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 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

San Carlos Landing: Accounts of the Troops of the 12th Regiment

Accounts of the Landing at San Carlos

By former Second Lieutenant “VGM” José Alberto Vázquez

Malvinas: Historias de Coraje




I was in command of a section of the 12th Regiment. On 15 May, in the Goose Green area, I embarked with my section aboard an Argentine Air Force Chinook helicopter, together with one 105 mm recoilless gun and two 81 mm mortars. Destination: somewhere in the north of the island. Two hours earlier, First Lieutenant Esteban and Second Lieutenant Reyes had done the same with their rifle section. At approximately 15:30 we arrived north of Height 234. The disembarkation was very rapid, as there were CAPs (combat air patrols) in the area. “Tell me where my commanding officer is,” I asked the vice commodore in charge of the helicopter. He replied that he had been unable to pick up First Lieutenant Esteban because of the notorious CAPs, and that he was on the other side of the height. The Chinook lifted off heavily and disappeared behind the rise.

We were left in absolute silence, feeling only the cold wind striking our faces. I was alone with my soldiers at the north-western tip of East Malvina; the sky was covered by a great mass of grey clouds, but on the far side of the strait one could clearly make out West Malvina. Behind me was the famous Height 234 (where Reyes, with 20 soldiers, would fight a short and violent battle against British commandos), and before me the immense Atlantic Ocean; and beyond that, Buenos Aires, where my wife and son were. I quickly abandoned my thoughts and organised the defence of the position. I had no idea whatsoever where the rest of the combat team was, and I needed to make contact as soon as possible, as I had less than two hours of daylight left. This task took me 45 minutes.

I left the section with its senior NCO and set off with Private Alberto Espinosa and Corporal Mansilla to look for the rest of the detachment. Strictly speaking, I should have sent out a patrol, but in real combat situations, and at the lowest command level (section), every activity was either led by the commander of the detachment or it was not done at all. That would become a defining characteristic from then on. There are circumstances in which the smallest tactical-level unit must divide. That is why, in war, the figure of the sergeant (section senior NCO) becomes fundamentally important in leading the section if necessary.

Armed with our personal weapons and ration bags, we began marching south, skirting the height on its eastern side. After 15 minutes of marching, we came upon a great stretch of water jutting eastwards into the island like a wedge. There was no trace of the detachment, only a small light visible on the far side of the strait (3 km away) to the south, and to the east, along the coast, a tiny glimmer that occasionally disappeared. There was no alternative but to head towards it.

The ground near the coast was full of irregularities, but I could not abandon the only point of reference I had, because I had neither compass nor map of the area, night was already closing in, and I had not the slightest idea where I was. After four hours of marching in pitch darkness, we came upon a small settlement, the first house 100 metres from our position. I knew that enemy special forces (SAS and SBS) were operating on the island, and I had to take the necessary precautions. For that reason I left my two men covering me from that position while I carried out a reconnaissance. Through one of the windows I saw a man and a woman having dinner. After giving the agreed signal, we entered the house, to the fright of its occupants. With my poor English I managed to learn that the place was San Carlos settlement and that Argentine soldiers had been occupying it since midday.

I left the NCO in the house and had the man accompany me to the bivouac of the supposed Argentines, with my pistol held 10 cm from the back of his neck. When I heard, “Halt, who goes there?”, I calmed down, and the kelper breathed again. I offered the appropriate apologies and joined my commanding officer. We spent the night there. First Lieutenant Esteban brought me up to date on the mission: in the event of a landing, we were to provide early warning and defend the position. He had established San Carlos settlement as the base and the observation post on Height 234. The combat team would be divided into three groups of 20 men, and together with Second Lieutenant Reyes (we called him Chelco) we would rotate; reliefs would take place every two days. The first shift would be under my command.

As my combat role weapon was a PA3 machine-pistol, Esteban had given me, before we left Goose Green, an Enfield .303 rifle with a case full of ammunition; thus, together with Private Espinosa, who did not carry an FAL because he was a radio operator, we formed an inseparable pair for the rest of the war, as he would be responsible for keeping me supplied with ammunition and I would be his shield of fire with that splendid Second World War rifle.

Before dawn, we drank some hot mate and set off for the post on Height 234 with First Lieutenant Esteban and 20 men. We arrived after two and a half hours of marching, and once the defence had been organised, Esteban and a group of men returned to base.

It was 16 May and my first wedding anniversary. Right then, two men set off and returned with a lamb, which we spitted and roasted using posts broken off from a wire fence. I had brought several packs of tinned soft drinks hidden in empty projectile boxes; I had borrowed them the night before departure from the store kept in the stone house (the command post of Task Force “Mercedes”) at Goose Green. Eight kilometres away lay the base of Combat Team “Güemes”, at Port San Carlos. The route was extremely difficult: stones, peat, and streams that could scarcely be seen, which made movement very hard indeed.

