The Heroes of Nacar's 4th Section
(Part 3 of 5)
“Sir! They’re coming again!” shouted one of the sentries from a nearby foxhole. Vázquez, half his body exposed, immediately began directing fire, pointing out targets, asking for ammunition status, and giving firing orders.
Combat resumed once more, intense and all-encompassing — everyone firing at anyone who got close. The inferno of infantry battle returned: the staccato of machine guns, explosions of grenades, rockets, projectiles of all calibres, rifle shots, and the screams of the wounded all merged in a single, deafening chaos.
By 2:30 a.m., the group led by Sergeant Julio Castillo, positioned at the far right of the Section, was trying to hold off the enemy onslaught. With Castillo were Second Corporal Amílcar Tejada — who had travelled to the Falklands with Lieutenant Vázquez — and Dragoon José Luis Galarza, a young man who had stood out and whom Castillo affectionately referred to as “my lad.”
The firefight raged on. Sergeant Castillo kept firing and shouting “Long live the homeland!” But as the minutes ticked by, the situation grew increasingly dire. The British were almost upon them. Castillo shouted, “Fire, you bastards! Don’t act stupid — fight back!” referring to those in the centre sector (where Vázquez and the reconnaissance group were positioned). The Scots were throwing everything at them. Tejada fired the MAG, taking turns with a conscript. Castillo, a quintessential “trooper’s sergeant” in Marine Infantry terms, commanded the right flank.
Suddenly, Castillo saw a Scot assault and kill Dragoon Galarza. Enraged, he shot at the attacker with his FAL — but was immediately struck by three rounds. Castillo collapsed, a gaping 20-centimetre wound torn through his back. A nearby soldier rushed to him, hoping he was only wounded, but Castillo had died instantly.
Castillo, Tejada, Galarza and the mobile group conscripts had withstood the enemy’s advance with stoic bravery. Their position, at the far right of the 4th Section, bore the brunt of the British assault. The Scots, advancing from the west towards the centre and left of Nacar’s line, had to pass through the right flank first — where they were filtered and held off by this group.
With Castillo’s death, Tejada became the only leader left to Vázquez on the right flank — the only one left to give orders and keep morale alive.
Meanwhile, Second Lieutenant Silva was trying to defend himself as best he could. The battle was fierce — the enemy appeared from behind rocks as close as three to twenty metres away. Two conscripts near him were wounded by machine-gun fire. Without hesitation, Silva left his cover and dragged one of the injured towards the shelter of a nearby rock, some 30 metres away. He knew the man would likely die within minutes, with no time or means to treat him.
“Stay here,” he told him, trying to offer comfort. “You’ll be fine. I’ll come back for you as soon as I can. Please don’t move.”
The conscript clutched his bleeding abdomen with both hands and looked silently at his officer — perhaps a final farewell.
“Hang in there, I’ll be back,” Silva repeated.
Crawling back under heavy fire, he reached a foxhole where a FAP machine gun had been abandoned — its operator dead. Silva began firing until it jammed.
“Pass me something I can fire with!” he shouted to a nearby conscript, who handed him a rifle.
“Thanks — it’s something at least,” Silva said, trying to smile through his soot-covered face.
Gradually, the British — advancing in perfect formation — grew stronger. Casualties among Nacar’s men mounted. More and more British soldiers were infiltrating the section’s foxholes.
Why had the Argentines suffered so few casualties in the initial assault, despite the intensity of the combat?
The answer lay in mutual support: the 4th Section had been intact. Each foxhole was covered by the adjacent ones — no one was left unprotected. Thus, the British had to fight not one position, but two or three at once.
But in the second assault, the British changed tactics — with devastating effect. Groups of three or four men, crouching 10 to 20 metres away, would rise and charge the nearest foxhole. They might be shot at — maybe one or two would fall — but the others reached their target and killed whoever was inside.
Over time, the disparity in numbers became obvious.
Vázquez grew increasingly anxious. He couldn’t shake off the enemy or stop them occupying positions. He asked Fochesatto to connect him with Lieutenant Villarraza.
—“Green, this is Green 4.”
—“Green here.”
—“What’s happening with reinforcements?”
—“Hold out — they’re about to set off.”
—“Understood.”
Around 3:00 a.m., a soldier from the Army — Private Do Santos from RI-4 — crawled to Vázquez’s position and shouted:
“Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Sub-lieutenant Silva’s been hit!”
“What happened?”
“He was shot in the chest and arm. Blood’s coming from his mouth.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right — drag him carefully into a foxhole and try to give him some aid.”
“What can I do? What can I say?” thought Vázquez.
At that moment, wounded Marine Infantry soldier Félix Aguirre came to Silva’s aid, despite his own injury. Bravely, he dragged Silva to what he thought was a safe spot.
Returning to his position, Félix Aguirre was killed by enemy fire.
Five minutes after reporting to Vázquez, the same Army soldier returned.
“Lieutenant, Sub-lieutenant Silva is dead.”
