Argentine Marines: Colemil and his Men en Monte Longdon

Lance Corporal Colemil and his men on Monte Longdon

The Marines of the 12.7 mm machine-gun company attached to RI-7 on Monte Longdon prepared the defence of their position as they were accustomed to: deep works, with shelters, communication trenches, ammunition stores, etc., always working to improve them. It was the best way to pass the time before going into combat, as they were convinced they would have to fight, and constant work was the best way to overcome the انتظار, in line with Marine Corps tradition. When the British assault came, they saw how right that attitude had been. Those who had not done so suffered unnecessary casualties and were unable to fight effectively.

Two days before the attack, Lance Corporal Colemil went to the Marine Corps Combat Support Service. There, Lieutenant Scotto told him: “Vizcacha (another of Colemil’s nicknames), here are the newly arrived night sights—take these for the rifles and machine guns.” The lance corporal took three for rifles: he gave one to his commanding officer, Lieutenant Dachary, another to Chief Corporal Lamas, and kept the third. He also carried six Litton sights for the machine guns and five or six head-mounted night vision devices that proved of no use. The following day, the Marines spent time training with the night sights.

The night of 11 June 1982

Carlos Rafael Colemil, in charge of a 12.7 mm machine gun (the one positioned furthest to the west on Monte Longdon), had taken conscript Leiva, who felt unwell, to the aid post. After being examined and treated, he was authorised to return to his position. On their way back, they passed by Chief Corporal Lamas’s machine gun, who said to Colemil: “Stay very alert. Don’t let your guard down—there could be an attack tonight.” They continued on. When they reached the shelter they used for rest, Colemil woke the relief and, together with two conscripts who had already completed their watch on the 12.7, began the nightly patrol. They stopped briefly near the Army’s Racit (S) radar (an infantry radar used to detect the enemy) and exchanged a few words with the operator sergeant. “Get into your dugout—they’re about to start firing,” he warned Colemil.

The radar, capable of detecting enemy infantry movements, was switched off at 8 p.m., as British ships had detected it and subjected it to naval fire from the south, which facilitated the infiltration of British paratroopers for the attack. These paratroopers, roughly a company in strength, made their way through the minefields without triggering them. Silently, they infiltrated sectors held by the Bravo Company of RI-7, under Second Lieutenant Juan D. Baldini, whose front faced west on Monte Longdon.

Colemil and the two conscripts continued moving among the rocks until he stopped and looked west through his rifle’s night sight. To his surprise, he saw a diffuse shape moving not far away. Uncertain, he aimed his FAL rifle and fired a shot. In response, he heard the unmistakable rattle of a Sterling machine gun. There was no doubt—it was the enemy, and close. At the same time, a paratrooper stepped on a mine; the man’s cry and the explosion alerted the whole of Monte Longdon.

Once the enemy was detected, Colemil ran to the shelter and used the field telephone to call Lieutenant Dachary’s command post: “Cobra, this is Araucano. Cobra, this is Araucano.” —“Go ahead, Araucano.” —“Man the weapons—we are under attack, we are under attack.” —“Received.” (The machine guns were connected to Dachary’s command post and to each other.)

While Colemil alerted his superior, the fighting spread. Thanks to the element of surprise, the British managed to position themselves at the western end of the hill, advancing with machine guns, rifles, and 66 and 84 mm rockets. The atmosphere was hellish. Colemil marked targets with tracer rounds from his rifle, aided by the night sight. Then came artillery fire. The Argentine Marines dived into their foxholes; as soon as it stopped, they emerged to keep firing, only to be hit again. The paratroopers took advantage of these moments to advance, overrunning Colemil’s position, leaving him isolated and unable to rejoin Dachary’s men.

Undeterred, Colemil continued firing the 12.7, but not for long—the weapon jammed and went out of action. From that point, a long night began for “Araucano” Colemil, a brilliant NCO whose determination and bravery caused the British many problems and numerous casualties.

“Well, we’ve got rifles and plenty of ammunition,” he told conscripts Ferrandiz and Leiva, who had remained with him. “Let’s shoot them to pieces.”
“Corporal, they’re coming in their hundreds,” said Ferrandiz.
“That’s fine—we’ll let them pass and then hit them from behind.”

At one point, Colemil saw British troops trying to set up a mortar. “These won’t get away,” he said, opening fire, wounding one and forcing the others to withdraw.
“Watch your back, Corporal!” warned Leiva as three paratroopers approached at speed. Colemil turned and fired a burst of about fifteen rounds. One fell; the other two retreated wounded, shouting.

