Malvinas: Argentine Pumas in Action

The Argentine Pumas At War

By Staff Sergeant (Ret.) and Malvinas War Veteran Carlos Andrés Verón

 

During the conflict, I served in the 601st Combat Aviation Battalion as a helicopter mechanic for Assault Helicopter Company “A”.

It was 27 March 1982 when I arrived at the gates of the 601 Army Aviation Battalion and was told to hurry to the hangar, as there was a mission heading south — El Calafate. At the hangar, First Lieutenants Obregón and Orozco, and Corporal First Class Alfredo Romero, were waiting. We gathered the essential equipment for the journey. Our first stop was Comandante Espora Naval Air Base, in Bahía Blanca.

We arrived around midday. The pilots went to the control tower, while we remained with the aircraft to refuel. At that moment, some Navy non-commissioned officers approached and asked if our helicopter — a SA 330L PUMA (AE-502) — was the one embarking on the icebreaker Almirante Irízar. I responded that it wasn’t, as we were heading to Santa Cruz, and had actually disembarked from the Irízar in February following the 1981/82 Summer Antarctic Campaign. I also pointed out that the Coast Guard’s PUMA, stationed next to us, might be the one assigned to the vessel.

Hours went by with no sign of the pilots. Eventually, they returned and took us to a room — we were put under strict communication blackout. Then Lt. Obregón informed us that he had requested the blade folding kit from our base, as we would in fact be embarking on the ARA Almirante Irízar, bound for the Malvinas. That cleared up the confusion. The Navy issued us a survival vest, typically worn by A-4Q pilots, and a .45 calibre pistol.

By late morning on 28 March, the blade folding kit arrived. We didn’t even get the chance to greet the personnel who delivered it. We collected it and boarded the Irízar. Once on board, Romero and I realised we were missing two shock absorber locking pins, but thought that reinforcing the tie-downs with extra chains would compensate.

At dawn on 29 March, we departed with the fleet as part of Operation Rosario.

Alongside our PUMA in the hangar was a Navy Sea King. The weather was poor; the ship pitched significantly as we sailed under radio silence. We checked on the helicopter sporadically — it seemed stable.

In the early hours of 2 April, we were asleep in a cabin on the red deck when I was suddenly thrown into the air, hitting my head against the bathroom. Romero rolled across the cabin floor. We couldn’t stand because of the heavy rolling. Once we managed to get up, we got dressed and joined the damage control team heading to the hangar. Upon opening the door, we were stunned: JP-1 fuel (used by turbine engines) had flooded the hangar floor, reaching the 40cm-high bulkhead ledges. The main landing gear had collapsed, puncturing the fuel tanks beneath the helicopter’s floor.

The scene was catastrophic. The main rotor blades had broken loose and struck the hangar’s support columns. The drainage system couldn’t handle the 1,500 litres of fuel on board. I put on boots and carefully walked through the spill, as the ship was still rolling. The helicopter rested on its rear struts but was tilted backwards — as mentioned, the gear had snapped and pierced the fuel tanks. Of the twenty tie-down chains, only ten remained — the others had snapped off their anchor points. Using the ship’s blue lifting jacks, typically used for moving cargo, we stabilised the helicopter as best we could and re-secured it.

Fortunately, the Sea King had suffered only minor damage — its right nose had been pierced by a hydraulic test lance, which was easily repaired. Ours, however, was grounded and unable to support the landing operation — the very reason for our presence.

In the early hours, the Navy launched its amphibious assault, together with Marines and the 25th Regiment of the Army. Meanwhile, Corporal Romero and I began a race against time to dismantle the PUMA — salvaging all serviceable components to be used as spares for the other helicopters participating.

We first secured the aircraft, opened the engine bays, removed the main rotor blades, then the tail rotor blades, and then both engines. That was the bulk of the work. After that, we carefully dismantled and packed all radio and navigation systems, and anything else of value. Rumours were circulating that AE-502 would be jettisoned into the sea to make space for other helicopters without returning to port.

