ARGENTINE GUNSMITH Corporal 1 Moyana and Antonio Coria of the Air Force working on the wind fuse of a 500-pound (226-kilogram) Mk.82 bomb on the central support of a Douglas A-4B Skyhawk at the Río Gallegos Military Air Base, Santa Cruz, during the war, this Argentine soldier who served the country does not receive a veteran's pension.
During the war, among the pilots facing the greatest challenges in attack missions against the British fleet were those flying the IAI Nesher Dagger aircraft. In addition to lacking missiles and defensive countermeasures, these aircraft were not equipped with aerial refueling capability—unlike the Skyhawks and Super Étendards—thus forcing them to operate under extremely adverse conditions. They regularly exceeded their designated combat weight limit of approximately six tons, taking off at full load with over thirteen tons. This excess weight was due not only to the bombs but also to the supplemental fuel tanks, which they could not afford to jettison if they hoped to return to their base at San Julián in Santa Cruz, over 500 kilometers from the Malvinas Islands.
These constraints severely compromised their maneuverability in aerial combat situations, especially when confronted by enemy aircraft or by ship-based surface-to-air missiles. As a result, eleven aircraft were shot down—nine by AIM-9L Sidewinder missiles launched from Sea Harrier jets, and two by surface-launched anti-aircraft missiles—leading to the deaths of six Argentine pilots.
First Lieutenant Carlos "Lobo" Musso recounted these difficulties as follows:
"The cruising altitude was low, considering the characteristics of the aircraft—approximately 7,000 to 8,000 meters, nearly twice what the aircraft normally allowed. Since the Dagger had no in-flight refueling capability, we took off fully loaded with fuel, carrying external tanks that we had to keep at all costs (two wing tanks and one centerline tank). Consequently, we could not ascend to higher altitudes or fly at supersonic speeds. The armament consisted of two bombs and the cannons—nothing more. Under these conditions, we always took off with an exceptional takeoff weight, even above the limits set by the manual. It was more akin to a ferry configuration than a combat setup."
Despite these considerable limitations and the immense effort required, Dagger pilots, flying overloaded aircraft, managed to strike several British vessels with their bombs. These included the HMS Antrim (D18), HMS Brilliant (F90), HMS Broadsword (F88), HMS Arrow (F173), HMS Plymouth (F126), and the RFA Sir Tristram (L3505). They also played a role in the sinking of the HMS Ardent (F184) and the RFA Sir Galahad (L3005).
Part 5
Narrated by then-Lieutenant of the Navy Sergio Dachary
Paratrooper Company B, which was attempting to penetrate through the centre of Mount Longdon, encountered tenacious resistance and had to divert around the North, that is, to one side. In that way, they approached from behind the machine gun of Corporal Second Class José Roldán, commander of the 1st 12.7mm group composed of three machines and their respective teams of four conscripts. Roldán, with Machine No. 2, was with soldiers Scarano, Bogado and Almirón. It was 22:00 hours when Bogado, who was on guard with Almirón, approached Roldán and warned him: "Corporal, there are people advancing. I saw them with the scope."
At the same time, an Army corporal who was manning a machine gun about fifteen metres to the left and below Roldán, sent one of his conscripts to warn him that the English were approaching from the north and the rear. Illumination rounds had begun to fall, and despite the fog, the first British troops could be observed advancing in a line.
"We shall receive them properly!" exclaimed Roldán, and the 12.7 began to spit out its deadly ammunition. For a good while, the machine gun held the enemy at bay, who, lying on the ground about 150 metres away, had to halt their advance. At the same time, the three machines remaining to Lieutenant Dachary were already in position, firing towards that sector.
Corporal Roldán’s 12.7 began receiving intense fire, likely due to the emission of the night scope. For a moment they ceased firing, but suddenly, the light of a flare allowed them to observe about forty paratroopers advancing towards them, shouting. Roldán turned the machine gun slightly to the right and began sweeping fire, until the weapon jammed. Nonetheless, they saw some English troops fall and others retreat.
A sergeant from the Army’s 120mm mortars, who was retreating while wounded, approached Roldán and said:
— "We’re holding them back. They cannot get closer than 150 metres."
— "Yes, we no longer have the machine gun, but we’ll keep firing with rifles."
— "Be careful, there may be enemies dressed in friendly uniforms."
When releasing up to six 500-pound bombs using a multiple ejector rack, we employed automatic release with a 200-millisecond interval between bombs. At a speed of 450 knots, this allowed the bombs fitted with retarded tails (Snakeye) to fall approximately 40 metres apart. Dropped at a 45-degree angle off the ship’s longitudinal axis, the probability of at least one bomb hitting the target—thus neutralising it—was very high.
