Blood on the Murrell River: The Commandos Who Fought in the "Death Zone" and Escaped an Ambush

"They're going to kill us all," muttered the Army and Gendarmerie men as they faced off against British paratroopers in the Falklands. They were trapped in the strip of land where a soldier’s chances of survival are nearly nonexistent—but they fought back. The bullets shattering the rocks, the shrapnel that tore into them, and how they ultimately forced the British to retreat when all seemed lost.
Nicolás Kasanzew || Infobae

Captain Figueroa (center), Lieutenant Anadón (right) y First Lieutenant García Pinasco (back), planifying the mission, June 6th, 1982 (Photo: Nicolás Kasanzew)

Through freezing cold and sleet, they navigated a sector battered by naval gunfire and riddled with their own minefields. Leading them was Lieutenant Marcelo Anadón, who knew the terrain well. Advancing cautiously along the riverbank, spaced about fifty meters apart, they suddenly found themselves bathed in the glow of a massive, radiant moon.

Sergeant Guillén, scanning the far side of the Murrell, noticed a faint glimmer. At first, he assumed it was just the moonlight reflecting off the water. Only later would he realize—it had been the sheen of a plastic poncho worn by a British soldier.

"They shredded my hood and the back of my jacket, but I kept firing. The medic, Moyano, pulled a bunch of shrapnel out of my arm and back."

As they reached the bridge—a simple wooden structure with no railings—Anadón and his men prepared to cross. That was when the British opened fire.

Figueroa, along with Non-Commissioned Officers Poggi and Tunini, was making his way back from the far side of the river, where they had gone to set up a post-ambush blockade. Just then, an explosion ripped through the air, followed by gunfire. Instinctively, all the commandos flattened themselves against the ground.

The British were about 80 meters away, positioned on a rocky high ground across the river.

"We're exposed. They're going to kill all three of us," Figueroa thought. In trying to set an ambush, they had walked straight into one. Without hesitation, he opened fire toward the flashes of enemy gunfire. His blood felt like it was bubbling in his veins, and his nostrils were flooded with the sharp scent of adrenaline.

The Argentine commandos had landed in what soldiers call the "death zone"—a stretch of battlefield where survival is almost impossible.

Figueroa: "We're Exposed. They're Going to Kill All Three of Us."

The British fired both in single shots and rapid bursts. Figueroa saw streaks of red and orange whipping through the darkness, writhing toward him like demonic ribbons, hunting for his life. They were tracer rounds—illuminated bullets the British loaded every five shots to guide their fire in the night.

"It was the most magnificent sight I’ve ever witnessed in my life," he tells me.

Bullets slammed into the nearby rocks, shattering them into a storm of dust and shrapnel. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled his lungs, leaving him lightheaded, almost intoxicated. The fear of death dulled, swallowed by

"Captain, I'm hit!"
"Where did they get you?"
"In the leg, but I can crawl back."
"Fall back, we’ll get to you soon."

"I'll help him and pull back with him," Tunini interjected.

The round had pierced Poggi’s calf, passing clean through without hitting bone.

Figueroa kept firing until his rifle jammed. Fortunately, his comrades—especially Sergeant Guillén—were scattered beyond the bridge, taking cover behind the rocks. Their relentless fire on the hill forced the British machine guns and rifles to divide their attention, shifting some of the incoming fire away from Figueroa.

Guillén recalls: "They shredded my hood and the back of my jacket, but I kept firing. The medic, Moyano, pulled a bunch of shrapnel out of my arm and back."

"Cheto" (Handsome) Anadón asked García Pinasco for permission to charge the British, but the section leader held him back, telling him to wait until daylight.

As Figueroa fell back, he heard several explosions—then silence. The British machine guns had gone quiet. It was the fearless Anadón, standard-bearer of Commando 601, who, with deadly precision, had launched FAL-mounted PDF grenades directly into the enemy’s position. Only their riflemen were still firing now.

Once again, "Cheto" Anadón asked García Pinasco for permission to attack. Again, the lieutenant denied him, insisting they wait. But as Figueroa reached their position, he roared, "Let’s go get these bastards!" The adrenaline and fury coursing through him made it impossible to hold back.

Despite his reservations, García Pinasco relented. Figueroa took command, and the unit stormed across the bridge to launch their assault. Anadón quickly organized his men into a staggered formation: Vergara, Suárez, Quinteros, and two gendarmes from the elite Alacrán group—Natalio Figueredo and Miguel Puentes.

A faint light was beginning to creep over the battlefield. The attack was about to begin.

"The objective was to sprint forward, surround them from both sides of the ridge, and wipe them out—leave no one behind," recalls Captain Figueroa.

Once everything was set, he raised his right arm and gave the order: "Charge, damn it! Let’s wipe these bastards out!"

The commandos stormed ahead, firing from the hip in fully automatic bursts, mimicking the cadence of a machine gun. Their shouts and insults tore through the night, meant to unnerve the British troops.

The first to reach the enemy position was the fearless Lieutenant Anadón. But as he scanned the area, he realized the British paratroopers had already fled in haste, dragging their wounded with them.

In their retreat, the enemy had left behind a trove of abandoned equipment—firearms, radios, rucksacks, tents, communication codes, berets, gloves, a camera, and even a small Union Jack. That flag would soon be displayed as a trophy at the Commando 601 headquarters in Puerto Argentino/Stanley.

García Pinasco had been ordered to strike the enemy with a swift raid and set up an ambush.

The sheer speed of the assault forced the British paratroopers into a chaotic retreat. In their haste, they left behind an active radio—still transmitting—used to communicate with their high command. Bloodstains pooled on the ground, grim evidence of their casualties.

Later, the Argentine troops intercepted enemy radio chatter: urgent requests for helicopters to evacuate the wounded. Not long after, about four kilometers away, they spotted a flare piercing the sky—followed by the descent of a Sea King helicopter, marked with the white insignia of a medical evacuation unit.

After the battle, Guillén helped Indio Poggi to his feet. Poggi looked at him and said, "Wash my wound."

Guillén reached into his pack and pulled out a Margaret River triangle-shaped bottle. He raised it to his lips, pretending to take a swig.

"You bastard!" Poggi roared. "Don’t drink my medicine!"

Spoils of Battle: British Paratroopers’ Abandoned Gear – June 7, 1982 (Photo: Nicolás Kasanzew)

Needless to say, the commandos eagerly devoured the gourmet rations abandoned by the men of the 3rd Parachute Battalion—dried apple compote, chocolate, nuts, biscuits, and raisins.

A bitter blow for the Brits; a feast fit for kings for the Argies.

But not all rewards were sweet. The Gendarmerie generously decorated its two men for their role in the battle. The Army, however, completely ignored the commandos of 601—the very unit that had handed them victory at the Murrell River.