COAN: The Night of the Banzai

 

The Night of the Banzai

Brief Account of a Frustrated Attack on the British Fleet

On 25 April, the British recaptured South Georgia. From that moment, a tense calm settled over the Falkland Islands, as the Argentinians awaited the enemy's arrival. At that time, the Argentine Fleet at Sea was attempting to interdict the movements of the British Fleet. To this end, two Task Groups were deployed: one to the north of the Falklands, the other to the southeast.

The northern group centred around the aircraft carrier A.R.A. 25 de Mayo, from which Tracker aircraft were conducting reconnaissance missions to detect the enemy. By the end of April, authorisation had been given to open fire on enemy forces. On 29 April, with the carrier located approximately 150–200 nautical miles north of San Carlos Strait, long-range reconnaissance flights began. On the night of 30 April, signals intelligence detected British radar emissions to the N-NE of Port Stanley.

In the early hours of 1 May, a British Vulcan bomber carried out an airstrike on Stanley Airport, followed hours later by naval bombardment — the vigil in the Falklands was over. That same morning, a reconnaissance flight from the carrier returned with no radar contacts. However, at 1513 hours, a second flight detected radar contacts with six medium-sized vessels and one large ship — a British task force. The Argentine fleet now knew the enemy’s location. The British, however, were still unaware of Argentina’s position. The tactical advantage was clearly with Argentina.

However, the A-4Q Skyhawks lacked night-time operational and attack capability, preventing immediate offensive action. Reconnaissance efforts continued from the carrier to maintain contact with the British fleet and plan for an attack in the early hours of 2 May, involving six A-4Q aircraft, each carrying four MK82 bombs. The last known position of the enemy was obtained at 2300 hours on 1 May from a Tracker reconnaissance flight.

1. The British commander was aware he had been detected, but did not know the position of the Argentine naval force. His priority was to locate it, and he ordered Harrier reconnaissance flights. One such Harrier intercepted the Tracker mentioned earlier, which managed to evade it by flying low over the sea at night. Nonetheless, the Harrier had likely acquired a reasonably accurate estimate of the Argentine fleet’s location.

This prompted Argentine battle stations to be manned, and the destroyer Santísima Trinidad was authorised to launch missiles at the Harrier, though it never came within range.

During that night, the Argentine Battle Group went to combat alert at least three times, each time Harrier flights approached. Few slept. These incidents gave the British commander a clearer picture of the Argentine fleet’s position and combat capability.

After the conflict, the commander of HMS Invincible would remark:

“The Trackers were a real headache throughout the 45 days of combat. Knowing I had been detected, I launched my Harriers seventeen times to shoot them down, but I never succeeded.”

The tactical situation required maintaining contact with the British fleet. At 0528 on 2 May, a Tracker was launched to confirm enemy presence. Later that morning, a second Tracker would follow the location data of the first and continue surveillance to guide the attack of six A-4Qs.

2. The mission briefing was conducted by the ship’s Operations Department, attended by the Tracker crew and officers of the Third Naval Air Attack Squadron, where all operational details were decided. One unexpected issue delayed the mission: lack of wind, an uncommon condition in those latitudes.

In simple terms, bomb tables determine the number and type of bombs required to hit a target. In this tactical scenario, four bombs per aircraft were necessary. The actual wind was nearly calm, so even at full speed, the ship could only generate enough wind over the flight deck to allow the launch of aircraft carrying just one bomb each.

Although the mission briefing was complete, it was decided to wait for stronger winds to enable a proper launch with full bomb load.

Analysing the British air and anti-air capabilities, it was assessed that of the six A-4Qs to be launched, four could reach the target and drop their bombs, and two could return to the carrier. Of sixteen bombs, about 25% (four) might hit a ship — enough to neutralise an aircraft carrier if struck.

Launching with only one bomb per aircraft would likely cause insignificant damage, while risking loss of life and half of the carrier’s embarked strike and interception force.

