Argentine Antarctica: The Harvesters (1/3)

The Harvesters — Part 1

In 1969, Argentina’s Antarctic policy hovered between routine administration and logistical neglect. To the General Staff in Buenos Aires, the Argentine Antarctic Sector was little more than an abstraction, attended to solely during the Summer Campaign.

Each December, the icebreaker General San Martín sailed south to relieve the crews, deliver provisions and fuel, and return before the ice closed the Weddell Sea once again in April.

For the remaining eight months, the White Continent was left in absolute isolation. If a scientist suffered appendicitis in July, or a base caught fire in August, the official response was simple: endure or die. Winter permitted no rescues.

Foreign powers operated according to a different philosophy.

Since the end of the Second World War, the United States, the Soviet Union and Britain had understood that sovereignty in Antarctica was no longer defended by planting flags in the ice, but by maintaining the ability to project air power throughout the year.

The construction of permanent runways had become the new geopolitical frontier. Whoever succeeded in breaking the winter isolation and landing an aircraft on conventional wheels would control strategic access to the continent.

Against this backdrop of institutional paralysis, Olezza began to make the bureaucrats behind their desks in the capital increasingly uncomfortable.

In the middle of that year, twenty-one members of the Argentine Air Force assembled at Teniente Matienzo Base, located on Larsen Nunatak.

There, winter greeted them with a storm that buried the installations and forced the men to remain confined indoors.

The Corrugated-Iron Bunker

Teniente Matienzo Base, Argentine Air Force — 64°58′S, 60°04′W — 29 August 1969, 6.00 p.m.

Winter offered no respite on the nunatak. Outside the base, a white-out gale blew at ninety knots, scouring the corrugated-iron walls with a constant metallic shriek.

Inside, the main block lay in semi-darkness, broken only by the glow of a field stove that coughed out thick, oily smoke whenever the gusts outside blocked the chimney.

Olezza stood with the sleeves of his heavy shirt rolled up and his eyes reddened by confinement, his fists planted firmly upon a nautical chart of the Weddell Sea.

Opposite him, Lieutenant Oscar José Pose Ortiz de Rozas, commander of the base — a seasoned officer, sparing with words and possessed of natural authority — smoked in silence. His gaze rested upon the exact point where his superior’s finger repeatedly struck the chart: a small, elongated shape called Seymour Island.

‘Look at this, Pose,’ Olezza said, breaking the silence. ‘The bureaucracy in Buenos Aires suffers from winter blindness. To them, maintaining bases down here means leaving a group of men locked away, counting the days until they can return home. But look at this position.’

Vice-Commodore Mario Luis Olezza was a pilot of uncompromising character who combined the audacity of a military aviator with a long-term geopolitical vision. He refused to accept the doctrine of static sovereignty.

He spent hours examining the Air Force’s historical archives, searching for reports that administrative neglect had buried inside grey metal filing cabinets.

Pose adjusted the cuffs of his woollen jumper and leaned over the map.

‘I know the report Vice-Commodore Marambio left on record, sir. He was perfectly clear: the Seymour plateau lies in the direction of the prevailing winds. The same storms that bury us here sweep Seymour clean. The wind does the work of a broom. Snow does not accumulate; the crust of mud remains exposed. But seeing it from an Avro Lincoln is one thing. Standing on it is quite another.’

Olezza produced a worn folder bound with frayed cord and bearing the signature of Vice-Commodore Gustavo Argentino Marambio.

It contained the notes from Operation Enlace of 1952 and the subsequent technical reports. Before his tragic death, Marambio had left behind a remarkably prescient aviation testament after obsessively studying the island.

Olezza exhaled cigarette smoke towards the beams of the ceiling.

‘In Buenos Aires, they buried these papers because they consider the idea of operating wheeled aircraft on permafrost to be the fantasy of obsessive pilots.’

‘The engineers argue that constructing a runway there would require a fleet of deep-draught ships to transport heavy machinery, as well as cranes capable of lifting the equipment up the island’s steep cliffs, which plunge two hundred metres towards the frozen sea. Since the Air Force possesses neither those resources nor the budget to hire them, their verdict is final: Marambio’s dream is impracticable.’

‘And how do you expect us to move thousands of tonnes of stone to level nine hundred metres of runway without a single bulldozer, sir?’ Pose asked, folding his arms.