Lying prone, he searched for targets through his sight. Whenever one came into range, he put them out of action. Alone, he caused heavy losses among those attempting to take the Argentine positions in that sector of Longdon. His conscripts supported him with their rifles.

At one point, he saw the enemy trying to recover a recoilless rifle near his position. He opened fire, saw one fall, and then his position came under intense fire. At that moment he thought: if I don’t fight, I’m dead. He began crawling from position to position, firing whenever he saw an enemy. He spotted one standing on a parapet with a bipod-mounted rifle—he fired, and the man dropped instantly. He continued firing at others trying to reach him.

While exposing himself to find targets, Colemil was hit—the round struck the front of his helmet, pierced it, and lodged in his scalp, stopping at the back of his head. A paratrooper, from just over twenty metres away, had thrown a grenade which exploded nearby, but a rock stopped the fragments. As Colemil rose to locate him, the same man fired his rifle. The bullet grazed his head. Because of this wound, running from forehead to nape, Colemil earned the nickname “Moneybox”. He felt warm blood running down his face. Dazed, he steadied himself, took up his rifle, and waited. As soon as his attacker appeared from behind a rock, he aimed at his chest and fired. The man cried out and fell backwards.

“Corporal, let’s bandage your head,” said Ferrandiz.
“Yes, but quickly—we can’t stop firing.”

“We’re cut off—we won’t hold much longer.”

At around 3 a.m., they began receiving fire from their own artillery, which was striking the area assuming it had already fallen.
“Corporal, why don’t we surrender?”
“No—no way. I won’t be taken prisoner.”
“Then let’s fall back.”
“All right—let’s go. We’ll link up with Corporal Lamas.”

They tried to withdraw but were immediately engaged and forced back. Colemil had offered fierce resistance and was clearly pinpointed.

At approximately 03:00, he decided to withdraw towards Bravo Company’s command post. Taking advantage of a lull, they tried again. The two conscripts managed to escape, but Colemil was hit in the leg. He tried to crawl but lost consciousness after a few metres. When the British advanced, they left him where he lay, believing him dead. He was later taken prisoner and regained consciousness aboard the British hospital ship Uganda, where a platinum plate was inserted in his skull.

That night, he expended five FAL magazines and reloaded twice. British accounts speak of a “sniper” who caused heavy casualties—this was likely Lance Corporal Carlos Rafael Colemil.

In 1982, he was awarded the decoration “Honour for Valour in Combat”.

The GADA 601 Becomes Support Artillery

ANTI-AIRCRAFT ARTILLERY ENDED UP CONDUCTING SURFACE FIRE
Account taken from the Gaceta Malvinense

What follows is a transcription based on the account of then Second Lieutenant Claudio Oscar Braghini, Commander of the Third Section of Battery “B” of the 601st Air Defence Artillery Group (GADA 601) of the Argentine Army…

During the fighting on 1 May, the RAF had identified the positions of the Argentine anti-aircraft artillery pieces, making a change of position necessary. A reconnaissance of the area was first carried out, as the route to be taken was littered with Beluga bombs that had failed to detonate due to the low altitude at which they had been released. The guns had to be moved over 1.5 km and be operational by the early hours of 2 May. Although the distance was short, only one tractor was available to tow two Oerlikon Contraves 35 mm guns (each weighing 6,000 kg), a Skyguard radar (around 5,900 kg), two field generator units (900 kg each), and 280 ammunition crates. This required an extraordinary effort from personnel, whose numbers had been halved, as the remainder were in Puerto Argentino and could not be redeployed because helicopters from Cóndor Air Base were engaged in airlifting Infantry Regiment 12 from Puerto Argentino to Darwin.

Despite everything, the section was operational at first light on 2 May.

To avoid a repeat of the surprise attack of 1 May, it was decided to maintain a permanent “red alert” posture, as the section was located about 80 km from Puerto Argentino and the terrain allowed Sea Harriers to attack at very low altitude without early warning from the surveillance radars in Puerto Argentino.

For the personnel, this operating regime meant extreme physical exhaustion, alleviated only by night-time rest—rest that was constantly interrupted by alerts from Puerto Argentino, British naval harassing fire, or reconnaissance flights detected by the Air Force’s ELTA radar near the position.

There was no alternative, despite insufficient personnel to rotate combat posts, since under these conditions aerial surveillance could not be neglected “for even a minute”—a statement based not on rhetoric but on mathematical calculation.

