Real Survival Stories - Mayday in the Falklands: Surrounded by Fire

Episode Date: April 16, 2025

May 1982 in the South Atlantic. Argentine jets speed towards a British naval destroyer. On board the vessel, down in the communications room, Chris Howe waits with bated breath. In a matter of seconds his life will be thrown into the balance. Engulfed by flames, it’ll take extraordinary bravery, and sheer luck, if he’s to make it off the ship alive… A Noiser production, written by Luke Lonergan. For ad-free listening, bonus material and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions If you have an amazing survival story of your own that you’d like to put forward for the show, let us know. Drop us an email at [e-mail] Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

It's Tuesday, May the 4th, 1982, a few miles east of Port Stanley, the capital of the Falkland Islands. A British naval destroyer glides serenely over a calm, flat South Atlantic ocean. Over 400 meters in length, the 4,000-ton HMS Sheffield is a sleek, grey battleship, punctuated by radars, masts, and on the forward deck, two Sea Dart missile launchers to combat air attacks. The ocean might appear calm this morning, but beneath the surface, tensions simmer. These waters are currently embroiled in a bitter territorial struggle between Britain

and Argentina over the sovereignty of the Falklands, also known as the Malvinas Islands. Right now, two Argentine Super Etentart strike fighter aircraft speed towards the HMS Sheffield, armed with powerful anti-ship missiles. The jets fly in low, enabling them to evade detection from the Sheffield's radar systems. Below deck, on the British vessel, it's just another routine morning patrol. There is no intelligence of any pending attack, no warning of what is about to happen. With the Sheffield in their sights, the jets release their payload. One missile strikes the starboard site,

careering through the ship and breaching roughly two and a half meters above the waterline, creating a gaping hole in the hull. Carrying through the ship and breaching roughly two and a half meters above the waterline, creating a gaping hole in the hull. Fed by masses of unexpended fuel, a massive fire rips through the destroyer, forcing those who have survived the blast to abandon ship. A few miles away, aboard a separate ship, 25-year-old Petty Officer Chris Howe watches the destruction unfold. He can see the plumes of black smoke billowing from the stricken vessel as HMS Sheffield

crumbles before his eyes. It's the first Royal Navy ship to be sunk since World War II. The grim realities of this conflict are hitting home. That's when you really was wake up and smell the coffee. It was always for real, I suppose, but it really did bring it home to you that lives are being lost and that could be us. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes? If your life depended on your next decision, could you make the right choice? Welcome to Real Survival Stories. These are the astonishing tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations.

People suddenly forced to fight for their lives. In this episode, we meet Chris Howe, MBE. In May 1982, Chris is stationed aboard HMS Coventry. As a communications specialist, his work takes place behind the scenes, down in the ship's operations room, surrounded by radars and computer screens. But when Argentine jets target the Coventry, he will suddenly be thrust into the firing line. Next thing there's this sudden impact and a dull thud, followed by a flash, a searing flash and heat. In a split second, Chris's life will be thrown into the balance as he is engulfed by flames aboard a rapidly sinking ship. I'm trapped, I've got

wires around my feet and I couldn't move. I realized I was in extreme pain. I also realized that I had very little clothing left on and I was badly burnt. I realized that this is where my life's going to end. I'm John Hopkins. From the Noiza Podcast Network, this is Real Survival Stories. It's Sunday, April 11, 1982. A flotilla of battleships is anchored off the coast of Ascension Island, a tiny, isolated outcrop halfway between Africa and Brazil. For over 150 years, this island, barely more than a speck of volcanic rock in the middle of the South Atlantic, has been used by the British as a naval staging post.

Against a dramatic backdrop of jungle-clad foothills, three Royal Navy destroyers sit motionless in the coastal waters, their pale grey gun turrets stark against the tropical sky. On board the three ships, combat preparations are being made. Ammunition is being loaded, guns cleaned and tested, charts unfurled and spread across tables. Nine days ago, General Leopoldo Galtieri, leader of a military dictatorship in Argentina, ordered a ground invasion of the Falkland, or Malvinas Islands, a British overseas territory. In doing so, he reignited a decades-old sovereignty dispute between the two nations over the remote

archipelago. For many Argentines, the invasion is seen as a rightful reclamation of national territory. However, in Britain, Galtieri's surprise attack is widely viewed as an unprovoked act of aggression, an attempt to seize land that has been under British control for over 140 years. A task force of three Royal Navy battleships, the HMS Coventry, Sheffield and Glasgow, was dispatched to the South Atlantic to establish a 200-mile exclusion zone around the islands to pressure Argentina into backing down. Now the three ships are docked at Ascension Island, awaiting instruction from High Command. Among the men anxiously waiting for news is 25-year-old Petty Officer Chris Howe.