I had taken part in the previous Antarctic summer campaign, and I knew the ship’s captain, Navy Captain Barquín. Since our pilots had returned to the mainland on the first C-130, and I was the senior mechanic, I went to speak to him. I explained that the helicopter had only 20% structural damage and was recoverable. At first, he didn’t want to know about it, but he eventually agreed to unload it in Punta Quilla.

From then on, we devised the safest and fastest way to move the aircraft to the flight deck. Keep in mind: the PUMA stands four metres tall, and we only had the nose gear — no rear struts. No manoeuvre could be attempted until we were in calm waters, so all our plans were theoretical.

On 8 April, as we entered port, we began the operation using ropes, chains, and the ship’s jacks. We removed the tail cone, and the critical step was rolling the aircraft past the hangar threshold up to the main rotor mast, where the starboard crane would lift it — the PUMA weighed about 3,500 kg. After a hard struggle, we succeeded. The aircraft was loaded onto a barge, hauled by a tractor through the city, and taken to a Navy helicopter hangar, where it remained under custody until it was recovered by personnel from Campo de Mayo.

The transit through the city was another story altogether. The PUMA, heavily damaged, looked as if it had been shot down. As you can imagine, onlookers had plenty to say as we moved through the streets.

At the hangar, we parked it to the side to keep it out of the way. Then came the question of our return — we didn’t know how or when.

Around 6 p.m., we were told that an Army Aviation aircraft would collect us from Trelew. We were driven there by Unimog, boarded a G222 FIAT, and flew to Campo de Mayo, landing at the airfield and going to the NCOs’ mess. At around 4 a.m., we were dismissed. It was Holy Week, so we were granted leave until Monday, 12 April.

Let me say clearly: the recovery effort of the SA 330 B PUMA AE-502 was not in vain. It was sent to its original manufacturer — Aérospatiale in France — for repairs the following year, returned to service in 1986, and sadly met its end in a tragic crash in Azul in November 1993.

I was left with a bitter taste — so close to operating in the Malvinas, yet unable due to circumstances. But fate gave me another opportunity. On 22 April, I departed Campo de Mayo to embark on the hospital ship Bahía Paraíso, this time with PUMA AE-506. The aircraft commander was Captain Ezequiel Honorio Luzuriaga, co-pilot 1st Lt. Eduardo López Leguizamón, and the mechanics were Sgt. 1st Class Horacio Luna and myself. (Both officers sadly passed away years later in separate post-war accidents.)

Our mission was to operate under the International Red Cross, using the ship as a base for aerial ambulance missions. Our first assignment was responding to the sinking of the ARA General Belgrano. When we arrived, the Navy vessels Bouchard and Piedrabuena were overloaded with survivors — even on deck. The South Atlantic Ocean, especially in that region, is notoriously rough. Visibility was poor, but time was running out. Hours had passed since the sinking — survival chances were fading.

We began flying, identifying the position of various life rafts, guiding the ships to recover the living — or the dead. I remember one raft had its flashlight still lit. As mentioned, the weather prevented us from flying far from the ship. The urgency to locate rafts made us chase after colourful objects in the sea — but often, they turned out to be nothing.

After this bitter beginning, we sailed to Ushuaia, where survivors and the deceased were disembarked. Sgt. Luna left the ship, and Sgt. 1st Class Oscar Mella joined the crew.

After restocking medicine and provisions, we set course for the Malvinas.

During the crossing, we were intercepted by a British helicopter, which requested to land and inspect the hospital ship to ensure it carried no weapons. Our PUMA bore red crosses on both side doors, the nose, belly, and upper cowling. Before departing, the British pilot told us:

“A Harrier flying at 800 km/h won’t see the red crosses — it’ll just see a green spot. You’ll be shot down, and they won’t know it was an ambulance helicopter.”

That night, with the help of the ship’s crew, we painted the helicopter white, using synthetic paint. It was a wartime necessity. We worked all night — painting and maintaining.