We had shared these experiences with pilots of the Argentine Air Force who, at the time, had been training at the Espora Naval Air Base. Although our armaments differed, we strongly emphasised the need to avoid high-altitude approaches, as radar systems such as the Type 965 could detect them from 150 nautical miles away. This would increase the risk of interception by CAPs (Combat Air Patrols using Sea Harriers armed with AIM-9L Sidewinder missiles) or of engagement by Sea Dart missiles with a 30 NM range. Furthermore, early detection of an attack would allow ship-based anti-aircraft fire to be directed by radar, thereby making it far more accurate.
We also warned those same pilots that a bomb dropped in a dive bombing run was unlikely to achieve a hit, given the bomb’s time of flight and the ship's manoeuvrability at 30 knots in open sea.
The American MK-82 bomb from our stockpile, weighing 500 pounds and fitted with a retarded tail, could be dropped from low-level flight. Its fall was delayed relative to the aircraft due to the high-drag fins that deployed after release. This ensured that, upon detonation, the explosion did not affect the launching aircraft, which would have already moved ahead.
To ensure that bombs were armed after release, we tied the cables that activated the tail and nose fuzes directly to the aircraft’s bomb rack structure, rather than connecting them to the designated solenoids. The latter is the standard procedure, allowing for the bomb to be released either armed or, if necessary—by means of a cockpit switch—unarmed, by opening the solenoid and detaching the arming wire. As these solenoids could fail, we opted not to use them. This ensured the fuzes were always armed once the bomb was released, ready to detonate. In the event of an emergency, we would jettison the bombs into the sea, where they would explode.
During this period, we also conducted air interception exercises, guided by the radar systems of the aircraft carrier and its escort ships, targeting Argentine Air Force aircraft operating south of Comodoro Rivadavia that simulated attacks on the Fleet.
We disembarked at Puerto Belgrano Naval Base on 25 April, and over the following days, VLF Omega navigation systems were installed on two aircraft to improve navigational accuracy over the sea.
This had been a longstanding request in previous years, but the Navy's leadership had always found reasons not to implement it—just as our requests to fit 30 mm cannons to the A-4s, to increase firepower and reliability, had never been heeded. We also installed, as a test, OTPI equipment in two other aircraft. These are sonobuoy receivers, typically used for anti-submarine warfare by Tracker aircraft, allowing pilots to home in on the signals of sonobuoys deployed at sea. The goal was to enable aircraft to reach a sonobuoy deployed by a Tracker and, from that point, obtain bearing and distance to a target designated by the reconnaissance aircraft, which could not remain in the area due to limited endurance or the threat posed by the enemy.
—
Testimony of Navy Captain (Ret.) and Malvinas War Veteran Rodolfo Castro Fox, A-4Q Skyhawk pilot of the Argentine Navy's Third Fighter and Attack Squadron.
This text revives a story silenced for centuries: that of the first European to sight, describe, and chart the Malvinas Islands. He did so in 1520, in the name of the Crown of Castile, long before the British had even imagined their existence. That map, lost for centuries and rediscovered during the Malvinas War, changed forever the documentary foundation of Argentina’s claim.
Sometimes history falls asleep. It nestles among old papers, gathers the dust of archives, hides in a fold of parchment as if afraid to speak the truth. Then, on any given day, someone lifts a page, and the impossible takes form. That is how Andrés de San Martín was brought back to life — the nautical scholar who mapped the Malvinas when the world was still a riddle wrapped in salt.
Andrés de San Martín. Does the name ring a bell? Likely not. There’s no street named after him in the city centre, nor a school that bears his name. He is no textbook hero, no equestrian statue model. Yet this man, likely born in Seville towards the end of the 15th century and dead — whether from malaria or betrayal — on an unnamed Philippine island, was the first to put the Malvinas on a map. And not out of fancy, but with coordinates. With calculations. With his eyes fixed on the stars and a steady hand on the sextant. He was one of the most accurate astronomers of his age, capable of calculating geographical longitude with minimal error. A forgotten genius of cosmography.
San Martín joined Magellan’s expedition in 1519, a journey ordered by the Spanish crown to find a route to the Pacific and reach the Moluccas. Among the daring crew were the obstinate Portuguese Magellan and the quiet but precise Spaniard — Andrés de San Martín. His gift wasn’t with steel, but with the skies: he calculated eclipses, conjunctions, latitudes and longitudes.
