Malvinas: The Real History

Malvinas: Argentines Who Were Ethnically Cleansed After the 1833 British Invasion

 🇦🇷 Argentines Who Lived in the Malvinas Islands Before the British Seize

🇦🇷 Luis Vernet
🇦🇷 María Sáez de Vernet
🇦🇷 Malvina Vernet y Sáez, born in Puerto Soledad in 1830
🇦🇷 Emilio Vernet 
🇦🇷 Luisa Vernet 
🇦🇷 Sofía Vernet 
🇦🇷 Antonio Rivero, "Gaucho Rivero"
🇦🇷 Juan Brasido 
🇦🇷 José María Luna 
🇦🇷 Luciano Flores
🇦🇷 Manuel Godoy 
🇦🇷 Felipe Salazar
🇦🇷 Manuel González 
🇦🇷 Pascual Latorre 

Luis Vernet's Argentine colony grew to include more than 100 inhabitants in the Malvinas Islands.


🇦🇷 In 1829, Luis Vernet was appointed political and military commander of the Malvinas by the Government of Buenos Aires and established a colony with families and workers from Argentine territory.

📚 Source: General Archive of the Nation / Malvinas Observatory.

An 17th Airborne Infantry Regiment Conscript Story

 

A LITTLE-KNOWN STORY

The regiment was established on 31 January 1907. In 1969, it became the 17th Airborne Infantry Regiment, under the IV Airborne Infantry Brigade. In 1985, it was redesignated the 17th Motorised Infantry Regiment and transferred to the V Motorised Brigade. The 17th Regiment was finally disbanded in 1997.

It is little known that, in 1982, two NCOs and ten soldiers from the 17th Regiment took part in the Malvinas War.

This detachment from the regiment was deployed to the South Atlantic Theatre of Operations and positioned on Two Sisters Mountain.

They went into action when Second Lieutenant Aldo Eugenio Franco and his rifle section, to which these newly arrived paratroopers had been attached, covered the Argentine withdrawal. By then, the planned counter-attack by the Panhard armoured vehicle squadron in support of Major Jaimet had been cancelled, as Captain López Patterson’s men no longer held the summits. The section’s action forced Yankee Company to halt its advance and take cover among the rocks.

Conscript paratrooper Ramón Bustos, of the 17th Airborne Infantry Regiment, recalls:

“I was called up in Catamarca and assigned to the 17th Parachute Regiment. One day we were taken to Comodoro Rivadavia, and only ten soldiers and two NCOs crossed over to the islands. We were in Puerto Argentino, and afterwards they sent us to Two Sisters Mountain to reinforce a section of the 6th Infantry Regiment positioned on the downward slope of the mountain.

My combat role was as a MAG machine-gunner...

On the night of 11 June, from our position we could hear the fighting taking place on Two Sisters. We could also hear fighting in the direction of Longdon and Harriet, but that was some distance away. What concerned us was the battle taking place directly in front of us.

In the early hours of 12 June, it was our turn to go into action. The enemy were coming down towards our positions and were about 200 metres away. We opened fire and they withdrew. Every time they tried to come down again, we fired at them. It was not a sustained attack; it seemed as though they were probing to find out what was behind the mountain.

We fought like that until it was almost dawn. Together with the men of the 6th Infantry Regiment, we held the slope of the mountain. We held out until seven in the morning, after fighting throughout the night. Eventually, we ran out of ammunition and had to withdraw towards the town.”

Malvinas: Corrientes at the War

 

Corrientes Mobilises at the Call of the Bugle

Remarkable account from the newspaper “LA ÉPOCA”

At that time, since our country is not a homogeneous whole, Corrientes was different when it came to military service as well. Personally, I have seen conscripts who had been exempted on health grounds asking the doctors to take them in anyway, even if only as cleaning staff, because they did not want to return to their towns bearing what they felt to be a shameful rejection, a stigma.

After years of working on the history of Corrientes, I have no doubt that such attitudes, and the pride those former Corrientes conscripts took in wearing their uniform, were the product of the province’s past. It was a past shaped by wars, celebrated as Corrientes’ fundamental contribution throughout the nineteenth century, and reinforced by the essentially livestock-based character of a “horse-riding” province isolated by rivers and poor roads. Horsemen, “men of silence”.

In this regard, how did the men of that reinforced Corrientes regiment, the 5th Infantry Regiment of Paso de los Libres, conduct themselves when they fought at Puerto Yapeyú? Does their conduct justify continuing to speak of an epic tradition, regardless of the final outcome? In any event, although those events are now indelibly inscribed in the military history of Corrientes, it is worth remembering that the Corrientes epic was forged through notable victories such as Caá Guazú and Caseros, but also in the mud of harsh defeats at Pago Largo, Arroyo Grande and Vences Rincón. For when the reckoning is done, there are defeats which, deservedly, also grant the vanquished their share of glory and their place in history.

The regiment and the Engineer, Communications and Medical units that reinforced it all belonged to a Corrientes brigade, but the conscripts were not only from Corrientes: there were also men from Chaco, Formosa and the forested wedge of Santa Fe. Many of them were those we affectionately know as menchos: illiterate rural labourers from our countryside who would leave knowing how to read, write and count thanks to the regiment’s primary school, which later disappeared along with conscription.

On 2 April, the response of those who had served there lived up to the great history of Corrientes. One witness recounts:

“Later in the day, dozens of former soldiers began to gather spontaneously... Without knowing exactly what was happening... they crowded around the entrance gate to the barracks at Paso de los Libres. These citizens, who had already fulfilled their obligations under the Compulsory Military Service Law, wanted to enter the barracks and put on the uniform again... Dozens of young men from the 1962 and 1961 classes, and even some from 1960, crowded around the entrance. There were even older volunteers and men who had never received military training. Everyone wanted to take part...”

Many of those who were elsewhere did not wait to be summoned.

A former conscript from Las Breñas who was studying engineering heard the news, travelled home to say goodbye, and his parents took him to Libres:

“...where we cried and said farewell in the face of an uncertain fate. My mother, who was a teacher, said to me: ‘You have to do your duty to the Motherland, son.’ In those days, you did not need a piece of paper to know what was right.”

Another former conscript, from Villa Ángela, who was living in Derqui, in Buenos Aires Province, was attending a computing course in the capital when he heard the news. He informed his parents and took a coach to Paso de los Libres.

A First Corporal from Formosa was married and had a one-year-old baby daughter. Mabragaña gave him the option of staying behind to look after the barracks, but he went home and told his wife:

“Pack your suitcase, because you’re going to Formosa... I’m going south...”

A conscript from the rural area around Goya, who served with the 3rd Engineer Company of Monte Caseros, did not wait either and went to volunteer:

“...I have nothing to lose except my life. My teachers taught me well that the Malvinas were ours. So I’m going to defend what is mine.”

The spirit of those who had to remain behind does not appear to have been any different. A soldier who had been enlisted for only a month recalls that when the regiment departed:

“The whole town was there at the station... two of my friends... were leaving. I felt like joining them and climbing aboard the carriage... I had to make do with watching them leave and then returning to the barracks.

It was very emotional.”

At two o’clock in the morning on 11 April, the first 157 men of the 5th Regiment departed by train, together with all their vehicles, supplies and ammunition. The rest would follow over the next few days.

Malvinas: Inflatable Dolls at Moody Brooks

Inflatable Dolls

Three inflatable dolls were found in the Moody Brook area by Argentine personnel from the 9th Logistics Battalion. They were being used as targets* at a Royal Marines firing range. No dildos were found.

*They may have had other uses...).

Documentary: Argentine Primer

Argentine Antarctica: The Harvesters (2/3)

The Harvesters — Part 2

The First Assault

Teniente Matienzo Base, Argentine Air Force
64°58′S, 60°04′W — 30 August 1969, 11.30 a.m.

‘Velázquez, check the hydraulic system pressure,’ Pose ordered, his voice muffled by the padding of his leather flying headset.

‘Nominal pressure at eight hundred and fifty pounds, Lieutenant. The system is responding correctly,’ the non-commissioned officer replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the instruments of the central console.

‘Sir, we are ready to begin taxiing,’ Pose announced, turning his head to look back over his shoulder.

‘Proceed, Pose,’ Olezza replied, with a composure that contrasted sharply with the silent tension enveloping the cabin.