At dawn, we launched our first aeromedical evacuation mission. We flew to the HMS Uganda, the British hospital ship, to retrieve wounded Argentines. The PUMA could carry six stretchers, and we configured it based on the number of patients. Two Navy medics accompanied us — Subofficer Panagiotas and Chief Petty Officer Quiroga.

Upon landing on the Uganda, I entered the wards to prioritise the wounded for boarding based on condition. Most had shrapnel wounds, dressed in flight suits, their belongings in plastic bags.
As an anecdote, one patient began shouting aboard the Bahía Paraíso, complaining that the British hadn’t returned his personal effects. Shortly after, a British helicopter landed and returned his belongings.

After several days working with the Uganda, we proceeded to the Malvinas.

Once there, we conducted casualty evacuations, primarily from Puerto Argentino, and flew across the islands collecting injured personnel. At night, we could hear the Royal Navy frigates firing indiscriminately.

From 16 to 18 June, we remained off Puerto Argentino, evacuating as many Argentine soldiers as possible. The PUMA could carry 20 troops, but given the urgency, we kept loading more. As we ran low on fuel, with the 20-minute warning light flashing, we managed three flights. On the final one, we transported 42 soldiers plus 4 crew — 46 people in total.

This was our side of the war — not a face-to-face combat experience, not a single shot fired. But we flew Army Aviation helicopters over our Malvinas. Pilots, mechanics, medics, and nurses — all united by one goal: to fulfil our mission.

On 25 June 1982, after an emotional farewell with those we had shared 65 days aboard the Bahía Paraíso, we lifted off and headed for Campo de Mayo. We landed around 6 p.m., hangared the aircraft, saluted one another, and went home — to our families — with the satisfaction of having done our duty.

Malvinas: The Odysee of the 5th Infantry Regiment at Puerto Howard

Malvinas: The Dramatic Story of the Regiment That Withstood Brutal Isolation and the Dangerous Mission to Resupply Them

They were stationed at Puerto Howard, on West Falkland Island. Resupplying them was an almost impossible task. The soldiers of the 5th Infantry Regiment (RI5) wrote one of the most grueling chapters of the Malvinas/Falklands War. Infobae Docs gathered three veterans who revealed their fierce and uneven battle against an implacable enemy—isolation.
By Adrián Pignatelli || Infobae


The Sea Harrier Shot Down with a 1936-Made Machine Gun. The captured pilot could not believe that he had been downed by such an outdated weapon.

Located on Gran Malvina (West Falkland), Howard was, in 1982, a small port on the San Carlos Strait. A cove provided shelter and allowed ships to dock. The local population was small and primarily engaged in sheep farming and wool shearing, with the final product shipped to Great Britain. The islanders had limited opportunities for development, as the economy assigned married residents a fixed number of sheep, and a single official acted as both the local administrator and the manager of the wool trading company.

It was an extremely remote location where residents stayed informed solely through British radio relays. There was no television, primary school, or secondary school.

This was the site selected for the 5th Infantry Regiment (RI5) to counter a potential enemy landing. This regiment would go down in history as the unit that endured the longest period of isolation during the Malvinas/Falklands War.

On April 25, upon arrival at Port Stanley, RI5 was airlifted to Puerto Howard in three helicopter waves, except for 108 men from Company B, who traveled by ship transporting rations, ammunition, and anti-personnel mines.

Howard was renamed Puerto Yapeyú, as in peacetime, Company C of this regiment was based in the town where General José de San Martín was born.

 
RI5 Soldiers Boarding in Comodoro Rivadavia for the Airlift to the Malvinas

The soldiers carried a single ration of food. It was imperative to supply them with the necessary provisions, along with heavy weapons and ammunition, to endure the harsh weeks of isolation ahead.

They were still unaware that the resupply would never arrive.

The following day, in Howard, two and a half lambs were purchased from the locals to supplement the soldiers' rations. Meanwhile, in Puerto Argentino, the Monsunen, a 30-meter vessel confiscated from the Falkland Company, set sail at night. It was loaded with ten days' worth of supplies, weapons, and ammunition.