On the 17th I awoke very early, at first light, put water in my helmet, washed my face and teeth, and combed my hair. I heated a little water in my mug and prepared some mates. We had improvised the mate cup out of a soft-drink tin cut in half, and the bombilla was an empty BIC pen with the white cap and a few holes made with a heated nail.

At around 10:30, Second Lieutenant Reyes arrived with the relief. He had sprained his ankle. They were quite tired, and I offered them cold lamb and Coca-Cola. Chelco laughed and said to me: “You’re the only one who could welcome me with such a feast at the end of the earth, Rat.” And he embraced me. Rat was the nickname they had given me at the Military College, because I always found ways of getting hold of provisions, finding somewhere to curl up, and sleeping whenever possible.

Before leaving, we agreed to carry out the relief every five days because of the great wear and tear caused by marching across such terrain. I handed my helmet over to Reyes because he did not have one; the men of RI 25 wore berets. I then returned with my men to the base, with one less problem on my mind. At Goose Green I had had a fairly heated argument with a more senior officer who wanted me to wear my helmet in order to set an example to the troops, and he became quite angry when I told him that the example ought to be set by him, sleeping and eating rations with his men rather than under a roof in a house, as he had been doing.

At San Carlos we lived relatively well compared with the point on the strait. The inhabitants carried on with their normal lives, and we had to buy sugar, flour, and other things from them at market prices — their market prices, depending on how they happened to feel that day. Through our communications equipment (a Yaesu FT-101, a radio amateur set requisitioned from the kelpers in Darwin), I was able to speak with my wife.

On the morning of the 19th, sweeping frequencies, I picked up Belgrano II Antarctic Army Base communicating with the Antarctic Command. Since January, my wife’s cousin, engineer Gustavo Fossati, had been stationed there. In a matter of minutes, they established a radiotelephone connection with my in-laws’ house, and I was able to hear news of my family.

On several occasions during the night, enemy helicopters flew over us on reconnaissance missions, and with increasing frequency. That, together with other factors such as the geographical characteristics of the place, indicated that the enemy would carry out some action against our positions, and would do so soon.

On the night of the 20th, while I was organising my patrol for the next day’s relief on the 21st, the enemy began an intense preparatory, or softening-up, bombardment on various points of the island. Over the radio we heard several posts confirming those attacks. Lieutenant Esteban called me and informed me that he had changed the plans. A landing was now obvious. I had to send an NCO and a soldier to Height 234, with the համապատասխան communications set (Thompson), to give early warning in the event of a British landing. Reyes had to withdraw to our base with the men and the mortars, in order to form a defence with the whole combat team on the heights behind us. Unfortunately, we had no engineering tools, but the position was highly advantageous.

At approximately 01:30 we heard a great explosion in the distance and, 20 minutes later, an attempted transmission from Reyes. Then absolute silence. Before dawn, I woke the men who were to relieve Reyes. At first light they would begin the march. With the first daylight I was checking the radio and the weapons they would carry when a soldier posted 150 metres away on the upward slope of a rise began shouting for us. The sight was astonishing. Where only hours earlier a few seagulls had circled above the calm waters at the mouth of the San Carlos River, there were now five frigates surrounding a ship ten times larger (the Queen Elizabeth), and landing craft heading towards Ajax Bay and towards Port San Carlos, which was our position.

At approximately 600 metres, one could see an advance element of the British 2nd Parachute Regiment beginning its approach in combat formation towards our positions. As we ran down at full speed, Esteban said to me: “Gather everyone and form two groups, the one on the left under your command and the one on the right under mine.”

We had less than five minutes left to take up position on the north-eastern heights. While Esteban communicated with the commander of III Brigade to report events, I organised the two columns. I remember the soldiers looking at me with wide eyes, tense faces, and quickened breathing, waiting for orders. For an instant I remembered the telegram from my father received a few days earlier: “Your wife, an example of fortitude. Your son healthy and strong. Be an example to your soldiers.” I felt my heart pounding madly, as though it were about to burst. It had never happened to me before. It was fear, a great deal of fear, and suddenly I found myself giving orders, I do not know how.

We began moving with only our weapons, with the enemy entering the small settlement. Had we not done so, it would have been a massacre, for they would have pinned us with their advance and overrun us with the helicopter we shot down minutes later; tactically, we would have been lost. What might have happened afterwards, only God knows. The fact is that Esteban’s decision was the right one. For when we reached the summit, we saw a Sea King attempting to land behind our base. First Lieutenant Esteban ordered: “Open fire!” The aircraft was hit and turned orange from the tracers striking it, then collapsed from low height (5 or 6 metres).

