BIM 5: The War of Second Corporal Agüero (1/2)

The Fight of Second Corporal Agüero – Part 1

Account taken from Revista Desembarco

Second Corporal Juan Carlos Agüero took part in the Malvinas War as a member of OBRA Company of the 5th Marine Infantry Battalion (BIM 5).

Second Corporal Agüero says: in 1982 I was posted to the 5th Marine Infantry Battalion. I was the leader of the 3rd Riflemen Group of OBRA Company. Our commander was Commander Carlos Robacio.

OBRA Company was, in reality, a reinforced rifle section: we were about 88 men—small for a company and large for a section. Our Company Commander was Sub-Lieutenant Ricardo Luis Quiroga, and the company senior NCO was Second Petty Officer Roberto Tejerina. The company’s organisation was three rifle groups, a 60 mm mortar and machine-gun group (two guns), a rocket-launcher detachment, the PELCA (command platoon formed by the commander and some 3 or 4 conscripts) and, when we arrived in the Malvinas, Second Corporal (medic) Angelossi joined us.

Once we arrived in the Malvinas and positions were assigned to BIM 5, we occupied a position between Mount Longdon and Wireless Ridge. Because of its size, our company had always been used in training as a reserve unit or as a forward observation unit, and in the Malvinas that was our mission: we were the battalion reserve. But with the arrival of Army regiments, we were ordered to move to another sector, near the positions of a company from RI-3. At that time we were still the reserve of BIM 5, but on 5 June, after repeatedly asking higher command to protect the avenue of approach—the only road linking Fitz Roy with the settlement—Captain Robacio decided to move his OBRA Company to Pony Pass, a forward sector. There the company would establish a blocking position.

Second Corporal Agüero recalls:

“My rifle group’s position was laid out on ground sloping down from W to E, but cut by a dried-up pond and a small natural rocky embankment, which allowed us to conceal ourselves if we had to fall back to the East. The northern end was marked by a distinctive rock beside the road leading to Fitz Roy. We had a frontage of 70 metres and were 150 m from the Company Command Post. The positions were about 150–200 m from a livestock fence and the anti-personnel minefield. That distance was chosen to achieve the effectiveness of our own fires on the interdiction line.

About 50 m to the rear and in the centre of the Group there was a rest and storage area (rations, sleeping bags, etc.) called the ‘Bunker’. This place did not protect against fire—only shelter for resting under cover. The terrain offered fields of fire and observation sectors for all weapons, being more open and flatter towards the Group’s left flank. The Group was reinforced, almost at the end, with a machine gun and a 3.5-inch rocket-launcher detachment.

At night the positions were manned two men at a time, and the rocket-launcher detachment was tasked to cover a post beside the road. All positions were double and had roofs made of corrugated sheet, timber, or tarpaulins with stops. They protected us from wind and rain; protection against fire was limited.

The road to Fitz Roy forked about 2,000 m to our front; we could clearly observe the branch that ran along the slope of Mount Harriet, while the other was partly masked by the undulations of the ground.

We had a light intensifier for the FM, and a Litton helmet-mounted night sight with the MAG. Only I had PAF and PD EF grenades. Each soldier carried 7.62 mm ammunition according to the weapon he carried:

FAL: 500 rounds; FAP: 1,000 rounds; MAG: 4 to 6 boxes plus a reserve of 2,000 rounds; 3.5-inch rocket-launcher.

‘C’ rations for about three days, plus supplementary mess improvements.

During the period up to 11 June the Company received sporadic naval gunfire, without causing casualties or affecting us. It was evident that this fire was not directed at the position; it was attributed to dispersion or the ships’ corrections. Harrier aircraft also flew over the area on photographic or strike missions, though the latter were always carried out against the Main Battle Area.

During the night of 11 June and the early hours of 12 June we saw the fighting for Mount Harriet, but there was little we could do. The British were more than 2,000 m from us; only a fraction that attempted an attack from the mountain’s rear came within our range, at a distance of about 800 to 1,000 m. From my position, using the night sight, we could see them clearly; some wore fluorescent markings on the back of their helmets. As they climbed, we fired at them from behind with the machine gun brought by Master Corporal Álvarez, together with conscripts Rava and Patrone. At that range our fire was not very effective; we fired one belt and suddenly began receiving fire from 6 or 7 machine guns, so we had to take cover. The master corporal received the order to return, but the machine gun remained with us on the front line.

Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga ordered the 60 mm mortars forward to hit the British; the mortar rounds fell on the enemy, but we had no way of verifying their effectiveness. At the same time, Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga adjusted the field artillery fire onto Harriet.

Apparently, by around 00:00 the enemy controlled part of the mountain, but RI-4 was still fighting; we could see and hear the explosions. Around 01:30 the British pushed upwards again. While this was happening, the company commander, Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga, reported to the BIM 5 command post. Captain Robacio informed the sub-lieutenant—and the sub-lieutenant informed us—that we were to prepare, because we might be used in a counter-attack if higher command authorised it; the authorisation never came.

At about 03:00 we managed to recover two conscripts from RI-4’s service section (soldiers Ibañes and Vallejos). They were given dry clothing, combat rations and ammunition and were incorporated into the company. They remained with us until the end of the fighting. At dawn on 12 June, Mount Harriet was in British hands.”

Repulse of the Enemy — 13 June

During the night of 12/13 June the enemy continued moving troops and helicopters in the Mount Harriet area, but our company had no significant developments. Twilight began at 08:16. At 22:34 the moon rose, on its first day of the last quarter. Artillery fire intensified over Tumbledown–William, Sapper Hill… Morning broke, and 13 June passed without major developments. At 15:30, at about 900 m, we saw elements advancing in an extended line abreast in front of the Company, with an estimated strength of 2 or 3 sections, wearing black berets (Welsh). The company’s support weapons were in a position to open fire, but the Company Commander ordered us not to, in order not to give away the position. He decided to engage them with our own artillery and made the corresponding requests. He reported to the BIM 5 command, which in turn reported to the Army grouping command (AGRUP. EA), which ordered the area to be shelled with all available artillery (B/BIAC taking part, Battery B of the Marine Infantry field artillery battalion). The fire was highly effective and the enemy withdrew in disorder; bodies could be seen being blown into the air. They then pulled back westwards towards helicopters that were waiting for them. Once the mission by our artillery ended, two enemy helicopters collected the wounded, observed from “OBRA” and from the BIM 5 observation post at Tumbledown; we allowed this medical evacuation to be completed without fire. In Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga’s words: “Not the wounded.” These actions were seen by the entire Company.

On this, Second Corporal Agüero, leader of the 3rd Group, says:

“On 13 June, at about 12:00, we saw enemy troops moving on foot over Mount Harriet, coming from the north-west. We judged them to be about the size of a company. They emplaced 81 mm mortars on the mountain; their hand-carriage could be made out, and we observed about four weapons. Then some of the personnel came down from the mountain towards the crossroads. They set up about five 7.62 mm machine guns on the road fork (prominent rocks in the terrain). Enemy helicopters unloaded crates—probably ammunition. Later, between Mount Harriet and the crossroads, a helicopter lift of personnel began, with an estimated strength of less than a company. The helicopters were Sea King and Wasp types, all dark-coloured. The movement lasted about an hour. I discussed these events with the group and we prepared for combat. There was noticeable nervousness and tension among the men. We had it in our heads that we had come for something—and that something was going to happen.

At about 15:00 the enemy advanced in an extended line; our artillery fired, but the first rounds fell long, on the far side of Harriet, and we could not see the subsequent impacts—only the smoke rising into the sky. Then I saw clearly, halfway up the visible face of Harriet, an artillery impact. They were falling in the enemy’s general area, but far from him. Three more impacts were corrected and only then did we get onto the target. Then effective fire was delivered: I saw an explosion that threw three or four bodies into the air. Wounded could be seen; they scattered seeking cover, shouting, and we could hear them clearly. There were more explosions and more wounded; bodies flew and were scattered. After about 15 or 20 minutes, Sea King-type helicopters were seen evacuating the wounded; their number could not be determined because the aircraft were positioned facing our lines and masked them.

After that nothing else happened until, before dark, I observed along the road from the West a force of English troops in tight column, assessed as a company. Before reaching the crossroads they deployed into an extended line to the south of the road and halted in the ground they had reached. The English marched calmly, apparently because our positions were well camouflaged and they did not know we were there. I reported the situation by radio to Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga, left my position and checked the Group’s readiness for combat, reiterating that we would be attacked that night.