Vázquez had lost a vital officer — one who constantly motivated the men, issued orders, and covered areas where Vázquez’s voice could not reach.
What had driven the soldier to return under fire to announce Silva’s death?
Why take such a risk?
Because for a soldier, there is no worse fate than losing his commander. It destroys his hope.
The commander is the one who knows the most, the one who protects them.
If the commander dies, what hope remains for the less trained conscript?
Who will take care of him? Who will tell him, “Move — you’ll be killed there,” or “Take cover,” or “Aim that way”? Who will lead the retreat?
No one.
The death of a commander quickly leads to the death of his subordinates — disorientation, fear, and hesitation take over, especially in close combat, where only the quickest survive.
The conscript had risked himself twice: first to try and save Silva, and then to avoid the feeling of abandonment if his leader died.
A deeply human action. One of the many faces of war.
Vázquez had no time to grieve.
A machine gun opened fire on him from a stone wall nearby. The British had his position marked — whenever he raised his head to give orders, he was met with a barrage.
But he couldn’t stop commanding.
“I’ll blow you to bits,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
He grabbed an anti-tank grenade launcher and fired at the machine gun nest — then another. One hit the base of the stone, the other missed.
It was futile. He couldn’t silence it.
—“Gascó! Gascó! Fire at that machine gun!” he shouted to a conscript on his left, whom he’d promoted to Dragoon that very day — in the middle of battle. “War things,” he thought.
He’d trusted the lad, and now he desperately needed him.
—“Gascó! Gascó! Don’t be a bastard — don’t leave me alone now!”
He knew Gascó was alive.
Why wasn’t he responding?
Gascó was trying to unjam the machine gun.
“Thank God,” he muttered when it finally worked.
Without wasting time, he opened fire on Vázquez’s attackers, taking them out.
The situation was desperate.
Vázquez decided to descend into the foxhole and use the radio — normally Fochesatto’s task, but this message was too urgent.
He pressed the button — and at once the background hum of reception ceased.
Underground, all outside noise was crystal clear: explosions, screams, gunfire. The blasts shook the earth.
These men, though, no longer feared how they’d die. They knew full well they might not make it out alive — but they also knew the British wouldn’t have it easy.
Suddenly, someone spoke in English — right at the mouth of the foxhole.
Vázquez and Fochesatto froze.
“Shit! They’re going to chuck a grenade down here!” cried Fochesatto.
Vázquez had a habit of leaving two rifles outside: one with an anti-tank grenade aimed in one direction, the other pointed the opposite way.
In his desperation, he knocked over the radio but leapt out of the foxhole and grabbed the nearest rifle.
A few metres away, a British soldier lay prone, speaking into a radio. In the confusion, he hadn't noticed the foxhole.
Vázquez didn’t hesitate — he aimed and fired.
The anti-tank projectile exploded less than half a metre from the British soldier, tearing him apart.
At the same time, further right, another British soldier reached a foxhole occupied by an Army conscript. A nearby soldier, some 30 metres away, saw him — but hesitated, unsure if he was British or not, a natural reaction amidst the chaos.
“Yes, he’s British!” he shouted — and fired.
Too late.
A second before being hit in the back, the Brit had thrown an incendiary grenade into the foxhole.
The blast was instant. Flames shot from the hole.
A soldier emerged — ablaze.
Without hesitating, he tore off his poncho-style blanket, rolled on the ground and extinguished the flames. Vázquez couldn’t believe he wasn’t burned.
The man stood up like a spring, scanned the area for a weapon, found a rifle, and crawled into another foxhole to continue fighting.
Vázquez called Lieutenant Villarraza again:
“What’s happening with the reinforcements?”
“They’re on their way — already marching.”
Sub-lieutenant Lamadrid’s section from RI-6 and Marines under Lieutenant Miño had begun a counterattack, but they hadn’t yet reached Vázquez’s position.
Still, help wasn’t arriving fast enough. The situation worsened.
Casualties increased. Ammunition was running low.
At that moment, Vázquez made a drastic decision:
He would shell his own position with their 60mm mortar — all 54 rounds.
A desperate move. A last resort.
There was no other option but surrender — or die.
Since mortars fire on a high arc, the only way to hit nearby positions was to remove the bipod.
That’s what they did — they placed it upright on two ammo crates.
“Rotela,” Vázquez said to the Dragoon acting as gun chief, supported by conscript Güida and another nicknamed “Pankuka.”
“Is Güida wearing the glove?”
“Yes, sir. He’s ready.”
Güida, his gloved right hand protecting him from the hot tube, held a round in the other. Eyes fixed on the mortar, he awaited the order.
“Fire!” Vázquez commanded.
They started at the right flank, moved through the centre, and reached the left.
Each shot caused tremors, smoke, and dirt clods — but accuracy was poor.
Despite heavy casualties, the British did not retreat.
They were many — and well dug in.
“This is going to hell,” Vázquez muttered. “We can’t last much longer. Let me try to reach command.”
He grabbed the radio and began calling Captain Robacio.