The plan was to skirt the island northward and enter the San Carlos Strait. However, strong winds and tides made this route impossible. The only alternative was the longer and far more dangerous southern route—navigating around the island while avoiding mines laid by the Argentine Navy and knowing that, in broad daylight, they would be completely exposed to enemy aircraft. The mission had to succeed, as on the 27th, food rationing had already begun in Puerto Yapeyú.

That night, the Monsunen was forced to take shelter in a small bay after the radar detected what was possibly a submarine. The ship’s only defenses were two MAG machine guns and two rocket launchers. By midday the next day, the vessel finally managed to dock at the pier in Puerto Yapeyú.

 
Alberto Miñones Carrión: Severely Wounded in Malvinas, Lost a Leg—“It Is a Special Honor to Have Been Part of This Campaign” (Santiago Saferstein)

At the time, Alberto Miñones Carrión was a young second lieutenant. He was in charge of the Support Section of Company A, RI5, and his unit was reinforced with two Colt 12.7 mm machine guns. He recalled, “From the moment we arrived, we knew resupply would be difficult—to the point that the provisions we expected the next day never arrived. As the days went by, the situation worsened, and with the arrival of more personnel, it became truly critical.”

The occupation of the area was gradual. Initially, a 130-man company was deployed. Later, the regiment’s other two infantry companies, along with two engineer sections and medical personnel, arrived—bringing the total to nearly 800 men.

 
The Isla de los Estados: Attacked While Carrying Supplies for the Troops—Only Two of 25 Crew Members Survived

On the night of May 10, the frigate HMS Alacrity attacked the transport ship Isla de los Estados in the middle of the San Carlos Strait, as it was en route to Puerto Yapeyú carrying supplies and weapons.

Of the 25 crew members, only two survived.

Hours later, Argentine troops discovered squash floating near the shore—part of the ship’s lost cargo. These were mashed and added to the regiment’s already scarce rations.

 
Hugo Gargano, Quartermaster Second Lieutenant During the War: “We Had Only Two Field Kitchens for 150 Men” (Santiago Saferstein)

"Cooking a lamb was a challenge since we had to use peat as fuel, which has very low caloric value. On top of that, we only had two field kitchens for 150 men. But the ingenuity and skill of the quartermaster personnel led us to clean out 200-liter fuel drums, and that’s how we ended up eating lamb stew with a hint of fuel taste. Heating those drums was extremely difficult, and fires had to remain extinguished for most of the day," explained Hugo Gargano, Quartermaster Second Lieutenant of Regiment 5, the unit’s only officer in that specialty.

When supply issues worsened, Gargano was in Puerto Argentino, trying to find a way to reach Gran Malvina. The RI5 commander, Colonel Juan Ramón Mabragaña, persistently requested a Quartermaster officer from the III Infantry Brigade’s commander.

"I asked every day to go to Howard," Gargano told Infobae. "On the 21st, I ran into a major who told me, ‘You have no idea how much your regiment commander is asking for you,’ but we couldn’t coordinate my transport."

 

 
Today, Juan Ramón Mabragaña, Surrounded by His Soldiers, Who Recognize “A Leader Who Cared for His Men”

"The next day, they came to pick me up in a vehicle. 'You have 15 minutes to be at Moody Brook and board a helicopter heading to Howard with supplies, weapons, and ammunition,' they told me." Hugo Gargano reported to Major Roberto Yanzi from Army Aviation.

At that moment, he had no idea he was about to embark on a journey he would never forget.

Flying to Howard

Major Roberto Yanzi was the second-in-command of the 601st Combat Aviation Battalion. He had arrived in the islands on April 7. He explained, “We had to make the most of the flight. We loaded ammunition, mortars, and medical supplies. We also took two soldiers from Regiment 5. Three Puma helicopters would fly, with an Augusta in the rear for escort, armed for protection.”

Before takeoff, Yanzi gathered the crews and briefed them on the mission. “I listened as they spoke—we were about to embark on a high-risk flight, as the day before, the British had landed at San Carlos. The 7 or 8 minutes it would take to cross the strait would be crucial.”

