Liberating Revolution: Should Perón have been Prevented from Escaping in 1955?

Alternate History: The Decapitating Revolution

Introduction – Argentina, 1955: A Country on the Brink

In mid-1955, Argentina was a deeply fractured nation. Juan Domingo Perón had dominated the political scene for almost a decade, leading a government that had radically transformed the country since coming to power in 1946. From the perspective of the working class and the labor movement, the country was experiencing a period of unprecedented social inclusion. Perón had institutionalized labor rights, or, to put it more accurately, had convinced the population that labor laws originated from their own labor. Thus, a robust social safety net had been created, and workers had been empowered as key political actors. The Eva Perón Foundation, even after Evita's death, maintained its welfare-oriented approach among the poorest sectors of society. The economy, however, was experiencing turbulence: the exhaustion of the import-substitution industrialization model, external constraints, rampant inflation, and dwindling reserves were beginning to generate tensions. Even so, the union apparatus and the Peronist machinery maintained a strong capacity for mobilization and resistance. For millions, Perón was the legitimate leader who had dignified the people and embodied a new form of social justice.

At the other end of the spectrum, a significant portion of society—comprising sectors of the middle class, the business elite, broad sectors of the Church, liberal intellectuals, and a large part of the Armed Forces—considered Peronism an authoritarian, populist, and corrupt regime. They accused the government of having co-opted the state apparatus to consolidate a cult of personality, persecute opponents, control the press, and degrade republican institutions. Education had been subverted, transforming everything from kindergarten to high school into a full-fledged cult of personality surrounding the leader. The only ones who resisted were the universities, the intellectuals, and the scientists. Tensions with the Church, particularly after the elimination of religious holidays and the legalization of divorce, escalated to the point of severing a relationship that had been allied in the early years. The political climate became suffocating: newspapers were shut down, censorship was imposed, political parties were banned, and the discourse became increasingly militarized. For the opposition, the defense of the "Republic" justified the use of extreme means, and the most conservative sectors viewed the idea of ​​a military coup as the only way out of the "Peronist onslaught" with growing sympathy.

In this tense and polarized context, the bombing of June 16, 1955, marked a point of no return. The failed assassination attempt, which left more than 300 civilians dead in Plaza de Mayo, demonstrated that the political struggle had crossed the threshold into violence. Three months later, with a military uprising consolidating from Córdoba and the country on the brink of civil war, Perón understood that his continued presence would only mean more bloodshed. On September 19, he submitted his resignation and went into exile, leaving a power vacuum that the Liberating Revolution would rush to fill with proscriptions, persecutions in the form of seeking justice for abuses, and an uncertain promise of "recovered republicanism."

The Flight and Aftermath

Juan Domingo Perón's flight in September 1955 was as dramatic as it was revealing of the political collapse gripping the country. After weeks of escalating instability, with military uprisings from within the country and increasingly weakened support within the Armed Forces themselves, Perón realized that his continued hold on power could trigger an open civil war. On September 19, he submitted his resignation in a letter to General Franklin Lucero, the Minister of the Army, invoking his desire to avoid a "fratricidal catastrophe." From that moment on, a silent but carefully executed withdrawal began.


The general who carried out the execution was Perón, as this clearly states.

Perón spent that night at the Unzué Palace, his official residence, from where he secretly departed at dawn on September 20. In another letter, to his aide-de-camp, he asked him to bring a list of items from his house, including photos of his 15-year-old lover. He was taken to the Navy arsenal in Río Santiago, where he remained hidden under naval protection, disguised in a sailor's uniform to avoid being recognized. From there, he was taken by launch to a Paraguayan ship anchored in the Río de la Plata—the Paraguay, a diplomatic gunboat—which transported him under political asylum to Asunción, with the approval of Paraguayan President Alfredo Stroessner.

Paraguay was merely a stopover. Perón spent a few days there in precarious conditions and under the constant threat of being handed over to the new Argentine military command. Determined to avoid that possibility, he quickly sought a safer destination. He first traveled to Panama, a country that traditionally offered asylum to Latin American exiles, and from there began a long journey that would later take him to Nicaragua, Venezuela, and finally to his longest exile in Spain, under the Franco regime.