To grasp the true magnitude of the thunderous roar unleashed when that radial engine came to life upon the lower plateau of Seymour Island, one must return to the final stages of the winter of 1969.

In those days, the bureaucracy entrenched in Buenos Aires remained convinced that the Antarctic Sector should be governed through a form of seasonal sovereignty, limited to the icebreaker’s summer campaigns. At Larsen Nunatak, however, Vice-Commodore Mario Luis Olezza was silently and defiantly playing a game of chess that would shatter the inertia of an entire era.

His feverish gaze was not fixed upon the comfort of military quarters, but upon an ice-free topographical anomaly whose importance had already been recognised by the visionary Vice-Commodore Marambio.

Olezza’s original plan did not envisage the immediate use of conventional wheels upon the island’s rocky surface, for the aviation technology then available, combined with the complete absence of infrastructure, made such an audacious undertaking impracticable.

The technical and human assault formally began on 30 August 1969, a date that would become permanently inscribed in the annals of polar endeavour.

On that bitterly cold day, a single-engined de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver, bearing the registration P-03 on its tail, took off from Teniente Matienzo Base fitted with snow skis. At the controls of the rugged aircraft sat Lieutenant Oscar José Pose Ortiz de Rozas, a pilot of steely nerve and delicate sensitivity at the controls, assisted by the watchful Principal Non-Commissioned Officer Ramón Alberto Velázquez.

Lieutenant Mario Víctor Licciardello and the first non-commissioned officers of the Sovereignty Patrol were crammed into the limited space of the cargo cabin, wedged between hand tools and provisions essential to their survival.

During that first approach, Pose did not point the Beaver’s nose towards the upper permafrost of the island. Instead, he descended with precision towards the very surface of the Weddell Sea.

With a flawless manoeuvre that defied the treacherous air currents, he brought P-03 down in a perfect ski landing upon the frozen sea ice covering López Bertodano Bay. There, at the foot of cliffs plunging from a height of more than two hundred metres, Camp Alpha was formally established.

Operational command of this precarious outpost was entrusted to Lieutenant Francisco Florencio Mensi. His monumental responsibility would be to coordinate the reception of airborne supplies and ensure the group’s logistical withdrawal should adverse weather conditions make it necessary.

From that moment onwards, the epic undertaking abandoned the relative ease of mechanical traction and became an entirely human effort, driven by the strength of the pioneers’ arms and hearts.

Under Licciardello’s direct command, the patrolmen began climbing the slippery slopes of Seymour Island on foot. Every pickaxe, every shovel, every two-hundred-litre drum of kerosene and every crate of field rations was carried upwards on their backs, step by step, in defiance of the abyss and the fatigue that stiffened their muscles.

At the top, exposed to the full force of the wind, the twenty-one chosen men established Camp Beta. Their only fragile protection against the extreme cold, which fell beyond thirty degrees below zero, consisted of the canvas walls of Alberta-type field tents, precariously secured behind a dry-stone barrier constructed from the empty fuel drums that gradually accumulated around them.

For twenty-five endless, agonising days, the plateau of Seymour Island became a kind of prehistoric quarry where time appeared to have stopped. The island’s geological features, providentially free of snow, revealed a crust of fossilised mud, loose slabs of rock and frozen clay as hard as the purest granite.

Without modern bulldozers, tipper lorries or heavy-duty cranes, the only instruments of Argentine sovereignty at that latitude were pickaxes, shovels and the unbreakable physical endurance of men selected for their fortitude and their proven abilities in the hangars of the mainland.

Master Non-Commissioned Officer Mario Rogelio Ranieri was responsible for organising the exhausting work parties, which relieved one another continuously from sunrise to sunset. The physical effort demanded of them was destructive to the body. With the first sharp blow of a pickaxe against the permafrost, violent vibrations travelled through their arms, tearing at their tendons and cracking the wooden handles before they could dislodge even a miserable fragment of stone. Indeed, the tool handles broke faster than the ground itself; the extreme cold made the metal brittle and the wood prone to splintering.

Men such as Corporal First Class Juan Carlos Luján, Corporal First Class Ramón Alberto Velázquez and Corporal First Class José Luis Cortese worked continuous shifts that challenged the limits of human endurance. They stopped only when the barometers forecast windstorms so violent that remaining upright in the open became impossible.

The objective set by Olezza was modest in its dimensions but colossal in its execution: to clear and level a minimum strip three hundred metres long and twenty-five metres wide across the rocky plateau.

The most prominent slabs, which protruded like blades, had to be removed by hand. Hollows had to be filled with compacted clay, and every fragment of fossil rock capable of puncturing a tyre or destroying the delicate undercarriage of a conventional aeroplane had to be cleared away. Every metre wrested from the ground was silently celebrated as a victory against the isolation of their homeland.

The morning of 25 September 1969 finally brought a fragile but sufficient respite from the weather.

At Matienzo Base, after the synoptic charts and radio reports had been checked, final approval was granted. The thick oil inside the air-cooled, nine-cylinder Pratt & Whitney R-985 Wasp Junior radial engine, capable of producing four hundred and fifty horsepower, had been patiently preheated for hours with noisy kerosene-fired Primus heaters. This prevented the dense lubricant from obstructing the crankcase passages at the critical moment of ignition.

Lieutenant Pose settled into the left-hand seat of the cockpit, tightening the harness straps over his Antarctic-issue parka. To his right, Non-Commissioned Officer Velázquez reviewed the checklist, naturally assuming the dual role of flight mechanic and co-pilot on a mission that allowed no margin whatsoever for distraction or miscalculation.

Vice-Commodore Olezza positioned himself at the rear of the narrow fuselage, from which the seats had been removed to reduce weight. His presence aboard the flight was no mere ceremonial gesture. Olezza knew perfectly well that military doctrine and senior command regarded the idea of operating wheeled aircraft upon the plateau as sheer madness. Should the Beaver overturn or break its legs on Seymour Island, the military and professional ruin would fall entirely upon his own shoulders.

At 11.15 a.m., Beaver P-03 taxied along Matienzo’s runway on its skis, took off after a short run and climbed to gain altitude above the frozen strait off San Martín Land.

The north-easterly flight took place above a wilderness that creaked beneath the rigours of the late winter. As the aircraft approached the coordinates of Seymour Island, a dense front of leaden clouds began descending from the east, threatening to close the narrow window of visibility that meteorologist Amistadi had forecast from the ground.

When the elongated shape of Seymour Island finally came into view, Lieutenant Pose began his descent. The scene beyond the windscreen was intimidating. The lower plateau selected for the makeshift runway extended from south-west to north-east, parallel to the area’s prevailing winds. However, as the aircraft crossed directly above the southern cliff, violent air currents rose with extraordinary force, producing dangerous rotor turbulence that shook the Beaver’s structure and forced its left wing down alarmingly.

‘Watch that gust from port, Pose!’ Olezza warned from the rear, gripping the cabin structure for support. ‘It’s forcing our left wing down!’

‘I have it, sir. Applying trim and correcting with rudder,’ Pose replied with a surgeon’s calm, exerting firm pressure upon the pedals to keep the nose aligned with the imaginary centreline marked by the small red flags and aluminium sheets defining the beginning of the strip.

‘Velázquez, maximum revolutions, fine pitch on the propeller,’ the pilot instructed.

The engine’s characteristic hum became a deafening roar that echoed through the island’s ravines.

‘Fine pitch selected, mixture rich,’ Non-Commissioned Officer Velázquez confirmed, his left hand resting upon the throttle, ready to assist the pilot in the event of any interruption to the thrust.

At Camp Beta, the ground crew had completely abandoned their tools and gathered expectantly along both sides of the three-hundred-metre strip.

Lieutenant Licciardello kept his binoculars trained upon the Beaver’s undercarriage, holding his breath as he watched the two tyres protruding beneath the skis.

At that precise second, the entire fate of Operation Marambio depended upon the structural resistance of those tyres against the sharp slabs covering the Antarctic plateau.

The Beaver crossed the runway threshold at barely ten knots above its stalling speed, exploiting the aircraft’s capabilities to the fullest in order to shorten its stopping distance.

At exactly 11.45 a.m. on that historic 25 September 1969, the wheels finally made direct contact with the fossil ground of Seymour Island.