Chris and his crewmates on the HMS Coventry were on a training exercise in the Mediterranean when word came through about the invasion. It took them all by surprise, not so much that they were being called into action, but who they were up against. Argentina wasn't seen as the enemy in those days. In those days it was still the Cold War, and our biggest threat that we trained against, certainly in warfare, was a Russian threat, a Soviet threat. We were training against regiments of bomber aircraft coming around the North Cape, down the North Sea, to attack the UK. Argentina was not the country that had those sort of assets to use against us.

of assets to use against us. Still, many expect this dispute to be resolved without bloodshed. For all the talk of impending action, there is still hope that a peaceful resolution will be reached before a shot is fired. Most of us, to a man, would expect that a diplomatic solution would be found and that we'd be turned around. We'd do a 180 degrees and start heading north again and not south. As Chris helps load provisions onto the ship, a helicopter suddenly appears overhead. On deck, the men pause their work, shielding their eyes from the sun as they silently watch

the chopper touch down on the helipad. The cockpit door opens and a stern-looking officer steps out, his double-breasted jacket adorned with ribbons and gleaming brass buttons. Here's Admiral Sandy Woodward, chief of the Royal Navy's Falklands Task Force, here with commands. Minutes later, Chris and the rest of the senior crew wait below in the officer's mess. The door opens and the Admiral strides into the room. The officers stand to attention.

Admiral Woodward salutes before putting his men at ease. Then, in brisk, clipped tones, he addresses them. Chris listens intently as the picture becomes clear. The orders have been issued. There will be no peaceful negotiation. I recall his words were, some of us will not be going home. And that really hit us. We realized then there was no diplomatic solution.

This was going to be it. And we were going to go into action. Just a few days ago, Chris was preparing for a stretch of shore leave, looking forward to spending some time at home with his wife Margaret and their two sons. How quickly things change. When the Admiral left the ship, we had to go away to our department. So I remember getting my young department together and having to give them that message. And I, one of my guys, he was in tears and was quite upset about that.

In the nine years Chris has been serving in the Navy, he's only ever been involved in small scale skirmishes, the occasional lower risk tactical deployment. This is very different. Born and raised in the town of Leighton Buzzard in southern England, Chris was barely out of school when he signed up to join the armed forces. The Navy promised a life of action and adventure, far removed from his small Bedfordshire town. In my last year at school, myself and a good schoolmate were wondering in that final year, lining up to see the careers advisors, what would we do? And we got together and said, we don't really want some of these apprenticeships that go around sitting in a factory all day long, not there's anything wrong with that, but that's not something we fancied. And we both agreed to

jump on the next bus over to the Royal Naval Careers Office at Luton and made appointments to go and get interviews to join the Royal Navy. At the tender age of 16, Chris was accepted into Her Majesty's Naval Service. In August 1972, he swapped Leighton Buzzard for HMS Raleigh, a naval academy in Plymouth on England's southwest coast. After completing basic training, his next task was to choose an area in which to specialize. A decision that would come to define his future. I was always good at maths, something like sell that. And they asked us to choose certain branches,

and the top one, the creme de la creme, they say, at that time was to join the operations branch, and communications was one that we both chose. Within the communications department, Chris narrowed his focus to specialise in electronic warfare, which involves using radar and spectrums to detect enemy movement. In his department, Chris narrowed his focus to specialize in electronic warfare, which involves using radar and spectrums to detect enemy movement. With a calm disposition and a natural talent for numbers and physics, he's well suited to it.

