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For the Falklanders, who have grown up with the freedom of a population of 1,800 that was able to roam and explore mountains and valleys of white grass in an area roughly the size of Lebanon, the new danger has imposed a form of rare confinement. Their days used to be spent in their gardens and in the peat bogs, where they wind-dried the islands' source of fuel for their stoves. "Peat has become a way of life to us," says the Rev. Harry Bagnall, Port Stanley's Anglican vicar. "There are times of the year when the only thing we talk about is our peat." Now the small but precious freedom of being able to gather peat has been denied by the mines. "People anticipated having to repair buildings and fences" after the fighting, says John
Leonard, a longtime U.S. resident of the islands, "but the confinement is really tragic. The ground is poisoned."
The dangers are not exaggerated: three British soldiers have already lost limbs in clearing out the mines. Almost daily the small houses on the hillsides of Port Stanley shake and their windowpanes rattle as the engineers detonate more finds.
By contrast, the weeks of alien occupation seem to have left the Falklanders with more anecdotes than scars. The islands produced their own heroes during the war. There was Terry Peck, who guided the British patrols on their first reconnaissance missions. And Midge Bucket, who became Port Stanley's one-woman complaint and rescue squad. And Tim Dobbyns, who risked his life to travel all night to Port Stanley to deliver the news that all 114 inhabitants of the Goose Green settlement had been interned in the church hall by the Argentines.
Perhaps no one was more resourceful, however, than Msgr. Daniel Spraggon, pastor of St. Mary's in Port Stanley. He parlayed a combination of Catholic power and skillful play-acting into a number of successful ploys against the Argentines. The priest's most effective moment may have occurred when houses in the capital came under fire at night from jittery sentries enforcing the curfew. "Old Mary Hill's house was fired up," says Msgr. Spraggon, "then Stella Perry's and Stan and Daphne Cletheroes'." The crunch came, however, when the rectory received 27 rounds one night. The next day Spraggon put on his robes and stormed into the Argentine military headquarters. "Now you've really done it," he thundered. "How are you going to settle this with Rome? What would Galtieri have said if you had shot a priest?" As a result the "fire-ups" came to an end.
There were other forms of protest.
Patrick Watts, who runs the Falkland Islands Broadcasting Service, sharpened his sarcasm by reading Argentine-supplied news broadcasts, such as the assertion that the carrier Hermes was running out of fuel, that there was a mutiny aboard the Invincible and that the British were holding an emergency training exercise in Brazil for their unfit troops. "Everybody here just curled up and laughed," says Watts. "They thought it was a great joke." The Argentines finally turned off the station's transmitters after accusing Watts of playing God Save the Queen and It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary.