War and Love

Port Howard, West Falklands, March 1982

Autumn in the Southern Hemisphere had already begun in March with its usual storms. It was not without reason that sailors and seafarers of past centuries who had ventured into the South Atlantic for various reasons had dubbed this region the "Roaring Sixties." I, Margret MacIntosh, née Douglas, called Maggie, thirty years old, widowed for two years and without children, had been managing our family farm above Port Howard on the sparsely populated western main island of the Falkland Islands for four years.

My father had farmed our land for many years as part of the large Port Howard Estate, which he managed. Then he fell out with the absentee owners of the estate and withdrew to his own, much smaller property -- but it was enough for him and my mother to maintain a modest standard of living and raise my sister and me properly. My parents were both born on the Falklands -- my father with a very Scottish ancestry, while my mother's family originally came from Northern Ireland. Both families were officially Catholic, which made us a small minority on the Falklands.

My sister Claire, two years older than me, and I received a rather rudimentary education in the one-room school that had been established only a few years earlier during the late 1950s and early 1960s. This prompted my parents to send us to relatives in Dundee, Scotland, so that we could at least obtain a proper school diploma. Both of us were terribly homesick in the industrial city and longed for the open sky and rolling hills of the Falklands. While Claire completed a full high school diploma in Dundee and then started training as a nurse with the National Health Service, I wanted to return home as soon as possible. At the age of sixteen, I made the long journey halfway around the world to return to Port Howard.

It was only then that I realized how incredibly boring my parents' farm was for a young woman growing into adulthood. So I moved to the main town of the eastern Falklands, Port Stanley. There, I worked in a small business that processed the hides of slaughtered sheep into genuine, export-quality sheepskins.

In December 1976, I was visiting the family farm for Christmas when my father suffered a completely unexpected heart attack on Boxing Day and died at home due to the lack of timely medical help. I quit my job in Port Stanley and moved back home to take care of my mother and the farm. But my mother followed my father just a few months later, probably from a 'broken heart,' as the saying goes.

At that time, I had fallen in love with a young fisherman who soon became my husband. We decided to take over and continue running my late parents' farm. Ian wanted to contribute to our livelihood by fishing the plentiful streams on the island and the Falkland Sound between the two main islands. Two years later, his small fishing boat disappeared in a suddenly rising storm, and I became, like so many wives in past centuries, a fisherman's widow.

I now lived and worked alone on our farm, but the small, tightly-knit community of Port Howard, with around 25 permanent residents, was like an extended family. Occasionally, visitors came to the estate with its green roofs, and during sheep shearing season, seasonal workers would stay for four to five weeks before leaving again.

We Falklanders had been watching with suspicion and distrust the ongoing talks between the United Kingdom and Argentina about the future of the British possessions in the South Atlantic since the 1960s. The rare British politicians who visited our islands were repeatedly told that none of the almost exclusively British-descended population wanted to come under Argentine control. The military coup in Argentina in 1976 against the widow of the populist President Juan Perón, who had succeeded him, only heightened the Falklanders' distrust. There were constant rumours of a military invasion by Argentina, and we had little hope that our economically troubled motherland could prevent it.

So it came as a major surprise to me and the residents of our tiny village when, in early April, Argentine ships suddenly appeared off the Falklands and landed several thousand soldiers. Only around the capital Port Stanley, where the governor was based, were there a few days of fighting, which resulted in casualties and wounded on both sides. A few days later, around a thousand Argentine soldiers occupied the undefended West Falklands and became our new masters. The ratio of eight soldiers to every civilian on our extremely sparsely populated island brought about massive changes to our lives.

Although the Argentine army quickly established supply lines for their soldiers -- the two regular airstrips in Port Howard and Fox Bay were still served by small supply aircraft from the undamaged airport in Port Stanley -- there was otherwise little for the soldiers to do. The commanders sought strategic locations for observing the coastline, the Falkland Sound, and the island, where they built small observation posts. They also requisitioned the main house of the Port Howard Estate for their northern command centre, which complemented the main headquarters of the West Falkland occupying forces in Fox Bay. But otherwise, the soldiers largely left us alone in the first days. I only had to take down my shortwave radio antenna, which connected me to the outside world, so I couldn't report military information -- but otherwise, I was allowed to go about my daily farm work undisturbed.