A combat aircraft such as the Sea Harrier has an attack speed of between 250 and 300 metres per second. Given that the maximum range of the Skyguard fire-control radar is 16 km, and assuming no terrain variations causing blind spots, and that the Harrier flies above 50 metres altitude, it could only be detected at 16 km. At 300 m/s, it would take 53.3 seconds (less than a minute) to cover that distance; by then, however, it would already be over the position, making engagement too late.

The maximum range at which fire can be opened is 4 km from the fire-control director, provided that radar “acquisition” and tracking of the target begins two or three seconds before the aircraft reaches that distance. Thus, timing is reduced as follows: from 16 km to 4 km—40 seconds—minus 3 seconds for acquisition and tracking leaves 37 seconds, and that under ideal conditions, which were certainly not those in the Falklands.

All this caused considerable strain. Personnel had to watch the radar screen with intense concentration from morning until nightfall; similarly, gun commanders and ammunition handlers had to remain at their posts in the open all day under harsh weather conditions. However, this demanding regime proved worthwhile on 4 May at 13:45, when three echoes appeared on the radar screen. All relevant communications were made. Second Lieutenant Braghini, together with his radar operator, Corporal First Class Ferreyra, allowed the three Harriers to approach to within 5 km without “acquiring” them, thereby preventing early warning and avoiding the risk of anti-radiation missile launch. The image of a Harrier approaching at high speed in low-level flight appeared on the TV monitor. Braghini fired the first burst, which struck the ground in front of the aircraft. The shells exploded ahead of the nose, and the aircraft immediately broke away in zigzag evasive manoeuvres. The Second Lieutenant waited for it to stabilise and pressed the firing switch again. This burst struck it directly, likely causing its fuel tanks to explode and completely tearing off its port wing. Engulfed in flames, the Harrier lost level flight, pitched up sharply, rolled along its longitudinal axis, and crashed to the ground. On impact, the pilot was thrown clear along with the ejection seat. His parachute deployed but became entangled in a fence. The wreckage, now a fireball, rose again, passed over infantry positions—burning two soldiers—and finally scattered across the end of the runway (Darwin airfield). Later, the body of the pilot, Lieutenant Nick Taylor of the Royal Navy, was found still strapped to his seat. The Sea Harrier bore the serial XZ450 and belonged to 800 Squadron.

As this aircraft was crashing, a second one was acquired by the fire-control system; it jettisoned its bombs to lighten its load and escape. Fire was opened, causing some damage, as it withdrew trailing a long plume of smoke. The third Harrier departed without causing damage.

This second attack confirmed the value of the section’s change of position, as the attack came from the opposite direction to the previous one—likely aiming to strike the former position and then operate freely. Continuous “red alert” also proved correct, as early warning from Puerto Argentino was not feasible due to the distance. After this, enemy aircraft limited themselves to reconnaissance at a distance. In the days prior to the ground advance, they again attempted to soften infantry positions, this time using chaff (metallic strips) to deceive radar, without success, as they were consistently met with heavy fire from GADA 601 and 20 mm Air Force guns near the runway. Harriers often withdrew damaged, and on one occasion one exploded in mid-air about 5,000 m from the position, falling into the sea.

From 27 May onwards, heavy artillery fire began to hit the runway and infantry positions. On the 28th, following bombardment, small-arms fire was received, with tracer rounds visible at night. From the position, it was unclear what was happening at the front. Argentine field artillery, under First Lieutenant Chanampa with three 105 mm Oto Melara howitzers, fired continuously through the night and into the next day until ammunition was exhausted. On the morning of the 28th, there was still uncertainty about events at Darwin, until the Air Force command post reported that friendly aircraft would attack British troops.

Minutes later, two Pucará aircraft arrived from Puerto Argentino and fired their weapons 4 km from the GADA 601 section’s position. Initially it seemed they had missed, but in fact British forces had advanced past the first lines during the night and were very close. Field artillery fire resumed immediately, reinforced by improvised rocket launchers mounted by Air Force personnel. Soon flares were seen and troops advancing in line formation north of Goose Green. It was unclear whether they were friendly forces withdrawing or British advancing. The sector—about 2,000 metres long and 700 wide—was open ground. The doubt ended when Air Force anti-aircraft crews reported incoming small-arms fire. Immediately, one of the GADA 601’s 35 mm guns opened fire—manned by Second Lieutenant Braghini with Corporals Rubina and Gallo feeding ammunition while soldiers continuously supplied rounds. The twin guns, firing at about 550 rounds per minute each, proved devastating in ground fire; British troops nearest the runway were left scattered across the terrain. Over the radio, Vice Commodore Pedrozo was heard urging: “Very good, GADA—keep it up, hit them hard!”

