Malvinas: Argentine Pumas in Action

The Argentine Pumas At War

By Staff Sergeant (Ret.) and Malvinas War Veteran Carlos Andrés Verón

 

During the conflict, I served in the 601st Combat Aviation Battalion as a helicopter mechanic for Assault Helicopter Company “A”.

It was 27 March 1982 when I arrived at the gates of the 601 Army Aviation Battalion and was told to hurry to the hangar, as there was a mission heading south — El Calafate. At the hangar, First Lieutenants Obregón and Orozco, and Corporal First Class Alfredo Romero, were waiting. We gathered the essential equipment for the journey. Our first stop was Comandante Espora Naval Air Base, in Bahía Blanca.

We arrived around midday. The pilots went to the control tower, while we remained with the aircraft to refuel. At that moment, some Navy non-commissioned officers approached and asked if our helicopter — a SA 330L PUMA (AE-502) — was the one embarking on the icebreaker Almirante Irízar. I responded that it wasn’t, as we were heading to Santa Cruz, and had actually disembarked from the Irízar in February following the 1981/82 Summer Antarctic Campaign. I also pointed out that the Coast Guard’s PUMA, stationed next to us, might be the one assigned to the vessel.

Hours went by with no sign of the pilots. Eventually, they returned and took us to a room — we were put under strict communication blackout. Then Lt. Obregón informed us that he had requested the blade folding kit from our base, as we would in fact be embarking on the ARA Almirante Irízar, bound for the Malvinas. That cleared up the confusion. The Navy issued us a survival vest, typically worn by A-4Q pilots, and a .45 calibre pistol.

By late morning on 28 March, the blade folding kit arrived. We didn’t even get the chance to greet the personnel who delivered it. We collected it and boarded the Irízar. Once on board, Romero and I realised we were missing two shock absorber locking pins, but thought that reinforcing the tie-downs with extra chains would compensate.

At dawn on 29 March, we departed with the fleet as part of Operation Rosario.

Alongside our PUMA in the hangar was a Navy Sea King. The weather was poor; the ship pitched significantly as we sailed under radio silence. We checked on the helicopter sporadically — it seemed stable.

In the early hours of 2 April, we were asleep in a cabin on the red deck when I was suddenly thrown into the air, hitting my head against the bathroom. Romero rolled across the cabin floor. We couldn’t stand because of the heavy rolling. Once we managed to get up, we got dressed and joined the damage control team heading to the hangar. Upon opening the door, we were stunned: JP-1 fuel (used by turbine engines) had flooded the hangar floor, reaching the 40cm-high bulkhead ledges. The main landing gear had collapsed, puncturing the fuel tanks beneath the helicopter’s floor.

The scene was catastrophic. The main rotor blades had broken loose and struck the hangar’s support columns. The drainage system couldn’t handle the 1,500 litres of fuel on board. I put on boots and carefully walked through the spill, as the ship was still rolling. The helicopter rested on its rear struts but was tilted backwards — as mentioned, the gear had snapped and pierced the fuel tanks. Of the twenty tie-down chains, only ten remained — the others had snapped off their anchor points. Using the ship’s blue lifting jacks, typically used for moving cargo, we stabilised the helicopter as best we could and re-secured it.

Fortunately, the Sea King had suffered only minor damage — its right nose had been pierced by a hydraulic test lance, which was easily repaired. Ours, however, was grounded and unable to support the landing operation — the very reason for our presence.

In the early hours, the Navy launched its amphibious assault, together with Marines and the 25th Regiment of the Army. Meanwhile, Corporal Romero and I began a race against time to dismantle the PUMA — salvaging all serviceable components to be used as spares for the other helicopters participating.

We first secured the aircraft, opened the engine bays, removed the main rotor blades, then the tail rotor blades, and then both engines. That was the bulk of the work. After that, we carefully dismantled and packed all radio and navigation systems, and anything else of value. Rumours were circulating that AE-502 would be jettisoned into the sea to make space for other helicopters without returning to port.