At that moment I saw Esteban begin a change of position. I followed him. I believe what worried Esteban was being pinned down: 42 men with two machine guns and ammunition for one hour of combat against a landing force which, from what we could see, numbered 400 men in our sector — 2 Para Battalion — supported by naval artillery and helicopters.

The ground before us consisted of small ridgelines 70 to 100 metres high, with a general slope down towards the river. Our direction of movement was parallel to the river and perpendicular to the ridgelines, generally west to east. We went up and down. We were descending a gentle slope; the mist had already lifted and we had good visibility, when the second helicopter appeared, this time a Gazelle with rocket pods on its sides. It came along the river, which is quite wide there. At that moment the two columns were parallel to the river, separated by 60 to 70 metres from one another. Mine was the furthest away, about 100 metres from the shore.

The attack began with the first shot fired by First Lieutenant Esteban, as agreed: concentrated FAL fire. That is the combat tactic against aerial targets when one has no missiles. It seemed that what my first-year instructor at the Military College, First Lieutenant Abete, had taught me actually worked. The aircraft crashed into the water. The soldiers shouted every kind of epithet as the helicopter sank.

At a signal from Esteban, I carried out another change of position. At that moment, enemy mortar fire began falling on our initial position. We crossed another ridgeline and a third helicopter appeared, another Gazelle. There was no longer any need to issue orders: the conscripts were already behaving like veterans, they knew what to do. But the aircraft spotted our position and manoeuvred to bring fire to bear. When it dipped its nose to take aim, we once again emptied the whole magazine at the same time and at the same target. As the ammunition was tracer — that is, one could see the trajectory of the projectile as a trail of fire — it looked as though it were being attacked with a flamethrower. By then several of the soldiers were firing from one knee or even standing up.

The Gazelle passed over the first column and flew completely out of control towards my column. Everything happened so quickly that there was no time to move. It crashed 15 metres in front of me. The soldiers’ shouting was uncontrollable: “LONG LIVE THE NATION, DAMN IT!”, mixed with some sapucai cries and various other words, was heard until a crewman emerged from the machine and many of us opened fire on him. He was defenceless, he posed no danger to my soldiers. Why did we kill him? I still feel deep anguish over that death. Although I know that in the emotional state we were all in, the only thing one thinks of is firing and firing and firing until nothing moves. Besides, moments earlier he had wanted to kill us, so at the time it seemed just.

The mortar fire continued, but it was obvious that they did not have our location, since it was falling on the previous position and the shape of the ground was shielding us. We crossed a great rise, like a headland, projecting into the wide San Carlos River, and found ourselves at a cliff 10 or 15 metres high. We climbed down with difficulty and took up position among the rocks beside the shore. We could already hear the engine of another helicopter. It appeared round the side of the headland, as though searching for us along the coast, but our cover was excellent and we let it come closer. When it entered range we opened fire again. It began to fall and we stopped shooting. Before hitting the water, the pilot managed to lift it and cross the headland, crashing on the far side.

We were too far away to expect reinforcements. It was clear that what we had to do was withdraw until we made contact with our own troops, 80 km away. We had no ammunition, provisions, or equipment for sleeping out in the open. We were all on the alert, waiting to see what the enemy’s next move would be, when we heard an aircraft approaching, and within seconds it passed at great speed and very low towards the enemy positions. It was an Aermacchi; later we learned it was being flown by Lieutenant Crippa. He had taken off as soon as our warning was received. It was the first aircraft to arrive and drop its bombs and fire its machine guns at a frigate.

At that moment I felt great relief and thought: “Now we’ll throw the whole air force at them and, in five hours, our commandos and B Company of RI 12, which is in reserve at Port Stanley, will counter-attack.” That was merely the thought of a second lieutenant. We had suffered no casualties. The British had lost four helicopters and nearly a dozen men.

We decided to wait to see whether we had any news of Reyes; besides, it was a safe place in which to catch our breath and clear our heads. Second Lieutenant Reyes and his group had fought a short and violent battle in the early hours of 21 May. He first endured naval bombardment on his positions and then an attack by the Special Boat Squadron (SBS), naval commandos, and several amphibious armoured vehicles. In that action he suffered six casualties.

Given the scale of the landing, and having lost almost half his men, he decided, taking advantage of the poor visibility of the night, to try to break out of the encirclement closing around him in order to avoid annihilation. He succeeded 24 hours later and began a withdrawal that lasted almost 20 days, with no food, exposed to the elements, and suffering severe health problems, to the point that, with a penknife, he had to amputate a corporal’s foot. Port Stanley had already fallen, and Reyes, with the five starving soldiers he had left, malnourished and some already without teeth because of decalcification, was finally surrounded by British forces who demanded his surrender.