In those early days, however, Perón's exile was neither comfortable nor safe. He traveled with provisional documents, without guarantees of stable diplomatic protection, and in many cases had to rely on the help of personal friends, contacts within the Peronist movement, and allied Latin American governments. Meanwhile, in Argentina, the so-called Liberating Revolution was beginning, promising to restore the "republic" but quickly adopting a systematic policy of proscription, persecution, and repression against Peronism, which would seal the country's political fracture for decades.

EMcL

Decree Creating the Military Commandancy of the Malvinas Islands

Decree Creating the Military Commandancy of the Malvinas Islands and Adjacent Coasts

Dedicated to the British bastards occupying what is ours!

Handwritten copy of the Decree establishing a Military Commandancy in the Malvinas Islands and adjacent coasts, Buenos Aires — dated 10 June 1829.

TRANSCRIPTION:

When, through the glorious revolution of 25 May 1810, these provinces separated themselves from the rule of the Mother Country, Spain possessed a material portion of the Malvinas Islands and of all the others surrounding Cape Horn, including that known by the name of Tierra del Fuego, that possession being justified by the right of first occupant, by the recognition of the principal maritime powers of Europe, and by the proximity of these islands to the mainland that formed the Viceroyalty of Buenos Aires, upon whose Sovereign they depended. For this reason, the Government of the Republic, having succeeded to all the rights which the former Mother Country held over these provinces and which its viceroys enjoyed, has continued to exercise acts of dominion over the said islands, their ports and coasts, despite the fact that circumstances have not hitherto permitted that part of the Republic’s territory to receive the attention and care that its importance requires.

But as it is necessary no longer to delay the measures that may safeguard the rights of the Republic, while at the same time enabling it to enjoy the advantages that the products of those islands may provide and ensuring the protection due to their population, the Government has resolved to decree:

Article 1. The Malvinas Islands and those adjacent to Cape Horn in the Atlantic Ocean shall be governed by a political and military commander to be appointed immediately by the Government of the Republic.

Article 2. The residence of the political and military commander shall be on Soledad Island, and there a battery shall be established under the flag of the Republic.

—End of Part 1—

South Georgias: Operational Debut of the Argentine Army Aviation

Courage Under Fire

On 3 April, a Navy Alouette, crewed by Lieutenant Remo Busson, Sub-Lieutenant Guillermo Guerra and Second Petty Officer Julio Gatti, carried out an armed reconnaissance over the area.

Following this reconnaissance, which met with no opposition, the landing of the Marines was ordered to begin aboard the Argentine Army’s Puma helicopter, crewed by Lieutenants Alejandro Villagra and Eduardo López Leguizamón, and Sergeant Jorge Díaz Medín. In the first wave, a group of 15 Argentine Marines under Lieutenant Luna was landed.

The second wave was then carried out. It took off from ARA Bahía Paraíso in a Puma helicopter, transporting Sub-Lieutenant Giusti and another 14 Marines, with the aim of landing in an area different from that of the first wave. During the approach, both helicopters came within range of British weapons, which opened intense fire, mainly directed at the Puma aircraft.

Although the Puma was struck by a large number of rounds, this did not prevent the pilot from crossing the bay and making an emergency landing on the opposite shore from where the British were positioned, at a distance of approximately 500 metres.

From the Alouette, Sub-Lieutenant Guerra disembarked with a MAG machine gun and, together with Sergeant Díaz Medín, provided support so that the helicopter could evacuate the wounded and the dead, and the landing of the Marines could continue. In that attack, the conscripts Mario Almonacid and Jorge Néstor Águila were killed, while four other men were wounded.

This historic event was the baptism of fire of Argentine Aviation, and all the aircraft crew members were decorated.

In the photographs are the now retired Captain Guillermo Guerra of Naval Aviation and the retired Lieutenant Colonel Alejandro Villagra of Army Aviation, a Malvinas War veteran.

April 2nd: Landing Accounts of Conscript Sergio Díaz

Landing in First Person

Accounts of 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘰 𝘙𝘶𝘣𝘦𝘯 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘻, 𝘤onscript class 63 𝘴𝘦𝘤t𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘎𝘢𝘵𝘰

Source: Malvinas: Historias de coraje

Top paragraph:

This photograph was taken on 24 April 1982 at the School House, 800 metres from Goose Green. On this day, the National Flag oath was taken.
Here are the 36 members of Section “GATO” of Company “C” of RI 25, made up of one officer, 5 NCOs and 30 soldiers.