‘On our backs, Pose. With nothing but our backs and our arms,’ Olezza replied, fixing him with a steady gaze.

‘That is why we formed this group: so that it would not depend upon technology we do not possess. Twenty-one men, each one selected personally. If we wait for the official paperwork, the British or the Chileans will put a wheel on that plateau before we do. Geopolitics does not wait. Whoever controls Seymour will hold the key to permanent, year-round access to Antarctica.’

Olezza had submitted the project to his superiors under the title Operation Marambio.

The initial response had been systematic rejection on the grounds of ‘insufficient technical and financial feasibility’.

But Olezza was not a man who accepted no for an answer.

He decided to bypass the usual channels and pursue a strategy of accomplished fact. If there was no machinery, the runway would be built with the one resource the Air Force possessed in abundance: hardened men imbued with the spirit of the pioneers.

He secured the minimum political approval necessary to conduct an exploratory mission and began assembling, in the strictest operational secrecy, the contingent that would enter history as the Sovereignty Patrol.

Recruitment was not conducted through official bulletins or open calls for volunteers. Olezza travelled personally to different units throughout the country, searching for specific types of men in workshops and hangars.

He was not looking for parade-ground heroes, but for non-commissioned mechanics, radio telegraphists and tradesmen who understood how metal behaved under extreme cold and possessed the psychological resilience to withstand complete isolation.

They were men accustomed to solving problems with wire, improvisation and ingenuity whenever official spare parts failed to arrive.

Responsibility for organising the ground party fell to Lieutenant Pose Ortiz de Rozas himself and Lieutenant Mario Víctor Licciardello, who would assume direct operational command in the field.

Among the non-commissioned officers, the technical heart of the patrol was Master Non-Commissioned Officer Mario Rogelio Ranieri, a veteran of previous campaigns who understood the secrets of radial engines better than anyone.

The list of twenty-one men was completed by sixteen non-commissioned officers and one civilian whose role would prove crucial: meteorologist Alberto Omar Amistadi, who could interpret the subtle fluctuations of mercury barometers and anticipate the brief windows of clear weather before the storm closed its trap.

The door of the block flew open, admitting a blast of freezing air and Non-Commissioned Officer Ranieri, whose hands bore the scars of old frostbite burns suffered while tightening bolts in the open.

The meteorologist followed behind him, rubbing his arms to restore some warmth.

‘The barometer is rising, sir,’ Amistadi announced, brushing the snow from his parka. ‘If the pressure holds, we will have a visibility window over the strait tomorrow. Brief, but clear.’

Olezza nodded and looked at Pose.

‘There is your opportunity. Licciardello, Luján and Velázquez already have the sledges prepared. Ranieri, what is the condition of the engines?’

‘The fuel for the Primus heaters is being rationed down to the last gram, sir,’ Ranieri replied with the gravity of a veteran. ‘And the tools have already been packed. Pointed pickaxes, broad shovels and soft-iron crowbars. If the permafrost is as hard as granite, we shall wear out more wooden handles than sticks of dynamite, but the lads will not buckle.’

Pose looked at his men.

They were rugged tradesmen who would not break when the canvas of an Alberta tent was the only thing separating them from a storm at thirty degrees below zero.

Once deposited on the summit of Seymour Island, they would be entirely alone. If magnetic fading silenced the high-frequency radio, nobody on the mainland would know whether they were still alive.

The only way off the island would be to finish the runway with their own hands.

---

For two months, Pose subjected the group to a brutal programme of endurance training.

They practised erecting Alberta-type field tents in hurricane-force winds, rationed fuel and learnt to transport heavy loads across powder snow using improvised sledges.

They knew that if a worker injured himself with a tool, no medical evacuation would be possible.

The Historic List of the Twenty-One Men

Senior commanders and personnel responsible for coordinating and carrying out the operation

1. Vice-Commodore Mario Luis Olezza
   Originator, promoter and commander of Operation Marambio.

2. Lieutenant Oscar José Pose Ortiz de Rozas
   Commander of Matienzo Army/Air Force Base, field commander of the patrol and pilot of the historic first landing on the plateau.

3. Lieutenant Mario Víctor Licciardello
   Operational officer on the plateau and commander of Camp Beta.

4. Master Non-Commissioned Officer Mario Rogelio Ranieri
   Technical officer of the patrol.

5. Corporal First Class Juan Carlos Luján
   Operational member.

6. Corporal First Class Ramón Alberto Velázquez
   Operational member.

7. Alberto Omar Amistadi
   Civilian meteorologist of the Argentine Air Force.

Non-commissioned officers and corporals who completed the contingent of twenty-one pioneers

8. Principal Non-Commissioned Officer Juvencio Daniel Iturra

9. Assistant Non-Commissioned Officer César Jaime Carrizo

10. Auxiliary Non-Commissioned Officer Agustín Edison Beltrán

11. Auxiliary Non-Commissioned Officer Silvano Andrés Barrera

12. Principal Corporal Jacinto Pérez

13. Principal Corporal Omar Juan Aimaretti

14. Corporal First Class Luis Fioramonti

15. Corporal First Class Hugo Adolfo Cortella

16. Corporal First Class Castor Eustaquio Ayala

17. Corporal First Class Francisco Ignacio Alfonso

18. Corporal First Class José Oscar Medina

19. Corporal First Class Archimedes Segundo Sancochia

20. Corporal First Class José Luis Cortese

21. Corporal Second Class Gabriel Arturo Escalante

Pioneers who, using nothing but their backs, their arms, pickaxes and shovels, broke the winter isolation of the White Continent.

Alejandro G. Mazzuchi
Retired military aviator — Writer of historical narratives

 

Malvinas: Torpedo Problems in the ARA San Luis

Malvinas 1982: The Misunderstood

Mariano Sciaroni

I often read comments about the Navy: the Navy did this, the Navy did that; whether it put to sea, and why it did not. I would like to know whether, after reading this account, the reader would be willing to sail aboard a submarine that could not dive — as in the ordeal of the submarine Santa Fe — or one armed with torpedoes that were effectively useless.

The condition of the SST-4 torpedoes during the Malvinas War

The German SST-4 torpedoes — “Special Surface Target 4”, also nicknamed “Sol Sol Taco Cuatro” — were delivered to the Argentine Navy between 1974 and 1975. At the time, they were among the most modern submarine weapons in the world.

This intelligent, wire-guided weapon remained connected to the launching submarine by a cable, allowing it to be guided remotely. It had a maximum range of 56,000 yards at 23 knots, or 24,000 yards at 35 knots, and carried a 573-pound warhead.

After the torpedoes arrived in Argentina, 19 test firings were conducted as part of the certification process: 15 from submarines and four from surface craft. Only eight were completed without incident. None of the torpedoes used in these trials carried a live warhead.

Despite this poor reliability rate — which, it must be said, was not very different from that of other contemporary submarine weapons — the torpedo was accepted into service.

Between December 1975 and May 1980, no operational firings were conducted. The only exceptions were three very short-range tests carried out in 1977 to take various measurements.

As early as 1975, the Submarine Force Command had asked the Directorate of Naval Weapons to conduct a live-warhead firing. The request was repeated in 1977. On both occasions, it was denied.

Between May 1980 and March 1982, eight SST-4 torpedoes were launched. Only one completed its run without incident. Another was lost, while in the remaining six cases the guidance wire was severed. In light of these results, the weapon was considered non-operational during this period.

During the Malvinas conflict, SST-4 torpedoes were loaded aboard the submarines ARA Salta and ARA San Luis. The latter fired two of them at enemy warships.

As might have been expected from the experience of previous years, however, the torpedoes failed to perform as intended.

For a detailed examination of these incidents, see Ready for Combat? Submarine Weapons in Malvinas, 1982.

Post-war assessments identified several possible causes for the weapon’s failures during the conflict:

• According to the manufacturer, each torpedo required a full overhaul every ten years. As they had been manufactured in 1972 and 1973, they were already approaching the end of their intended service life. That ten-year lifespan, however, applied only when the weapons were stored under specified conditions of humidity, pressure and temperature. A suitable storage facility was not brought into operation until 1981. In practice, therefore, the torpedoes had already exceeded their service life.

• The torpedoes’ gyroscopes were supposed to undergo maintenance every 48 months, but Argentina lacked the equipment required to perform the work. In 1980, six gyroscopes had been declared unserviceable and were sent to Germany for maintenance together with three others. Twenty-two remained in Argentina, but their reliability could not be properly assessed. Neither of the two torpedoes fired by ARA San Luis was fitted with an overhauled gyroscope.