Fire continued for some time, always targeting concentrations of troops attempting to reach cover behind terrain features. At one point, the gun jammed due to a casing stuck in the chamber, fouled by dirt and grass from the intensity of combat. Corporal Gallo cleared it, but the brief delay allowed British troops to reach a small schoolhouse about 800 m away. Shortly after, mortar rounds began falling closer. Reports indicated small-arms fire coming from the schoolhouse windows. Braghini targeted the base of the structure; successive hits destroyed large sections and set it ablaze. It was later struck directly by 105 mm artillery, leaving only metal framework and piping.

Meanwhile, mortar fire closed in. One round struck the generator panel, cutting power to the gun. Manual operation was possible but ineffective against air attack, so Braghini ordered his men to move the 900 kg generator from another gun about 100 m uphill by hand. Although the northern advance had been halted, mortar fire intensified.

While attempting to move the generator, a shell landed just 5 metres from the previously used gun, damaging it and its generator. With the weapon unusable, Braghini ordered his men to take cover. At that moment, a Harrier dropped a Beluga bomb on the already disabled gun, but its aim was poor: half fell into the sea, the rest about 80 m away.

A British account later noted that radar-directed guns had been harassing 2 PARA, prompting an air strike by Harriers dropping cluster bombs, after which the intensity of the battle decreased significantly—suggesting the effectiveness of the Argentine fire.

Anti-Aircraft Artillery: Mission Accomplished!

Malvinas: Our First Air Hero

Our First Hero

At 4:40 AM on May 1st, the British began a bombing raid on the runway at Puerto Argentino. The days of preparation were over, and we were at the beginning of a battle. The crews were taking off in search of their baptism of fire, and at the same time, that of the Argentine Air Force.

Narrated by: The Author (A-4B Skyhawk Pilot)

The moment had arrived. May 1st, in the morning. Following the attack on the South Georgia Islands days earlier, the British fleet had launched its attack on Puerto Argentino. We had to counterattack. The first to take off was Captain Hugo Ángel del Valle Palaver, with his A-4B Skyhawk squadron, "Sky Hawk." The squadron also included Lieutenant Gálvez, Section Leader, First Lieutenant Luciano Guadagnini, and Ensign Gómez, who were about to engage the enemy for the first time. Their call sign for that mission was "Mole" (during the war, they change it daily so that if the enemy shoots one down, they won't know who it was, since in peacetime a permanent call sign is used). A section of Mirage IIIs, composed of Captain Gustavo Argentino García Cuerva and the First Lieutenant Perona, call sign "Dardo" for that mission. They began the first crossing of that immense, wild, and solitary sea, propelled by their single engine.

Near the islands, the Squadron Leader made contact with the radar at Puerto Argentino, and it began guiding them toward a target, giving them the heading to set toward it. The inexperience of both our ground crew and aircrew was considerable, due both to the Theater of Operations in which we had to fight and to the fact that it was the first time our Air Force had entered combat. This was quickly overcome by the enormous professionalism of its men and some painful experiences.

1- Contact: Speaking by radio.

2- Target: A material objective or part of it, against which offensive action is carried out.

"Your target is 30 miles away at level 200!" said the radar operator.

Suddenly, Captain Hugo del Valle Palaver realized that a terrible mistake was being made; that he They were being sent to intercept a squadron of British Harrier jets, when their mission and armament were intended to attack ships that were bombarding the eastern islands at that moment.
The Mirage section covering them had already informed the control tower that they were beginning their return to the mainland due to low fuel.



The A-4B commander decided to act quickly to prevent his men from being shot down by enemy missiles; but they also had to protect their auxiliary fuel tanks, pumps, and bombs, because, being a “David versus Goliath” situation, they had to prepare themselves, in their humility, to maintain a long confrontation with the maximum of their operational capacity, so he did not jettison his external stores.
He began a rapid descent, seeking speed and low-level flight to avoid being detected by the radar of any British frigate, which would give their position to those pursuing them. Meanwhile, the Mirage section commander carried out the first heroic action of the Argentine Air Force in this war and On the first mission of the same, he demonstrated the immensity of his heart. Despite having minimal fuel, and knowing that he might not have enough to return to the mainland, upon hearing what was happening over the radio, he returned to the Islands, risking the lives of both himself and his wingman. By placing himself between the A-4Bs and the Harriers, his aggressive stance managed to rout the enemy, whom he encountered in the air.