From left to right, they are:

Standing:
Private (Class 63) Pesaresi Sergio
Private (Class 63) Bergero Sergio
Private (Class 63) Alarcón José
Lance Corporal Pérez Luis
Corporal Godoy Hugo
Second Lieutenant Reyes Roberto
Sergeant Colike Martín
Lance Corporal Maidana José
Corporal Salas Rubén
Private (Class 63) Clot César
Private (Class 63) Gauna Rito

Kneeling:
Private (Class 63) Rodríguez Víctor
Private (Class 63) Vélez Daniel
Private (Class 63) Cabral Walter
Private (Class 63) Carletti Víctor
Private (Class 63) Baudracco Sergio
Private (Class 63) Fraire Raúl
Private (Class 63) Almonacid José
Private (Class 63) Moyano Carlos
Private (Class 63) Cossaro Juan
Private (Class 63) Escudero Sergio
Private (Class 63) Cepeda Héctor
Private (Class 63) Amarante(s) Víctor
Private (Class 63) Vargas José

Seated:
Private (Class 63) Velázquez Sergio
Private (Class 63) Murúa Eduardo
Private (Class 63) Oporto René
Private (Class 63) Bertone Víctor
Private (Class 63) Massey Gabriel
Private (Class 63) Rodríguez Carlos
Private (Class 63) Fazzi Sergio
Private (Class 63) Squizzato Juan
Private (Class 63) Rivas Porfirio
Private (Class 63) Vélez Fernando
Private (Class 63) Díaz Sergio
Private (Class 63) Noel Daniel

It is 4:30 a.m. We are woken up — the time has come. I make the sign of the cross (nothing else comes to mind), I simply entrust myself to God and try to control my nerves… so that no one notices. We wash, have a quick breakfast, and return to the barracks. We finish gearing up; the NCOs check everyone’s equipment. We also paint our faces and mentally go over all the training we have received since joining the beloved Regiment 25 in Colonia Sarmiento. This was no game — we were to take part in an amphibious landing and might enter combat. We put on woollen balaclavas and are ready to go.

The order comes to move to the embarkation hold, and we set off. Once there, everything is incredible: we see many Navy personnel carrying out manoeuvres, preparing the amphibious vehicles towards the ship’s exit (although many of these sailors are our age, they are true professionals). The ARA Cabo San Antonio looks like a great monster with its jaws open.

Lieutenant Colonel Seineldín was already waiting for us, prepared for the landing. His face was painted for combat, two grenades hung from his chest, and he carried an automatic machine gun. For me, it was reassuring that he would land with us — with the lieutenant colonel alongside us, we could not lose. He looked at us one by one, checking that everything was in order, as if trying to read our thoughts… but we were all ready to carry out what would be the GLORIOUS DEED OF THE MALVINAS.

It is 6:00 a.m. In a few minutes we begin boarding the amphibious vehicle. I am on the right-hand side near the door, next to Sergeant Colque (a great soldier). Once aboard, I am wearing a life jacket that inflates automatically by pulling small tabs, like those used on passenger aircraft. Again, I recall all the steps we must follow in case we have to evacuate the vehicle in an emergency. The ramp closes; we are ready to begin the landing. We hear the sound of the amphibious tracks on the ship’s metal deck. The movement makes me tense — I just hope everything goes well. The lieutenant colonel asks for music to be played on a tape recorder he brought, commemorating the British invasions. The operation was called Rosario, after the Virgin.

The vehicle is moving — we head out to sea. I realise it as the vehicle drops into the water. The engines begin to roar, drowning out the music… at that moment we begin to pray that the vehicle keeps moving, because if it does not, water will start to come in and it could sink. I try to look out through the small window; I can only see the sea level, almost covering it completely. At the top, a few stars and a very dark sky are visible. The engines continue roaring until, at one point, it gains momentum and we feel that we are moving forward.

After a few minutes that pass very quickly, we continue across the sea until suddenly there is a very loud noise, as if we had collided with something, and the vehicle jolts sharply. We had reached land. We are on the islands.