The mission launched on May 22.

A stopover was always made at Goose Green, where Task Force Mercedes had a garrison. However, upon arrival, the helicopters were forced to remain grounded—Sea Harriers were constantly patrolling overhead.

Yanzi knew that flying under those conditions meant taking an extreme risk.

 
Roberto Yanzi, Army Aviation: “When We Reached Howard, We Celebrated Because We Were All Still Alive” (Santiago Saferstein)

"The memory of the downing of AE 505 on May 9 was still fresh, when First Lieutenants Roberto Fiorito and Juan Carlos Buschiazzo, along with Sergeant Raúl Dimotta, lost their lives. Additionally, Army Aviation faced a serious limitation: fuel shortages," recalled Major Roberto Yanzi.

The weather conditions were also poor, with constant fog and mist. “At 10:30 on the 23rd, we took off, flying just one meter above the ground to avoid detection by enemy radar and maintaining radio silence. When we reached the strait, we saw the Río Carcarañá billowing smoke” (the vessel had been disabled by two Sea Harriers on May 16).

“It’s an Honor to Die with You”

As they were about to finish crossing the strait, the armed escort helicopter issued a warning:

• “Aircraft! Aircraft! Hit the deck!”

Two Sea Harriers were approaching. The first helicopter was piloted by First Lieutenant Hugo Pérez Cometto, the second by First Lieutenant Enrique Magnaghi, and the third by Major Roberto Yanzi, who later recounted to Infobae:

 

The Arrival of the Río Carcarañá Crew

"Pérez Cometto, in an outstanding maneuver, managed to evade the enemy aircraft, while Magnaghi and I crossed the channel and landed. Almost immediately, I saw a fireball coming from Magnaghi’s helicopter, which had flipped over—he had lost control as the aircraft spun on its axis. At the same time, the Sea Harriers opened fire on me with their 30mm cannons, hitting the tail of my helicopter, which still had its rotors spinning. That’s when I ordered Gargano to disembark as fast as possible."

"It was a moment of intense adrenaline. I opened the hatch, jumped out first… we ran and threw ourselves flat on the ground as the Sea Harriers strafed us," recalled Gargano.

The three of them lay prone as enemy rounds impacted all around them. At that moment, Yanzi spoke:

• "Take my hand, don’t look back—it’s an honor to die in war with you."

"That’s when I fully realized the situation we were in. Once the aircraft had passed, we ran and moved away from the helicopter," the officer recounted.

Yanzi had no idea what had happened to the rest of the crews until he heard the distinctive whistle of Private Elvio Nis, a skilled tracker from Paso de los Libres, which helped reunite the personnel.

"You can imagine our joy when we realized that not a single crew member had died. Magnaghi had a fractured clavicle, and Godino, one of the mechanics, had suffered a severe head injury," Yanzi explained.

"We Were All Alive"

Determined to complete the mission, Yanzi burned his Puma AE 500 to prevent it from falling into British hands, salvaging only the machine gun. The remaining crews and part of the cargo were loaded onto the only operational helicopter—Pérez Cometto’s Puma.

They took off, hoping to avoid enemy aircraft en route to Howard, as Radio Colonia had reported that three helicopters had already been shot down by Harriers.

Yanzi recalled, "When we arrived, it was an overwhelming joy. We hugged each other—we were all alive."

On the morning of May 26, the helicopter crews embarked on the risky return flight to Puerto Argentino, departing at 0500 hours. They transported members of Compañía Comando and a captain who had ejected from his aircraft.

"It was a gamble," admitted Yanzi. "We were packed in tight. We flew at extremely low altitude and managed to land. Without realizing it, we had just completed the last flight to Gran Malvina."

Years later, Gargano connected via social media with one of the Sea Harrier pilots, David Morgan, who had long wondered about the fate of the Puma crews. "He felt great relief upon learning that we had survived," Gargano shared.