He asked his soldiers whether they were willing to fight. But they did not answer; they simply awaited their commander’s order, as always. Reyes, knowing he had not the slightest chance of success, surrendered. In Buenos Aires, when two years later we met again and told each other what we had lived through, he said that it was the expression on those five faces that led him to surrender on that occasion.

Later, we began a slow withdrawal eastwards and by dusk reached an outpost of San Carlos settlement. But that is another story.

Malvinas: Jeremy Moore, His Ostracism

 

“The Ostracism of Jeremy Moore”

One does not always receive a warm welcome on returning from a war. And this applies not only to the defeated, but also to the victors. Even, indeed, to supposedly victorious generals.

Of the three British generals who directed operations on land, two were forced into retirement after the conflict because of their poor handling of the wartime situation. Not even the supreme commander of the British land forces sent to Malvinas, Major General John Jeremy Moore of the Royal Marines, escaped ostracism. After the conflict, following only the minimal and strictly prescribed honours required by law (he was merely made a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath, which he had already received in 1973), he made a very swift and discreet exit from the service in 1983.

Margaret Thatcher’s government never forgave him for the setbacks of the campaign, of which there were no few for the British. He was also held responsible for the disaster at Bluff Cove, a landing near Puerto Argentino which ended with two ships put out of action and heavy human and material losses as a result of attacks by the Argentine Air Force. Nor was it of any help that he sent to London what he himself called daily rubbish — rubbish or daily drivel, in plain terms. These were colloquial-style messages, full of optimism to the point of stretching credibility, concealing the fact that he was unable to secure the great and rapid victory being demanded of him, with which the Argentines stubbornly refused to cooperate, clinging fiercely to every inch of ground.

However, what sealed his fate was his disobedience of the order to demand an unconditional surrender from the Argentines. After the conflict had ended, Moore said that he had been greatly troubled by the possibility that fighting might resume. Although the Argentines had withdrawn from the heights dominating the capital, the British were equally exhausted and short of ammunition. For that reason, he removed the word unconditional from the instrument of surrender.

In an article written by Ana Barón shortly before the first anniversary of the war for Gente magazine, it was stated: “Today Jeremy Moore is no longer a general. This man has become one of the approximately four million unemployed in Great Britain. His pension is 1,500 dollars a month, that is to say half the salary he earned when he was still in service. Evidently, that sum is not enough to pay for the education of his three children: for the time being he manages by making television programmes about the war. But he knows that this is not a solution. At fifty-four years of age, no one resigns himself to being without work, much less someone who has led a life as eventful as General Moore’s.”

In that interview — conducted despite the obstacles placed by the British Ministry of Defence, which claimed not to know where Moore was living — he declared in a tone of regret: “I feel great sadness when I think that we had to endure a war simply because there were people with political power who did not know how to solve the problem by peaceful means.”

He never wished to write a book about the war, and passed his idle hours serving as churchwarden of the church in Wiltshire where he lived, until his death on Saturday, 15 September 2007.

It was not until Monday the 17th that The Times published his obituary. Naturally, it extolled his figure as a military leader. An obituary written in very professional terms… and nothing more.

In the same newspaper, the obituary for Galtieri, who died on 12 January 2003, not only appeared the day after the event, but was also twice the length of the one devoted to Moore.

The Guardian and The Daily Telegraph published the news the following day. In the former, it appeared only on page 42 of the main section, and on the Telegraph website the story did not receive a single comment. For its part, The Independent did not report his death until 26 September.

The British Ministry of Defence, when consulted by the AFP news agency, said that “no comment was to be made on his death”, arguing that “he was no longer in active service”.

Malvinas: The Medical Unit in Combat (Part 1)

The Medical Unit in Combat (Part 1)

Private “VGM” DAVID DIAZ

As I belonged to the Medical Unit of the Service Company, when the detachment that was to depart for the Malvinas was being formed, I was assigned as a stretcher-bearer together with Private Dardo Romacho, who had studied medicine and was from Añatuya. Like the rest of the members of the Military Aviation School, we left for Comodoro Rivadavia, then for Puerto Argentino, and finally for Goose Green.

At first we were quartered in an old school together with members of the Argentine Army’s 25th Infantry Regiment. We were then moved to one of the islanders’ empty houses, since, by order of the commanders of the various detachments, the Kelpers had been instructed to leave their homes and go to live all together in the church, as a way of keeping them under control and preventing them from carrying out intelligence activities or observing our positions, movements, and so forth.

