johnny P, who was struggling with his cage. All in all it took him five trips to get all his gear on board, by which time I was also well in with Johnny Sailor's elite team. Although our mission was top secret, Johnny had 40 men under his command that he could trust with his life, who let me join in their "We're going to get the argies" send off. We were drinking something that tasted like whisky spiked with rocket fuel, I just hoped the crew weren't going to need to fire any rockets this mission as we were drinking enough to disarm the Chinese army.

Bed-time involved crawling into the life-raft we'd be using for the big journey. Apparently they had no spare quarters as "there's a bloody war on you twat," and Johnny P deemed it politically sensitive not to steal a sailor's bed the day before the war starts.

It takes a lot to wake me in the morning, usually about an extra six hours in bed and the arrival of early afternoon, but the sound of the entire British army preparing for war is just about loud enough to rouse me from my slumbers. Johnny P was already up, indeed claimed to have not slept a wink. Too excited by the adventure I expect. He was munching a dry looking biscuit, which he assured me was breakfast, though it wasn't pink pig meat floating in grease which is my usual definition of said meal.

We passed three days crammed into that lifeboat, interspersed with heavy drinking sessions every evening, bonding the way you do when fearing that you'd soon be meeting your maker. Finally it was time to say our goodbyes to Johnny Sailor and his crew. We wished them best of British and our boat was lowered into the water, just out from shore.

"You get those killer penguins Damage and we'll get the argies," Johnny Sailor promised as we descended into the cold of the Atlantic ocean.

"You do think he understands our mission don't you?"

"I don't know, maybe he's planning to rescue the argies and bring them back to blighty in a cage."

Though we were just a few yards from shore it was still an unnerving experience being abandoned in a large ocean with nothing but a motorised life-boat to keep you from the sharks and icebergs. Johnny P took charge and pointed the boat towards the coastline, where we would encounter either cute cuddly penguins or ruthless argie soldiers.

Alone together as we steered towards shore, Johnny P enthused about the purpose of our mission. "The Killair penguin" he explained, "is one of the smallest species of penguin, measuring less that a foot high. Its small size has proved its downfall and in many areas of the world it became extinct, unable to compete for food with the bigger penguins, such as the King.”

I visualised the picture – big, muscular penguins kicking snow in the little penguins' faces.

Johnny P continued in a hushed tone, gesticulating as he spoke across the icy planes of the land we were approaching. "It is only here, on a single insignificant Atlantic island, that the Killair Penguin has survived, and even here the numbers have dwindled."

"So why's it died out JP, are there predators here? Are the bigger penguins stealing their lunch-boxes?"

"Partly that Damage, even on the Falkland Islands competition for food is fierce, and the small, weak penguin is at a natural disadvantage. However, the other major problem is mating. Killair penguins breed less than any other species. Without regular colonies of young the numbers have continued to dwindle.”

As Johnny P was talking I drank in lung-fulls of the crisp, cold Atlantic air. The 'land' in front of us was actually ice, which made me long for a decent glass of scotch to plonk some cubes in. As I drank in the scenery, Johnny continued his zoological lesson.

"Scientists are baffled as to the cause of the low reproductive rate. Some say it's because the Falklands are not their natural home and they have yet to fully adjust to the new surroundings. Other blame the sheep, the dominant life-form on the island, for somehow disrupting their sexual appetites. Personally though, having observed the penguins closely, I think it's the mating dance."

"What, you mean they're too knackered from dancing to do anything when they get home. I can sympathise with that, especially if they've been sipping confidence boosters all night."

"No Damage, penguins do not go to the disco to pull. What they do do though is not entirely dissimilar. The male penguin, having identified a likely female to breed with, performs an intricate pattern of steps and movements, very much like human dancing. In all this dance can last anything up to thirty or forty minutes.

"However, I have sat and watched this dance being performed on numerous occasions, and nearly every time the female loses interest after the first five minutes and waddles off. The male penguin is so wrapped up in his mating ritual that he fails to notice that the female is gone and continues until the dance is complete. Seeing that the female has gone, he merely waddles down the beach until he finds another likely female and repeats the process."

"That sounds like Skins, his mating rituals have the same effect and he can't dance either. All the grace and elegance of a giraffe on roller-skates."

My joke was shushed however, as we were now about to hit the shore. As the boat scraped onto icy land we were greeted with a crackly welcome on our radio, which Johnny Sailor had left us, switched to a high and rarely used frequency, on which he or one of his crewmate chums would always be listening to arrange a rendezvous when we were loaded up with the killer Ps. "And I've taken out the tuning dial. I know what you're like twiddling nobs, I don't want every commander in the British military to hear 'hello it's Damage here, we've got the penguins, can you pick us up'. We'll be all ears, so need to worry about being forgotten."