That first contact possessed none of the smoothness of a mainland aerodrome. It was a sharp, violent impact, a brutal blow that tested the elasticity of the shock absorbers and the load-bearing legs of the main undercarriage.

Immediately, a deafening hammering erupted against the aluminium belly of the fuselage as loose stones and hard fragments of frozen clay were violently thrown from beneath the tyres by the propeller’s airflow, striking the metal skin like shrapnel.

The Beaver bounced alarmingly twice over irregularities that the patrolmen’s pickaxes had been unable to level completely. Lieutenant Pose was forced to fight with all his strength, gripping the controls to prevent the aircraft from pitching forwards and overturning under the braking resistance exerted by the hardened mud.

‘Brakes, Pose! Gently but continuously — we’re running out of strip!’ Velázquez roared as the final red flag approached at an alarming speed through the side windows.

‘Braking!’ Pose replied, driving his heels into the pedals as the undercarriage shrieked and the tyres dragged across the stony ground.

The aeroplane decelerated brutally. Its tail swung violently to the right under an unexpected gust from the west, threatening to unleash a ground loop that would have destroyed the undercarriage. The pilot’s timely use of the rudder, however, corrected the drift in the final instant of the landing run.

With a sharp crack and a groan from the brake pads, the de Havilland came to a halt upon the stones of the plateau.

Looking through the windscreen, now covered by a thin layer of dust, Lieutenant Pose was able to appreciate the dramatic reality of the manoeuvre: the aircraft’s nose had stopped barely twenty-five metres from the end of the level ground, precisely where the steep downward slope began its descent towards the void of the sea cliff.

The pilot reduced the throttle to its minimum setting and the engine settled into an idle, producing a rhythmic purr that broke the ancient silence of the Seymour plateau.

For the first time in the annals of world aviation, an aircraft equipped with conventional wheeled undercarriage had successfully landed upon the permafrost of the Antarctic continent in the depths of the polar winter, vindicating Olezza’s audacious hypothesis at a single stroke.

Before the cloud of dust raised by the braking had settled, the Beaver’s doors opened. Vice-Commodore Olezza was the first to climb down from the cabin, planting the soles of his boots firmly upon Seymour Island’s frozen mud.

His weathered face, furrowed by the deep marks of tension accumulated over weeks of uncertainty, lit up with an open smile when he saw the men of the Sovereignty Patrol running towards the aeroplane, cheering with restrained enthusiasm.

Lieutenant Licciardello arrived at a trot, leading the group. His cold-weather clothing was completely soiled by the grey dust of the compacted rock. He came rigidly to attention before his superior in accordance with military regulations, although the emotion of the moment caused his voice to break as he delivered his report:

‘Sir! Camp Beta reports that the three-hundred-metre runway has been formally inaugurated, with no operational incidents affecting personnel or equipment,’ Licciardello exclaimed, his eyes visibly moist.

Olezza dismissed the formation, setting aside the rigidity of military protocol for a moment to embrace the young officer who had led the effort upon the plateau in a deep and brotherly hug. His voice hoarse but filled with profound conviction, the Vice-Commodore looked into the eyes of the men under his command.

‘What you have done here has no name in any military manual, lads. The bureaucracy decreed that deep-draught ships, months of logistical preparation and heavy bulldozers would be required to place a single wheel upon this island. Yet here is that wheel — and it was put here by twenty-one pairs of Argentine arms.’

Meanwhile, Pose and Velázquez had climbed down to conduct a visual inspection of the undercarriage. To their great relief and surprise, the tyres showed neither deep cuts nor deformation. This provided irrefutable proof that the monumental labour carried out by the ground crews had achieved an admirable standard of technical excellence.

‘They’re intact, Lieutenant,’ Velázquez announced, striking the tread of the left tyre firmly with the palm of his hand.

Olezza approached the airmen to congratulate them, gripping their gloved hands firmly.

‘Good work, Pose. That wind very nearly played us a nasty trick during the final seconds of the approach.’

With appropriate modesty, the pilot looked back at the narrow and rudimentary strip of cleared ground stretching behind him. He adjusted his balaclava before replying:

‘The Beaver performed magnificently, sir. But three hundred metres is scarcely a breath if the objective is to bring the heavy Douglas C-47 over from the hangars at Matienzo.’

Vice-Commodore Olezza nodded, fully acknowledging the pilot’s point, and turned towards the other patrol non-commissioned officers, who had gathered around the fuselage of P-03 with faces cracked by the cold. His voice regained the firmness of an irrevocable order.

‘Listen carefully, lads. Today we have finally shattered the myth of Antarctic winter isolation, but geopolitics does not wait for pioneers to finish celebrating. By the end of the week, I require four hundred metres of clear runway, and by October its total length must reach twelve hundred metres without fail. Douglas TA-05 is waiting at Matienzo and requires that distance to stop before the violent spring storms begin. Sharpen your pickaxes — the real work begins tomorrow!’

The roar of the Pratt & Whitney engine as the aircraft took off for its return flight to Matienzo barely an hour later marked the formal beginning of the second and most demanding phase of Operation Marambio.

The men of the Sovereignty Patrol walked silently back towards the canvas of their tents, their worn pickaxes resting upon their hardened shoulders. They knew perfectly well that their isolation remained absolute at the furthest reaches of the Weddell Sea, and that the implacable Antarctic winter had not yet fully withdrawn its icy claws.

Yet they also marched with the intimate and unshakeable certainty that the history of Argentine Antarctica had been set upon a new course for ever, beneath the indelible mark of those first wheels, branded as though by fire into the hard stone of the plateau.

(To be continued)…

Alejandro G. Mazzuchi
Retired military aviator — Writer of historical narratives

 

Independence War: The Constitución Goes Privateering in the Pacific

The Schooner Constitución and Preparations for the Pacific Expedition (1814–15)

The Constitución was a medium-sized schooner, similar to the vessel shown in the image. She was American-built, but belonged to an Italian resident in Chile, Andrés Barrios, or Andrea Bario, who leased her to the United Provinces as the campaign against Montevideo was drawing to a close.

Preparations for the expedition to the Pacific began with this small vessel. Unfortunately, the Constitución was wrecked in Antarctic waters and there were no survivors.

Following the disaster at Rancagua and the fall of Chile into Royalist hands, many patriots from Santiago fled to Mendoza, capital of the Governorate of Cuyo in Argentina, the last territory to remain free from Spanish control. Among them was the priest Julián Uribe, a member of the governing Junta and an ally of the Carrera brothers.

José Miguel Carrera’s conduct forced General José de San Martín, who by then governed Cuyo and was working to raise the Army of the Andes, to disarm Carrera’s followers and send them to Buenos Aires, Uribe among them. On their arrival they received assistance from Carlos María de Alvear, who shortly afterwards became Supreme Director of the United Provinces. While Carrera sought support for recognition as the legitimate government of Chile and obtained resources to mount an expedition to Coquimbo and resume the struggle, Father Julián Uribe proposed a plan to attack the Spanish in Chile by disrupting Spanish shipping and trade along the coasts of Valparaíso, Coquimbo, Atacama, Arequipa, Callao and Guayaquil.

The project had originally been devised by Andrés Barrios. Following Brown’s successful 1814 naval campaign against Montevideo, Barrios transported 200 soldiers from that city to Buenos Aires aboard the Constitución free of charge. He subsequently offered the vessel to the state for only $4,000, despite its estimated value of $6,200. Brown recorded that “this individual [Barrios] offered his vessel and his personal services for an undertaking of such importance to the country, for an insignificant sum”. Since, of the $4,000, he “had received only $1,950, guaranteed by Miguel de Irigoyen”, Barrios returned the money and recovered possession of the vessel.

The schooner, or ketch, Constitución was American-built, displaced 235 tons and measured 28 m in length, 8.75 m in beam, 5.60 m in depth and had an average draught of 2.90 m. She belonged to the patriot Andrés Barrios, also known as Andrea Bari, a native of Pisa who, after living in Concepción, had settled in Buenos Aires. Barrios was also the owner and captain of the Carmen, with which he had been trading between Chile and Buenos Aires for at least fifteen years.

