DAVE COLVILLE was editor and owner of The Falklands Times from 1977 to 1982. After returning from the South Atlantic he lived in Bournemouth and now works in Portsmouth. Here, in extracts from a series of articles for a website, he writes about the invasion, and his escape...

We always feared the Argentines would invade, a fear that was, however, pushed to the recesses of the mind. We were used to our moaning "neighbours". We were all overfed with large helpings of Buenos Aires bluster. Anyway, Britain had always said they'd leave it up to the Falklanders. If the Kelpers wanted to stay British, then so be it ...

I had finished work and was going to my friend Peter's flat before going on to the town hall for a rehearsal with my group. Peter, a government officer, said we had to listen to the radio at 6pm because the Governor was making an important announcement. We couldn't drag the reason from Peter, although we knew that he knew.

"The clock slowly edged towards the allotted time for Rex Hunt to speak. I thought it would just be some government bull we were in for. After all, Hunt never spoke to the peasantry much if he could help it.

We sat in stunned silence after the broadcast. He'd told us the Argentine invasion force had set sail. We were to stay indoors. The only people allowed on the streets of Stanley were the small band of volunteers who made up the defence force and, of course, the Royal Marines who were stationed at Moody Brook barracks at the far end of town ...

April 2, 1982 was about to dawn. No one had managed to sleep since the announcement. Endless cups of coffee and tea. Inane chat. We even made up spur-of-the-moment "anti-Dago" songs and recorded them. Highly embarrassing in hindsight, but we didn't know what else to do.

We cheered ourselves a bit by telling each other the SAS had already secretly landed. But this was tempered by earlier reports that shadowy figures had been spotted around the bleak Pony's Pass. These could have been the Argentine Special Boat Squadron, a sort of SAS with flippers - and seriously lethal weapons.

Every radio was on constantly ... people rang in about noises they'd heard. Just jumpy? Or were the Argies nearer than we thought?

Then, from the front window, we could see an awe-inspiring stream of tracer shells arcing from the harbour. Shouting, screaming and machine-gun fire permeated the crisp air. The Royal Marines were having a hell of a battle at Government House.

The radio again crackled into life. Argentines had waved their guns at the presenter and edicts were being read by the Argentines: 'We want no bloodshed.' Too late. A few Kelpers had been killed by bullets penetrating the wooden-walled houses.

Time flew by. As suddenly as it began it was all over. The marines and volunteers had been rounded up, the governor had surrendered. Huge Argentine navy vessels anchored triumphantly in the harbour, busy unloading men and endless supplies of military vehicles.

The day after the invasion, masses of Argentine soliders and tons of military equipment were now on the streets of Port Stanley. Many more troops were based at outlying settlements.

The Cable & Wireless office was still open, so we hurriedly sent as many telegrams to as many people as possible. I sent one to my mum, who then contacted the MoD to tell them we'd been invaded, but was told in no uncertain terms, "not to be so silly".

One day I was interrogated by an Argentine officer. He was Canadian, with Argentine grandparents, and spoke perfect English. What knocked me to the floor was that he had amazingly detailed dossiers on nearly everyone, including myself. He knew where my dad worked, where he and my mum were born, what schools I went to - everything. Pointless info really, but where did he get it from?

My flat overlooked the school. The Argentines had turned the playground into a compound. I used to watch as soldiers would come to get their meagre ration of soup with a few spuds in it. They noticed me watching one day when they had no food. They were angry, pointing their guns up at me, and waited while an officer came and told me I had to keep the curtains closed all day from now on, though not before I saw three corpses being slid into large plastic wrappings, not the sophisticated body bags used today ...

I didn't hate the conscript soldiers, I genuinely felt sorry for them. The regulars were another matter. Hard-bitten, resolute - they were an unknown quantity.

The knowledge the task force was on its way cheered the mood considerably. After three weeks I was told I was being booted out. I had a few hours to pack a small hold-all. Did I want to go? You bet. I would be sad at leaving my many friends behind, but also glad to be given the chance to get out in one piece ...

The only way into the Falkland Islands via plane was courtesy of the Argentine air force. Its Fokkers were always seen as the biggest plane the airstrip could handle.

Yet here I was, ready to leave, and a ruddy great airliner was on the runway. How the hell could that thing take off? The answer was simple. On board, apart from the cockpit, were just three seats. The rest of the aeroplane was stripped bare, an amazing sight, like standing inside a cigar tube,

The emotions welled as the jets fired. There goes seven years of my life down the drain. I could see the faces of those who had been allowed to come and see me off by the perimeter fence.

The take-off was like a rocket's, almost, with the nose straight up. They were far from stupid these Argentines. Their military pilots were highly skilled.

I was flown to Argentina and told I had to find my own way out of the country. There were no flights for another six hours or so.

In those days, all foreigners in Argentina had to carry a little white photo ID card. When I showed them mine, they shouted: "He's from Malvinas". I was quickly surrounded by people. One old woman punched me repeatedly in the back. An old man spat all over me. One woman was ranting on about how Thatcher was going to nuke Buenos Aires and how Britain and had forced her son to go to war.

I couldn't argue. They left me alone after a while. I'd had a good kicking. I felt pleased I hadn't cried, although I desperately wanted to ... I lost some good friends to stray bullets. Thankfully, my name wasn't etched on one.