3. The Tracker launched at 0528 failed to locate the British fleet, which had turned east, moving away from the Argentine battle group. However, throughout that morning, Harriers repeatedly approached, attempting to pinpoint the Argentine fleet, triggering frequent combat alerts aboard Argentine ships.

It is important to note that the Argentine naval group remained under the constant threat of air attack. This required a pair of A-4Qs to remain on deck, ready to launch within five minutes as interceptors. Each combat alert saw the aircraft launched on time, and in at least one or two instances, a second reserve section was also launched.

During a combat lull, the carrier’s commander spoke with the co-pilot of the lead Tracker aircraft and shared his tactical assessment: both fleets had comparable anti-air and anti-ship missile capabilities. The number of Harriers was assumed to be similar to that of the A-4Qs, and the latter were believed capable of engaging them successfully. When he mentioned the submarine threat, however, he added, "better not to think about it."

Committing six A-4Qs to an attack mission would have reduced the carrier’s interception capacity to zero. The remaining pair of aircraft onboard was intended to support the attack — one in reserve, the other as a tanker for mid-air refuelling of returning aircraft if needed.

4. The delayed reconnaissance flight took off at 1435 hours and conducted a maximum-range mission. It picked up both radar and electronic contacts and landed at 1900 hours. Upon returning, the crew noticed a change in the crew’s expressions on board — the A.R.A. General Belgrano cruiser had been sunk. The submarine threat had now become a grim reality.

In the days and nights that followed, combat stations were manned continuously.

Had the attack on the British fleet been carried out on 2 May 1982, it might be remembered today as the Day of Naval Aviation. But that was not to be. However, just two days later, a section of Super Étendard aircraft, guided by a Neptune patrol plane, sank HMS Sheffield — a clear demonstration of Argentina’s determination to fight.

That day, marking the baptism of fire of Argentine Naval Aviation, was later commemorated as the “Day of Argentine Naval Aviation”.

The night of 1–2 May has remained etched in the memory of its participants as the so-called:
“Night of the Banzai.”

Text: by CL VGM (RE) Rafael L. Sgüeglia
Painting 🖼: Illustrative, by Carlos Adrian Garcia
@aviationart_argentina 🎨

Argentine Naval Aviation: Remembering a Great Pilot

Remembering a Great Figure of Naval Aviation

By Malvinas War Veteran (VGM) René Augusto Gómez

  

Early one afternoon in 1980, I left Comandante Espora Naval Air Base to enjoy a spell of leave in Bahía Blanca. Once outside the gate, I decided to walk along the road for a bit—just to breathe in a little freedom—until the bus that took me into town came by. After only a short distance, a car horn startled me. I turned, and at once I knew who it was. If you can picture one of those cars from the old black-and-white series The Untouchables, you’ll have a fair idea of the one I mean. The officer had been my boss in the First Attack Squadron at Punta Indio; and now, promoted, he was training on the A-4Q. When he recognised me, he pulled over.

“Off to Bahía, Gómez? Get in!” he said with a grin.

Pleased by the invitation, I sat down beside him and we set off. Almost immediately I felt a certain embarrassment, because I hadn’t the faintest idea what a mere Cabo Segundo could possibly talk about with an officer I respected deeply. They were two worlds—distant, and very different. Even so, I answered his questions about where I was going and the like, and before long we were having a genuinely pleasant conversation.

At some unknown junction on the outskirts of Bahía, a red light brought us to a halt. I looked left and right, and when I saw how deserted it was, I glanced at the officer in genuine puzzlement. Inside my head the question was: “If there’s no one coming, why doesn’t he go? Who would dare stop him for it?”

“The rules are there to be obeyed,” he said, barely looking at me.

I was astonished. It was as though he’d read my mind. And the strange thing is I didn’t think, “Blimey, what an upright chap.” Instead, his behaviour made me feel like a petty corrupter of traffic laws. Then, out of nowhere, a little boy—poor as the day is long—came up to his window.

“Got a coin for me, sir?” he asked, hand out, without any gesture or flourish.

The light had already changed ahead of us. I assumed the officer would give him one of the coins lying in plain sight and we’d carry on. But the car didn’t move.