After the proposed sale of the Constitución to the state fell through, Barrios offered her for privateering service in mid-1815, and the proposal was accepted on 23 May. Uribe eventually raised sufficient funds among his compatriots to acquire a share in the vessel alongside Barrios and sought the support of the commander of the Argentine squadron, William Brown. Brown agreed to join the expedition with the frigate Hércules, which had been presented to him in recognition of his services, and persuaded the authorities to contribute the brig Trinidad.

To adapt the vessel for the campaign, her owner and commander Andrés Barrios stated that “her hold has been subdivided into several compartments and various other works have been carried out”. The recruited crew numbered around one hundred men, mainly Chileans but also including Irishmen, Americans, Swedes, Italians and Englishmen.

Following Alvear’s fall from power, and while José Miguel Carrera departed for the United States, Uribe continued with the project with Brown’s support. On 20 September 1815, Andrés Barrios received from the government the corresponding Letter of Marque No. 27 of the United Provinces of the Río de la Plata, with Miguel de Irigoyen acting as guarantor. Barrios was initially listed as commander, but at the last moment he was replaced by Lieutenant-Colonel of Marines Oliver Russell, Brown’s right-hand man during the Battle of Montevideo.

The government supplied the weapons and stores required not only for the privateering campaign but also for recruiting and arming a patriot army in Chile. The List of Artillery, Sets of Arms, Ammunition and Other Military Stores Delivered by Superior Order to Andrés Barrios, Commander of the Ketch Constitución recorded, among other items, one bronze 16-pounder gun, two iron 8-pounders and four 4-pounders; 210 canisters of grapeshot; 100 16-pound shot, 200 8-pound shot and 400 4-pound shot; 30 rounds of 16-pound bar shot; 12 quintals of gunpowder; two quintals of slow match; 1,000 musket cartridges; 100 pistol flints; 50 musket flints; and other supplies. The quantity and weight of the material loaded aboard were so considerable that they caused the vessel serious difficulties during the voyage and probably contributed to her tragic fate.

To give Uribe considerable freedom of action, his instructions were deliberately broad: to harass, capture or burn any vessel sailing under the Spanish flag; blockade Spanish-held ports on the Pacific; gather information on the general situation in Chile and Peru and on the Royalist and patriot land and naval forces operating there; ascertain the views of the insurgents and encourage and support their activities and military operations; clandestinely introduce proclamations and revolutionary writings; and undertake other similar activities.

Within a few months the squadron was ready. It consisted of the frigate Hércules, commanded by Brown’s brother-in-law Walter Dawes Chitty; the brig, or sumaca, Trinidad, commanded by Miguel Brown; the brig Halcón, under Captain Hipólito Bouchard, whose military commander was Ramón Freire, the future head of state of Chile; and the schooner Constitución, also known as the Uribe, under Oliver Russell.

The rest of the story has already been told. The Constitución sank near the South Shetland Islands while attempting to reach the Pacific in the midst of a violent storm. Uribe, Russell, Barrios and the entire crew were lost.

El Corsario del Plata

Argentina: The Naval Aviation in Antarctica

Argentine Naval Aviation: A Pioneer in Antarctica

1942 – 7 February – 1952

By Oscar Héctor Filippi

The first flight over Antarctica and the first Argentine postal flight to the continent.

By the Mar del Plata Branch of the Naval Aviation Institute.

The Boeing Stearman 76D-1 flown by Lieutenant Eduardo Lanusse, accompanied by Chief Aviation Corporal Erik Bolmquist.

On 7 February 1942, Lieutenant Eduardo Lanusse piloted a Boeing Stearman 76D-1, a fragile biplane whose wheels had been replaced with floats. The aircraft was lowered into the sea from the Argentine Navy transport ship 1º de Mayo. After taking off, Lanusse flew over Deception Island in the Argentine Antarctic Sector. It was the first flight by an Argentine aircraft over the White Continent.

Chief Aviation Corporal Erik Bolmquist served as the aircraft’s mechanic and accompanied Lieutenant Lanusse on this historic flight.

During the same period, air transport routes to Patagonia were also opened. Regular logistical support services reached the Isla Grande de Tierra del Fuego using Curtiss Condor aircraft.

This marked the beginning of the effective presence of Argentine naval aviation in Patagonia and Antarctica.

The PBY-5A Catalina amphibious naval aircraft, serial numbers 3-P-5 and 2-P-3, carried out the first airmail flight between the American continent and Antarctica.

On another 7 February, this time in 1952, the first Argentine—and reportedly the first worldwide—flight linking the American continent with Antarctica took place. Two PBY-5A Catalina amphibious naval aircraft, serial numbers 3-P-5 and 2-P-3, departed from Río Grande Naval Air Base in Tierra del Fuego.

The formation was commanded by Commander Pedro Iraolagoitía, while the aircraft were piloted by Lieutenant Commander Edgardo Andrew and Lieutenant Guillermo Campbell. After crossing the Drake Passage, they alighted on the waters off Deception Island. The aircraft were carrying mail, thereby establishing the first airmail service between continental Argentina and Antarctica.

These milestones were followed by successive Antarctic campaigns, which conducted the surveys required for the subsequent establishment of Argentine bases.

After 105 years of continuous Argentine presence in Antarctica, the country operated six permanent bases and seven seasonal bases. At the time of writing, 45 countries maintained a presence and conducted scientific research on the frozen continent. Argentina was its undisputed pioneer.

Also on 7 February, in 1964, Naval Air Squadron No. 4 was established. It initially comprised the Search and Rescue Naval Air Squadron, the Second General-Purpose Naval Air Squadron and the Naval Helicopter Squadron.

Sources: Libro de Efemérides Navales – Armada Argentina Libro: Alas sobre el Mar..

Facebook de Oscar Héctor Filippi

Argentine Army: SPH Crusader Mk.1

Self-propelled Gun Crusader Mk.1 is AA service

 
 

The Argentine Army converted the British Crusader Mk I tank into a self-propelled gun. Lieutenant Colonel Carlos R. Doglioli recalled:

“The chassis of the British Crusaders were fitted with French 105 mm Schneider-Creusot Model 1928 guns and Swedish 75 mm Bofors Model 1935 howitzers. The design was conceived by Colonel Bidone, now deceased, an artillery officer who was also a military engineer. His two sons likewise retired from the Army with the rank of Colonel. One of them was my artillery instructor at the Staff College, which is how I know this.”

He also added:

“The photograph showing a woman standing in front of one of the 105 mm self-propelled guns became very well known in September 1955. It was taken during the revolutionary events of those days and was widely reproduced in contemporary magazines. I remember it very clearly. It was originally published in a special issue of one of the illustrated news magazines of the period.

“The other two photographs of these Crusader self-propelled guns, judging by the colonial-style cork pith helmets being worn, were taken during the usual spring manoeuvres, which were generally held during the second half of October.

“None of these vehicles has survived. They were all scrapped a long time ago, most probably sometime during the 1960s.”


 

Specifications

Crew: 5 (75 mm version); 7 (105 mm version)
Weight: 17.5 tonnes
Engine: Nuffield-Liberty V12, 340 hp
Speed: 58 km/h on road
Range: 140 km on road
Fuel capacity: 500 litres
Length: 6.7 m
Width: ?
Height: 2.27 m
Armour: ?
Armament: three versions

1. Schneider 10.5 cm L/18 Model 1928 howitzer
2. Krupp 7.5 cm L/30 Model 1909 howitzer
3. Bofors 7.5 cm L/40 Model 1935 gun

All versions were also fitted with a 7.65 mm Madsen Model 1926 No. 3 machine gun.


 
 

TANKS!

Argentina's Forgotten Superpower: The Rise of Its Navy

Argentine Antarctica: The Harvesters (1/3)

The Harvesters — Part 1

In 1969, Argentina’s Antarctic policy hovered between routine administration and logistical neglect. To the General Staff in Buenos Aires, the Argentine Antarctic Sector was little more than an abstraction, attended to solely during the Summer Campaign.

Each December, the icebreaker General San Martín sailed south to relieve the crews, deliver provisions and fuel, and return before the ice closed the Weddell Sea once again in April.

For the remaining eight months, the White Continent was left in absolute isolation. If a scientist suffered appendicitis in July, or a base caught fire in August, the official response was simple: endure or die. Winter permitted no rescues.

Foreign powers operated according to a different philosophy.