I had taken part in the previous Antarctic summer campaign, and I knew the ship’s captain, Navy Captain Barquín. Since our pilots had returned to the mainland on the first C-130, and I was the senior mechanic, I went to speak to him. I explained that the helicopter had only 20% structural damage and was recoverable. At first, he didn’t want to know about it, but he eventually agreed to unload it in Punta Quilla.

From then on, we devised the safest and fastest way to move the aircraft to the flight deck. Keep in mind: the PUMA stands four metres tall, and we only had the nose gear — no rear struts. No manoeuvre could be attempted until we were in calm waters, so all our plans were theoretical.

On 8 April, as we entered port, we began the operation using ropes, chains, and the ship’s jacks. We removed the tail cone, and the critical step was rolling the aircraft past the hangar threshold up to the main rotor mast, where the starboard crane would lift it — the PUMA weighed about 3,500 kg. After a hard struggle, we succeeded. The aircraft was loaded onto a barge, hauled by a tractor through the city, and taken to a Navy helicopter hangar, where it remained under custody until it was recovered by personnel from Campo de Mayo.

The transit through the city was another story altogether. The PUMA, heavily damaged, looked as if it had been shot down. As you can imagine, onlookers had plenty to say as we moved through the streets.

At the hangar, we parked it to the side to keep it out of the way. Then came the question of our return — we didn’t know how or when.

Around 6 p.m., we were told that an Army Aviation aircraft would collect us from Trelew. We were driven there by Unimog, boarded a G222 FIAT, and flew to Campo de Mayo, landing at the airfield and going to the NCOs’ mess. At around 4 a.m., we were dismissed. It was Holy Week, so we were granted leave until Monday, 12 April.

Let me say clearly: the recovery effort of the SA 330 B PUMA AE-502 was not in vain. It was sent to its original manufacturer — Aérospatiale in France — for repairs the following year, returned to service in 1986, and sadly met its end in a tragic crash in Azul in November 1993.

I was left with a bitter taste — so close to operating in the Malvinas, yet unable due to circumstances. But fate gave me another opportunity. On 22 April, I departed Campo de Mayo to embark on the hospital ship Bahía Paraíso, this time with PUMA AE-506. The aircraft commander was Captain Ezequiel Honorio Luzuriaga, co-pilot 1st Lt. Eduardo López Leguizamón, and the mechanics were Sgt. 1st Class Horacio Luna and myself. (Both officers sadly passed away years later in separate post-war accidents.)

Our mission was to operate under the International Red Cross, using the ship as a base for aerial ambulance missions. Our first assignment was responding to the sinking of the ARA General Belgrano. When we arrived, the Navy vessels Bouchard and Piedrabuena were overloaded with survivors — even on deck. The South Atlantic Ocean, especially in that region, is notoriously rough. Visibility was poor, but time was running out. Hours had passed since the sinking — survival chances were fading.

We began flying, identifying the position of various life rafts, guiding the ships to recover the living — or the dead. I remember one raft had its flashlight still lit. As mentioned, the weather prevented us from flying far from the ship. The urgency to locate rafts made us chase after colourful objects in the sea — but often, they turned out to be nothing.

After this bitter beginning, we sailed to Ushuaia, where survivors and the deceased were disembarked. Sgt. Luna left the ship, and Sgt. 1st Class Oscar Mella joined the crew.

After restocking medicine and provisions, we set course for the Malvinas.

During the crossing, we were intercepted by a British helicopter, which requested to land and inspect the hospital ship to ensure it carried no weapons. Our PUMA bore red crosses on both side doors, the nose, belly, and upper cowling. Before departing, the British pilot told us:

“A Harrier flying at 800 km/h won’t see the red crosses — it’ll just see a green spot. You’ll be shot down, and they won’t know it was an ambulance helicopter.”

That night, with the help of the ship’s crew, we painted the helicopter white, using synthetic paint. It was a wartime necessity. We worked all night — painting and maintaining.