“What’s your name, lad?” the officer asked.

“Rodrigo, sir,” the boy replied.

The officer reached into one of the many pockets of his green flight overalls, pulled out his wallet, and without hesitation took out what today would be the equivalent of a modest ten-peso note.

“Here you go, Rodrigo,” he said. “And behave yourself, all right?” At last he smiled.

The boy took the money and vanished with the same skill with which he’d arrived. My inner shame—having dismissed him in my mind—made me look away. “If I don’t learn something valuable for my future from this trip to Bahía, I’m an idiot,” I told myself. And another thing struck me too: it was uncommon for an officer to offer a lift to someone like me, who—apart from the odd sailor—ranked about as low as you could be in the pecking order. It confirmed what I’d already suspected: his manner (that exotic car, and the ease with which he moved among both the “top” and the “bottom”, among other things) wasn’t snobbery. It was simply the way he lived.

Once in Bahía, I sat on a bench in the square and thought about what I had just experienced. I’ve always been the sort of person who notices good conduct. And as for that officer, above all he seemed to me an excellent human being—someone worth taking as an example in a world where you’re often made to believe that “being better than others” means running red lights, or cleverly ignoring the needs of those who have least.

And that is why he deserves this tribute I’m paying him today, in 2006—so many years later. Because that Gentleman Lieutenant, with a capital G and a capital L, whom I’m speaking about, was never killed by the British. I kept him alive all these years. And I haven’t said his name yet—deliberately.

Among my notes from those days there are two other anecdotes that show his philosophy and unusual character even more clearly. One happened in 1978. As a pilot in the First Attack Squadron, he agreed to take one of my mates up with him on an acrobatic training flight. “Big-Nosed Reynoso” was flying in an Aermacchi for the first time. To make the story clear, I need to explain what an anti-G suit is. It’s not a full-body garment; you strap it over your flight overalls using Velcro fastenings. A hose protrudes from it and connects to the side of the seat in the aircraft. Through that hose it receives air from the engine automatically, but only when the aircraft is manoeuvring with or against the force of gravity. As it inflates, it compresses the main arteries and prevents sudden shifts of blood from causing physical effects—grey-outs, blackouts, and the like. And you should know this: the longer and more sustained the aerobatic manoeuvre, the stronger the pressure the suit exerts on the body.

The anecdote is that, during the flight, while they were holding a fairly steep and sustained inverted turn, Big-Nosed Reynoso couldn’t take the pressure any longer and over the intercom he blurted out:

“Sir, sir! It’s squeezinnng me!”

To which the Lieutenant replied, laughing, imitating Reynoso’s suffering voice:

“Me toooo!”

The other anecdote is from 1979. We were at Río Grande Naval Air Base, about to return to Punta Indio in a B-200 after a tasking down there. A Vice Admiral was travelling with us, so we had to form up at the foot of the aircraft like an honour guard—four Cabos Segundos travelling with him. The problem was I’d mislaid my white cap, and I was in a state about it.

Soon the officers arrived: the pilots, my mates’ chiefs, my chief, and the very senior flag officer. They stopped in front of us; the three Cabos saluted—except me, because I had no cap. The Vice Admiral looked at me and, in a foul mood, snapped at the officers:

“Whose man is this?”

My Lieutenant answered immediately: “He’s with me, sir.”

“Why are you without your cap, Cabo?” the Vice Admiral demanded.

“No excuse, sir!” I shouted, feeling the second-hand embarrassment of my comrades.

“When we get to Buenos Aires, I want an exemplary punishment for this man, Lieutenant!”

“Understood, sir,” my chief replied.

We boarded the aircraft. Naturally, the Cabos took the rear seats. At one point my chief turned round and, very quietly, said to me: “What are you playing at, Gómez?” I didn’t know what to say. One advantage of being dark-skinned is that you can go bright red and nobody notices.