• The torpedoes’ batteries had been manufactured between 1971 and 1972 and were expected to last between seven and nine years. Between 1979 and 1982, thirteen new batteries were purchased, bringing the total number available to forty-three. In February 1981, the Submarine Force Command requested that the batteries be tested, but the tests were never conducted. Of the two torpedoes fired by San Luis, one had a new battery and the other had an expired one.

The maintenance condition of the torpedoes was therefore clearly unsatisfactory. The weapon also suffered from an inherent design problem. In September and October 1982, the manufacturer, AEG, offered the Argentine Navy a large quantity of spare parts free of charge, apparently as a form of compensation. It also offered to maintain and repair the torpedoes already in service.

In 1984, despite the arms embargo, a substantial part of one torpedo was sent to Germany for examination. Once the investigation had been completed, the conclusions were forwarded to Argentina. By then, however, the weapon was already becoming obsolete.

It was a new and poorly understood technology, affected by both design defects and maintenance failures. Given all these problems, the SST-4’s poor performance during the 1982 Malvinas War was hardly surprising.

Even so, the submariners were ordered to put to sea practically unarmed.

Anti-Subversive War: Larrabure and His Martydom

Larrabure and His Martydom

“I want to die standing, invoking God in my family, and the Fatherland in my Army.”

In 1974, during a constitutional government, Argentina was going through one of the most violent periods in its history. The ERP (People's Revolutionary Army) planned the takeover of the Villa María Military Gunpowder and Explosives Factory in order to seize weapons and kidnap Major Larrabure, a military engineer and one of the Argentine Army’s leading specialists in explosives.

On 3 November, he was taken to a “people’s prison” beneath a haberdashery in Rosario. His cell measured barely 1 metre by 60 centimetres, with no natural light and minimal ventilation. While life continued normally above, beneath that haberdashery an Argentine Army officer remained kidnapped.

The ERP demanded to exchange him for five of its detained members, but the government decided not to negotiate. For more than a year, he endured hunger, damp, isolation and illness. He lost more than 40 kilograms. They tried to make him collaborate with them by using his knowledge of explosives, but he always refused.

On 19 August 1975, he died after 372 days in captivity. Four days later, his body, wrapped in a sheet and a blanket, was abandoned in a ditch on the outskirts of Rosario, where it was found by the authorities.

In his letters, he asked his children not to hate, to forgive his captors, and never to allow resentment to take the place of faith. That testimony of forgiveness is one of the reasons why the Catholic Church today recognises him as a Servant of God.

Photo: Cadet Larrabure, 1950s.

Goose Green: The End of Two Sea Harriers

 

The Death of Lieutenant Nick Taylor over Goose Green

On 4 May 1982, the British invaders launched an air strike against the Pucará aircraft stationed at Cóndor Military Air Base near Goose Green. The mission ended in tragedy for the attackers. Argentine anti-aircraft artillery proved highly effective, while troops on the ground concentrated their small-arms fire on the incoming aircraft. Two of the three Sea Harriers were shot down.

The first to fall was Lieutenant Nick Taylor, flying Sea Harrier FRS.1 XZ450. An eyewitness later recalled:

“Sea Harrier No. 2, flown by Lieutenant Taylor, came in almost directly behind No. 1. I then saw a burst of black smoke erupt from it, followed by red flames. It banked to the left and struck the ground on the left-hand side of the field beside the runway, producing a spectacular mushroom cloud.”

Lieutenant Taylor’s remains were subsequently recovered by Argentine servicemen, who gave him a Christian burial with full military honours. He still rests at Darwin, in the place where the Argentine forces laid him to rest.

Malvinas: The Assault on Governor House — An Argentine NCO’s Account

At the Head of My Group of Twelve Soldiers

Account by Marine Second Corporal and Malvinas War Veteran Conrado Augusto Olmos Matar

From the time I was a young boy, I felt a calling to pursue a career in the armed services. I wanted to become either a police officer or a serviceman. While I was at secondary school, a friend from my neighbourhood, Argentine Navy NCO Carlos Sequeira, encouraged me to continue my studies in the Navy. Some time later, personnel from that institution came to the province to promote recruitment among young men from Santiago del Estero. I did not let the opportunity pass and quickly submitted my application.