Since the end of the Second World War, the United States, the Soviet Union and Britain had understood that sovereignty in Antarctica was no longer defended by planting flags in the ice, but by maintaining the ability to project air power throughout the year.

The construction of permanent runways had become the new geopolitical frontier. Whoever succeeded in breaking the winter isolation and landing an aircraft on conventional wheels would control strategic access to the continent.

Against this backdrop of institutional paralysis, Olezza began to make the bureaucrats behind their desks in the capital increasingly uncomfortable.

In the middle of that year, twenty-one members of the Argentine Air Force assembled at Teniente Matienzo Base, located on Larsen Nunatak.

There, winter greeted them with a storm that buried the installations and forced the men to remain confined indoors.

The Corrugated-Iron Bunker

Teniente Matienzo Base, Argentine Air Force — 64°58′S, 60°04′W — 29 August 1969, 6.00 p.m.

Winter offered no respite on the nunatak. Outside the base, a white-out gale blew at ninety knots, scouring the corrugated-iron walls with a constant metallic shriek.

Inside, the main block lay in semi-darkness, broken only by the glow of a field stove that coughed out thick, oily smoke whenever the gusts outside blocked the chimney.

Olezza stood with the sleeves of his heavy shirt rolled up and his eyes reddened by confinement, his fists planted firmly upon a nautical chart of the Weddell Sea.

Opposite him, Lieutenant Oscar José Pose Ortiz de Rozas, commander of the base — a seasoned officer, sparing with words and possessed of natural authority — smoked in silence. His gaze rested upon the exact point where his superior’s finger repeatedly struck the chart: a small, elongated shape called Seymour Island.

‘Look at this, Pose,’ Olezza said, breaking the silence. ‘The bureaucracy in Buenos Aires suffers from winter blindness. To them, maintaining bases down here means leaving a group of men locked away, counting the days until they can return home. But look at this position.’

Vice-Commodore Mario Luis Olezza was a pilot of uncompromising character who combined the audacity of a military aviator with a long-term geopolitical vision. He refused to accept the doctrine of static sovereignty.

He spent hours examining the Air Force’s historical archives, searching for reports that administrative neglect had buried inside grey metal filing cabinets.

Pose adjusted the cuffs of his woollen jumper and leaned over the map.

‘I know the report Vice-Commodore Marambio left on record, sir. He was perfectly clear: the Seymour plateau lies in the direction of the prevailing winds. The same storms that bury us here sweep Seymour clean. The wind does the work of a broom. Snow does not accumulate; the crust of mud remains exposed. But seeing it from an Avro Lincoln is one thing. Standing on it is quite another.’

Olezza produced a worn folder bound with frayed cord and bearing the signature of Vice-Commodore Gustavo Argentino Marambio.

It contained the notes from Operation Enlace of 1952 and the subsequent technical reports. Before his tragic death, Marambio had left behind a remarkably prescient aviation testament after obsessively studying the island.

Olezza exhaled cigarette smoke towards the beams of the ceiling.

‘In Buenos Aires, they buried these papers because they consider the idea of operating wheeled aircraft on permafrost to be the fantasy of obsessive pilots.’

‘The engineers argue that constructing a runway there would require a fleet of deep-draught ships to transport heavy machinery, as well as cranes capable of lifting the equipment up the island’s steep cliffs, which plunge two hundred metres towards the frozen sea. Since the Air Force possesses neither those resources nor the budget to hire them, their verdict is final: Marambio’s dream is impracticable.’

‘And how do you expect us to move thousands of tonnes of stone to level nine hundred metres of runway without a single bulldozer, sir?’ Pose asked, folding his arms.

‘On our backs, Pose. With nothing but our backs and our arms,’ Olezza replied, fixing him with a steady gaze.

‘That is why we formed this group: so that it would not depend upon technology we do not possess. Twenty-one men, each one selected personally. If we wait for the official paperwork, the British or the Chileans will put a wheel on that plateau before we do. Geopolitics does not wait. Whoever controls Seymour will hold the key to permanent, year-round access to Antarctica.’

Olezza had submitted the project to his superiors under the title Operation Marambio.

The initial response had been systematic rejection on the grounds of ‘insufficient technical and financial feasibility’.

But Olezza was not a man who accepted no for an answer.

He decided to bypass the usual channels and pursue a strategy of accomplished fact. If there was no machinery, the runway would be built with the one resource the Air Force possessed in abundance: hardened men imbued with the spirit of the pioneers.

He secured the minimum political approval necessary to conduct an exploratory mission and began assembling, in the strictest operational secrecy, the contingent that would enter history as the Sovereignty Patrol.

Recruitment was not conducted through official bulletins or open calls for volunteers. Olezza travelled personally to different units throughout the country, searching for specific types of men in workshops and hangars.

He was not looking for parade-ground heroes, but for non-commissioned mechanics, radio telegraphists and tradesmen who understood how metal behaved under extreme cold and possessed the psychological resilience to withstand complete isolation.

They were men accustomed to solving problems with wire, improvisation and ingenuity whenever official spare parts failed to arrive.

Responsibility for organising the ground party fell to Lieutenant Pose Ortiz de Rozas himself and Lieutenant Mario Víctor Licciardello, who would assume direct operational command in the field.

Among the non-commissioned officers, the technical heart of the patrol was Master Non-Commissioned Officer Mario Rogelio Ranieri, a veteran of previous campaigns who understood the secrets of radial engines better than anyone.

The list of twenty-one men was completed by sixteen non-commissioned officers and one civilian whose role would prove crucial: meteorologist Alberto Omar Amistadi, who could interpret the subtle fluctuations of mercury barometers and anticipate the brief windows of clear weather before the storm closed its trap.

The door of the block flew open, admitting a blast of freezing air and Non-Commissioned Officer Ranieri, whose hands bore the scars of old frostbite burns suffered while tightening bolts in the open.

The meteorologist followed behind him, rubbing his arms to restore some warmth.

‘The barometer is rising, sir,’ Amistadi announced, brushing the snow from his parka. ‘If the pressure holds, we will have a visibility window over the strait tomorrow. Brief, but clear.’

Olezza nodded and looked at Pose.

‘There is your opportunity. Licciardello, Luján and Velázquez already have the sledges prepared. Ranieri, what is the condition of the engines?’

‘The fuel for the Primus heaters is being rationed down to the last gram, sir,’ Ranieri replied with the gravity of a veteran. ‘And the tools have already been packed. Pointed pickaxes, broad shovels and soft-iron crowbars. If the permafrost is as hard as granite, we shall wear out more wooden handles than sticks of dynamite, but the lads will not buckle.’

Pose looked at his men.

They were rugged tradesmen who would not break when the canvas of an Alberta tent was the only thing separating them from a storm at thirty degrees below zero.

Once deposited on the summit of Seymour Island, they would be entirely alone. If magnetic fading silenced the high-frequency radio, nobody on the mainland would know whether they were still alive.

The only way off the island would be to finish the runway with their own hands.

---

For two months, Pose subjected the group to a brutal programme of endurance training.

They practised erecting Alberta-type field tents in hurricane-force winds, rationed fuel and learnt to transport heavy loads across powder snow using improvised sledges.

They knew that if a worker injured himself with a tool, no medical evacuation would be possible.

The Historic List of the Twenty-One Men

Senior commanders and personnel responsible for coordinating and carrying out the operation

1. Vice-Commodore Mario Luis Olezza
   Originator, promoter and commander of Operation Marambio.

2. Lieutenant Oscar José Pose Ortiz de Rozas
   Commander of Matienzo Army/Air Force Base, field commander of the patrol and pilot of the historic first landing on the plateau.