Second Lieutenant Reyes opens the upper hatches, stands on the seats, looks outside and begins shouting: “There they are, those sons of bitches — there they are!” I thought the British were waiting for us, and the vehicle kept advancing. Suddenly the bell rings, signalling that we must disembark (we had already removed our life jackets), and then we stop. The green light indicates the ramp will open… Every second feels like an eternity.

As soon as the ramp is fully open, we begin to disembark — I am the third to go down. We move out as quickly as possible and lie flat on the ground. The first thing I notice is that the island seems to move beneath me, as if I were still on the ship. I try to regulate my breathing (I think I am very nervous — that is why “the island is moving”). The order is given to continue, and I get up. My FAL rifle is loaded, safety off.

We advance in a fan formation, trying to look in every direction — it is still dark. We reach the airfield and continue moving forward, weapons aimed ahead, watching everything. The terrain is flat, with low grass; we move along the runway. At the sides, the ground has irregularities formed by stones. As we continue advancing, some comrades remain behind, taking up positions to secure the ground gained.

I keep walking and feel as if the stones are moving. We stop, kneeling, and I glance sideways to determine whether something is really moving among the stones or if it is just my imagination. Shortly afterwards, we continue advancing, covering almost the entire runway, when we begin to hear the sounds of fighting in Port Stanley — machine-gun fire, sometimes drowned out by naval bombardment.

We keep moving until we reach the end of the runway. There I am ordered to remain in position. I look in all directions, not wanting to be caught off guard by any British soldier. I see that the runway is blocked with lorries and engineering vehicles to prevent aircraft from landing. The group continues towards the lighthouse further ahead.

I remain kneeling with my rifle, scanning all around. In the direction of Port Stanley, I can see the flashes of rockets fired by the British. The noise continues — there is clearly resistance. Here at the airfield everything is very calm, very still, yet the island still seems to move beneath me. I do not understand what is happening to me.

Suddenly, I see personnel beginning to operate in the control tower, while vehicles blocking the runway start being moved. Everything is going perfectly, without incident — better than expected. So far, we have not had to engage the British.

Soon, some of those who had advanced to the lighthouse return and tell me they found British soldiers who surrendered without resistance. When the last vehicle is removed from the runway, I see a light in the sky blinking on and off — it is an aircraft approaching. As it comes closer, I see it is a Hercules aircraft passing overhead. I am at the runway threshold, and it is an impressive sight — I had never been so close to an aircraft before.

I continue on watch, rifle ready to fire. The aircraft stops, and the air landing begins. The sounds of fighting in Port Stanley are no longer heard. Day is breaking; aircraft continue arriving — everything is synchronised, everything unfolding normally.

The new day now reveals these beloved islands. I can see the ground clearly: where I am, the sand is very fine and white, with some shrubs. I remain in position, now calmer and more composed — the islands have been recovered.

Relief soon arrives. Everything has gone better than planned. We leave the airfield with the satisfaction of having accomplished the mission. Now we continue towards Port Stanley.

Diplomacy: José María Ruda at the UN in 1964

José María Ruda Action at the UN in 1964

In 1964, an Argentine diplomat succeeded in placing the question of the Malvinas at the heart of world politics. It was not a symbolic gesture, nor a rhetorical exercise designed merely to place a protest on record. It was a legal and diplomatic intervention of remarkable precision, conceived to demonstrate before the United Nations that the British presence in the Islas Malvinas was not the product of some natural or uncontested historical development, but the consequence of a colonial act of force carried out in 1833.

On 9 September 1964, Ambassador José María Ruda appeared before the United Nations Special Committee on Decolonisation and set out Argentina’s case with clarity, discipline and firmness. His argument was straightforward in form, yet profound in its legal implications: the Islas Malvinas formed part of Argentine territory and had remained under unlawful British occupation since the expulsion of the Argentine authorities established there in 1833. In presenting the matter in those terms, Ruda did more than restate a national claim. He framed the dispute within the language of international legality, stripped it of imperial narrative, and restored it to its true character as an unresolved question of sovereignty.