Then they returned—the section and the squadron—to their home base on the mainland, landing the Mirage IIIs, as we say in aviation jargon, "without juice," that is, almost out of fuel.

The first page of our Air Force's history in this war had just been written, and we could already say with pride: those are some of our own! We were waiting for them on the ground to give them a hug.

I remember that "Paco" told us that if he had any problems with his Mirage, he would attempt to land on the Puerto runway. Argentinian, since it was a shame to lose a plane that had cost the country so much, especially with a runway suitable for emergencies. This would later cost him his life on another mission that same day.

Río Negro Squadron: The third attempt to reach Lake Nahuel Huapi

It took the Navy three expeditions to reach Lake Nahuel Huapi

El Cordillerano

It took the Navy three expeditions to reach Lake Nahuel Huapi

Before the original "Modesta Victoria" expedition, there were other attempts by sailors that failed due to the limited knowledge of the region's rivers.

It took the Argentine Navy three expeditions to reach Nahuel Huapi by river, requiring considerable effort and significant resources. The objective was finally achieved on December 13, 1883, after several failed attempts. The honor fell to then-Lieutenant Eduardo O'Connor, commanding a vessel that would later become emblematic: the "Modesta Victoria."

History also witnessed some setbacks. First, “by decree of December 27, 1880, it was ordered that Commander Erasmo Obligado should lead an expedition to explore the Limay River and Lake Nahuel Huapi, in conjunction with the campaign that General Villegas would conduct as far as the aforementioned lake,” as reported by Alfredo Serres Güiraldes in his book “The Strategy of General Roca” (1979).

The author explained that “the embarked commission was named ‘Exploradora’ (Explorer) and consisted of Commander Erasmo Obligado, Lieutenant Eduardo O’Connor, who commanded the ‘Río Neuquén,’ Second Lieutenant Santiago Albarracín, and pilot Eduardo Moyzes. In total, the personnel numbered 18 men, with the addition of Infantry Lieutenant Jorge Rhode, who had requested to accompany the explorers.”

As can be seen, some of the protagonists lend their surnames to streets in Bariloche, though most people are unaware of why. “On February 25, 1881, they set sail, beginning their journey up the Río Negro. The voyage was arduous due to the difficulties they encountered along the way. They finally arrived at Fort Roca on May 17. From there, they departed on the 26th of the same month for the confluence of the Neuquén and Limay rivers.”

The account indicates that “initially, the expedition members attempted to navigate the Neuquén River, but the shallow waters prevented them from doing so. Therefore, they headed towards the Limay, but after a short distance, they found it difficult to continue navigating, also due to the low water levels.” At that time, the dams had not yet altered the river flows.

According to Serres Güiraldes, “in view of these setbacks, Obligado ordered Lieutenant O’Connor to continue navigating upstream with a boat and its crew. After covering 18 miles, he returned on April 1st. The ‘Río Neuquén’ remained at the Neuquén Pass awaiting the return of Villegas’s expedition. On May 25th, Villegas agreed with Commander Obligado to conclude the exploration of the Limay River, and the ship returned to Carmen de Patagones.”

Persistence

There was no room for discouragement. “Commander Obligado quickly prepared and launched a new expedition to the Limay River. This time, he chose the ship ‘Río Negro,’ which, due to its greater speed, would be better suited to overcome the force of the current. At the time the voyage began, the river was high, which facilitated the ship’s movement.” Things had started better. “Thus, on October 14, 1881, they met in Choele Choel. Colonel Vintter, temporarily in charge of the division, ordered, as a safety measure, that 50 men under the command of Captain Juan Gómez escort the steamship overland. Luck continued to favor the crew, as the Limay River was also carrying more water, reaching its confluence at the Collón Curá.”

But their good fortune only lasted up to that point. “From that point on, they were unable to continue their voyage, as the current kept throwing the ship against a rocky outcrop they named Río Negro (Black River). Faced with this impossibility, Obligado decided to continue the journey in a rowboat with sails, but for most of the voyage they had to tow the boat, and on some occasions, they had to haul the vessel out of the water and carry it by hand.”