The next day, at Punta Indio, Captain Espina called me in. He was a particular character too, and he always made me feel that, in some way, he rather liked me. He didn’t call me by surname or rank; on top of that, he addressed me informally. Once we were alone, he said:

“RRRéné!”—he always rolled the R when he said my name—“You absolute fool. How on earth do you show up without your cap, of all times, right in front of a Vice Admiral?”

“I lost it, sir! I don’t know what came over me!”

“As if there aren’t more important things… and that bloke gets worked up about a Cabo without a cap!” Then, lowering his voice, he added: “Honestly, I think it’s utter nonsense that he demanded we give you thirty days in the nick for that stupidity. Your chief asked me not to punish you, because he says your performance in the squadron is good. But you do realise, RRRené, I’m sticking my neck out here.”

In the end, Captain Espina decided I’d get five days’ confinement.

For all of this, today I feel like shouting at them—from this humble corner, as an apprentice to life that I still am:

“Gentlemen of England: in that cold autumn of 1982, near the San Carlos Strait, you shot down and sent to the icy waters of the ocean an old A-4Q combat aircraft of the Third Naval Air Squadron of Fighter and Attack. But do you know what? Although the records say that aircraft was flown by Lieutenant (JG) Marcelo ‘LORO’ Márquez, it’s NOT TRUE. What you brought down that day was only an empty old aeroplane. Those of us who knew Lieutenant Márquez up close are convinced he wasn’t there. He surely lives on in the memory of a humble lad from the outskirts of Bahía—the very boy to whom he gave a note that probably lasted him no time at all, while what he gave me that day was an example that lasted me my whole life. Some green light must have let him pass so that his decency could continue beating inside the philosophy of life of this humble servant. Because the laws of God that govern those men who leave indelible traces will always be there to be obeyed. I am sure his anti-G suit will never squeeze him again. And when the troops formed up on the seabed shout ‘Preseeeent!’ each time the god Neptune speaks his name—me toooo!”

“No, gentlemen. You did not manage to bring down Lieutenant (JG) Marcelo Márquez. However much it pains you, he is still alive—just like that old cap, now yellowing, which he ordered me to buy back in ’79 and which I still treasure, with the greatest honour, in my sock drawer.”

The Well-Deserved Sinking of HMS Sheffield

BIM 5: Argentine Marines Arrives in the Malvinas

 

The Legendary BIM 5 Arrives in the Malvinas

Account taken from the book Batallón 5
This concerns the arrival in the Malvinas of the 5th Marine Infantry Battalion (School) and the loyalty of its members to the battalion.

C̲a̲p̲t̲a̲i̲n̲ ̲(̲t̲h̲e̲n̲ ̲a̲ ̲f̲r̲i̲g̲a̲t̲e̲ ̲c̲a̲p̲t̲a̲i̲n̲)̲ ̲R̲o̲b̲a̲c̲i̲o̲ recounts:

On 8 April, at nine in the morning, I received a telephone call from the command of Marine Infantry Force No. 1, based in Río Gallegos. The commander, Captain Manuel Tomé, who had replaced Captain Jorge Ranni, told me: “Robacio, I’m going to set up over there. You’re coming with me.” Two hours later I was already at the Battalion.

Around midday I called in my subordinates and ordered a general formation, in which I addressed them.

“I want to make it absolutely clear that we are going to fight, with everything that entails,” I said in an energetic tone. “We are going to fight, and we are going to do it well, as we have practised it a thousand times over here. No one is obliged to go, but whoever does not wish to be part of the Battalion should say so right now. Later will be too late.”

No one moved. Everyone stayed in place, motionless and silent—an eloquent silence indeed. As soon as the conscripts from the cohort that had been discharged heard the news, they tore up the tickets that would have taken them back home and immediately rejoined their companies. None of them wanted to remain on the mainland. None wanted to miss the chance to give themselves to the Battalion that had become part of their lives—even with the possibility of never returning, of dying far away on land that belonged to them, yet which they did not know.