The behaviour of the occupying units -- mostly very young and inexperienced recruits aged eighteen to twenty, led by surprisingly few officers and NCOs -- began to change noticeably over the course of April, once it became clear that the British government in London was preparing a military response and sending a fleet to recapture the Falklands.

The command post in Port Howard requisitioned part of my farmhouse for the crew of an observation and anti-aircraft post on the small hill above my farm and quartered one sergeant and three young recruits with me. I had to clear out two rooms, and they also confiscated my two hunting rifles "for safety." At least I was allowed to stay in my house; I learned later that other families in Fox Bay had fared much worse. My four forced houseguests were at least somewhat trustworthy. The three recruits were still basically boys, and their ill-fitting, unsuitable winter uniforms made them look more like walking scarecrows than fearsome warriors. Only the very silent sergeant seriously worried me, so I barricaded my bedroom door every night to be able to sleep at all.

The autumn weather in April was really miserable. One rain squall after another swept across the island with varying strength of wind. Still, I kept my distance from the soldiers and their scattered posts on the estate and my farm during the day. All four of my forced guests were suffering from the Falklands' climate. They all came from the warm, northern parts of Argentina. Nineteen-year-old Gerado Muller was even from a vineyard near Mendoza and had considerable agricultural experience from home.

Since the three recruits rotated on night watch at the observation post and the sergeant preferred to stay at the command post, a gradually friendly rapport developed between Gerado and me. He liked to sit at my kitchen table during his free time, drink tea, and talk with me. He was intelligent, had successfully completed the Argentine equivalent of high school, and hoped to go to university after his military service. He also, surprisingly, spoke three languages: Spanish, English, and German.

"Where did you learn foreign languages so well?" I asked him curiously.

He shrugged. "I studied English for nine years in school. I mostly just lack practice, but I can understand you very well. And German is my second mother tongue."

"Ah, that explains the surname 'Muller.'"

"Yes. My grandfather's name was originally 'Müller,' but the Argentine authorities simply turned the 'ü' into a 'u.'"

"Did your family emigrate from Germany?"

"Yes and no. Let's just say not entirely voluntarily."

I looked at him, puzzled. "What does that mean?"

"My two grandfathers -- Fritz Müller on my father's side and Klaus Struwe on my mother's side -- were crew members of theAdmiral Graf Spee, the battleship that scuttled itself off Montevideo in 1939. The crew had been cleverly brought to safety in Argentina by Captain Langsdorff before the ship was sunk."

"And they just stayed there?"

"Yes. They were free to move and work in their host country. During the war, my grandfathers married, settled in or near Mendoza, and never wanted to return to a destroyed Germany, even though they were both very German."

In the following weeks, our relationship grew more open and friendly -- at least when we were safely alone. Gerado was simply a kind young man who really didn't belong on the Falklands as an occupying soldier. But the generals in Buenos Aires thought differently.

Things became noticeably more unpleasant for us few British residents of the West Falklands in early May. My neighbours and I were completely cut off from news of the outside world after our shortwave radios were dismantled. We had no idea what was happening elsewhere in the world or even on our own islands. We only noticed that the soldiers, especially the officers and NCOs, became increasingly hostile toward us and that the observation and anti-aircraft positions were being expanded and fortified.

"What happened?" I asked Gerado during one of our increasingly rare conversations.

"The British attacked the airport at Puerto Argentino on April 30thand bombed the runway. Three days later, they sank the largest warship in the Argentine Navy west of the Malvinas. Many hundreds died," was Gerado's simple reply. "And a large British fleet is approaching from the north to attack us here on the Malvinas."

At least my neighbours and I knew a bit about what was going on around us. As a consequence of these developments, we were no longer allowed to move freely in Port Howard. If we needed to tend our sheep and farms, we could only do so under constant guard -- one soldier per civilian. We decided among the estate workers that we would always go out in pairs at a minimum. Thank God it was autumn -- the lambs were now about six months old and quite independent, and the sheep had been sheared earlier in our "high summer." Most of our work consisted of repairing fences and doing other maintenance.