He was the fleet’s chief pilot, astronomer, and cartographer — knowledge as valuable as the sword, until the mutiny at Puerto San Julián in April 1520. He was accused of sympathising with the mutineers, perhaps due to his professional ties with pilot Esteban Gómez, one of the ringleaders.
Esteban Gómez, a seasoned Portuguese pilot in Castilian service, was among those who rose up against Magellan. His association with San Martín — though never proven — was enough to make him a suspect. Magellan ordered his arrest and had him tortured by the strappado, a torment involving being hoisted by the arms tied behind the back. San Martín survived, but his health was irreparably damaged.
Later, during the stopover in Cebu (Philippines), he fell gravely ill and died in 1521, taking with him part of the expedition’s astronomical knowledge. Science, too, bleeds. And in this case, it also dies in silence.
While the Venetian chronicler Antonio Pigafetta meticulously recorded each day of the expedition, San Martín measured the world’s distances with an astronomer’s eyes. And so, in July 1520, as winter battered the Patagonian coast, the ship San Antonio — one of the five in the voyage — was sent south. It was captained by Álvaro de Mesquita, Magellan’s cousin. They sailed along the edge of the unknown, the sea writing names that had yet to be marked on charts. And on 28 July, they came upon an archipelago of cold and silence: the Malvinas. To them, they were the “Sansón” or “Islands of Giants.”
They landed on Isla Soledad, where birds circled like sentinels. There were no signs of human life — only cold land. With the precision of a watchmaker, San Martín pointed to the sky, measured and recorded: the first known map of the Malvinas, year 1520 — when Argentina had yet to forge its name. All this occurred within the jurisdiction recognised for the Crown of Castile by the Treaty of Tordesillas of 1494, reinforcing the historical and legal claim to the territory.
As in all imperial conquests, the map was lost. The Portuguese took it to Lisbon after San Martín’s death, along with his notebooks. Oblivion did its work. Over the centuries, the Malvinas slipped into a cartographic limbo: they appeared with distorted names, or as mere dots. But in the traces left by Diego Gutiérrez, Pedro Reinel and Diego Ribero, the echoes of that excursion endured. San Martín remained anonymous in the maps, waiting to be reclaimed.
Sixteenth-century cartography wasn’t an exact science, but it was a high art. Cosmographers like San Martín, the Reinel family, or Sebastián Caboto worked from astronomical observations, navigators’ accounts, and not a few myths. Maps combined fact and fiction, but one precise measurement could open a world. And San Martín delivered one. Without marine chronometers or theodolites, only with his astrolabe and tables, he recorded a part of the planet still shrouded in mist.
That call came in 1982, as the world watched the South Atlantic explode on their televisions. France brought to light the Atlas de San Julián, a manuscript dated 1586, long forgotten in the National Library of Paris. There, among the parchments, emerged the chart: “Les isles de Sansón ou des Geantz”, located precisely where the Malvinas lie today. This document, of incalculable value, confirmed not only the Spanish discovery but also predated John Strong’s British sighting by over 150 years.
Rocher Gervais, a French curator, sent the discovery to Uruguayan scholar Rolando Laguarda Trías. On 14 June 1983, Laguarda Trías presented his study in Montevideo, entitled “Spanish Ship Discovers the Malvinas Islands in 1520”, based on analysis of the manuscript with curator Mireille Pastoureau. He wrote: “there is not the slightest shadow of doubt that the map depicts the Malvinas Islands.” In September of that year, the study was formally entered into the library of Argentina’s National Academy of Geography.
Laguarda Trías returned to Paris in August 1987 and personally photographed the map, confirming that the chart was accompanied by a text by André Thevet, who described it after interviewing a Portuguese pilot (likely Mesquita) in Lisbon in the 1560s. Thevet reproduced the coordinates in his book Le Grand Insulaire, strengthening the authenticity of the Spanish discovery.
This discovery was no mere anecdote. It provided historical ammunition for Argentina’s claim to sovereignty. Laguarda Trías and other scholars considered it “a firmer foundation for Argentina’s rights, as heir to Spain’s.” And it was no minor point: in 1982, Argentina was at war over the islands, and this evidence represented a powerful documentary legitimacy. As Laguarda Trías himself stated: “The islands, now the subject of diplomatic dispute, were first charted by a Spaniard who knew the sky better than he knew the maps.”