Serres Güiraldes' account, based on that of González Lonzieme, published in the Naval Center Bulletin (1964), states that “thus, through a superhuman effort, they reached, on November 18, the place where Villarino had begun his return journey in 1783. But, from that point, a new obstacle was added to the many they had faced. On November 23, the Sayhueque Indians blocked their passage, forcing them to turn back.”

The reconstruction indicates that “faced with this insurmountable setback, with the few men they had, they had to return to where the ‘Río Negro’ was moored and, once aboard, continue their journey to Carmen de Patagones.

This second voyage demonstrated that navigation by ship to Nahuel Huapi was impossible. But it allowed them to carry out a series of
of geographical surveys of the banks of the Negro and Limay rivers.”

The “third” expedition is underway.

Obviously, “Obligado did not cease in his efforts to reach Nahuel Huapi by river. On October 31, 1882, the preparations were complete, and they set sail again on the ‘Río Negro.’ The voyage was faster thanks to the lessons learned on previous trips. This increased speed allowed them to reach the confluence of the Neuquén and Limay rivers on December 19, turning the bow of the ‘Río Negro’ once more upstream to the Río Negro rock, where they moored the boat.”

This time, it seemed that everything was in their favor. “As before, Obligado continued the journey in a launch, but with better luck since the indigenous people did not bother them. They only had to contend with the current, the rapids, the whirlpools, and the large logs carried by the current.” All these obstacles contributed to once again thwarting the aspiration to reach the lake.

Ironically, fate did not grant Obligado the joy of reaching Lake Nahuel Huapi, as he was appointed by the government to a mission in Europe. Lieutenant O’Connor was left in charge of the expedition. The Río Negro was under the command of Lieutenant Wilson, with O’Connor as the expedition leader. After a difficult voyage, including an eight-day grounding near Villa Roca, the Río Negro reached the confluence of the Collon Curá and Limay rivers. After several attempts to overcome the current and continue the journey, they had to moor the ship to the rocky outcrop.

The mission was on the verge of success. From there, O’Connor continued the journey in a specially built launch. As on previous occasions, much of the journey was made while towing. On the 30th, after immense effort, they reached the Traful River, and on December 13th, they entered Lake Nahuel Huapi. The logbook reads: “At 2:40 p.m., the boat, then called Modesta Victoria, triumphantly entered Lake Nahuel Huapi with its long rig and the National Flag flying high.” The epic journey had concluded.

Argentine Navy: Polar Support Vessel Project

Polar Support Vessel Project

Sebastian Perez

@Seba_IndArg

Argentina seeks to recover a capability lost since 1989: a new Argentine polar logistics vessel.
The Tandanor project, designed in conjunction with the Finnish company Aker Arctic, aims to be the ideal partner for the icebreaker ARA Irízar, strengthening our presence in Antarctica.




The project is based on the Aker ARC 133 design but adapted to Antarctic conditions. With a length of 131.5m and a deadweight of 5,000 tons, diesel-electric propulsion, and three generators, it will be able to operate in first-year ice (PC4/PC5 class).





The hull is designed according to the international Polar Classification 4 (PC4) standard. This allows it to operate year-round in thick, old-year ice and to move continuously at 2 knots over ice up to 1 meter thick.


Its unique geometry, unlike that of conventional cargo ships, features a specific curvature in the bow and sides designed to break through ice by weight and displace the ice blocks to the sides, preventing damage to the propellers.

The original plan at Tandanor involved manufacturing the hull using pre-assembled blocks at the Almirante Storni Shipyard, which would then be assembled and welded on the slipway.

The construction of the new vessel requires the use of special naval steels that possess not only high mechanical strength but also exceptional toughness at extremely low temperatures.


The standard for vessels operating in polar waters, due to their ability to resist brittleness in extreme cold, is EH36/EH40. These are the most likely grades for the ice belt.




The technical development involves a key technology transfer. The goal is to decentralize the workload of the ARA Almirante Irízar, allowing it to focus on its role as a heavy icebreaker and scientific laboratory.

This unit seeks to recover the capabilities lost after the sinking of the ARA Bahía Paraíso in 1989. That vessel, built at the Príncipe, Menghi, and Penco shipyards (Buenos Aires), was a landmark of the national naval industry, measuring 132 meters in length and possessing a significant helicopter landing capability.





Today, the project faces budgetary challenges (estimated at over USD 195 million), but its completion is vital for the logistics of Petrel Base and the Antarctic bridge. Recovering a vessel of this class will restore the Argentine Navy's polar transport autonomy.

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