Those who were not fit to go, because they were not operational, asked to be authorised to form part of the Battalion all the same. Those who were rejected did not hesitate for an instant to protest and to express their anger. Petty Officer Julio Saturnino Castillo, in charge of the Battalion’s maintenance group, had to remain at the barracks for organisational reasons. He became very upset and asked again and again—almost to the point of exhaustion—to be allowed to travel. In the end this petty officer went to the islands and was killed fighting on Mount Tumbledown, together with many of his soldiers from the maintenance group, who had also volunteered and joined the now legendary 4th Section of Nacar Company.

A particularly special case was that of the conscript Roberto Silva, from the province of Misiones. He had suffered an accident with a mortar and was therefore hospitalised while awaiting a decision, as he would have to be discharged. Once recovered, Captain Robacio placed him under the orders of Senior Petty Officer Jorge Hernández, so that he could serve as a messenger. Being illiterate, in the afternoons he attended the school, while in the mornings Hernández’s daughter gave him two hours of lessons and helped him with his homework. In a short time he had become one more member of that family. (The 5th Marine Infantry Battalion carries the abbreviation “ESC”, meaning “school”; illiterate soldiers learned to read and write.)

But then came the recovery of the Malvinas and, without hesitating for an instant, he asked to go. The senior petty officer refused authorisation, so the conscript resolutely went to Captain Robacio. He insisted so much that he finally obtained permission.

Before leaving for the islands, Silva said goodbye to Mrs Hernández. “Please, I want you to keep this,” he said, moved, handing her his civilian clothes, letters, money and some personal effects. Mrs Hernández could not hold back her tears. “This is my mother’s address. If I die, please write to her.” “Are you sure you want to go?” Mrs Hernández stammered. “Yes. It’s what I want most.”

As the Battalion began arriving in Puerto Argentino on several aircraft, the airfield was a hell. Aircraft arriving, others departing; loads being unloaded; people trying to find their groups. “Everyone to work,” Captain Robacio ordered, and he said to Lieutenant Commander Ponce (the Battalion’s second-in-command): “I want the ammunition crates here, and let’s get away from this chaos.” Robacio had not taken the entire Battalion, as some people had to stay behind to maintain the minimum functioning of it, and to assist the personnel who would be sent to cover the post they were leaving in Río Grande.

But his surprise was great when he saw that many of those men were arriving as stowaways, having slipped onto the aircraft. Such was the spirit of belonging among his people that they did not want to remain there on the mainland. Men from the reconnaissance squadron, conscripts from other sections, began to appear. Robacio counted them: forty men! But he would not stop being surprised there. At a certain moment he heard, behind him, a familiar voice. He turned at once and found himself face to face with his driver, the conscript Ricardo Khouri, whom he had also left on the mainland.

“What are you doing here?”
“Sir, I’m not going to stay with the Battalion while you’re here.”
“You’re going back,” Robacio said, trying to muster an anger he did not feel.
“No, sir, please. I’ve accompanied you everywhere; this time I’m not leaving you.”

Robacio looked into those eyes, shining with the mischief of someone who knows he is up to something. “All right, stay—but I’m going to have you locked up,” he replied jokingly.

“Sir,” the conscript said, pointing to the steps of an aircraft, “is that not…?”
“No! Him as well?” Robacio interrupted, clutching his head.

Grispo, “the fat one”, a civilian technician (the Navy has civilian personnel who work in certain areas such as workshops, offices, etc.), responsible for the Battalion’s electrical repairs, had also slipped onto a plane and there he was, as bold as brass.

“I’d better head into town,” Robacio said, and he started walking, then boarded a Jeep towards Puerto Argentino to report to his superior and receive orders.

War of Paraguay: Battle of Humaitá

Battle of Humaitá

Battle of Humaitá – 18 February 1868

During the War of the Triple Alliance, Marcos Paz, Vice President of the Argentine Republic, died in Buenos Aires from a cholera epidemic brought back from the front, which spread like a curse throughout the summer of 1867–68. The truth is that the Brazilians—by then almost the sole owners of the war, as only the Empire was sending reinforcements and arms—grew serious with Mitre after the disastrous defeat at Tuyú-Cué, and pressured him into returning to Buenos Aires. Constitutionally, his presence was not required, even after Paz’s death, since the Cabinet continued functioning (there was no law governing presidential vacancy), and only eight months remained in the presidential term. But Brazil was eager to hasten the end of the war.