3. Lieutenant Mario Víctor Licciardello
   Operational officer on the plateau and commander of Camp Beta.

4. Master Non-Commissioned Officer Mario Rogelio Ranieri
   Technical officer of the patrol.

5. Corporal First Class Juan Carlos Luján
   Operational member.

6. Corporal First Class Ramón Alberto Velázquez
   Operational member.

7. Alberto Omar Amistadi
   Civilian meteorologist of the Argentine Air Force.

Non-commissioned officers and corporals who completed the contingent of twenty-one pioneers

8. Principal Non-Commissioned Officer Juvencio Daniel Iturra

9. Assistant Non-Commissioned Officer César Jaime Carrizo

10. Auxiliary Non-Commissioned Officer Agustín Edison Beltrán

11. Auxiliary Non-Commissioned Officer Silvano Andrés Barrera

12. Principal Corporal Jacinto Pérez

13. Principal Corporal Omar Juan Aimaretti

14. Corporal First Class Luis Fioramonti

15. Corporal First Class Hugo Adolfo Cortella

16. Corporal First Class Castor Eustaquio Ayala

17. Corporal First Class Francisco Ignacio Alfonso

18. Corporal First Class José Oscar Medina

19. Corporal First Class Archimedes Segundo Sancochia

20. Corporal First Class José Luis Cortese

21. Corporal Second Class Gabriel Arturo Escalante

Pioneers who, using nothing but their backs, their arms, pickaxes and shovels, broke the winter isolation of the White Continent.

Alejandro G. Mazzuchi
Retired military aviator — Writer of historical narratives

 

Malvinas: Torpedo Problems in the ARA San Luis

Malvinas 1982: The Misunderstood

Mariano Sciaroni

I often read comments about the Navy: the Navy did this, the Navy did that; whether it put to sea, and why it did not. I would like to know whether, after reading this account, the reader would be willing to sail aboard a submarine that could not dive — as in the ordeal of the submarine Santa Fe — or one armed with torpedoes that were effectively useless.

The condition of the SST-4 torpedoes during the Malvinas War

The German SST-4 torpedoes — “Special Surface Target 4”, also nicknamed “Sol Sol Taco Cuatro” — were delivered to the Argentine Navy between 1974 and 1975. At the time, they were among the most modern submarine weapons in the world.

This intelligent, wire-guided weapon remained connected to the launching submarine by a cable, allowing it to be guided remotely. It had a maximum range of 56,000 yards at 23 knots, or 24,000 yards at 35 knots, and carried a 573-pound warhead.

After the torpedoes arrived in Argentina, 19 test firings were conducted as part of the certification process: 15 from submarines and four from surface craft. Only eight were completed without incident. None of the torpedoes used in these trials carried a live warhead.

Despite this poor reliability rate — which, it must be said, was not very different from that of other contemporary submarine weapons — the torpedo was accepted into service.

Between December 1975 and May 1980, no operational firings were conducted. The only exceptions were three very short-range tests carried out in 1977 to take various measurements.

As early as 1975, the Submarine Force Command had asked the Directorate of Naval Weapons to conduct a live-warhead firing. The request was repeated in 1977. On both occasions, it was denied.

Between May 1980 and March 1982, eight SST-4 torpedoes were launched. Only one completed its run without incident. Another was lost, while in the remaining six cases the guidance wire was severed. In light of these results, the weapon was considered non-operational during this period.

During the Malvinas conflict, SST-4 torpedoes were loaded aboard the submarines ARA Salta and ARA San Luis. The latter fired two of them at enemy warships.

As might have been expected from the experience of previous years, however, the torpedoes failed to perform as intended.

For a detailed examination of these incidents, see Ready for Combat? Submarine Weapons in Malvinas, 1982.

Post-war assessments identified several possible causes for the weapon’s failures during the conflict:

• According to the manufacturer, each torpedo required a full overhaul every ten years. As they had been manufactured in 1972 and 1973, they were already approaching the end of their intended service life. That ten-year lifespan, however, applied only when the weapons were stored under specified conditions of humidity, pressure and temperature. A suitable storage facility was not brought into operation until 1981. In practice, therefore, the torpedoes had already exceeded their service life.

• The torpedoes’ gyroscopes were supposed to undergo maintenance every 48 months, but Argentina lacked the equipment required to perform the work. In 1980, six gyroscopes had been declared unserviceable and were sent to Germany for maintenance together with three others. Twenty-two remained in Argentina, but their reliability could not be properly assessed. Neither of the two torpedoes fired by ARA San Luis was fitted with an overhauled gyroscope.

• The torpedoes’ batteries had been manufactured between 1971 and 1972 and were expected to last between seven and nine years. Between 1979 and 1982, thirteen new batteries were purchased, bringing the total number available to forty-three. In February 1981, the Submarine Force Command requested that the batteries be tested, but the tests were never conducted. Of the two torpedoes fired by San Luis, one had a new battery and the other had an expired one.

The maintenance condition of the torpedoes was therefore clearly unsatisfactory. The weapon also suffered from an inherent design problem. In September and October 1982, the manufacturer, AEG, offered the Argentine Navy a large quantity of spare parts free of charge, apparently as a form of compensation. It also offered to maintain and repair the torpedoes already in service.

In 1984, despite the arms embargo, a substantial part of one torpedo was sent to Germany for examination. Once the investigation had been completed, the conclusions were forwarded to Argentina. By then, however, the weapon was already becoming obsolete.

It was a new and poorly understood technology, affected by both design defects and maintenance failures. Given all these problems, the SST-4’s poor performance during the 1982 Malvinas War was hardly surprising.

Even so, the submariners were ordered to put to sea practically unarmed.

Anti-Subversive War: Larrabure and His Martydom

Larrabure and His Martydom

“I want to die standing, invoking God in my family, and the Fatherland in my Army.”

In 1974, during a constitutional government, Argentina was going through one of the most violent periods in its history. The ERP (People's Revolutionary Army) planned the takeover of the Villa María Military Gunpowder and Explosives Factory in order to seize weapons and kidnap Major Larrabure, a military engineer and one of the Argentine Army’s leading specialists in explosives.

On 3 November, he was taken to a “people’s prison” beneath a haberdashery in Rosario. His cell measured barely 1 metre by 60 centimetres, with no natural light and minimal ventilation. While life continued normally above, beneath that haberdashery an Argentine Army officer remained kidnapped.

The ERP demanded to exchange him for five of its detained members, but the government decided not to negotiate. For more than a year, he endured hunger, damp, isolation and illness. He lost more than 40 kilograms. They tried to make him collaborate with them by using his knowledge of explosives, but he always refused.

On 19 August 1975, he died after 372 days in captivity. Four days later, his body, wrapped in a sheet and a blanket, was abandoned in a ditch on the outskirts of Rosario, where it was found by the authorities.

In his letters, he asked his children not to hate, to forgive his captors, and never to allow resentment to take the place of faith. That testimony of forgiveness is one of the reasons why the Catholic Church today recognises him as a Servant of God.

Photo: Cadet Larrabure, 1950s.

Goose Green: The End of Two Sea Harriers

 

The Death of Lieutenant Nick Taylor over Goose Green

On 4 May 1982, the British invaders launched an air strike against the Pucará aircraft stationed at Cóndor Military Air Base near Goose Green. The mission ended in tragedy for the attackers. Argentine anti-aircraft artillery proved highly effective, while troops on the ground concentrated their small-arms fire on the incoming aircraft. Two of the three Sea Harriers were shot down.

The first to fall was Lieutenant Nick Taylor, flying Sea Harrier FRS.1 XZ450. An eyewitness later recalled:

“Sea Harrier No. 2, flown by Lieutenant Taylor, came in almost directly behind No. 1. I then saw a burst of black smoke erupt from it, followed by red flames. It banked to the left and struck the ground on the left-hand side of the field beside the runway, producing a spectacular mushroom cloud.”

Lieutenant Taylor’s remains were subsequently recovered by Argentine servicemen, who gave him a Christian burial with full military honours. He still rests at Darwin, in the place where the Argentine forces laid him to rest.

Malvinas: The Assault on Governor House — An Argentine NCO’s Account

At the Head of My Group of Twelve Soldiers

Account by Marine Second Corporal and Malvinas War Veteran Conrado Augusto Olmos Matar

From the time I was a young boy, I felt a calling to pursue a career in the armed services. I wanted to become either a police officer or a serviceman. While I was at secondary school, a friend from my neighbourhood, Argentine Navy NCO Carlos Sequeira, encouraged me to continue my studies in the Navy. Some time later, personnel from that institution came to the province to promote recruitment among young men from Santiago del Estero. I did not let the opportunity pass and quickly submitted my application.

After meeting the entry requirements, I joined the Marine Infantry NCO School at Punta Mogotes. The early days were difficult because, like anyone from Santiago del Estero, I missed my homeland, its customs, my loved ones and my friends. Everything was new and different, and I felt alone among so many recruits from different parts of the country.