It's a high-stakes job, providing clear coordinates and critical information about enemy positioning. Failure to do so can have deadly consequences. Despite the challenges, Chris distinguished himself. Over the course of several years and numerous deployments, the young ensign gradually earned his stripes, climbing the ranks to eventually take command of his own unit. They gave me the position of petty officer electronic warfare on HMS Coventry and that

was in 1980. I took over that ship as a young petty officer actually, looking forward to running my own department then. For two years since I've seen various patrols, NATO postings and training exercises. And in March 1982, Chris and the HMS Coventry sail away from the south coast of England. At that time, nobody on board knows how far they'll end up travelling from home, or how many of them will never return. TITANIC SHIP OF DREAMS Titanic Ship of Dreams, the new podcast from the award-winning Noiza Network.

Join me, Paul McGann, as we explore life and death on Titanic. I'll delve into my own family story following my great-uncle Jimmy as he tries to escape the engine room. We'll hear the harrowing tales of the victims and the testimonies of the lucky survivors. I saw that ship sink and I saw that ship breaking off. Titanic Ship of Dreams. Listen wherever you get your podcasts. It's Monday, May the 24th, 1982. In the clear skies above HMS Coventry, anchored off the eastern shores of the Falkland Islands,

seabirds drift effortlessly on the breeze. It's been six weeks since Admiral Woodward issued his fateful orders on the Coventry and Barthes from Ascension Island. Since then, the simmering tensions have escalated considerably. Three weeks ago, an Argentine battleship, ARA Belgrano, was sunk by a British submarine, killing more than 300 sailors. It was the first major action of the conflict and a wake-up call for Chris and his colleagues.

Certainly, we knew this was the most serious thing that could have happened, that one side or the other would lose a major combatant and you couldn't get much bigger than the Belgrano. Sadly, hundreds of lives were lost and that was tragic. And that wasn't a moment of euphoria or anything like that. It was just a tragic moment. You did have in the back of your mind, they're going to retaliate for this. And of course, it was only 24 hours later where they did.

In retaliation for the Belgrano, an Argentine airstrike sank HMS Sheffield, one of the three British ships in the task force. Twenty men were killed. Chris witnessed the event from the Coventry. That's when he really was wake up and smell the coffee. It was always for real, I suppose. But it really did bring it home to you that lives are being lost. And, you know, that could be us. That could be us.

In the weeks since, there have been more bombing raids, more missile attacks, more loss of life. Right now, the Coventry is providing naval gun support over the Falklands capital of Port Stanley, where British ground forces have just landed. For Chris and his men in the operations room, every day is a constant effort, tracking radar signals, intercepting enemy transmissions, and relaying vital intelligence to the bridge.

But then, on May the 24th, new orders are issued by Admiral Woodward. Another amphibious landing of men is planned at San Carlos in the north of the Falklands. To facilitate this, Chris and the men of the HMS Coventry will be part of a risky mission. They will be moving into a dangerous stretch of water ominously nicknamed Bomb Alley. From here, the Coventry and her sister ship HMS Broad Sword will be well placed to shoot down any incoming aircraft approaching from the ocean.

It will force the Argentine Skyhawks to approach over land instead. So we were forcing them to come in the not desired approach to San Carlos overland because they were blind and they would only see their targets our ships landing the soldiers and they would not see them until literally leaving land and just moments to drop their weapons. In theory this should clear the way for a successful amphibious landing at San Carlos. But there's a catch. With Argentine pilots approaching over land, not sea, it will be nigh on impossible for Chris and his men

to monitor the position of the incoming jets. The captain of HMS Coventry, David Hart Dyke, points this out to High Command. The captain did argue that we could not do our job properly so close to land because our radar would not detect slow incoming aircraft hugging the land. So any low incoming aircraft that would hug the contours of the land would be lost in what we call ground clutter. And we wouldn't see them until they left the land

into open sea. And doing three, four hundred miles an hour, it would only give us literally seconds to react to an incoming threat. So we were vulnerable there. HMS Coventry does have an excellent defense. the Sea Dart, a surface-to-air missile system locked to the front of the ship. But the ship's location, coupled with the speed of the Argentine jets, will make the Sea Dart far less effective than it would be under normal time pressures. Captain Hart Dyke conveys these concerns to the Admiral. But the decision has been made. That evening, the Coventry and the Broad Sword move into position.