Since then, this work has been validated by historians and academic institutions across South America. In 2015, the National Academy of Geography commemorated the event in its Annals, with a chapter reinforcing the scientific legitimacy of the Spanish discovery of the Malvinas. According to the legal principle of uti possidetis iuris, newly independent republics inherited the territories that had belonged to colonial crowns. Thus, upon the dissolution of the Viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata, the Malvinas would have automatically become part of the United Provinces of the Río de la Plata.
The 1520 map ceased to be an old curiosity and became a key piece in modern geopolitical history. It not only proved that San Martín had charted the islands with precision five centuries before any British settlement, but also that his records were preserved and circulated across the European Atlantic from the late 1500s. Against any English claim, this document remains irrefutable evidence: the Malvinas were discovered, observed, and mapped by a Spaniard — and this act predates all subsequent claims.
The 1982 discovery and Laguarda Trías’s research sparked debates in museums, universities, and diplomatic circles. Of course, there were critics — some questioned the document chain. But the majority of historians regarded it as “the most solid and rigorous documented effort to bring a forgotten discovery into the present.”
Today, Andrés de San Martín is no longer a shadow. He is a symbol that history is written in fine strokes, with compasses, latitudes, and longitudes. His 1520 cartography, rescued from silence in 1982, not only revives 16th-century scientific memory — it also stands as a mute, irrefutable witness to Argentina’s sovereignty over the Malvinas.
In a world that disputes maps with drones and international treaties, the figure of a man with a sextant reminds us that sovereignty is also written in ink, with patience and with truth. And that some gestures, like San Martín’s, take five centuries to receive justice. Perhaps, on a clear night above the cold southern seas, the shadow of that forgotten pilot still lingers in the stars — the man who once measured the world to stop others from stealing it.
Postscript: That a map forgotten in Paris for four centuries would become a key piece of a sovereignty claim says more about history than a thousand speeches. Because sometimes truth doesn’t shout — it waits. And those who know how to read an old parchment can see in it the roots of an entire nation. Today, his map does not speak only in libraries. It can — and must — speak in the international forums where the fate of peoples is debated.
Bibliography:
Laguarda Trías, Rolando. Nave española descubre las Islas Malvinas en 1520. Montevideo, 1983.
Thevet, André. Le Grand Insulaire. Manuscrito del siglo XVI.
Academia Nacional de Geografía (Argentina). Anales y Boletines, ediciones de 1983 y 2015.
Hervé, Roger (Rocher Gervais). Découverte des Îles Malouines en 1520, Biblioteca Nacional de Francia, 1982.
Ramos, Lucio. Cartografía y poder en el Atlántico Sur. Editorial Dunken, 2010.
Morning of the 23rd of June — but not this year — rather, of 1982. The setting is Bahía Blanca Sud station.
That Wednesday, train 325 was due to arrive from Plaza Constitución. This service ran via Pringles, and the scheduled time of arrival was 9:04 a.m.
The station looked the same as always. The arrival of the train that day seemed like just another service, one of the regular trains that came into the station as usual.
Everything appeared normal up to that point — except for one small detail. At the rear of train 325 that day, a second-class coach had been coupled. Its 103 seats were reserved for a kind of passenger not often seen in those days. In that coach were the Malvinas War Veterans. That carriage was allocated exclusively to the soldiers who, by that time, were officially recognised as war veterans.
They were boarded onto that last coach, without the possibility of moving through the train, as the door connecting it to the rest of the formation had been locked. A small ham and cheese roll and a half-litre bottle of mineral water was the “ration” provided for the journey.
There was no welcoming committee. The city, with its typical scepticism, was unaware that the returning soldiers were arriving. Hardly anyone came to greet them. Just a few family members who had somehow found out — at that time, few homes had landlines, and of course, social media or WhatsApp didn’t exist.
There was no band to greet them upon arrival — our country is so obsessed with success that, for example, if the national football team loses a World Cup final, no one turns up to welcome them home. The same thing happened with the veterans. Not even their own families had fully realised they were coming back.
The train arrived on time. A long line of passenger coaches left the last one nearly aligned with the “Bahía Blanca” sign just south of the station, near the black bridge. A few fathers, who had learned of their sons’ return, approached the station almost timidly. They had spent over 70 days filled with uncertainty and anxiety. Worried faces searched through the train, hoping to find their sons and hold them tightly at last.
Inside the second-class coach, emotions ran high. The joy of returning was genuine, yet mixed with the pain for those who had not made it back. And to that was added the bitter fact that the war had been lost — this was by no means a joyful train. Tired faces, emaciated bodies showed signs of malnutrition, revealing the hunger they had endured during the conflict — despite efforts to convince the public that our soldiers had suffered neither hunger nor cold.