After meeting the entry requirements, I joined the Marine Infantry NCO School at Punta Mogotes. The early days were difficult because, like anyone from Santiago del Estero, I missed my homeland, its customs, my loved ones and my friends. Everything was new and different, and I felt alone among so many recruits from different parts of the country.

The training was so demanding that many of my fellow recruits requested their discharge. Of all those who had entered, only seventy-four of us graduated. Several times I came close to abandoning my career, but thanks to the encouragement and support of a lieutenant named Alemán, I was able to continue and graduate as a second corporal in 1980.

My first posting was to the 1st Marine Infantry Battalion at Puerto Belgrano, where I was received by the deputy commander, Captain Giachino, and the company commander, Lieutenant Damore. From that moment onwards, I began taking my first steps as an NCO. My duties basically consisted of training a group of soldiers while continuing to expand my own professional knowledge.

In 1981, I was placed in charge of training the Rocket Launcher Group, which consisted of twelve soldiers, including two men from Santiago del Estero, Coronel and Gutiérrez. At the beginning of 1982, my group was incorporated into C Company—Charlie Company—which was under the command of an NCO named Gigena.

I remember being particularly struck by the fact that, by that point in the year, the soldiers of the 1962 intake had still not been discharged and that training activities and exercises were continuing. Normally, operational activities were reduced during that period and replaced by maintenance duties.

One warm morning in March, the officers and NCOs were assembled on the unit’s parade ground. Captain Giachino informed us that we had to prepare to embark and sail towards some islands, where we were to recover an Argentine vessel that had been seized by the British.

Only one thought kept repeating itself in my mind: we were going to fight. You join the armed forces knowing that you may never actually have to do so, but our time had come. I mentally reviewed everything I had learnt.

From that moment onwards, we began our preparations, which mainly involved completing our stocks of supplies, field equipment and ammunition. In addition, we went to the firing range every day to practise and zero our weapons.

Our preparations continued until approximately one thousand men belonging to the Marine Infantry Brigade embarked aboard the vessel Comandante Trizar. Although we had the necessary facilities, during the first few days we suffered badly from seasickness. Despite our previous experience at sea, the conditions were so rough that virtually everyone aboard felt their effects.

Once we were well out at sea, the officers and NCOs were assembled to receive the operational order. In broad terms, our mission was to land on and seize the Malvinas Islands. Our principal objective was to overcome the forces defending Government House and remove the existing authorities.

This task was to be carried out by the Amphibious Commandos, supported by us, the Marines. The mission was by no means easy. We knew that we would be facing professional soldiers with combat experience who belonged to a major world power. The most difficult requirement, however, was that we had to defeat the enemy while attempting to avoid causing casualties. It was an extremely difficult undertaking, but in the end it was achieved.

During the night of 1–2 April, we completed our final preparations and readied our personnel and equipment for the landing. At that moment, I did not think about the historic nature of what I was about to do, because the demands of the operation and the responsibility of leading my soldiers left me no time to do so.

I thought only about how the operation would unfold, how I would react to the different situations that might arise when we encountered the enemy, and how my subordinates would respond. So many questions remained unanswered as we waited for the decisive moment when we would enter combat.

Shortly before dawn, the operation began with troops landing by helicopter. My group was ordered to proceed directly to the airport, take part in the assault to seize it and then advance towards Government House. We went forward with our teeth clenched, ready for battle.

When we arrived, we encountered no resistance. There were only a few British personnel, who had already been taken prisoner by the troops who had landed before us. Although the situation in that sector was under control, we had to exercise extreme caution because of the large number of mines and explosive booby traps that the enemy had placed in the area.

While we waited at the airport for the rest of the battalion to arrive, we could hear bursts of machine-gun fire and explosions in different parts of the island. It was only then that I fully understood that the operation had begun and that I was involved in a serious armed conflict.

I remember with great sorrow that, while we were at the airport awaiting orders, a helicopter approached carrying the body of our deputy commander, Captain Giachino. He had fought heroically at the head of his men during the most important operation carried out on the island up to that point.

The news filled us with sadness, but also with anger. An Argentine had been killed, and he was a member of our own battalion.