The training was so demanding that many of my fellow recruits requested their discharge. Of all those who had entered, only seventy-four of us graduated. Several times I came close to abandoning my career, but thanks to the encouragement and support of a lieutenant named Alemán, I was able to continue and graduate as a second corporal in 1980.

My first posting was to the 1st Marine Infantry Battalion at Puerto Belgrano, where I was received by the deputy commander, Captain Giachino, and the company commander, Lieutenant Damore. From that moment onwards, I began taking my first steps as an NCO. My duties basically consisted of training a group of soldiers while continuing to expand my own professional knowledge.

In 1981, I was placed in charge of training the Rocket Launcher Group, which consisted of twelve soldiers, including two men from Santiago del Estero, Coronel and Gutiérrez. At the beginning of 1982, my group was incorporated into C Company—Charlie Company—which was under the command of an NCO named Gigena.

I remember being particularly struck by the fact that, by that point in the year, the soldiers of the 1962 intake had still not been discharged and that training activities and exercises were continuing. Normally, operational activities were reduced during that period and replaced by maintenance duties.

One warm morning in March, the officers and NCOs were assembled on the unit’s parade ground. Captain Giachino informed us that we had to prepare to embark and sail towards some islands, where we were to recover an Argentine vessel that had been seized by the British.

Only one thought kept repeating itself in my mind: we were going to fight. You join the armed forces knowing that you may never actually have to do so, but our time had come. I mentally reviewed everything I had learnt.

From that moment onwards, we began our preparations, which mainly involved completing our stocks of supplies, field equipment and ammunition. In addition, we went to the firing range every day to practise and zero our weapons.

Our preparations continued until approximately one thousand men belonging to the Marine Infantry Brigade embarked aboard the vessel Comandante Trizar. Although we had the necessary facilities, during the first few days we suffered badly from seasickness. Despite our previous experience at sea, the conditions were so rough that virtually everyone aboard felt their effects.

Once we were well out at sea, the officers and NCOs were assembled to receive the operational order. In broad terms, our mission was to land on and seize the Malvinas Islands. Our principal objective was to overcome the forces defending Government House and remove the existing authorities.

This task was to be carried out by the Amphibious Commandos, supported by us, the Marines. The mission was by no means easy. We knew that we would be facing professional soldiers with combat experience who belonged to a major world power. The most difficult requirement, however, was that we had to defeat the enemy while attempting to avoid causing casualties. It was an extremely difficult undertaking, but in the end it was achieved.

During the night of 1–2 April, we completed our final preparations and readied our personnel and equipment for the landing. At that moment, I did not think about the historic nature of what I was about to do, because the demands of the operation and the responsibility of leading my soldiers left me no time to do so.

I thought only about how the operation would unfold, how I would react to the different situations that might arise when we encountered the enemy, and how my subordinates would respond. So many questions remained unanswered as we waited for the decisive moment when we would enter combat.

Shortly before dawn, the operation began with troops landing by helicopter. My group was ordered to proceed directly to the airport, take part in the assault to seize it and then advance towards Government House. We went forward with our teeth clenched, ready for battle.

When we arrived, we encountered no resistance. There were only a few British personnel, who had already been taken prisoner by the troops who had landed before us. Although the situation in that sector was under control, we had to exercise extreme caution because of the large number of mines and explosive booby traps that the enemy had placed in the area.

While we waited at the airport for the rest of the battalion to arrive, we could hear bursts of machine-gun fire and explosions in different parts of the island. It was only then that I fully understood that the operation had begun and that I was involved in a serious armed conflict.

I remember with great sorrow that, while we were at the airport awaiting orders, a helicopter approached carrying the body of our deputy commander, Captain Giachino. He had fought heroically at the head of his men during the most important operation carried out on the island up to that point.

The news filled us with sadness, but also with anger. An Argentine had been killed, and he was a member of our own battalion.

Once the rest of our troops had arrived, we marched towards Government House in support of the Amphibious Commandos. We surrounded the building to ensure that none of the enemy escaped. By then, they had surrendered in the face of our forces’ offensive.

My next mission was to guard the prisoners and subsequently transport them to the mainland, together with my group and other personnel.

Once back in Argentina, we prepared to carry out a new mission: reinforcing the defences of Tierra del Fuego. I travelled there with other military formations and remained there until the end of the war.

Although I spent only a short time on the Malvinas Islands, I still feel deeply moved to have taken part in the recovery operations while commanding a group of twelve soldiers. Among them were two fellow natives of Santiago del Estero, Coronel and Gutiérrez, with whom I remain on friendly terms to this day.

“As a Navy NCO, I had the honour of serving in the 1st Marine Infantry Battalion and of being under the command of Captain Giachino, an example of military virtue.”

Argentina Rejects the MI6 Campaign Against Us: Fuck Your Own Arse, England!

Argentina Is More Than the Worst Things Said About It

The author responds to the campaign of criticism against the country in the context of the World Cup; he urges people not to be swayed by prejudice and invites us to acknowledge our failures and continue to grow

Celebrations in Buenos Aires following the victory over England in the World Cup

Esteban Bullrich
LA NACION

There are moments when silence becomes a form of surrender.

In recent weeks, I have watched as my country—and our national football team—became the target of accusations that go far beyond criticism of unacceptable behaviour. Argentina has been portrayed as a racist nation. Some have even suggested that our national identity is somehow intertwined with Nazism.

Those words hurt.

Not because Argentina is perfect. It is not.

Like every country, we have racism, prejudice, ignorance and intolerance. We have people who say offensive things, people who discriminate and people who fail to recognise the dignity of another human being. We should never deny that reality. We must confront it honestly.

But honesty also requires us to tell the whole story.

I have admired Samuel L. Jackson for decades. His work has entertained and inspired millions of people around the world, myself included. I also respect every public figure who chooses to fight racism. Humanity needs more such voices, not fewer.

Admiration, however, does not remove the responsibility to disagree when disagreement is justified.

When public figures reduce Argentina to a caricature, they overlook a history that deserves to be known.

In 1813, when much of the world still accepted slavery as normal, Argentina passed the Free Womb Law, which declared the children of enslaved women free. Forty years later, our Constitution of 1853 abolished slavery entirely.

Those decisions came half a century before Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation and a decade before the Thirteenth Amendment abolished slavery throughout the United States.

This is not a contest in moral virtue.

History should never be used to declare one nation superior to another.

The point is simpler.

Facts matter.

A nation should not be judged solely by its darkest chapter, nor by its loudest voices.

Critics often point out that Nazi war criminals fled to Argentina after the Second World War. That happened. It is a stain on our history that no serious Argentine seeks to erase.

But history also tells us that many countries—including the United States, Canada and several European nations—admitted former Nazis through various immigration programmes or intelligence operations during the Cold War. Evil exploited political circumstances across several continents.

To conclude from that reality that Argentina is ‘a Nazi country’ is as unfair as saying that the United States is defined by slavery or that Europe is defined by colonialism.

Civilisations are always greater than their mistakes.

Perhaps what saddens me most is that these accusations have emerged at a time when the world desperately needs less contempt and more humility.

Humility begins by acknowledging our own failures before condemning those of others.

Every society carries wounds.

Some countries struggle with antisemitism.

Others struggle with Islamophobia.

Others with xenophobia.

Others with police violence rooted in racism.

Others with discrimination against Indigenous peoples.

No nation has completed the task of recognising the equal dignity of every human being.

Argentina certainly has not.

But neither has anyone else.

As someone living with ALS, I depend on the kindness of others for much of my life. I can no longer speak in my own voice. I can move only my eyes. The disease has stripped me of every illusion of self-sufficiency.

It has also taught me something unexpected.

When the body becomes fragile, people cease to look like categories.

There are no conservatives helping me into bed.

There are no progressives adjusting my wheelchair.

There are no Catholics, Jews, Muslims or atheists offering me comfort.

There are only human beings serving another human being.

That is where dignity begins.

And perhaps that is also where leadership should begin.

Leadership is not the ability to win arguments.

It is the willingness to seek the truth rather than applause.

True leadership rejects racism without turning entire nations into stereotypes.

It condemns hateful words without forgetting the humanity of those who spoke them.

It remembers that justice without mercy can easily become moral self-righteousness.