After the British attack of 1 May, we occupied a house located between Darwin and Goose Green. With regard to that first enemy attack, I remember that on that day I was on guard duty at the Command Post, and I was feeling rather sad because I was thinking of my beloved Santiago, since that day is Labour Day and in my city people go to Aguirre Park intending to spend a pleasant day, eating barbecues and dancing chacareras. I would normally go there with my family and friends. But that nostalgia was abruptly interrupted when I suddenly heard a very loud noise and saw, on the horizon, two aircraft coming straight at us dropping bombs.

By instinct I threw myself flat on the ground and managed to escape unharmed, but unfortunately other comrades were not so lucky and were hit by the aircraft’s accurate fire, some losing their lives and others being wounded. Sadly, the members of the Medical Unit were given the most thankless mission, having to move and bury the dead and tend to the wounded. Private Romacho normally dealt with the wounded because he had medical knowledge, while I had to deal with the dead. As I could not carry out this task alone, First Lieutenant Beranek asked for two soldiers to be assigned to assist me. They dug the graves, while I wrapped the dead in black plastic zip bags, and then we buried them.

“It was a very hard experience for me, one that marked me for life,” because it was the first time I had ever had to touch a dead person or help treat the wounded. The impact this had on me was such that I did not eat for three days.

Two days later, while we were digging the last graves for burial, we were attacked by a formation of Sea Harrier aircraft which flew over our heads. As soon as we heard the alarms, we “dived head-first” into the graves, thus avoiding being cut down by the bullets that were “sweeping the ground”. Once the assigned task had been completed, I went to the settlement, where I obtained timber and nails, built some crosses, and placed them on the makeshift graves as a sign of Christian respect and to honour their memory.

In one of those attacks, I remember that one of the pilots ejected wounded as a result of shots fired by Private Loaiza, but when he hit the ground he died. Once again I had the sad mission of burying him. He was a heavily built man, and it took me a great deal of effort to wrap him in plastic because his body was very contracted and partly burnt. I had to cut the tendons below the knee, bend his leg, and in that way I was able to fit him into the bag.

But besides carrying out that very hard task, I also performed medical duties, that is, supporting the men through treatment, providing them with medicines, and so forth, which gave me some comfort because I was helping to relieve people’s suffering. In general, our function was to go round the positions every day handing out a pill that we called a “vitamin” tablet because it “gave greater strength and endurance”, as it allowed us to stand guard and work for several hours without feeling any tiredness at all.

We provided medical support both to Air Force personnel and to the Army soldiers. The fact of taking our medical support to the personnel defending the Darwin area, Goose Green, and other places on East Malvinas allowed me to get to know many people and places, and to take part in and witness events which I shall now relate.

One day we stretcher-bearers were ordered to move under Corporal Waitima’s command to a place on the island where a ship carrying survivors had run aground. We were loaded into a helicopter and, when we reached the ship, we could see that it was half-sunk, but we saw no sign of any living personnel. On the way back, the helicopter pilot, faced with the presence of enemy aircraft, began flying at ground level, skimming past the mountains, until he landed and ordered us to evacuate quickly and take up position well away from the aircraft. And so we remained for more than two hours, and when we were sure that the danger had passed, we boarded again, took off, and were able to return to our positions.

Another event in which my companion Romacho and I took part occurred when, in the midst of the calm of a sunny and peaceful day, we first heard the alarm sound, then anti-aircraft fire, and finally saw a combat aircraft crash. Unfortunately, it was a Navy aircraft that had entered the exclusion zone without requesting due authorisation. In that incident its pilot, Lieutenant Gavazzi, was killed. Romacho was ordered to go to the site where the aircraft had come down and bring back the deceased. When he returned, he brought only some human remains that had been scattered around the aircraft. We buried him together with the others.

One day a Prefecture launch approached, bringing us medicine and food. As it entered San Carlos Strait, it was attacked by two Sea Harrier aircraft. In that action one person was killed and two others were wounded. The latter were evacuated by helicopter to Puerto Argentino, and the dead man was buried in the cemetery that, without intending to, we had inaugurated.

One morning, while we were resting, we were ordered to go to Elephant Bay to collect an English pilot who had ejected and, after falling into the water, had been rescued by an Argentine Commando, who had taken him prisoner. We went by helicopter and brought him back together with the commando, who spoke perfect English. The prisoner had a fractured collarbone and, after receiving first aid, he was transferred to Puerto Argentino.

Argentine Aircrafts: IA.37, Mach 2 that Would Never be Achieved

The IA.48, absolute ambition

If the IA.37 was the promise, the IA.48 was absolute ambition. It was the final evolution of Reimar Horten’s supersonic interceptor concept at the Fábrica Militar de Aviones (FMA).