With Mitre removed (never to return), prospects brightened for Brazil. Marshal Caxias resumed command of the allied forces. Perhaps he had never read Frederick the Great, but unlike Mitre, he knew how to win battles.

With the Commander-in-Chief out of the way, things moved swiftly. On 19 January, Admiral Inácio forced the passage at Humaitá; by the 24th, two Brazilian monitors reached Asunción and bombarded the Paraguayan capital. With the river now under Brazilian control, it became impossible for Marshal Solano López to hold the fortifications at Humaitá and Curupaytí. On 10 March, he began withdrawing the bulk of his army via the Chaco route, leaving behind just 4,000 men at Humaitá to cover the retreat. In dugouts, barges, and rafts, the decimated Paraguayan troops—who had defended the Curupaytí–Humaitá line with heroism beyond imagination—crossed the Paraguay River and headed north through the Chaco. At Monte Lindo, they crossed the river again and finally camped at San Fernando. This operation was a feat of leadership and courage: an entire army, with its supplies, wounded, and sick, evacuating a compromised position in the presence of the enemy. They crossed the river twice without, as Arturo Bray notes, “the Brazilian fleet even realising the bold double manoeuvre”.

Colonel Martínez remained in Humaitá as a decoy, to tie down the allied army. But by then the once-impenetrable fortress had lost its strategic purpose. In July, Martínez received orders to abandon it with his remaining men, spiking the 180 cannons that could not be transported. Yet the impatient Marshal Osório was determined to seize the fortress by force and launched an attack with 8,000 men. Martínez responded in Humaitá much as Díaz had in Curupaytí: he let the attackers approach and then unleashed a deadly storm of artillery fire. Osório paid dearly for his ambition to storm the fortress and was ultimately forced to withdraw. Thus ended the last great Paraguayan victory of the war. But unlike Mitre, Osório had the foresight to order a timely retreat and managed to save most of his men.

The cambá (Black Brazilian troops) would enter Humaitá and Curupaytí only after the last Paraguayan soldier had evacuated them on 24 July. On the night of the 23rd, Martínez had sent out the final detachments—men and women—by river. At dawn on the 24th, the Brazilians raised the imperial flag over the now-legendary fortress; shortly beforehand, they had done the same at Curupaytí.

Martínez’s retreat through the Chaco was far from successful. The heroic defenders of the fortress had sacrificed themselves to protect the withdrawal of the main army. As they made their way through the Chaco, they were harassed by vastly superior enemy forces and bombarded from the river by the fleet. Inácio and Osório were determined to exact revenge on Martínez for the three years during which Humaitá had resisted them. Eventually, the depleted Paraguayan garrison was encircled at Isla Poi. They held out for ten days, but hunger and overwhelming numbers forced their surrender. These were the last Paraguayan troops remaining in that theatre of war. Moved by the scene, General Gelly y Obes had the Argentine forces march past “the great heroes of the American epic.” A noble gesture that should fill us with pride.

For a Paraguayan, surrender was unthinkable—even if starvation made it impossible to move, and the lack of ammunition rendered any response to enemy fire futile. Solano López, by now the frenzied “soldier of glory and misfortune”, as Bray puts it, was merciless with those who did not share his unwavering resolve. Victory was no longer possible, and attempts to secure an honourable peace had come to nothing. Thus, for Paraguayans, the only path remaining was death—a chance to give the world a lesson in Guaraní courage.

Colonel Martínez had conducted himself as a hero in the defence of Humaitá and in his doomed retreat through the Chaco. But he had surrendered. It did not matter that he had only 1,200 men and women, lacking uniforms, most with only tattered trousers and military caps, no gunpowder for their flintlocks, and no food—facing a force twenty times their size. The Marshal had surrendered, and that was forbidden for a Paraguayan. The word “surrender” had been erased from the national vocabulary. López declared the defender of Humaitá a traitor.