The force of his address lay not only in the historical account of the British seizure, but in the legal consequences that flowed from it. Ruda argued that, following the occupation, the Argentine presence on the islands was displaced and a new population was established under British colonial authority. That point was fundamental. It meant that the present-day population of the islands could not be treated, in strict legal terms, as though it existed independently of the original act of force. To do so would be to convert the effects of occupation into a source of legal entitlement.

It was precisely on this ground that Ruda rejected any attempt to present the case as one of self-determination in the ordinary colonial sense. His position was that this principle could not properly be invoked to validate a demographic and political situation created by the very act whose legality was in dispute. The governing principle, he maintained, was that of the territorial integrity of states, a principle no less central to the post-war international legal order. In juridical terms, his reasoning was compelling: self-determination cannot be detached from the circumstances in which a population came to be constituted, nor can it be used to sanctify the consequences of territorial dispossession brought about by force.

The international climate of the time gave his intervention even greater significance. The world was in the midst of decolonisation, and the United Nations had already adopted Resolution 1514, the Declaration on the Granting of Independence to Colonial Countries and Peoples, calling for the speedy and unconditional end of colonialism in all its forms and manifestations. Ruda’s achievement was to place the question of the Malvinas within that great historical current while also distinguishing its specific legal character. He showed that this was not a conventional colonial case, but a singular and serious dispute involving the occupation by a colonial power of part of the national territory of Argentina.

The result was historic. In 1965, the General Assembly adopted Resolution 2065, formally recognising the existence of a sovereignty dispute between Argentina and the United Kingdom and calling upon both governments to pursue negotiations. That was a decisive development. The United Nations did not treat the matter as settled, nor did it reduce it to a question of local preference. It acknowledged, instead, that there was a bilateral dispute requiring a negotiated solution in accordance with the purposes and principles of the Charter. In legal and diplomatic terms, this remains one of the most important achievements ever secured by Argentina in the international arena.

More than six decades later, Ruda’s address still stands as a central point of reference because it united patriotism with legal discipline, national conviction with international argument. The Malvinas are not merely a matter of memory, nor a relic of past grievance. They represent a question of sovereignty that bears directly upon the South Atlantic, its natural resources, its maritime routes, and Argentina’s strategic projection towards Antarctica. At a time when the region is once again attracting growing geopolitical attention, the Argentine position demands seriousness, continuity and a firm sense of state policy. The strength of the national case has never rested on improvisation, sentimentality or passing formulas, but on a coherent legal foundation sustained across time. That is why Ruda’s intervention endures: not simply as an eloquent speech, but as one of the clearest juridical defences ever made of Argentina’s rights over the Islas Malvinas.

Malvinas: Height 234 and the 21-Day March

Height 234 and the 21-Day March

What took the Güemes Combat Team three days of marching and a helicopter flight cost Section “Gato” 21 days, physical deformities, lower-limb amputations, and, ultimately, surrender. After arriving in the San Carlos area, First Lieutenant Daniel Esteban deployed an advance element to warn of and ambush a potential British landing. On Tuesday 18 May, Second Lieutenant Roberto Oscar Reyes was due to relieve Second Lieutenant José Alberto Vásquez at the so-called Height 234, or Fanning Head according to British cartography. Section “Gato” consisted of four NCOs and 15 soldiers: the group of 21 infantrymen marched 14 kilometres towards the mouth of the strait with the mission of “providing early warning to the Force and, once reinforced with heavy weapons, ambushing any British troops that might enter through the channel”.

“The previous night was much like the ones before it, that is to say freezing and with very poor visibility — you couldn’t see two metres ahead,” recalled Reyes, who at the time was 25 years old and had four years of military training. Half an hour before Thursday turned into Friday, a soldier posted on security duty informed him that he could hear noises in the channel: conversations in English and acoustic signals coming from the mouth of the strait. The second lieutenant confirmed the suspicion: vessels were moving silently and with their lights off towards San Carlos.

The group of soldiers had two 81 mm mortars and two 105 mm recoilless guns to carry out the ambush. Reyes issued orders to prepare for combat and warned of the imminent opening of fire. But the first thing he tried to do was establish communication with First Lieutenant Daniel Esteban at the San Carlos command post. The batteries in the radio, after three days exposed to the cold, had very little charge left: the call went through, they could hear them, but they could not be heard in return. “This is Gato, this is Gato,” they said, unsuccessfully. The attempt at communication, and the subsequent explosion of the shells, may already have been warning enough.