As Chris and his men get ready for the morning, news filters through that tomorrow, May the 25th, is a significant date. The 25th of May was the Argentine National Day and they would be out to make some sort of impact on our task group that day to mark the anniversary of their national day. It's dawn on May 25th. Petty Officer Chris Howe stands on the deck of the HMS Coventry. He has his morning brew in hand, as is his daily practice, warming his throat with a hot tea as he takes in the odd serenity of Bomb Alley before it all begins.

Chris has heard this task of theirs described as a suicide mission. Certainly it will take immense skill, precision, and a fair dose of luck to successfully shoot down the enemy jets. But these are the creme de la creme of Her Majesty's Navy. If anyone can pull it off, they can. It's early, but it's obvious they're set for clear weather. The seas are calm, the swell is low, and the sun will shine through shortly. Such weather can actually be a disadvantage. In fact, these are the exact conditions

that naval officers dread. It was very, very obvious to me that we would be an easy target for them on that day. I would have preferred to have gone up with a rough sea, low visibility, and therefore we would have been a harder target for them to hit. After finishing his tea, Chris makes his way down to the operations room to begin his day's work. It's a dark, low-ceilinged space, lit by the blue glow of numerous monitors. The air is filled with a beep of radars and the soft murmur of dictated orders. Communication is key. As Chris

settles down at his monitor it isn't clear when the first attack will come, but they all know it's only a matter of time. Sure enough it isn't long before the first air raid siren sounds. Suddenly, red dots line up on the radar. Chris and his colleagues spring into action. The ops room hums with barked commands and brevity codes. Enemy skyhawks inbound. The Sea Dart fire is ordered. Chris watches his radar screen with baited breath. There's

nothing he or anyone else can do now. They just have to pray the anti-aircraft missile locks onto its target. And then the radio crackles into life. Direct hit, target down. Relief sweeps through the room. But there's no time for celebration. This is far from over. As the hours pass, continued intense concentration is vital. The alarm blares again. Again another afternoon raid, which we successfully fought off, another aircraft, was down.

And the day went on from defence watches into Axis stations, air raid warning red, back to defence watches, Axis stations, air raid warning red, active defence washes, access stations, air raid warning red, right the way through the day up to around 1800, six o'clock at night, where we thought, well, there probably won't be any more attacks this day. They never attacked under cover of darkness. As night closes in, the tension gradually lifts. Still, Chris keeps his focus, his eyes glued to the radar screen. But he does allow himself a degree of optimism. It seems they may have weathered the storm. Then, with darkness falling over the South Atlantic, troubling news comes through on the radio. We had information just come in from our special forces that were dug in in various places.

In Argentina around the airfields, they told us that several aircraft, two lots of two Air Force Skyhawks had left Argentina. The warning may have come through, but nothing shows up on the radars. Around Chris there is sudden commotion, shouting voices through every line of communication. The captain speaks briskly into his command open line. Muffled voices from radios echo confusion from other parts of the ship. Where are the enemy aircraft?

How close are they? What's their speed? No one has any immediate answers. Chris looks down at the radar. Suddenly he sees the dots line up on the screen, popping out of the contours and folds of the land which had hidden them from the radar. They approach, speeding towards the Coventry.

I was looking down at the radar screen over the shoulder of one of my guys that was running the radar and I could see the aircraft, two aircraft coming towards us. And then up behind that, another two. This time, it might be too little too late. The order goes out, engage the Sea Dart. The Coventry readies her missile. And then... Calamity.

The Sea Dart has failed to lock. The planes are too close, moving too fast for the missile system to latch onto the targets. HMS Coventry has become a sitting duck. As the colour drains from his face, Chris turns to inform the captain of the situation. I was just about to tell the captain that we're about to be attacked by two Skyhawks. And the next thing there's this sudden impact and a dull thud followed by a flash, a searing flash and heat. And then I realized that we'd been hit. It's just after 6pm on May 25th, 1982.

Two Argentine Skyhawk fighter jets sliced through the South Atlantic sky. Trails of white vapor tumbling from their wingtips. Thousands of feet below, rapidly receding in the distance, a column of thick, dark smoke billows from the hull of a stricken battleship. The Skyhawks' sharp noses are pointed towards home. Their mission is accomplished. Their deadly payload has been released. After a day of missed chances, they have finally hit their target.