At dawn, we launched our first aeromedical evacuation mission. We flew to the HMS Uganda, the British hospital ship, to retrieve wounded Argentines. The PUMA could carry six stretchers, and we configured it based on the number of patients. Two Navy medics accompanied us — Subofficer Panagiotas and Chief Petty Officer Quiroga.

Upon landing on the Uganda, I entered the wards to prioritise the wounded for boarding based on condition. Most had shrapnel wounds, dressed in flight suits, their belongings in plastic bags.
As an anecdote, one patient began shouting aboard the Bahía Paraíso, complaining that the British hadn’t returned his personal effects. Shortly after, a British helicopter landed and returned his belongings.

After several days working with the Uganda, we proceeded to the Malvinas.

Once there, we conducted casualty evacuations, primarily from Puerto Argentino, and flew across the islands collecting injured personnel. At night, we could hear the Royal Navy frigates firing indiscriminately.

From 16 to 18 June, we remained off Puerto Argentino, evacuating as many Argentine soldiers as possible. The PUMA could carry 20 troops, but given the urgency, we kept loading more. As we ran low on fuel, with the 20-minute warning light flashing, we managed three flights. On the final one, we transported 42 soldiers plus 4 crew — 46 people in total.

This was our side of the war — not a face-to-face combat experience, not a single shot fired. But we flew Army Aviation helicopters over our Malvinas. Pilots, mechanics, medics, and nurses — all united by one goal: to fulfil our mission.

On 25 June 1982, after an emotional farewell with those we had shared 65 days aboard the Bahía Paraíso, we lifted off and headed for Campo de Mayo. We landed around 6 p.m., hangared the aircraft, saluted one another, and went home — to our families — with the satisfaction of having done our duty.

Conscript Falcón, A Leader at Mount Longdon

Miguel Ángel Falcón – A Leader at Mount Longdon

He was born on 6 October 1962 in Barranqueras, Chaco Province. His family recalls that Miguel was always a rebellious child. He didn’t follow rules—neither at home nor at school. In fact, he was known for skipping school at least one day every week. He served in the 7th Infantry Regiment “Colonel Conde”. He was killed in action during the battle of Mount Longdon, and among his belongings a deck of Spanish playing cards was found.

That youthful rebelliousness would lead him to star in a memorable story on the night of his final battle. The event was recounted in a letter by a fellow veteran:

"On the night of 12 June, when the British attacked us—in a true hell, with hundreds of shells and tracer rounds lighting up the sky—I saw the first section of our company getting ready to support Company 'B'. Among them were Lieutenant Castañeda, a corporal, and 44 conscripts like myself. I saw them preparing in the dark, all in single file, silent, trembling. Suddenly, from the line, a very skinny soldier jumped out—a humble lad who barely spoke because he was shy. It was Private Falcón.

He started rallying the men, clapping his hands, doing squats, with his FAL rifle slung over his back, shouting: ‘Come on, dammit! Bloody Brits, we’re going to smash you! We are the 7th, the 7th Regiment, let’s go, dammit!’

Out of nowhere, a leader emerged—someone who, in the most extreme circumstances, lifted the spirits of the rest."

This section’s actions were later recorded in British books as among the most heroic feats of the land battles in the Falklands. Out of the 46 men who went forward, 25 returned. Falcón was among those who stayed behind.




The Passage to Eternity – Conscript Soldier Miguel Ángel Falcón

As recounted by then-Lieutenant Castañeda:

We were ordered to launch a counterattack, flanked by an infantry section and an engineering unit that had already attempted to advance and had only made it halfway up the ridge due to the intense British fire. It was the night of 11 to 12 June.

We were guided by a message-runner, a conscript serving Major Carrizo. This soldier knew a sheep trail across Mount Longdon, as he crossed it daily carrying messages and knew all its nooks and crannies.

Once in position, we faced an enemy that seemed to grow in number as the hours passed. Without hesitation, I sent the runner back and we launched the assault, regaining a large portion of the lost ground.

Castañeda’s men tried to match the British rate of fire to prevent them from gaining confidence. At the same time, they shouted and hurled insults. The British responded in kind. Some conscripts used ammunition and weapons taken from dead or retreating enemy soldiers, driven back by the momentum of the Argentine attack.