Our main concern as sheep farmers was the future. With a normal gestation period of 150 days and a desired lambing season from early November to mid-December, we had to release the rams to the ewes by mid-May at the latest. That was the natural breeding cycle of our sheep breeds, triggered by the shortening daylight hours of autumn. Our rams were ready and had no understanding of us foolish humans distracted by war games, neglecting their natural right.

It took James Wright, my father's longtime successor as estate manager, me, and two other employees considerable persuasion to convince the local commander to let us do our work. None of us spoke a word of Spanish, and the English of the Argentine officers was virtually nonexistent. Here, my dear Gerado proved his worth -- he was called in as an interpreter and did an excellent job. On May 10th, we were able to begin rounding up our scattered sheep with our Border Collies and moving them to pastures near the farms, then letting the rams loose among the flocks. The rest was up to nature.

"Sometimes I envy the potency of a ram," joked my friend Betty, the estate manager's wife, who had been evicted from her home by the command and was now staying with her husband at her sister's cottage.

"A good ram can make a ewe happy multiple times a day," I laughed.

"Not just once -- he does it regularly with the whole flock during rutting season," Betty grinned.

"True. But I'd want the act itself to last much longer," she smirked. "Ten to fifteen seconds would be far too short for me."

Our loud laughter already made our two guards nervous and suspicious -- they were city boys from northern Argentina who had no understanding of country life.

By mid-May, it happened that I was alone with Gerado in my kitchen one early evening. Argentine fighter jets now regularly roared over Port Howard on patrols, but we had yet to be ordered to blackout our windows. The estate owners had allowed my father to build a small hydroelectric plant thirty years earlier, fed from a high mountain lake, which had reliably supplied us with power ever since. That's also why the command had taken the estate's main house -- it had a power supply independent of diesel.

Gerado looked quite desperate. "I'm very doubtful about our chances of beating the advancing British," he said frankly. "We probably have more soldiers, but we're almost certainly worse equipped." He looked down at himself. "Just look at this uniform. When real winter hits and it starts raining and snowing sideways, like you said, you'll die wearing this. I'm already freezing to the bone by the end of my watch." He looked at his hands. "Our gloves are the worst. When I come in from the observation post, my hands are already numb and blue."

He looked deeply discouraged. "And without good hands, you can't become a winemaker."

"You want to be a winemaker?" It was the first I'd heard about his future dreams.

"More than anything. But properly. I want to go to a viticulture school in Europe, study seriously, and turn my parents' farm into a top-notch winery that exports to America and Europe. That way we won't be dependent on Argentina's unstable economy."

I let the young man talk about his dreams for an hour. His eyes sparkled as he spoke. Then he had to leave for his shift in the cold, wet observation post.

Before he went out the door, I briefly stopped him. "I think it's going to be cold tonight. Let me give you something for your hands." Then I went to my bedroom and returned with the sheepskin-lined gloves I had sewn years ago for my father. "Here, take these. And when you're out there alone, put them on. They will definitely keep your hands warm."

Gerado looked at the gloves, then at me, and suddenly took a step toward me. Spontaneously, he hugged me and gave me an awkward kiss, half on the cheek, half on the mouth. "You're incredibly kind. Thank you."

He stepped back, took the gloves, and was already turning to go. "I'll watch over you so that nothing happens to you. No matter what kind of war breaks out here."

Then he was gone, and I stood in my kitchen, thunderstruck. It had been years since my husband, who drowned at sea, had kissed me. I had forgotten how beautiful that felt -- and how good it was.

A few days later, the twenty-five original residents of Port Howard were placed under house arrest. We were also forbidden from tending to or managing our sheep. In fact, the highest-ranking officer in Port Howard, a Capitano Rugierro, had ordered me to leave my farmhouse and come to Port Howard. But the sergeant billeted with me intervened, with the support of his now six-man unit.