However, this time it wasn't Johnny Sailor keeping check on us, it was the contact he'd arranged for us to meet on the island, Johnny Falklander. After listing for five minutes to the indistinct crackles Johnny P and myself were interrupted by a cough and the same strong tones that had been crackling at us.

"I said I'm over here."

“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” I said, “I was trying to pick up desert island discs on this old thing.”

“Ah, well, I were here alright. Name’s Johnny Falklander, I believe you’re expecting me.”

We took our first steps onto the island that had been both the cause of so much trouble and the sanctuary of a unique and wonderful species. I held my hand out in greeting to Johnny Falklander and he looked at it suspiciously before gripping it so hard it's amazing I've been able to use it since.

“Hello,” I said in my friendliest tones, blanking the pain my mind. “I'm Brian De Maget, this is Johnny Penguin.”

"Hello Mr Penguin, welcome to The Island."

"Thanks, nice of you to help us. Actually it's not Mr Penguin, it's Johnny Datmuller."

Johnny Falklander considered Johnny P's surname for a moment, rolling the peculiar consonants round his mouth without actually sounding them. "Mind if I call you Johnny?"

The introductions thus over, Johnny F led us back to his hut, which we'd use as a base for our penguin hunt. Johnny explained that he'd been planted as an undercover spy amongst the island community by the British Intelligence.

"I'm taking a risk for you I hope realise. Not for you personally you understand, but for the Killer Penguins. I'm supposed to be lying low, but when I heard Johnny's message and the plight of the little birdies I had to help out. What sort of people are the argies to order the slaughter of our penguins?”

"I think you've been misinformed" I began, wanting to correct his little misunderstanding, but Johnny P interrupted, happy to keep his namesake in the dark.

"Yeah, you've got it wrong. They're not Killer Penguins, they're Killair Penguins."
"Ah, I've lived here on The Island for 23 years, I've only ever heard them called Killer Penguins, don't believe everything you read in those manuals."

The argument continued for a further ten or fifteen minutes, during which time we'd progressed to a rickety wooden shed, or possibly a dog kennel, though why any dog would want to set up home in this godforesaken wasteland I couldn’t begin to imagine.

"We're home," Johnny F announced and strutted confidently towards the shed.

I looked around for the main building, but unless it was a brilliantly camouflaged by the secret service, there wasn't one. We followed Johnny F into the hut, and indeed inside it did seem to be his home, as there was a grotty mattress on the floor and a stove in the corner.

We chose not to criticise his choice of habitation as we were all delighted to take a rest, Johnny P had been dragging a huge sled of equipment with him from the boat, including the massive metal cage, and was glad to collapse in an exhausted heap. I was nearly frozen with cold, my jumper more used to chilly day in London than the piercing cold of the Falklands and I was glad to curl up in front of the fire.

"We'll eat first, then go after the penguins," said Johnny F. For the next two hours he said no more, as he was so focussed on cooking, continually fiddling with the stove, twiddling knobs, cursing as he burnt himself, shuffling around the food and cursing again.

Meanwhilst Johnny P busied himself scribbling notes into his journal, checking and re-checking his kit and then writing more notes, looking out of the window, checking his compass, and scribbling yet more notes. I put my time to more productive use, using the opportunity to get a bit of kip, which included some pretty heavy dreams about penguins sailing out to rescue us.

Eventually Johnny Falklander had finished his culinary exercise, nudged me awake with a kick to the backside and presented us with a plate each of what can only be described as warm bread near cheese. The cheese was ice hard and barely edible, in spite of the two hours it had spent in the stove. I prodded my warm bread tentatively, then remembering how hungry I was, shovelled it down greedily; even managing to consume the cheese such was my hunger. Johnnies P and F did the same with theirs and for several minutes the hut was filled with the noise of chomping, burping and farting (I have to own up to the latter, warm bread always has that effect on me).

By this time it was already dark. Like a penguin testing the water Johnny F poked his head out of the door, looked and listened for signs of enemy activity and announced that it was time to go.

Rubbing our still unsatisfied belies, we left the warmth and safety of the hut and stepped out into the cold of a Falklands night. Moreso than when we arrived we were conscious of the likelihood of meeting Argentine soldiers and the mood was sober as we trudged across the Falkland snow.

Johnny Falklander led the way, marching ahead with enthusiasm. After a few miles he paused, glanced around himself, sniffing and snorting for clues. He beckoned us towards him and whispered. "There are penguins ahead, I can smell them. About a mile away."

Thus encouraged we hurried forward, Johnny P leading the way now. Eventually it was soon his turn to stop, hush us, and gesticulate.

"Listen," he whispered excitedly "I can hear a penguin."