There is often confusion between the two, but the IA.48 was a far more complex and powerful machine. Here’s what we know about this “fighter of the future” that never came to be:

1. The leap to Mach 2
   While the IA.37 was designed to brush the speed of sound (Mach 1.2), the IA.48 aimed to reach Mach 2.2. To achieve this, Horten moved away from a simple delta-wing design and proposed a much more refined configuration:

• Wing planform: an ogival delta wing with a very sharp leading edge, optimised for sustained high supersonic speeds.

1. Engines in pods: Unlike the IA.37 (which had the engine in the fuselage), the IA.48 was to have two Rolls-Royce Avon turbojets mounted in pods beneath the wings (or integrated, depending on the design phase). This freed up space in the fuselage for fuel and radar equipment.

2. Innovation for the Navy: “blown flaps”.
   One of the most interesting aspects of the IA.48 was the Argentine Navy’s interest. For a fighter that fast to land on an aircraft carrier (such as ARA Independencia), it needed a low approach speed. Horten designed a blown-flap system that used engine bleed air to generate extra lift at low speeds. This was cutting-edge technology, only just beginning to be adopted by the major world powers.

3. The wind tunnel and real progress.
   The IA.48 was not just a paper concept. Extensive tests were carried out:

• 1:25 scale stainless-steel models were built.

• They were tested in supersonic wind tunnels, reaching simulated speeds of up to 2,000 km/h.

• The results confirmed the wing shape was excellent for transonic and hypersonic flight.

4. Why was it cancelled?
   In 1960, the project was abruptly cancelled, along with the IA.37. The reasons were a mix of factors that repeatedly affected the national industry:

• Economics: Minister Álvaro Alsogaray implemented an extremely strict austerity plan that cut funding for the FMA’s long-term projects.

• External pressure: There was a strong tendency to abandon domestic development and instead buy surplus US equipment (such as F-86 Sabres), which was cheaper in the short term but undermined local engineering.

A detail to avoid confusion.
It’s common online to see mention of TC-48, but that was a Douglas DC-4 (a real transport aircraft that disappeared in 1965 in a tragic accident). IA.48 refers strictly to Horten’s supersonic fighter project.

Projected technical summary

• Maximum speed: Mach 2.2 (approx. 2,300 km/h)

• Crew: 1 or 2 (depending on the all-weather interceptor version)

• Armament: Air-to-air missiles and 30 mm cannon(s)

Malvinas: Cover Operation Blackleg

The Royal Navy lost several warships to air attacks during the 1982 Malvinas War. One of them, the destroyer HMS Coventry, sank in relatively shallow waters, and London feared that the Soviets might attempt to strip the wreck of highly classified equipment and documents. A bold underwater salvage mission was organised using a team of Royal Navy divers to recover the classified material, initially designated Operation Blackleg. It was a highly risky and dangerous mission carried out under extremely difficult circumstances.

Malvinas War Told by Pilots Who Fought It

A-4Q Skyhawk Last Outfit

The last “outfit” of the A-4Q Skyhawk

Sean Eternos los Laureles




This camouflage scheme is a consequence of the massacre of A-4Q “Skyhawks” at the hands of Sea Harriers on 21 May 1982 over San Carlos Strait. They detected them after being tracked by the CIC of HMS “Hermes” and vectored towards them; but when the British pilots reached the estimated area, they did not find the target because the A-4Qs were flying at sea level and the FRS.1’s Blue Fox radar did not have Doppler scan (on the FA.2 it was replaced by the more capable Blue Vixen with pulse-Doppler), so they could not pick up our Skyhawks. However, at the last moment they almost by chance spotted three white dots moving over a dark grey stretch of water in the strait, and that was enough: the Sea Harriers pounced on the Argentine Skyhawks, which at first had not even noticed their presence. Quickly, Márquez’s 3-A-314 was hit by 30 mm ADEN cannon fire from Leeming’s FRS.1 XZ500; and Philippi’s 3-A-307 was struck by an AIM-9L missile from Morrell’s FRS.1 XZ457. 



Both were shot down: Márquez was killed in that action, while Philippi managed to eject. Meanwhile, César Arca in 3-A-312 spotted what was happening and began desperate evasive manoeuvres, limited by the low-level flight profile he was maintaining (seeking to “merge” with enemy radars and missiles using ground/sea clutter), until a number of 30 mm ADEN rounds from Morrell’s FRS.1 XZ457 hit him as well. Even so, thanks to his impressive skill on the stick and pedals (he had no other defence), Arca managed to escape with his damaged Skyhawk, and the Sea Harriers, already short of fuel, could not pursue him at sea level, where their Mk.104 Pegasus engines would guzzle kerosene at rates that would prevent them returning to the carrier. Thus, with serious damage and leaking fuel, unable to get back to Río Grande, Tierra del Fuego, Arca managed to fly as far as Puerto Argentino in the hope of making an emergency landing on the runway. But controllers on the ground warned him that one leg of the landing gear had not deployed. At that point Arca decided to abandon the aircraft, since landing on the runway was impossible. He ejected while the aircraft continued flying and began to turn, threatening to collide with the pilot already hanging under his parachute—so from the ground the decision was taken to shoot the aircraft down with Argentine anti-aircraft artillery, and it crashed some 400 metres from the runway.