Once the rest of our troops had arrived, we marched towards Government House in support of the Amphibious Commandos. We surrounded the building to ensure that none of the enemy escaped. By then, they had surrendered in the face of our forces’ offensive.

My next mission was to guard the prisoners and subsequently transport them to the mainland, together with my group and other personnel.

Once back in Argentina, we prepared to carry out a new mission: reinforcing the defences of Tierra del Fuego. I travelled there with other military formations and remained there until the end of the war.

Although I spent only a short time on the Malvinas Islands, I still feel deeply moved to have taken part in the recovery operations while commanding a group of twelve soldiers. Among them were two fellow natives of Santiago del Estero, Coronel and Gutiérrez, with whom I remain on friendly terms to this day.

“As a Navy NCO, I had the honour of serving in the 1st Marine Infantry Battalion and of being under the command of Captain Giachino, an example of military virtue.”

Argentina Rejects the MI6 Campaign Against Us: Fuck Your Own Arse, England!

Argentina Is More Than the Worst Things Said About It

The author responds to the campaign of criticism against the country in the context of the World Cup; he urges people not to be swayed by prejudice and invites us to acknowledge our failures and continue to grow

Celebrations in Buenos Aires following the victory over England in the World Cup

Esteban Bullrich
LA NACION

There are moments when silence becomes a form of surrender.

In recent weeks, I have watched as my country—and our national football team—became the target of accusations that go far beyond criticism of unacceptable behaviour. Argentina has been portrayed as a racist nation. Some have even suggested that our national identity is somehow intertwined with Nazism.

Those words hurt.

Not because Argentina is perfect. It is not.

Like every country, we have racism, prejudice, ignorance and intolerance. We have people who say offensive things, people who discriminate and people who fail to recognise the dignity of another human being. We should never deny that reality. We must confront it honestly.

But honesty also requires us to tell the whole story.

I have admired Samuel L. Jackson for decades. His work has entertained and inspired millions of people around the world, myself included. I also respect every public figure who chooses to fight racism. Humanity needs more such voices, not fewer.

Admiration, however, does not remove the responsibility to disagree when disagreement is justified.

When public figures reduce Argentina to a caricature, they overlook a history that deserves to be known.

In 1813, when much of the world still accepted slavery as normal, Argentina passed the Free Womb Law, which declared the children of enslaved women free. Forty years later, our Constitution of 1853 abolished slavery entirely.

Those decisions came half a century before Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation and a decade before the Thirteenth Amendment abolished slavery throughout the United States.

This is not a contest in moral virtue.

History should never be used to declare one nation superior to another.

The point is simpler.

Facts matter.

A nation should not be judged solely by its darkest chapter, nor by its loudest voices.

Critics often point out that Nazi war criminals fled to Argentina after the Second World War. That happened. It is a stain on our history that no serious Argentine seeks to erase.

But history also tells us that many countries—including the United States, Canada and several European nations—admitted former Nazis through various immigration programmes or intelligence operations during the Cold War. Evil exploited political circumstances across several continents.

To conclude from that reality that Argentina is ‘a Nazi country’ is as unfair as saying that the United States is defined by slavery or that Europe is defined by colonialism.

Civilisations are always greater than their mistakes.

Perhaps what saddens me most is that these accusations have emerged at a time when the world desperately needs less contempt and more humility.

Humility begins by acknowledging our own failures before condemning those of others.

Every society carries wounds.

Some countries struggle with antisemitism.

Others struggle with Islamophobia.

Others with xenophobia.

Others with police violence rooted in racism.

Others with discrimination against Indigenous peoples.

No nation has completed the task of recognising the equal dignity of every human being.

Argentina certainly has not.

But neither has anyone else.

As someone living with ALS, I depend on the kindness of others for much of my life. I can no longer speak in my own voice. I can move only my eyes. The disease has stripped me of every illusion of self-sufficiency.

It has also taught me something unexpected.

When the body becomes fragile, people cease to look like categories.

There are no conservatives helping me into bed.

There are no progressives adjusting my wheelchair.

There are no Catholics, Jews, Muslims or atheists offering me comfort.

There are only human beings serving another human being.

That is where dignity begins.

And perhaps that is also where leadership should begin.

Leadership is not the ability to win arguments.

It is the willingness to seek the truth rather than applause.