Fighting in Howard

Now retired Lieutenant Colonel Miñones described the precarious situation the regiment faced in the event of a British attack:

"The heavy equipment couldn’t be transported. We lacked artillery pieces. When we crossed, I managed to bring short-range 81mm mortars, which served as our heavy weaponry for a long time. That’s why we kept requesting 120mm mortars. The 4th Artillery Battery never arrived."

RI5 Soldiers in a Trench at Puerto Howard

They had to fight with whatever was available.

Using Colt 12.7mm machine guns manufactured in 1936, they managed to shoot down a Sea Harrier and repel an attack from a Sea King helicopter. Miñones recalled, "When we captured the pilot, he told us he felt a rain of bullets striking the fuselage; he couldn’t believe we had taken him down with that machine gun."

Gravely Wounded

On the night of May 27, Miñones was severely wounded. He survived to tell the story.

*"A shell from a frigate conducting exploratory fire hit me while I was at the bottom of a trench. I was between First Lieutenant Daniel Stella and Orderly Soldier Felipe Fernández. The blast threw me 20 meters, flipping me in the air before I landed on my back, arms crossed over my chest. I entrusted myself to the Virgin Mary and prayed an Ave María, thinking I was dying.

In the darkness, I reached for my right leg—it was still there. When I checked the left, I felt a bare bone. I felt no pain. That’s when I realized I was alive and had another chance."*

During that same attack, soldiers Fernando Damián Francolino, Francisco Manuel Machado, and Ricardo Manuel Herrera were also wounded.

 

The Rescue of British Lieutenant Jeff Glover After Ejecting

"I was evacuated to a very rudimentary field hospital, run by Major Dr. Reale, a brilliant trauma surgeon. In addition to my leg wound, I had a puncture in my hip and another in my chest. With the limited supplies he had, he operated on me and sutured my femoral artery."

Given the severity of his injuries, a rapid evacuation would have been the norm, but Miñones recounted:

"For ten days, I lay on a wooden door propped up on two apple crates. There were no painkillers, no plaster, yet the doctors managed to make do."

 

Jeff Glover’s Arrival at Puerto Howard

On May 29, it snowed for the first time in Puerto Yapeyú. The temperature dropped to -18°C, and the overall condition of the troops was critical.

"Those days were terrible. The wounded were housed in a wooden shack that shook with every bombardment. I felt completely exposed since I couldn't move. As shrapnel pierced the wooden walls—on one occasion, two fragments passed right by my head—I asked my comrade, Eduardo Gassino, for a helmet."

But Miñones’ hardships didn’t end there.

"Food was extremely scarce, and due to my condition, I couldn’t eat lamb. It was Eduardo Gassino who, every day, brought me a sort of broth with bustard meat—a local bird—using an empty soda can."

Finally, on June 6, he was evacuated to the Bahía Paraíso, which had been converted into a hospital ship. Also evacuated were soldiers Exequiel Vargas, Eduardo Rubiolo, Mariano Leiva, and Fernando Francolino.

 

 

The Hospital Ship Bahía Paraíso

"When I arrived on the mainland, I weighed 42 kilos, down from my normal 68. I hadn’t even realized how much weight I had lost. I needed to recover before undergoing a major surgery. For two months, my prognosis was poor due to an infection in my leg, but I was given another chance—and I survived."

Both Gargano and Miñones hold Colonel Juan Ramón Mabragaña, their regimental commander, in the highest regard.

"He stood out for his humility and prudence, for the precision of his decisions. Beyond the war, he was a model soldier and a remarkable person. He took veterans’ needs seriously—securing jobs, medicine, and even medical evacuations, often out of his own pocket. He reaped what he sowed."

The three veterans also paid tribute to the 23 crew members of the Isla de los Estados, who died while attempting to deliver supplies.

What Does Malvinas Mean?

For Yanzi: “A feeling and a great pride to have been part of it.”

For Gargano: “It remains a daily battle—to ensure recognition for the veterans who fought there.”

For Miñones: “It is a very special honor to have participated in this campaign and to have lost a leg. It helps me emotionally. What I carry deep inside—and hope to pass on to my children—is something that changed my life for the better.”