Football, like politics, often magnifies our worst instincts. Passion can become arrogance. Celebration can become insult. National pride can become exclusion.

When that happens, we should apologise without making excuses.

But an apology should never require us to accept false identities imposed upon us by others.

The Argentina I know is not built on hatred.

It was built by immigrants who crossed oceans carrying little more than hope.

It was built by grandparents who escaped wars.

By Jewish families who found refuge.

By Syrian and Lebanese shopkeepers.

By Italians and Spaniards who rebuilt their lives.

By teachers, doctors, farmers, workers and volunteers who quietly serve their communities every day.

That Argentina rarely makes international news.

It should.

The deepest lesson of my illness is that none of us will be remembered for the arguments we won on social media or for the insults we directed at strangers.

We will be remembered for whether we lightened another person’s burden.

Countries deserve to be measured by the same standard.

Judge Argentina by the truth.

Judge us by our entire history.

Judge us by our willingness to acknowledge our failures and continue to grow.

But please, do not judge us by stereotypes.

The world has already suffered enough because of them.

Malvinas: The First and Last Argentine Landing in Malvinas

The First and Last Argentine Landing in Malvinas

2 April – 13 June 1982

By Commodore (Ret.) Roberto Federico MELA

Malvinas-Historias de coraje

The first landing for the reconquest of the Islas Malvinas on the morning of 2 April 1982, and the final landing and take-off on the night of 13–14 June, were carried out by C-130 “Hercules” aircraft of the Argentine Air Force on the runway at Puerto Argentino. Although different crews took part, their navigator was the same person: the then Commodore Roberto Federico Mela. Here is his account.

First landing

On the night of 1 April 1982, fourteen transport aircraft of the Argentine Air Force — 5 C-130s, 4 Fokker F-28s, 2 Boeing 707s, 2 Fokker F-27s and 1 IA-50 G-II — flew from their home base at the I Air Brigade in El Palomar to various deployment bases in southern Argentina, in order to take part in Operation ARIES 82, the code name for the airborne assault operation on the runway at Puerto Argentino.

The first departure for Malvinas was scheduled for the C-130, registration TC-68, call sign LITRO UNO, from Comodoro Rivadavia Air Base, carrying Brigadier Luis Castellano, Commander of the Malvinas Air Component, his General Staff, the Argentine Air Force Special Operations Group, and personnel tasked with setting up the Air Cargo Terminal.

The departure of this first aircraft was delayed several times, until it finally took off at 05:32 hours on 2 April, heading directly towards a point located 10 kilometres east of Puerto Argentino, where it had to wait until the last British troops had evacuated the aerodrome area and until our own troops had finished removing the obstacles the enemy had scattered across the runway: tractors, vehicles, baggage carts, and so on.

Landing was finally authorised and took place at 08:23 hours. After this, the personnel being transported quickly left the aircraft and unloaded the equipment needed to establish the MALVINAS Military Air Base.

Meanwhile, in the town of Puerto Argentino, just over 2 kilometres away, the Governor’s House was being taken. Those who had just landed could hear the exchange of gunfire between the British garrison and the patriotic Marine Infantry forces.

The crew of LITRO UNO earned the distinction of having begun the air assault for the recovery of our islands, and Commodore Roberto Mela had the honour of personally taking the enemy’s main flag from the airport facilities, still then called Port Stanley. That flag is now kept in the Hall of Honour of the Cadet Corps at the Military Aviation School in Córdoba.

Final landing and take-off

The final Argentine flight to the Islas Malvinas, with landing and subsequent return take-off, was carried out by C-130 TC-65, call sign PATO. It took off from Comodoro Rivadavia Military Air Base at 15:26 hours on 13 June with a simulated flight plan to Río Grande, Tierra del Fuego. From there, it was to descend to 10–20 metres above the sea, already in complete darkness because of the time of year at those latitudes, and, making a wide detour south of the Islas Malvinas, enter Puerto Argentino from the south-east.

The flight was conducted on instruments, since visibility was completely nil due to the prevailing darkness, compounded by adverse weather with rain, sleet and saline mist from the low-level flight over the waves, which formed a filthy crust on the windscreens. No lights were switched on, except the absolute minimum needed to make out the strictly necessary instruments. Nor was it possible to use the onboard radar, and radio communications were also impossible, as such emissions would have been immediately detected by the enemy.

Despite all these difficulties, after a flight of more than three and a half hours, the aircraft was able to reach a point around 30 kilometres from Puerto Argentino at the scheduled time. There was a tolerance of 5 minutes for reaching this point, because if the aircraft arrived earlier or later than that, our own anti-aircraft artillery would open fire, considering it to be an enemy aircraft. From that position, the crew could see, to the west of the Malvinas capital, an extraordinary brightness produced by the artillery duel, the flares used to locate targets, and tracer ammunition of every kind.

Although the tactical conditions were critical, the decision was made to land, since the aircraft was carrying an element vital to the Argentine troops: a powerful 155-millimetre gun and its corresponding stock of ammunition.

After touching down, the Hercules taxied to the end of the runway furthest from Puerto Argentino, because enemy shelling was taking place near the opposite threshold and a large number of flares were illuminating the area.

The complicated task of unloading the gun, which weighed several tonnes, became even more difficult when one of its wheels became jammed against the walls of the aircraft, while the engines were running and ready for immediate departure. Suddenly, the aircraft commander was ordered from the ground to shut down the engines and abandon the aircraft, as the Puerto Argentino air-surveillance radar had detected an English CAP — Combat Air Patrol — heading directly towards the aerodrome.

In the darkness, briefly lit by flares and the bursting of artillery shells, crew members and passengers left the aircraft. They remained for almost an hour among the mud and rocks bordering the runway, waiting for the British raiders — who did not approach because of the respect they had for our effective anti-aircraft artillery — to decide to turn back once they had exhausted their fuel.

When the enemy aircraft moved away temporarily, and before another incursion could take place, the personnel returned to the Hercules, which had by then been freed of the gun. The engines were started in record time, and at 20:35 hours, amid the shrapnel scattered across the runway, “PATO” took off for the return flight with almost 70 evacuees, among them two journalists from Argentina Televisora Color: Nicolás Kasansew and Carlos Lamela.

The turbulent return route, amid the shadows of enemy warships and the threat of new combat air patrols, was flown at a height above the sea which, at times, was barely 10 metres.

In the first minutes of 14 June 1982, the Hercules landed at Comodoro Rivadavia Military Air Base, just over 9 hours after its initial departure.

That same day, a few hours later, British forces occupied the Malvinas aerodrome, discovering with surprise — and not without admiration — that Argentine transport aircraft had operated on the runway throughout the entire air and naval blockade, until the very last minute of the very last day.

Crews of the first and last Argentine flights with landing and take-off at Puerto Argentino

Islas Malvinas

2 April 1982

Aircraft: C-130 “Hercules”, registration TC-68 — LITRO UNO
Landing in Malvinas: 08:43 hours
Take-off from Malvinas: 09:20 hours

Pilot: Commodore Carlos Julio BELTRAMONE
Co-pilot: Vice-Commodore Alfredo CANO — Commander, C-130 Squadron
Navigator: Commodore Roberto Federico MELA

Flight mechanics:
Sub-Officer Adjutant Juan RYDZIK and Principal Corporal Mario CEMINO.

Cargo assistants:
Sub-Officer Adjutant Manuel CARABAJAL, Auxiliary Sub-Officer Ramón PAJÖN and Auxiliary Sub-Officer Carlos SALZANO.

13–14 June 1982

Aircraft: C-130 “Hercules”, registration TC-65 — PATO
Landing in Malvinas: 19:10 hours
Take-off from Malvinas: 20:35 hours

Pilot: Captain Víctor BORCHERT
Co-pilot: Captain Hernán DAGUERRE
Navigator: Commodore Roberto Federico MELA

Flight mechanics:
Auxiliary Sub-Officer Hugo CASTELLINI and Principal Corporal Carlos SOSA.

Cargo assistants:
Sub-Officer Adjutant Manuel CARABAJAL and Auxiliary Sub-Officer Carlos PAOLONI.

Crew doctor for the care of wounded personnel/evacuees:
First Lieutenant Guillermo MÜLLER.

Note: The crew members are listed with the military rank they held in June 1982.