Meanwhile, below deck on HMS Coventry, Petty Officer Chris Howe opens his eyes. He is met by a scene of fiery devastation. Through the dense smoke, sparking electrical cables resemble flashes of lightning inside storm clouds. Muffled screams fill the air. The acrid taste of molten rubber scorches Chris's throat. All around him, flames crackle and spit. Lying sprawled on his back, the 25-year-old sailor is in a state of shock. The force of the explosion must have thrown him across the room. He seems to be trapped underneath a desk, tangled in sparking wires.

It's apparent Chris was knocked unconscious by the blast, but it's unclear how long he's been out for. I'm trapped. I've got wires around my feet and I couldn't move. I realized I was in extreme pain. I also realized that I had very little clothing left on and I was badly burnt. I had some underwear left on and some boots, some shreds of material around the collar where my shirt was, and I knew I was in a serious place.

At that time I actually honestly believed I was the only person left in there and everybody had gone and just left me. Chris gasps for air through the smoke, forcing oxygen into his lungs. The deafening static in his ears drowns out virtually everything. Gradually, as his senses return, he becomes aware of a searing pain in his right arm. I then realised that my arm was on fire. It was a mixture of material that had burnt into my skin and was actually a light. It was my right arm and I was putting the flames out with my left hand. Still dazed, Chris manages to bat at the fire on his arm, slowly reducing the flames.

But fire isn't the only threat. On the opposite side of the room, seawater surges across the floor from a gaping hole in the portside wall. The ship is heeling over from right to left. There's been a direct hit, straight through the middle of the Coventry's hull. She may already be half-sunk. Chris tries to shift the weight of the tangled cables on top of him, but it's no use. And then I realized that this is where my life's going to end.

With the shit going over, water pouring in on the port side and the fires everywhere. But just when it seems like all is lost, Chris finds a tiny spark, a catalyst to keep him fighting. But then I just got an image of my wife and my boys and then I decided that's not where my life's going to end. Survival instinct takes over. He starts frantically pulling at the wires around his head and chest, adrenaline overriding the pain, screaming through his scorched nerve endings. Eventually, he rips himself free of his entanglement and gets to his feet.

Even as he turns his face away from the fire, the intense heat finds him, scalding every exposed inch of his bare skin. Gasping, he stumbles to an open door and through the smoke-filled starboard passage. The ship is listing heavily, taking on more and more water as it tilts further on its keel. The force of the blast ripped off Chris's protective anti-flash clothing, leaving him half-naked. He staggers down the lurching passage. He could have mere minutes to get himself off the ship before it sinks. And in his current state, he has no idea which direction is the right one.

Then, just when he needs it, help arrives. I come across a shipmate, and it was my old shipmate Sam McFarlane, who had just come out of the main communications office, which is next door to the op trip. He could see me. He didn't realize straight away it was me. He could see I was in a bad way. I mean, I was just covered in black soot and grime and blood and in a bad way. Of all the people to help get him out of here, Sam is the one person Chris would have chosen. We were good friends for the whole period that we both served. We joined at the same time. And we were good friends. In fact, there were some that gave us the nickname of the terrible twins.

Sam hooks his arm under Chris's shoulder. The physical contact on his burns is excruciating, but there's no time to stop. Sam takes his friend's weight, then half-drags him down the gloomy, smoky corridor until they reach a ladder to the deck above. Or, rather, where the ladder used to be. Must have been blown away in the explosion. They're just about to look for another way up, when a face appears in the opening. It's another crewmate, David.

He grabs hold of Chris's arms as Sam pushes from below. Between them, they manage to haul the injured petty officer through the hole and onto higher and higher. Finally, they reach the upper deck. It's a chaotic scene. Over 200 men in the process of abandoning a sinking ship. Most of them already have. The Coventry is listing 45 degrees to the left,

with her right-hand starboard railing raised high out of the water. In the debris-strewn ocean, scores of orange life rafts rise and fall with the swell. Chris and a handful of the remaining sailors on board clamber the way up the sloping deck to the starboard side. There, through the smoke and debris, Chris sees a face he recognizes. It's Captain Hart Dyke,

his uniform disheveled and blackened by soot. He too must have escaped the operations room. The captain looked at me and asked one of the people that was with him. There was very few left on board then. Captain had a few others with him. Then he got one of them to give me a white Woolly Seaman's jersey and then found me a life jacket and then told me just leave the ship.