A few minutes after two in the morning on Friday 21 May 1982 came their baptism of fire. The ships were within mortar range, but visibility was almost non-existent. “A few improper lights could be seen on deck and some conversations could be clearly heard carrying across the water; the fleet continued its stealthy advance and apparently had not detected us,” Reyes described. He ordered fire to be opened with the mortars using illumination rounds in order to determine the exact location and improve the effectiveness of the guns. But the strategy failed and the element of surprise was lost: the rounds did not light up the trajectory, and their own position was revealed by the flash of the shot. “From the moment the firing began until around three in the morning, I ordered several changes of position until the mortar ammunition was exhausted. From then on, the enemy reaction became more intense,” the second lieutenant later wrote in a personal account. Enemy fire was beginning to find the Argentine soldiers’ position. It was time to withdraw: “I ordered preparations for the retreat to begin. I was convinced that we had fulfilled the mission of alerting our forces and ambushing the British.” In perfect Spanish, a spokesman from a British ground patrol called on them to surrender. “They told us they were part of a battalion that had landed and that they would not harm us if we gave ourselves up, that we were surrounded and would not be able to get out, that we should hand over our weapons. This psychological action by the British had exactly the opposite effect on all of us: it made us want to break contact, withdraw, and rejoin our forces in San Carlos,” Reyes recalled. It had been more than three hours of intermittent, varied, but sustained attack.

Of the 21 combatants, only 11 remained together. The wounded and those who had gone missing amid the confusion of the withdrawal and counter-action had been captured as prisoners of war: none had been killed. The British were still searching for them and were so close that it seemed incredible they had not spotted them. They had just 40 rounds per man left. Their hiding place became a privileged front-row seat from which to watch Argentine aircraft attacking the British fleet of 17 ships.

On the first night they set out south-eastwards towards Puerto Argentino, following the coastline. They walked at night, covering roughly 3 kilometres a day. “We had no protection from the cold other than the clothes we were wearing. The damp, thick mist was always present; at times it was indistinguishable from a fine, freezing drizzle,” the second lieutenant recounted. Fear and the instinct for survival masked the hunger and the anguish. To escape a detachment of 15 British soldiers, they had to cross an inlet of the sea with soldiers who could not swim. They lost rifles, and Corporal Hugo Godoy nearly drowned, but the worst came afterwards: soaked clothing and the certainty of permanent cold.

Trench foot and gangrene were advancing rapidly in three soldiers. Godoy, Moyano and Cepeda needed urgent medical attention. They were left in the care of Clot, the soldier in the best physical condition, with enough food for two days, a first-aid kit, and orders to delay enemy pursuit by a day so as to give the other seven combatants time to continue their feat.

After marching for five nights, they reached a small settlement identified as New House, apparently deserted. “We were a truly pitiful group. Our clothes were in tatters, we were ill, our faces disfigured by suffering. None of us was older than 25, yet we looked like a group of wandering old men,” Reyes recounted. On the 21st day of the epic attempt to reach their own lines, they were woken by a full section that had encircled the settlement: a kelper hidden on the property had betrayed them. “From a position in the shed, I had a British soldier in my sights, and I told my men to do the same with others, but not to fire until I gave the order,” he described. Reyes calls himself a “professional soldier”: “I was prepared for the worst, and if I had ordered fire to be opened, those soldiers, though at the very end of their strength, would have done so. But I turned around and looked at them: we had lost the capacity to fight, we were in no condition to withstand even the slightest attack and get out of the place. I decided this was the end of our war; the time had come to surrender. I walked outside and laid down my weapon.”

Section “Gato” never managed to return to Puerto Argentino or reunite with the Güemes Combat Team. It was 11 June 1982: three days later, the Malvinas War would come to an end. The landing at San Carlos remains a source of pride for First Lieutenant Carlos Daniel Esteban and Second Lieutenant Roberto Oscar Reyes. It matters little that the operation was successful for the British troops. Such were the symptoms of an unbelievable war.

Puedo hacerte también una versión más literaria, más periodística, o más fiel al tono militar original.