"I can't hear anything JP," I complained, but, after being shushed and listening carefully, I heard it, a sound like crisps being munched at 50 paces. Then, across the horizon, a small black dot appeared. A dot that waddled towards us in time to the crisp crunching.

Johnny P crept towards the nearest penguin with the stealth of a cat creeping up on the Sunday joint. The penguin, seemingly oblivious, was waddling merrily to itself, a crump, crump, crump on the ice as it jumped from foot to foot, accompanied by a silly squeaking noise. Was this the male mating ritual I wondered? In which case the female had long gone, but perhaps this was the distraction Johnny needed. He positioned the net a few feet above the penguin's head and threw it down. The penguin leapt away and Johnny P tumbled to the ground in surprise. By the time he realised what had happened the penguin was almost half a mile away, it's little waddling body scampering with the speed of spider.

In spite of our initial setback we hurried in search of the main flange of penguins. Reaching the peak of a snowy hill we looked around us at a great white plain, acres of bright snow shimmering in moonlight. At the furthest edge of our vision we could see a small black mass, like a dark-cloud shadow. As we watched the shadow spread and moved slowly towards us. Soon we could make out individual forms within the mass of black, and it became clear that we were watching a massive herd of penguins waddling slowly across the great icy plain, like weird, slow-motion, miniature buffalo.

We watched in awe, silently each aware that we would never see such peculiar beauty again, and equally aware that if we failed in our mission the sight of Killer Penguins active en masse would be lost to the world. Eventually we found the will to move down to the great penguin troop and attempt to capture as many as the gods would allow.

Johnny Falklander took the next turn at penguin snatching, marching towards a group of six or seven to the left of the main bunch. He scuttled across the dark, icy wasteland like a husky herding sheep. The penguins seemed not to notice him, but as soon as he reached out his arms to grab, the penguins again came to life, leaping about like so many lice, one through his legs, one bounding over his shoulder, his flailing arms flapping wildly and ineffectually at the passing penguins. Soon all seven penguins had bounced away, leaving me wondering why the wondrous creatures were so close to dying out if they were so fleet of foot.

I pitched in, charging into the main group, hoping to catch one off guard. The penguins scattered like gay bikers in a police raid, waddling at speed in all directions. The three of us chased penguins around for over an hour, never catching so much as a stray feather. We slumped exhausted on a rock and Johnny Falklander pulled out a bottle of his hooch to warm us up.

“Well we’ll not catch many like this” he reflected. “We need to come up with a strategy.”
As we were drinking and strategising we heard a little scratching noise to our left. Scurrying and stumbling towards us was a tiny bundle of brown fluff. A baby Killer P separated from the rest of the group. If it didn’t make it back to its family it could die regardless of the outcome of the war, our duty was clear.

I nodded to Johnny P to make sure he’d seen it and he nodded back. “If the three of us can’t catch a baby” he whispered, “we might us well give us and go home.”

As I was furthest from the penguin I stood still, hoping it wouldn’t see me, while the others slowly stood up and crept behind it. The penguin was walking straight at me, and I could probably have caught it with no effort at all, but Johnny P was obviously eager to make a contribution, and suddenly leapt at the poor little blighter. Johnny F followed suit, diving in like a sodomite spying a rugby scrum.

In the mania that followed I could make out very little, as a great dust of snow sprayed everywhere, and the three of them squawked maniacally as they fought. I held out my arms in blind hope, expecting the escapade to end the same way as out previous attempts, but felt a sudden thump into my chest. I’d caught one of the three, and by the weight of it, it was thankfully not a Johnny.

I clutched my prize to my tummy in delight. I looked down to see a little furry ball looking up at me wide-eyed in terror. “Don’t worry little penguin” I reassured it, “I’m not a bloody argie, you’re safe with me.”

“Look,” I shouted triumphantly. “I’ve got a penguin. I’ve got a bloody penguin” I looked around to show my trophy to the two Johnnies, but couldn’t see them. Maybe they’d buried themselves in the snow during the struggle. Then I heard a noise behind me, back at the top of the hill. Sure enough there were Johnny P and Johnny F. And behind them an entire squadron of Argentine soldiers pointing riffles at us.

I held the baby P up to them, gesturing the universal signal for ‘don’t shoot, I’m holding a penguin.’

It’s a Killer Penguin,” I shouted in explanation, hoping at least one of them understood Queen’s English, “We’re here to save them.” But my words were wasted. At the very peak of the hill, towering over proceedings, the Argentine general glowered at us. Nervous, his soldiers made ready to discharge. “Sorry penguin” I whispered, “didn’t mean to stick you before a firing squad.”

An eerie calm descended. All we could do was wait to see what the gods had in store. I didn’t have to wait long. “Dispara," the General, shouted to his troops, which I’ve since had confirmed is the Argentine word for “fire”.

The soldiers' fingers itched towards their triggers and we waited to die.