"The farmer is the only person who provides us with at least one warm meal a day. Due to the long distance to the estate, we depend on her. Otherwise, we'd likely starve and wouldn't be able to fulfil our important duties," he protested to his Capitano -- this was explained to me by Gerado.

As a result, I was officially placed under house arrest in my own farmhouse and allowed to leave it only when accompanied by one of the soldiers. The sergeant, who had always treated me correctly but somewhat imperiously, suddenly grinned at me.

"Your lamb stew keeps us alive," Gerado translated. "There's no other supply line anymore."

Then he ordered that Gerado be assigned to supervise me full time and be relieved from his night shifts. "It's vital that my group's food supply is ensured."

Once again, I was thunderstruck. The sergeant was apparently cleverer than I had thought.

Later, when I went out to the ewe pasture next to the farm with Gerado -- where the rams were now eagerly doing their work -- he finally shared a few pieces of information after a long silence.

"The British have landed in the north of the island and destroyed our air base on the offshore island, including many planes. After the attack on Puerto Argentino, our supply routes on the western main island can only reach Fox Bay. Nothing gets further north to us. He suddenly stopped in front of the small shelter on the ewe pasture that the sheep used for protection during bad weather. "Strictly speaking, we rely on your hospitality." He shrugged. "Our sergeant knows that. That's why he arranged this solution. I don't know if he truly believes in our victory. But he has a wife and two children at home. And he doesn't want to abandon them here in the Malvinas." Gerado seemed hopeless, his shoulders visibly slumped.

I don't know what instinct guided me at that moment. Maternal instinct? After all, I was eleven years older and had far more life experience. In any case, I suddenly pulled him through the open gate of the shelter, hugged him, and kissed him.

This time properly -- warm, soft, and right on the mouth. He was completely surprised at first, then responded in kind. We stood in a tight embrace for several minutes, kissing and gently touching.

"We're in this together, Gerado," I said finally with a determined, maybe slightly overconfident voice. "And we'll survive this war -- no matter how it ends. We both want to live!"

Gerado nodded silently. Then he said just one determined word:

"Yes." He clenched his fist and hugged me again. "So help us God!"

His last words made me flinch. With Ian's death, I had lost the last trace of my faith.

In the following days, there was an enormous increase in jet fighter activity, flying extremely low over the ridge behind my farm and then out over Falkland Sound. The anti-air missile station above my farm, built close to the dug-in observation post, was now ready for action around the clock and fired two missiles for the first time on May 28th.

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" I asked Gerado, who regularly talked to his comrades when delivering food and water to the post.

"Not much. Only that your soldiers landed somewhere in the north of the sound on the east island and are now fighting our positions."

The next morning brought the kind of winter clarity typical for our region, usually a sign of an approaching major storm.

"There really is a 'calm before the storm,'" I told my constant companion as we went to inspect the ewe pasture.

The clouds hung relatively low, but from our elevated position, we could see all the way to the eastern shore of Falkland Sound. There lay Goose Green and Darwin, the largest settlements on the other side, each with a decent airstrip that used to be serviced by small supply planes from Port Stanley, just like Port Howard and Fox Bay.

"Those are massive columns of smoke!" I pointed toward something about twenty miles away.

"Heavy fighting going on," Gerado commented.

Moments later, two Argentine fighter jets thundered overhead in low flight, heading toward the smoke. Just then, we saw two other jets approaching from the north over the water, steering straight toward the Argentines.

Because of the northwesterly breeze, we heard nothing, but we clearly saw the fighters engage in an aerial dogfight.

"This must have been what it looked like over England in 1940," I murmured, watching the air battle unfold before us, fascinated and stunned.

"Just faster," Gerado grinned. "Even flying low, these planes are two to three times faster than the WWII ones."

We stood close together at the open shelter on the ewe pasture and stared out across the sound. Suddenly, Gerado wrapped both arms around me from behind and pulled me tightly against him. I leaned my head back against his shoulder until we were cheek to cheek. I could hear and feel each of his breaths. And I felt infinitely safe in his young but strong arms.