Guerrero: A Soldier with a Missile as a Sword

Miguel Vicente Guerrero, the patriot who dreamed of a strong Argentina: the life, science and sovereignty of the “father” of the Condor II

To speak of Commodore Miguel Vicente Guerrero is to speak of one of those extraordinary Argentine figures who, even after having devoted their intellect, vocation and life to the service of the Nation, did not always receive in their own country the recognition they deserved. A soldier, scientist, strategist, teacher and nationalist, Guerrero was far more than the principal driving force behind the Condor II missile project: he was a man convinced that Argentina had to develop its own power, its own technology and its own defence capability in order to cease depending on others and to act in the world with sovereign dignity.

Born on 26 July 1943 in Caucete, San Juan, his life was marked from childhood by a national tragedy: the devastating San Juan earthquake of 15 January 1944. Guerrero survived that disaster, which destroyed the province and claimed the lives of thousands of Argentines, among them two of his younger sisters. That early wound, shaped by pain, loss and the harshness of a country that so often forced its sons to rise again from the ruins, seems to have forged in him a singular strength. From a very young age, he understood that life demanded fortitude, sacrifice and a sense of mission.

He studied on a scholarship at the Military Lyceum of Mendoza and later joined the Argentine Air Force, where he began a brilliant career. He qualified as an electronic and aeronautical engineer, graduating from the Military Aviation School, and his outstanding performance quickly placed him among the most promising officers of his generation. In 1964, while holding the rank of second lieutenant, he travelled to the United States on a scholarship to further his education. Years later, in 1974, he returned to specialise in missile technology at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), one of the most prestigious institutions in the world, where he graduated with the highest academic distinction. That period abroad did not turn him into a technician in the service of foreign interests; on the contrary, it reinforced his conviction that the most advanced knowledge had to be placed at the service of Argentina.


Guerrero was an electronic and aeronautical engineer, graduating from the Military Aviation School.

Guerrero belonged to that rare breed of men who understood that science and national defence were not separate worlds, but parts of one and the same historical task. For him, a nation without technological capability of its own was a vulnerable nation. And a vulnerable nation, sooner or later, falls subject to the will of others. That idea would become central to his life’s work.

His name became permanently associated with the Condor project, and especially with the Condor II, one of the greatest technological achievements attained by Argentina in strategic matters. At the Falda del Carmen facilities in Córdoba, within a highly secret complex under Air Force control, Guerrero led, together with Argentine technicians, scientists and military personnel, an undertaking of enormous scale: to develop a vehicle with an indigenous projection capability, combining spatial, scientific and military deterrent applications.



The project did not emerge from nowhere, nor was it a mere military whim. It was the product of a comprehensive vision of the nation. On the one hand, it sought to provide Argentina with the capability to place satellites into orbit by national means, that is, to advance towards space autonomy. On the other, it offered a concrete instrument of deterrence against external threats, especially after the Malvinas War, when the brutal asymmetry between Argentina and a NATO power such as the United Kingdom was painfully laid bare.



Miguel Vicente Guerrero during his time at MIT (the Massachusetts Institute of Technology), where he graduated in Missile Technology in 1974

Guerrero clearly understood something that many political leaders never wished to understand: the recovery of bargaining power vis-à-vis the British occupier could not rest solely on diplomatic declarations, but also on the construction of national power. His reasoning was underpinned by impeccable geopolitical logic. If Argentina possessed a system capable of representing a genuine threat to the British military posture in the South Atlantic, London would be forced to increase enormously the cost of maintaining its occupation of the islands. And when the cost of an occupation becomes too high, politics begins to shift. This was not a reckless impulse, but a deterrence strategy aimed at narrowing the military gap and bringing the United Kingdom to the negotiating table from a different position.

For that reason, many quite rightly regard him as the “father of the Condor II”. For he was neither a secondary figure nor a mere administrator: he was one of its central minds, one of the men who gave direction, shape and strategic purpose to one of the most ambitious projects in the history of Argentine technology.