Returning to Lieutenant Castañeda’s account:

A few metres from me, Private Miguel Ángel Falcón’s rifle was spitting fire nonstop, showing the same drive he had when we first moved out. Suddenly, something extraordinary happened. Falcón became enraged. He left his position, stood defiantly in front of the British, and kept firing from the hip while screaming insults at them.

The noise was deafening—gunfire, grenades, rockets, artillery. The air was unbreathable. The explosions shook our bodies. I shouted at him, 'Don’t be a fool, get down!' But perhaps he didn’t hear me—or didn’t want to.

He fired everything he had, threw grenades. Eventually, a machine-gun burst hit him. Falcón dropped to his knees, and as he fell forward, the barrel of his rifle drove into the ground, his chest resting on the buttstock. He looked as if he were kneeling in prayer.

Braving enemy fire, Private Gustavo Luzardo ran to him, laid him gently on the ground, looked at me, and with a gesture made it clear that Falcón was gone."

Why did he act that way? “Only he knows,” said Lieutenant Castañeda. “I believe he no longer cared—he was doing what he truly felt. God had called him, and he went happily, knowing he had fulfilled his duty.”

The Battle of Mount Longdon lasted over twelve hours, despite the vast imbalance in forces. That night, Argentine soldiers endured more than 6,000 rounds of gunfire, mortar shells, grenades, and artillery barrages. It was a brutal fight that displayed the extraordinary courage of our combatants.

Private Falcón was posthumously awarded the Medal of the Argentine Nation for the Fallen in Combat, and was officially declared a National Hero of the 7th Infantry Regiment.

 

JAR: The Funeral of Colonel Artemio Gramajo

Roca, Heartbroken, Bids Farewell to Gramajo

Photograph depicting General Julio Argentino Roca, visibly moved and holding a handkerchief in his right hand, at the Recoleta Cemetery on the day of the funeral of his aide-de-camp and friend, Colonel Artemio Gramajo, on 12 January 1914.

That day, many were surprised when Roca asked to say a few words in farewell to his friend, as he was not a gifted speaker and disliked public speaking. Never before had the general been seen crying in public as he did that day. With a trembling voice, Roca said: “For me, carrying the mortal remains of Colonel Artemio Gramajo is like bringing forward my own funeral.” Only nine months later, Roca himself would die, and since then, they have lain buried in nearby mausoleums within Recoleta Cemetery.

Roca and Gramajo first met in 1869, when the Tucumán-born Roca was appointed commander of the 7th Regiment, stationed in the province of Tucumán, while Gramajo served as his aide. From that moment on, Roca and Gramajo were together in every military campaign and significant event in the following years: the battles of Ñaembé and Santa Rosa; Gramajo served as Roca’s aide-de-camp when the latter became Minister of War in 1878 and accompanied him throughout the Conquest of the Desert. Gramajo would continue in the same role during Roca’s first presidency and travelled with him on all his international visits.

Gramajo’s death deepened the melancholic emotional state that engulfed the former president during his final year, as reflected in letters he sent to his friend Eduardo Wilde in mid-1913, where Roca wrote: “What has become of my life? I do, my dear doctor, what you do: live among the ashes of our dead things, without the aid of an absorbing passion or that intense vanity that drives some old men, who live and die content with themselves and whom death surprises in that unconscious state of beatitude. Such mystery! To you, who are a profound analyst of the human soul and a great philosopher, I can pose the question that mankind has been asking since the dawn of humanity: What is life?” He concluded the letter by writing: “It is hard to guess what tomorrow may bring. Whatever it is, it will be. Tonight, I am going to ‘La Larga’, to sink into the silence and solitude of the pampas. Lucky you, who can create a pampa at your desk.”

In another letter to Wilde from the same year, Roca wrote: “The years go by, destroying everything in their path. Fortunately, they haven’t completely worn me down. For better or worse, I am still managing to stay on my feet. For how long? Only God knows.”

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.