True leadership rejects racism without turning entire nations into stereotypes.

It condemns hateful words without forgetting the humanity of those who spoke them.

It remembers that justice without mercy can easily become moral self-righteousness.

Football, like politics, often magnifies our worst instincts. Passion can become arrogance. Celebration can become insult. National pride can become exclusion.

When that happens, we should apologise without making excuses.

But an apology should never require us to accept false identities imposed upon us by others.

The Argentina I know is not built on hatred.

It was built by immigrants who crossed oceans carrying little more than hope.

It was built by grandparents who escaped wars.

By Jewish families who found refuge.

By Syrian and Lebanese shopkeepers.

By Italians and Spaniards who rebuilt their lives.

By teachers, doctors, farmers, workers and volunteers who quietly serve their communities every day.

That Argentina rarely makes international news.

It should.

The deepest lesson of my illness is that none of us will be remembered for the arguments we won on social media or for the insults we directed at strangers.

We will be remembered for whether we lightened another person’s burden.

Countries deserve to be measured by the same standard.

Judge Argentina by the truth.

Judge us by our entire history.

Judge us by our willingness to acknowledge our failures and continue to grow.

But please, do not judge us by stereotypes.

The world has already suffered enough because of them.

Malvinas: The First and Last Argentine Landing in Malvinas

The First and Last Argentine Landing in Malvinas

2 April – 13 June 1982

By Commodore (Ret.) Roberto Federico MELA

Malvinas-Historias de coraje

The first landing for the reconquest of the Islas Malvinas on the morning of 2 April 1982, and the final landing and take-off on the night of 13–14 June, were carried out by C-130 “Hercules” aircraft of the Argentine Air Force on the runway at Puerto Argentino. Although different crews took part, their navigator was the same person: the then Commodore Roberto Federico Mela. Here is his account.

First landing

On the night of 1 April 1982, fourteen transport aircraft of the Argentine Air Force — 5 C-130s, 4 Fokker F-28s, 2 Boeing 707s, 2 Fokker F-27s and 1 IA-50 G-II — flew from their home base at the I Air Brigade in El Palomar to various deployment bases in southern Argentina, in order to take part in Operation ARIES 82, the code name for the airborne assault operation on the runway at Puerto Argentino.

The first departure for Malvinas was scheduled for the C-130, registration TC-68, call sign LITRO UNO, from Comodoro Rivadavia Air Base, carrying Brigadier Luis Castellano, Commander of the Malvinas Air Component, his General Staff, the Argentine Air Force Special Operations Group, and personnel tasked with setting up the Air Cargo Terminal.

The departure of this first aircraft was delayed several times, until it finally took off at 05:32 hours on 2 April, heading directly towards a point located 10 kilometres east of Puerto Argentino, where it had to wait until the last British troops had evacuated the aerodrome area and until our own troops had finished removing the obstacles the enemy had scattered across the runway: tractors, vehicles, baggage carts, and so on.

Landing was finally authorised and took place at 08:23 hours. After this, the personnel being transported quickly left the aircraft and unloaded the equipment needed to establish the MALVINAS Military Air Base.

Meanwhile, in the town of Puerto Argentino, just over 2 kilometres away, the Governor’s House was being taken. Those who had just landed could hear the exchange of gunfire between the British garrison and the patriotic Marine Infantry forces.

The crew of LITRO UNO earned the distinction of having begun the air assault for the recovery of our islands, and Commodore Roberto Mela had the honour of personally taking the enemy’s main flag from the airport facilities, still then called Port Stanley. That flag is now kept in the Hall of Honour of the Cadet Corps at the Military Aviation School in Córdoba.

Final landing and take-off

The final Argentine flight to the Islas Malvinas, with landing and subsequent return take-off, was carried out by C-130 TC-65, call sign PATO. It took off from Comodoro Rivadavia Military Air Base at 15:26 hours on 13 June with a simulated flight plan to Río Grande, Tierra del Fuego. From there, it was to descend to 10–20 metres above the sea, already in complete darkness because of the time of year at those latitudes, and, making a wide detour south of the Islas Malvinas, enter Puerto Argentino from the south-east.