The A-4Qs had already completed their attack on the Type 21 frigate HMS “Ardent”, which was also attacked by other Navy A-4Qs, and by Air Force Daggers and A-4Bs, and ended up sinking (as can be clearly seen in the photos. Attack and sinking of HMS “Ardent”. But during their escape, Philippi’s 1st Section was betrayed by its light grey paint (which from a distance looked white to the Sea Harrier pilots!!!) against the dark South Atlantic, and that proved fatal for Skyhawks in retreat: with no warning systems or active or passive countermeasures, with no weapons to defend themselves (even the 20 mm ammunition for the Colt cannons had already been fired at “Ardent”), and without enough fuel to manoeuvre in air combat and then reach the KC-130H tankers and return to the mainland.

The A-4Qs were cleared to carry AIM-9B Sidewinder missiles; in fact, on 1 and 2 May 1982, two A-4Qs were aboard the aircraft carrier ARA “25 de Mayo” in an air-defence role (the other six A-4Qs were held with bombs to attack enemy ships), when—together with the two Argentine Type 42 destroyers (ARA “Hércules” and ARA “Santísima Trinidad”)—it tried to close within range of the Task Force. Despite having two aircraft carriers equipped with between 24 and 28 Sea Harrier fighters, and having between 6 and 10 escorting destroyers and frigates, the British avoided combat thanks to their higher speed. They could have ended the war that same day if they had managed to destroy the small Argentine naval group, since at all times they knew the Argentine formation’s position—whether through satellite tracking provided by the USA, and also by the nuclear submarine HMS “Spartan”, which from 28 or 29 April was pursuing the Argentine carrier; and even via a Sea Harrier that, while trying to shoot down an Argentine S-2E Tracker, came within range of the Argentine escorts’ Sea Dart missiles and had to break off. The Royal Navy, at the maximum speed its engines could provide, preferred to run away from the Argentine Navy!

It is evident that, face to face—and with sufficient anti-aircraft armament and fuel in the capable Skyhawks, and with our Navy’s experienced pilots—the outcome might have been very different…; because on 1 and 2 May a British naval force two to three times larger than the Argentine naval formation, and with three or more times Argentina’s air capability, the Royal Navy chose to flee for two whole days at full speed rather than confront Argentine sailors with their old aircraft—already suspecting the lethality of our pilots with their ageing mounts and weapons.

But on 21 May the die was cast. Much of the Royal Navy was anchored in San Carlos Bay landing troops, with the rest sailing nearby to block the entry routes of Argentine air attack formations. Thanks to experienced British commanders who planned the defensive scheme well, almost every approach run towards the enemy troop and cargo transports was covered by British escorts, so that Argentine aircraft inevitably ran into frigates or destroyers (which in turn covered one another and were also covered from land by Rapier missile launchers) before our aircraft could reach the transports. Again and again they were forced to bomb escorts without being able to strike the transports. In that picture, the case of HMS “Ardent” was different: in the middle of San Carlos Strait she was shelling Argentine positions at Darwin, seeking to pin them down to prevent them moving towards the San Carlos beachhead—something impossible for our troops, who could only arrive on foot with whatever weapons and ammunition they could carry, exposed to enemy air and naval attacks, to face thousands of well-equipped and well-supported British troops. But the British did not want to risk the entire landing operation because of that. And once again they risked an escort ship to achieve their aims (that is what such ships are for), and HMS “Ardent” was that ship. By harassing Argentine troops ashore, she quickly drew the attention of Argentine aviation and concentrated no fewer than five attack missions involving more than 15 aircraft, which tore her to pieces—while also drawing attacks away from the beachhead. Argentina lost three A-4Q fighter-bombers, curiously—and this is the key detail—because they were painted white, which is how British pilots perceived them from a distance, intercepted them and shot them down. In other circumstances at that distance, aircraft camouflaged like the Air Force Daggers and A-4Bs would have gone unnoticed (not at closer range, where they would still have been spotted by eye). The camouflage scheme of Argentina’s naval Skyhawks, obviously combined with the circumstances and the long-range attack profile—fuel-limited, without passive-defence systems, without self-defence missiles, and flying at sea level as the only form of evasion—proved fatal for the Argentine aircraft.