Three years of unjust and unequal war had transformed the refined Francisco Solano López into a wild beast. He was resolved to die with his country and could neither understand nor forgive any other course of action—not even from his closest friends, his most capable commanders, or his own family. Paraguay came before all else, and for it, he would sacrifice his dearest affections. His actions were certainly not “humane”, but in that final agony, López was no longer a man bound by conventional morality. He had become the very symbol of a Paraguay determined to die standing—like a jaguar of the forest, relentlessly pursued by its hunters.

It was in this final stage of the war that the legend of the monster, the bloodthirsty tyrant, and the great executioner took shape—a narrative that would fuel half a century of Paraguayan liberal historiography. He was accused of terrible acts—and not all were inventions of the enemy. Some accounts are deeply disturbing, but we must place ourselves in the land and time to judge them—amid the tragedy-shrouded Paraguay of the war’s final days. Think of the thousands of Paraguayans who died in battle defending their land, or who perished of hunger or disease behind the lines. Only then can one begin to judge a leader who could not forgive those who showed weakness, who spoke of surrender, or who harboured thoughts other than dying in battle. To understand him, one would need the heart of a Paraguayan and a soul torn by the looming collapse of their homeland.

Terrible things would follow: the execution of Bishop Palacios; the flogging and execution of Colonel Martínez’s wife; the death of López’s own brothers, accused of conspiracy; the imprisonment and whipping of his siblings—even his mother. In this tragic atmosphere, the figure of the implacable Marshal looms large, convinced that for the Paraguayans, under his command, there remained only one path: to contest every inch of their beloved soil—or die.

Source:

• César Díaz – Memorias Inéditas, published by Adriano Díaz – Buenos Aires (1878)

• Efemérides – Patricios de Vuelta de Obligado

• Portal: www.revisionistas.com.ar

• Adolfo Saldías – Historia de la Confederación Argentina – Ed. El Ateneo, Buenos Aires (1951)

Reproduction permitted with citation: www.revisionistas.com.ar

Argentina: On Gaucho Diet

Gaucho Diet

1800s Argentina: British writer William Henry Hudson visits the Pampas, encounters gauchos. Documents their diet with horrified fascination.

"The gaucho eats nothing but beef. Flesh morning, noon, and night. Never bread, never vegetables, rarely salt."

Hudson expects malnutrition and disease. Finds "men of extraordinary stamina and strength, capable of riding 12-14 hours without rest, then dancing all night."

The diet: beef, mate tea, occasionally grilled kidney fat (delicacy). Nothing else.

Darwin visits 1832-1833, observes gaucho life: "I was surprised at the difficulty persuading gauchos to eat anything but beef. I brought biscuits and found them thrown away. They'd rather go hungry than eat bread if beef was available tomorrow."

Typical meals: Morning - beef roasted over fire, fattier cuts. Afternoon - grilled ribs. Evening - beef again, tougher cuts slow-cooked.

Zero vegetables. Zero grains. Zero variety. Just beef and tea.

Hudson documents outcomes: "The gauchos suffer none of the ailments common to civilised man. No digestive troubles, no obesity, no tooth decay I could observe. Their teeth were uniformly excellent despite never cleaning them and consuming nothing but meat. Physical endurance such that they could ride for days with minimal rest, fight when necessary, resume riding without apparent fatigue."

French physician Dr. Jules Crevaux, 1850s-1870s: "These men live exclusively on animal flesh and appear healthier than our European peasantry who eat varied diet of grains and vegetables."

When asked why they don't eat bread or vegetables, common response: "That's food for horses and cattle. We eat cattle."

They understood hierarchy. Cattle eat grass, convert to meat. Humans eat meat. Eating what cattle eat makes you perform like cattle.

Into early 1900s, traditional gauchos maintained beef-exclusive diet. Then European immigration brought wheat cultivation.

Health transformation documented by Argentine physicians. Traditional gauchos: healthy into old age. Urbanised former gauchos on European diets: diabetes, obesity, cardiovascular disease, dental decay.