During their days at Campo de Mayo, the army had tried to feed the soldiers as much as possible so they would arrive “reasonably presentable.”
Behind them were long, sleepless nights. Naval, air, and finally ground bombardments had left them no rest. They had slept in makeshift tents or, when alerts demanded, in damp, cold foxholes. The thinness of their bodies reflected just how scarce the food had been.
They had bathed only once throughout the war, and only again when they boarded the ships back to the mainland. Left behind were those nights spent shivering — from the cold and, why not, from fear — with wet feet and the constant question of where the British would come from.
Behind them remained the sounds of war — sounds only known by those who had to live through them. The whistles of bombs, the wailing of sirens, the thunder of cannons, low-flying jets at terrifying speed, shouted orders during battle, and the gut-wrenching cries of the wounded… All of it was endured by young bodies, most of whom had not yet turned twenty.
"I stood on the carriage steps because I saw my dad and got ready to hug him. He was on the platform, looking past me, trying to find me. He didn’t recognise me — that’s how skinny I was." — Guillermo.
“We felt ashamed because we had lost the war, and that weighed heavily on us. We came back defeated.”
There were heartfelt embraces, tears, a few smiles, and a flood of emotion. Orders soon arrived to board the trucks bound for command headquarters. The veterans were taken in lorries to the Fifth Army Corps.
For them, a new reality was beginning. Almost without realising, they were entering something immensely complex: the return, the process of reintegration into working life. For our Veterans, a new life was starting. Bahía Blanca Sud station stood witness to that moment.
Without doubt — once again — THANK YOU FOR SO MUCH, AND SORRY FOR SO LITTLE.
The submarine ARA Santa Fe (S-21) hoisted her Argentine flag on 2 July 1971. At the end of 1978, as a result of the disagreement over sovereignty of the three islands, Lennox and Nueva in the Beagle Channel, tensions rose between Argentina and Chile.
On 22 December 1978, Argentina launched Operation Sovereignty to militarily occupy the islands. When conflict seemed inevitable, the timely intervention of Pope John Paul II prevented the start of hostilities. On 30 March 1982, she was incorporated into Task Force 40, Task Group 40.4, carrying on board part of the landing force of Operation Rosario. From her, the tactical divers departed who enabled the landing of Argentine forces that recapture the Malvinas Islands. She was assigned a new mission for which she was resupplied with fuel and provisions to transport a detachment of marines towards South Georgia Islands. She managed to evade the British blockade and entered San Pedro Island, penetrating Captain Vago Cove in National Guard Bay (Grytviken), disembarking personnel and materials. At 05:50 hours (local time), she departed to return to her assigned patrol zone, but was detected and attacked by a Wessex helicopter. The vessel returned to Grytviken. Resistance was offered by firing at the enemy helicopters from the sail, led by Corporal Héctor O. Feldman. At 07:30 she moored, listing to port and with the stern submerged. Faced with British superiority in troop numbers, the Argentine garrison surrendered along with the submariners. On 27 April, an attempt was made to change her position; during the manoeuvre, Petty Officer First Class Félix O. Artuso was fatally wounded when a British marine shot him, indicating that he had made movements that led him to believe he was about to operate a valve to scuttle the vessel. During the austral summer of 1984/1985, the United Kingdom ordered the salvage of the former ARA Santa Fe (S-21) in order to remove her from the anchorage at Vago Cove, to free the pier for use by active vessels. The S-21 began to be towed to deeper waters. Finally, the veteran vessel sank definitively in the South Atlantic, settling on the seabed at 196 metres depth.
Class: Balao Class (modified to GUPPY II) Diesel-electric attack submarine.
Launched:
19 November 1944 – Shipyard: Electric Boat Company (Groton, Connecticut, USA).
Power:
3 General Motors 278A 16-cylinder diesel engines
2 General Electric electric motors
2 main Exide batteries of 126 cells • 2 propellers.
Surface speed: 20–25 knots – 37.5 KM/Hour.
Submerged speed: 8.75 knots – 16 KM/Hour.
Armament:
10 Torpedo tubes of 533 mm (21 in) (6 forward, 4 aft, 24 torpedoes)
1 deck gun of 127 mm/25 calibre (5 in)
1 20 mm AA gun
2 12.7 mm (0.5") machine guns
1 40 mm AA gun
The elements for constructing the model parts are entirely made with recyclable materials respecting the measurements according to plans.
SCALE: 1/100 – Model built in 2008 by LEANDRO CISNEROS.