The flight was conducted on instruments, since visibility was completely nil due to the prevailing darkness, compounded by adverse weather with rain, sleet and saline mist from the low-level flight over the waves, which formed a filthy crust on the windscreens. No lights were switched on, except the absolute minimum needed to make out the strictly necessary instruments. Nor was it possible to use the onboard radar, and radio communications were also impossible, as such emissions would have been immediately detected by the enemy.

Despite all these difficulties, after a flight of more than three and a half hours, the aircraft was able to reach a point around 30 kilometres from Puerto Argentino at the scheduled time. There was a tolerance of 5 minutes for reaching this point, because if the aircraft arrived earlier or later than that, our own anti-aircraft artillery would open fire, considering it to be an enemy aircraft. From that position, the crew could see, to the west of the Malvinas capital, an extraordinary brightness produced by the artillery duel, the flares used to locate targets, and tracer ammunition of every kind.

Although the tactical conditions were critical, the decision was made to land, since the aircraft was carrying an element vital to the Argentine troops: a powerful 155-millimetre gun and its corresponding stock of ammunition.

After touching down, the Hercules taxied to the end of the runway furthest from Puerto Argentino, because enemy shelling was taking place near the opposite threshold and a large number of flares were illuminating the area.

The complicated task of unloading the gun, which weighed several tonnes, became even more difficult when one of its wheels became jammed against the walls of the aircraft, while the engines were running and ready for immediate departure. Suddenly, the aircraft commander was ordered from the ground to shut down the engines and abandon the aircraft, as the Puerto Argentino air-surveillance radar had detected an English CAP — Combat Air Patrol — heading directly towards the aerodrome.

In the darkness, briefly lit by flares and the bursting of artillery shells, crew members and passengers left the aircraft. They remained for almost an hour among the mud and rocks bordering the runway, waiting for the British raiders — who did not approach because of the respect they had for our effective anti-aircraft artillery — to decide to turn back once they had exhausted their fuel.

When the enemy aircraft moved away temporarily, and before another incursion could take place, the personnel returned to the Hercules, which had by then been freed of the gun. The engines were started in record time, and at 20:35 hours, amid the shrapnel scattered across the runway, “PATO” took off for the return flight with almost 70 evacuees, among them two journalists from Argentina Televisora Color: Nicolás Kasansew and Carlos Lamela.

The turbulent return route, amid the shadows of enemy warships and the threat of new combat air patrols, was flown at a height above the sea which, at times, was barely 10 metres.

In the first minutes of 14 June 1982, the Hercules landed at Comodoro Rivadavia Military Air Base, just over 9 hours after its initial departure.

That same day, a few hours later, British forces occupied the Malvinas aerodrome, discovering with surprise — and not without admiration — that Argentine transport aircraft had operated on the runway throughout the entire air and naval blockade, until the very last minute of the very last day.

Crews of the first and last Argentine flights with landing and take-off at Puerto Argentino

Islas Malvinas

2 April 1982

Aircraft: C-130 “Hercules”, registration TC-68 — LITRO UNO
Landing in Malvinas: 08:43 hours
Take-off from Malvinas: 09:20 hours

Pilot: Commodore Carlos Julio BELTRAMONE
Co-pilot: Vice-Commodore Alfredo CANO — Commander, C-130 Squadron
Navigator: Commodore Roberto Federico MELA

Flight mechanics:
Sub-Officer Adjutant Juan RYDZIK and Principal Corporal Mario CEMINO.

Cargo assistants:
Sub-Officer Adjutant Manuel CARABAJAL, Auxiliary Sub-Officer Ramón PAJÖN and Auxiliary Sub-Officer Carlos SALZANO.

13–14 June 1982

Aircraft: C-130 “Hercules”, registration TC-65 — PATO
Landing in Malvinas: 19:10 hours
Take-off from Malvinas: 20:35 hours

Pilot: Captain Víctor BORCHERT
Co-pilot: Captain Hernán DAGUERRE
Navigator: Commodore Roberto Federico MELA

Flight mechanics:
Auxiliary Sub-Officer Hugo CASTELLINI and Principal Corporal Carlos SOSA.

Cargo assistants:
Sub-Officer Adjutant Manuel CARABAJAL and Auxiliary Sub-Officer Carlos PAOLONI.

Crew doctor for the care of wounded personnel/evacuees:
First Lieutenant Guillermo MÜLLER.

Note: The crew members are listed with the military rank they held in June 1982.