A Melancholy Anniversary

By James Kelly

One year after the invasion, the helpers mourn a life gone forever

The town meeting began exactly at 8 p.m. in the dimly lighted white clapboard auditorium overlooking Port Stanley's harbor. In the chair was Councilor Terry Peck, 45, an earnest, stocky plumber and former police chief who dutifully jotted notes on the proceedings. But the residents of the tiny capital (pop. 1,050) of the Falkland Islands were not getting together simply to discuss the local issues that bedevil most small communities. One man asked when the town gym, which is now occupied by British soldiers, would be open to the public again. Another grumbled about the military trucks that have been tearing up streets. As if to underscore the new realities of life in the Falklands, a British Phantom jet fighter screamed overhead.

After Argentina's invasion of the windswept South Atlantic archipelago one year ago, the Falklanders talked excitedly about the 98-ship British armada that was being sent 8,000 miles to recapture the islands. And when, 74 days after the attack, the British won the surrender of the 10,000-man Argentine garrison, they greeted their saviors with cheers and tears. But now, with 4,300 British servicemen stationed on the islands, the 1,800 Falklanders have become painfully aware that life will never again be as it was before the early morning of April 2, when 150 Argentines suddenly landed on a beach near Port Stanley. That is a sad realization for the "kelpers," as the natives proudly call themselves, after the seaweed that grows abundantly in their waters. Says Steve Whitely, 33, a veterinarian who emigrated from Scotland seven years ago: "Before the war, it was so quiet. You knew everybody. A lot of people never thought of the 'after.' "

The signs of change are everywhere. Before the war, the townspeople eagerly awaited the arrival of the supply boat that came from Britain every three months. Last week the harbor was filled with at least 17 warships and merchant vessels, and the locals have grown so blase that only word of a Royal Navy submarine stirs much interest. The busiest part of town is the jetty, where supplies are taken off the ships and soldiers come and go all day. Trucks hauling machinery and building supplies snort up the hills toward Stanley Airport, which is crowded with Phantom and Harrier jets and ringed by gleaming Rapier antiaircraft missiles.

To the soldiers, the kelpers have become known as "bennies," after a British TV character who is a decent, hard-working but thickheaded farmer. When military commanders reportedly banned the sobriquet, the troops quickly devised a new one: "stills," short for "still bennies." The natives, in turn, refer to the soldiers as "squaddies," an archaic British dig at military men of low rank.

Most of the 4,300 soldiers live in public buildings and on troopships, while the remainder stay in private homes. The arrangement seems to suit the servicemen as well as residents, who receive $2 a night for each boarder's bed and breakfast. "For the sailors, it's like going back home to find Mother cooking a meal," says Major General David Thorne, commander of the British forces on the island. But there are tensions. In February, Vivienne Perkins, 40, declared her pub, The Victory, off limits to the Royal Navy after sailors became rowdy. "They literally wrecked the joint," says Perkins. "The lads need some place to go, but there's no need to run amuck in the town." The soldiers have little opportunity to unwind, however; diversions are few, and young, single women are in short supply. Other kelpers talk about the problems of living under the joint civilian-military rule that was imposed after the war. Sir Rex Hunt, who carried the title of Governor before the invasion but who is now called Civil Commissioner, shares duties with Thome. Says Veterinarian Whitely: "The military is not answerable to the public. They do what they bloody well want."

However the kelpers may feel about the British garrison, all remain united in their dislike for the Argentines. When the invasion began, Claude Molkenvuhr, 52, and his family fled from their 10,800-acre spread near Port Stanley to a farm 20 miles away. When they returned, they found their house a shambles. "They took everything," says Judy, Claude's wife. "They even pinched the children's toys. I don't dare cry because if I started I'd never stop." At the outbreak of the war, Molkenvuhr owned more than 3,000 sheep; now he has only 900. Says he: "We should be shearing now, but there is nothing."

The Argentines did leave behind some unwanted mementos: two-thirds of Molkenvuhr's property is off bounds because it has been studded with mines. It is unknown how many of the lethal explosives have been scattered around the islands. A squadron of 180 bomb experts combs the land, and so far, a total of 1.8 million fragments of mines, grenades and shells have been uncovered. Maps outlining dangerous zones are marked: "These areas are known to contain mines and booby traps. DO NOT ENTER." Even so, the risk remains great, especially for children and animals, and military officials predict that many of the bombs will never be found.

Some aspects of the Falklands' somnolent life have not changed. There is no television, though videocassette players are proliferating (the most popular movies: M*A*S*H and Julia). The telephones have crank handles and are operated by a sole switchboard. The brightly painted clapboard houses are heated with bricks of black peat stored in sheds near kitchen doors, and Land Rovers are the most popular means of transportation. The largest store is run by the Falkland Islands Co., which owns more than 43% of the land and employs 240 workers. Mutton, delivered to homes twice a week, is still referred to as "the 365," meaning that people roast it and stew it and chew it 365 days a year. One happy result of the war is that the Falklanders decided to start a weekly newspaper, the Penguin News. Another welcome consequence: demand for colorful Falkland Islands stamps (printed in England) has grown so much that the government earned more last year from foreign philatelists than from the income taxes kelpers pay.

Hunt predicts that life will return to normal once all the soldiers are moved into military accommodations. Prefab wooden camps are being built outside Port Stanley, while the first "coastel," a barge stacked with metal freighter containers and able to house 930 men, has been installed. Construction of a new "strategic airport" that will be able to handle jumbo jets is scheduled to begin in October. Because no flights are allowed from Argentina, the Falklands are even more isolated than they were before the war. Visitors arriving by air must take a slow, cumbersome C-130 Royal Air Force Hercules transport plane from Ascension Island, 4,000 miles to the north. Only passengers with "urgent or high-priority circumstances" are permitted to book seats. The flight, which costs $2,970 round trip, takes up to 14 hours and involves tricky midair refueling. If the crosswinds at Stanley Airport are too fierce, the mission is scrubbed and the plane heads back to Ascension.

Despite the mood of melancholy resignation, the kelpers remain grateful for the British presence. "They are far more concerned about the Argies," says Councilor John Cheek. "People here worry about a sneak air raid or a commando landing. To prevent that, they'll put up with almost anything."

Such fears are not unfounded. The Argentines remain determined to avenge their humiliating defeat. The military regime refuses to admit formally that the war is over, and it has declared April 2 a national holiday. As Argentina prepares to vote for a civilian government in October, politicians of all stripes sound the same theme, calling the islands by their Spanish name: "The Malvinas are ours."

To prevent another invasion, British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher has pledged to defend what has become known as Fortress Falklands at an estimated cost of $2.79 billion over the next three years, or more than $1.5 million per kelper. Despite a Gallup poll indicating that 53% of the British felt the islands were not worth keeping at such high expense, Thatcher resolutely refuses to retrench or to negotiate the future sovereignty of the islands with Argentina.

To show their thanks, the kelpers next month will welcome 550 relatives of some of the 255 British soldiers who died in the war. Arriving by cruise ship from Uruguay, the visitors will spend three days touring Port Stanley and visiting the graves of their loved ones. A request for a similar trip by the relatives of the some 400 dead Argentine soldiers buried on Falklands soil has been turned down. The war, in its own way, goes on.

--By James Kelly.

Reported by Gavin Scott/Port Stanley

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