His career, however, did not end there. Guerrero also served as President of the National Commission for Space Research (CNIE) and was a pioneer of Argentine satellite telecommunications, in addition to working as a university lecturer and later as Dean of the Faculty of Science and Technology at the University of Salvador. In other words, he did not think only in terms of defence: he also sowed knowledge, trained professionals and helped to build lasting scientific capabilities for the country. His patriotism was not rhetorical; it was concrete, technical, institutional and profoundly Argentine.



During the Malvinas War, moreover, he served as a Major in the Argentine Air Force and took part in the planning of air missions. Once the conflict had ended, he joined the Rattenbach Commission, tasked with analysing responsibilities and assessing the conduct of the war. He had fought, he had thought deeply about defence, and he had contributed to the subsequent critical evaluation. He was, in short, a man of complete military integrity: committed to the Nation before the conveniences of the moment.



Bunker for the launch and control of the Condor missile at Cabo Raso, Chubut.

Yet, as so often happened in Argentina to those who dared to build real sovereignty, Guerrero’s fate ended up being marked by the political pettiness of an era. The Condor project, which had advanced significantly and aroused the concern of foreign powers, was ultimately dismantled during the government of Carlos Menem, within the framework of automatic alignment with the United States and Great Britain. The names of Domingo Cavallo, Guido Di Tella and the pressures exerted from the American embassy became associated with that decision, which brought to an end one of the country’s most promising strategic developments.


He studied on a scholarship at the Military Lyceum of Mendoza and later joined the Air Force.

It was not merely the closure of a programme: it was the deliberate renunciation of a historic opportunity for autonomy. And, as if that were not enough, Guerrero was not honoured for having carried out with distinction the mission that the State itself had entrusted to him; instead, he was punished by being forced into retirement, while the teams of technicians and scientists who had made that achievement possible were broken up. The paradox was scandalous: Argentina penalised one of its most capable officers for having succeeded in a task of vital importance to the national interest.


The Civil Association Friends of Cabo Raso were the driving force behind the tribute and also built a cenotaph in memory of Commodore Guerrero..

Even so, Guerrero did not yield. And it is here that the moral dimension of his character reappears. After his retirement, he received offers to continue his career in the United States, including in academic circles. He could have chosen prestige abroad, the comfort of foreign recognition, or the ease of a life detached from Argentine frustrations. He did not do so. He chose to remain in his country and to devote his knowledge to the education of new generations. He was a lecturer, dean, director and teacher. He continued serving the Nation from the classroom and from science, with the same loyalty with which he had once served in uniform.



Those who knew him remember him as a noble, brilliant, sober man, deeply committed to the Fatherland. He was neither an improviser nor an adventurer: he was a consummate professional, a serious strategist, a respected scientist and an Argentine firmly convinced that sovereignty is not begged for, but built. In times of cultural dependence, he championed national development. In times of political subordination, he thought on a grand scale. In times of resignation, he placed his faith in an Argentina that was capable.

His death, in August 2019, passed for many almost in silence, as though the nation’s forgetfulness were determined to repeat one of its worst habits: forgetting its finest sons. Yet the figure of Miguel Vicente Guerrero withstands that oblivion. He lives on in every Argentine who understands that there is no independence without science, that there is no effective diplomacy without power of one’s own, and that there is no future for the Nation if those who worked to make it freer, stronger and more respected are held in contempt.




To remember Commodore Miguel Vicente Guerrero is not merely to do justice to an exceptional man. It is also to recover a central lesson for contemporary Argentina: countries that renounce their strategic talent, punish their patriots and surrender their technological capabilities without resistance condemn themselves to impotence. By contrast, those peoples who honour their men of science, their honest servicemen and their builders of sovereignty keep alive the possibility of standing up once again.



The Condor II on its service tower.


Miguel Vicente Guerrero was one of those indispensable Argentines. A man from San Juan marked by tragedy, shaped by excellence, devoted to service, a leading figure in national defence, a driving force behind space and missile development, and an example of fidelity to the Fatherland. His life shows that Argentine greatness is not an empty nostalgia: it is a concrete possibility whenever men emerge who are willing to think, work and sacrifice for it.



And if Argentina should ever decide to rediscover its destiny as a sovereign, industrial, scientific and respected nation, it will have to look again towards figures such as his. For there, in men like Guerrero, there still beats an idea of the country that never surrendered.


En el 2016 recibió una distinción por su carrera en la Fuerza Aérea