The Argentine Navy took note of this as operations developed, realising that the US Navy scheme on Argentina’s naval fighter-bombers was not suitable for the South Atlantic. And so, after this incident, they set about “hiding” the conspicuous Skyhawks from the enemy’s eye.

On that basis, several schemes were tested during and after the war, as seen in the images, all of them far more effective than the US Navy’s pearl-grey/white. In the end it was concluded that naval grey was the most suitable, both because these aircraft operated primarily over a naval environment, and because it also proved effective over land—at least in island theatres and along the Patagonian coasts of the South Atlantic. In addition, insignia and numbers were reduced or eliminated to the minimum, although a striking light blue and white rudder was retained, which—while suitable for peacetime—would very likely have been covered or blurred in wartime, in the manner of British Sea Harriers and Harriers during the conflict. On the way to the Malvinas they removed all markings that might stand out to the human eye (or optical sensors) in a theatre like the South Atlantic, even eliminating the white ring of the roundel on wings and fuselage—including on the Vulcans, Victors, Nimrods and Hercules used from Ascension Island, and the Phantoms that provided air defence at Ascension.

On the underside of the Skyhawks, a medium-tone grey was adopted, more compatible with the sky when viewed by enemy anti-aircraft gunners with the aircraft silhouetted against a sky background.

This was the scheme with which the Douglas A-4Q Skyhawk “retired” from the Argentine Navy without receiving an adequate replacement, around 1988, although some aircraft still flew in the old US Navy scheme, since it was known their service life would soon end—as it did—and they did not invest even in paint to camouflage them. Even so, it is obvious that if a mobilisation like those of 1982—or even 1978—had occurred (in 1978 very effective protective schemes had also been tested), it is hard to understand why, as soon as the Argentine mobilisation to respond to the British attack began in 1982 (from 7 April), the Skyhawks were not camouflaged. The Task Force sailed on 5 April towards the Malvinas, but Argentina waited 48 more hours before decreeing a massive mobilisation of troops and equipment to the islands, waiting to see what measures the UN would adopt, since Resolution 502 of 3 April 1982—requiring a cessation of hostilities and withdrawal of troops from the area—was in force for both Argentina and Great Britain. Yet while Argentina, on the very same 2 April 1982 when we recovered the islands, had begun withdrawing troops back to the mainland, five Royal Navy ships (including a nuclear submarine) were already heading towards the Malvinas; and on 5 April the attack began when the Task Force sailed from Portsmouth. By 7 April, in the face of the UN’s absolute passivity (Argentina always sought to act lawfully and to negotiate—always!), and after the TIAR—which in theory should have led all of the Americas, including the United States, to mobilise to defend Argentina—the UN never even acknowledged it; and the TIAR (Inter-American Treaty of Reciprocal Assistance), by wrongly considering Argentina the aggressor—impossible, since British aggression dates from 2 January 1833 when it occupied the islands and expelled the Argentine authorities—did not respond. Argentina thus began mobilisation to defend the Malvinas Islands and South Georgia (the first reinforcement troops began arriving in the Malvinas on 11 April, and in South Georgia on 25 April), finally violating Resolution 502—after the British had done so two days earlier. It is obvious there was enough time to reconsider the A-4Q camouflage scheme, yet on 1 May they entered action with an unsuitable scheme, and incredibly on 21 May they still retained it; and worse still, it was expected that by the end of June Great Britain would have to surrender or withdraw from operations because its endurance would run out. At that point Argentina’s Sea Fleet would begin the counterattack to harass them, including the Argentine aircraft carrier with its Skyhawks, of which only 5 or 6 units were then available (with one recovered from Espora), and more incredibly still, they still retained the suicidal US Navy scheme.

P.S.: The scale model was made some years ago by the author of this text. It is actually a 1/72 Douglas A-4A Skyhawk that I had to modify into an A-4B (Q) with putty and parts from a blister-pack of spares to make the in-flight refuelling probe, the VHF aerial and the dorsal Doppler fairing, as well as the arrestor hook, since the kit I bought lacked them. The serial number and insignia are purely hand-painted (using the tip of a wooden toothpick as a “pen”). The Snakeye bombs—like those used by Philippi’s 1st Section in the HMS “Ardent” attack mentioned above, carrying four 227 kg Mk-82s per aircraft—and their bomb rack were leftovers from an F-117 or an A-10 kit, I cannot remember which now, and I added them to complete the model. The aircraft stand with the national colours was actually from a 1/72 Grumman F-4F Wildcat kit, which I had not used because when I built it (in a US Navy 1943 North Atlantic scheme, when the F-6F Hellcat was already taking its place) I built it with the landing gear down; so I later reused it—this time—to display this A-4A configured as an A-4Q (B) of the CANA (later COAN) of the Argentine Navy in an in-flight attack configuration.