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.