Modern Argentina: 28% obesity, cardiovascular disease leading cause of death, diabetes nearly 10%.

The gauchos who ate nothing but beef had none of these. They rode horses 12 hours daily into their 60s, maintained teeth without dental care, died from accidents or old age, not chronic disease.

Same beef. Different context. When you eat beef with grains, seed oils, sugar: modern disease. Beef alone: You have the health of a 19th century gaucho.

Malvinas: My Experience in the 12th IR

 

My Experience in the 12th Infantry Regiment (Final Part)

VGM Soldier JUAN ALBERTO VACA

On 21 May, the British landing at San Carlos took place, coming up against the Argentine troops who were deployed forward. We were several kilometres from that area. The English pirate had set foot on our islands, and we knew that before long rifle fighting on our own ground was imminent; “at last I’ll be able to face them and see the British in the flesh,” I thought to myself. From that moment on, the attacks by ships and aircraft against our positions intensified. I remember that in one of those attacks a large number of bombs fell on us, destroying the troops’ hut area and all of the officers’ tents. By a miracle, and thanks to God’s help, we did not have any fatalities to mourn—only a few wounded with minor injuries.

On 27 May, we entered into direct combat with the enemy. We fought for two days without stopping, resting sporadically for a few hours or minutes whenever we could. The troops who were deployed forward absorbed the first attack, but because of the enemy’s superiority they began to fall back, leaving us on the front line of defence. The assault on our positions was ferocious: we were harassed by enemy riflemen, while at the same time we endured bombardment from frigates and from the air. I recall that before attacking us they lit up the sky with flares—but only over the sector where we were—so that they could see us, while we could not see them. That night we fought for several hours, until the order came to withdraw towards Goose Green, where the Regiment’s other companies were located.



The following day we reorganised and prepared to face another onslaught. The Air Force personnel were with us as well, having also withdrawn. Goose Green is a small settlement near the sea, surrounded by low hills. There, more than a thousand of us were packed together. The enemy, taking advantage of the ships’ attacks that were giving us a hard time that day, encircled us and took the high ground. On the night of the 28th we learned that the British had demanded our surrender, and our commander replied in the negative, as we believed they would not open fire because they might cause casualties among the islanders. But after a further attack by enemy artillery, Lieutenant Colonel Piaggi, together with the commander of the Air Force personnel, decided to surrender in order to avoid an unnecessary massacre.

We had to hand over our weapons; we had resisted as much as we could. I remember our wounded being taken to a hospital ship, where they were operated on, while those with light injuries were treated in the shed where we were being held. In San Carlos, I continued working at my trade as a cook, always under guard by the Gurkhas, who were recognisable—besides their Asian features—by their short stature and by carrying a large, curved knife. They directed everything with gestures, but they treated us well.

When the war ended they took us to Uruguay, and from there to Buenos Aires by ship. As soon as we arrived, we were transferred to the Campo de Mayo barracks, where we were warmly received: we were given plentiful food, soft drinks, issued with new clothing, and we were able to bathe. Unfortunately, I was kept in hospital for two weeks because of a condition caused by the blast wave from a bomb that fell near me during the battle. The explosion threw me into the air and, as I came down, I struck my head on a stone. In that bombardment, two sergeants, a corporal and two soldiers were wounded. Thank God I recovered just in time to return with the rest of the soldiers to Mercedes, where, after completing the usual formalities, we were discharged and I was able to return to my beloved Santiago.



“Lastly, I want to say that I feel proud to have taken part in that great deed for our country. Sadly we could not overcome the military superiority of a powerful nation, but I am convinced that we did what we could and gave the best of ourselves. The images of the war—the cold, the anxiety, the fear, the sound of bombs falling close by, the aircraft and helicopters harassing our positions, the shouting, comrades dead and wounded—will never be erased from my memory, and form a body of recollections that will remain with me until the end of my days. But we were not ‘boys’, as some would have people believe: we were soldiers.”