The captain pulls the thick cream-colored jersey over Chris's head and torso. Then he is strapped into the life jacket. You'll need the extra layers because it's time to abandon ship. And there's one obvious route into the water. It's instinctive then that your ship survival training kicks in. This is something you do before you join any ship. You have to do it and complete it successfully before you can actually take up a position on a ship. So I assume the position of pinching your nose, feet together and just literally slide down

what was then the long ship side into the cold, icy water of the South Atlantic. Skidding down the immense metallic side of the coventry, Chris torpedoes into the water. There's an initial shock as he breaks the surface, followed by a wave of relief as the cold water soothes his burns. But the relief is fleeting. Immediately, the salty brine soaks through the seaman's jumper and stings his blistered skin. Chris flails in the heaving waves. Somehow, he summons the strength to swim towards a life raft,

thrashing his ailing body forwards. As he nears the craft, he notices one of his men struggling to get on board. Through the pain, Chris does what he can to help. The state I was in, I managed to go down and got him in first. Then they pulled me in and realised I was in a bad way and made room in the centre of the life raft, so they were all round the outside of this big, what is it, a big rubber dinghy, if you like. Surrounded by injured, exhausted men, Chris lies in the vessel, shaking. The damage to his body is severe. He's off the ship and out of the water, but not out of the woods yet. It's about 20 minutes later.

Chris remains on his back in the middle of the life raft, in tense heat prickling his flesh. His eyes are shut as he enters a strange twilight zone, somewhere between sleeping and waking. A few hundred feet away, the vast battleship HMS Coventry has all but disappeared from view. Only a smouldering section of the hull remains above the waterline. Its radio masts, gun turrets, and funnels protrude horizontally from the waves. Then, with a final, shuddering groan, the ship tips a full 90 degrees on its keel before slowly

dropping beneath the surface. Thirty minutes after the missile strike, the Coventry has met her fate. But by a stroke of luck, her sister ship, HMS BroadSword, has avoided the Skyhawk's bombs. It's there that the survivors from the Coventry are now being transported. Helicopters swoop in low, attaching ropes to the life rafts and towing them over to the untouched ship. As for Chris, he's in major trouble, delirious with shock. They tried to give me morphine, jab me with morphine, but apparently I was quite violently objecting to it for some unknown reason. I don't have a fear of needles, and indeed

I was one of the people on commentary carry around morphine to impart it to others if they needed it. So I don't know why I did that. So I had no pain relief. My adrenaline must have been extremely high, that's all I can think of because I was in total shock and finally triage and got me out of the life raft. They winched me up onto the deck of broadsword where I was immediately taken to a triage station in there with a medical team. The initial prognosis is bleak. The severity of Chris's burns means he will need to be moved again. They don't have the means to treat such wounds on the ship's ward. As he lies on a gurney waiting for a helicopter to fly him to a nearby hospital, it's hard

to believe that Chris is one of the lucky ones. But he is. Of the 287 men on board HMS Coventry, 19 have already lost their lives. Some of them were just out of school. I had one lad in my team, he was only 18. Sadly he's one of the lads that I lost and upsets me every day. It's nearly midnight on May 25th, 1982. Chris is being flown to the SS Uganda, a former passenger liner converted into a hospital

ship. Painted at the base of her funnel is a large red cross. Chris is gently removed from the helicopter and stretchered through to the burns unit. He's still only semi-conscious in a haze of confusion and pain. But bit by bit his lucidity is returning. My first memory was all these lights being put onto the trolley and being wheeled down into the reception area where there's so many people in white coats around me, bright lights.

And I had all these questions, people asking me questions. And one of the ones was, have you had morphine? Have you had morphine? And I wasn't speaking then, I was still in shock. When medical staff work out that Chris has not received any painkillers, he's finally administered a large dose of morphine. It does the trick.

He promptly drifts off to sleep. For the next two days, Chris remains in a critical condition on board the SS Uganda. He has suffered severe burns to 27% of his body's surface area, well above the threshold for what is considered to be life-threatening. Infection is one of the biggest risks. His burns are treated with antibacterial cream and wrapped in cling film-like bandages. What's more, significant swelling around his eyes

causes him to lose his vision. For the first two days he's in hospital, Chris is completely blind. I was so worried that I was blind and they had to tell me basically and console me that this is swelling and that will go down and eventually your eyes will open and you will have your full eyesight. I had to believe that, I didn't believe it to be honest, I thought they were just saying that to raise my morale which is at this stage was pretty much rock bottom.

Force going through my head was just amazing. It was just how many shipmates survive? Where am I? What about my wife, boys? What do they know? Do they know I survived? I remember I had so much going on in my head. It was just crazy. And I had no answers. I just wanted answers. And I had none.

There was nobody there to really give me those answers. The next thing they're trying to remove this seaman's jersey that had become one with my body. It was just molded into the burns, the blood and the scabs if you like, all down my back. They had to surgically remove that with saline solution and scalpels to get this off my back to start treating the burns. They immersed me in the bath and it was just like somebody had just put a blowtorch on my back. Hot, salty water hit my back. It was incredibly painful. It was in such pain and then the poor nurse was in tears because he could do nothing about that. But in about 30 seconds or so the pain went off, it went away. It was as if I couldn't even feel it, I had burns on my back.

It was so soothing. As Chris is nursed back to health, the conflict continues. Over the course of the next few weeks, British troops make inroads into the islands. On June 14, the capital, Port Stanley, is captured. The Argentines surrender and a full ceasefire is declared. Britain claims victory and retains sovereignty of the islands. For Chris, it means it's finally safe for him to begin the long journey back home. Just three months later, in August, Chris returns to duty, taking a post at a naval

base in Naples. This time he's allowed to bring Margaret and the boys with him. But even as his career moves on, the events of that day, May 25th, 1982, are never very far from his thoughts. You get mood swings when I had recurring nightmares to deal with. Certainly my early days out in Naples during a violent thunderstorm and lightning and I woke up screaming while I was in the middle of a burning haystack. And I had that same nightmare for several months, I think, for the first six months I was out there.

She got me through that. She parted with a lot. Definitely my wife's helped me considerably. And still does. Chris continues to serve his country for another 16 years, retiring in 1998 and taking up a civilian job. Later that year, he receives a military MBE. But even after his retirement, he remains the chairman of the HMS Coventry Association and a trustee of the South Atlantic Medal Association, a veterans group for those who served in the Falklands. I talked to lots of veterans who are physically scarred or often the hardest thing is mentally

scarred with what went on and what they went through and what they saw and what they had to do during that conflict. And bear in mind it was only a conflict that lasted less than two months. That's quite something. So there's a lot out there that need to be listened to and to be helped. And I feel in some small way as a trustee in this role, I can help. I can honestly say there's not a day goes by I don't think about it. I survived. I'm one of the lucky ones.

I don't know and you always get survivors go about why did you survive. You'll hear this from the veterans that you've seen from World War I, World War II. You hear this story a lot, why did I survive and they didn't? Now, none of us are heroes, we just did our jobs and that's a fact. But the whims that are left in the years that go on are not necessarily physical, they're mental. The mental ones are the hardest to deal with.

And you can look at somebody and I look at my shipmates and I would have no idea they were suffering in any way, shape or form, but some of them are, and they keep it to themselves and there's different ways of dealing with it. And indeed I know that because of where I know I deal with my issues and thoughts that go back to those horrible places, those dark places where I can see myself in that operations room. Ship going over, arm on fire, thick black smoke, and I'm thinking, how the hell did I ever get out of there? But I did. So you play on those thoughts, but then you get on with your life.

And this could only be moments or seconds where you might go quiet in your alley, and then you'll get back to mowing the grass again, or mowing, or doing a bit more painting, or doing the shopping in Tesco's or I'm planning the next holiday. Life's all about the living and you have to still live. Next time on Real Survival Stories, what's thought to be the worst train disaster in history. In December 2004, 25-year-old Shenth Ravindra is in Sri Lanka, spending Christmas with family. But once the festivities are over, he boards a train and heads off on a solo trip around the country's stunning coastline.

But barely has his adventure begun when catastrophe strikes. On board a packed carriage, he and his fellow passengers suddenly face a ferocious assault from the ocean, which overwhelms their train. Hundreds of miles from home, Schenth must rely on his own instincts to survive. It's a race against time. That's next time on Real Survival Stories. Listen today without waiting a week by subscribing to Noiza Plus.