At that time Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga had a fractured ankle, the result of some artillery rounds falling short and, while running to cover to make the correction, he broke his ankle. He was later evacuated and replaced by Lieutenant Commander Carlos Alberto Calmels, who had been our Company Commander the previous year. Lieutenant Commander Calmels arrived about 20 minutes before the attack on our positions began.”

The Last A-4Q Skyhawk

Argentina’s unilateral disarmament

On 25 February 1988, the last flight of an A-4Q Skyhawk of the 3rd Naval Air Fighter and Attack Squadron of the COAN took place. Argentina’s unilateral disarmament is set in motion to create a state of absolute national defencelessness for the Argentine nation! The end begins…

The last flight of a Douglas A-4Q Skyhawk of the 3rd Naval Air Fighter and Attack Squadron of the COAN (Naval Aviation Command) of the Argentine Navy was carried out by aircraft 0655/3-A-302, flown by Lieutenant Arturo Médici. On 25 February 1988 he flew from Comandante Espora Naval Air Base to Jorge Newbery Airfield (Aeroparque) in the City of Buenos Aires, and from there it was taken to the illustrious Navy Mechanics School to be used as teaching material for officer cadets in the aeronautical branch.

This act—the withdrawal from service without replacement of the A-4Q Skyhawk system and the 3rd Squadron of the Argentine Navy—was the practical beginning of Argentina’s unilateral disarmament, since at the same time the aircraft carrier ARA “25 de Mayo” had also stopped sailing in order to undergo modernisation at AFNE (State Naval Shipyards and Factories; today ARS), with assistance from the Italian shipyard Fincantieri Cantieri Reuniti S.p.A. Neither Alfonsín’s left-leaning Radicalism nor, later, Peronism (which years later would give rise to the anti-nationalist, leftist Kirchnerism—the era of greatest degeneration, political corruption and legal unconstitutionality in Argentina) ever carried this out. It became the first major and unnecessary loss of Argentine defensive power after the 50% defence budget cut introduced from 1984 onwards, and the criminal application of the unconstitutional Decrees 157/83 and 158/83 by the PEN (National Executive Branch), which initiated a criminal political persecution of Argentine military personnel, civilians and police who, in war, saved the country by fighting and defeating the Castro–Guevarist subversion that was the nation’s enemy, through the legal unconstitutionality that gave rise to the illegal, circus-like “crimes against humanity” cases and trials.

Argentina’s unilateral disarmament, symbolised by the image of the last flight of an A-4Q fighter-bomber in Argentina, began to become reality at that moment, as the first naval aviation squadron and Argentina’s most powerful and important combat system (the aircraft carrier) were unnecessarily withdrawn from service by the political authority of the day. That authority did not cut a superfluous and even greater expense—what was and still is political spending—vastly greater than military, police and judicial spending combined. From that point, political posts began to grow and multiply until today the political apparatus is 1,000% oversized.

The immense majority of Argentines—whether through naivety and ignorance, or through the resentful hatred of those who waged war against Argentina and could not destroy us by force of arms (subversion and Great Britain), and who justified this “apparent” setback of lost capability—never perceived not only that it was the beginning of the end of Argentina as a sovereign state, but also that it did not even serve to save a single peso, build a single school or hospital, or pave the streets of a city. Instead, it meant the loss of military and industrial jobs, the closure of units and factories, the creation of unemployment, and the beginning of the end of reinvestment in the country through National Defence and the National Military Industry and all the branches derived from it—from industrial and service subcontracting to the social support networks of all those Argentines who began to be left out on the street with the loss of Argentine defensive capability—at the same time as the Argentine political apparatus began to grow, not only devouring those resources but also swallowing many more as it grew and continues to grow at the expense of the honest effort of only those Argentines who work, at the cost of destroying the nation’s defence, security and justice.

It looks like the last flight of a single warplane—something that some callow youths dreamed that, at some incredible moment, the same shameless, unpatriotic, fraudulent, thieving and traitorous politicians who withdrew it from service would somehow replace. But in truth it was the first blind flight into the abyss into which the Argentine nation is still falling today, in the same proportion as the criminal party-political apparatus of “the same people as always” continues to rise. For, as politicians sarcastically laugh in our faces with their famous slogan, we are “Argentina, a country with good people”…

Sean Eternos los Laureles

Argentine Aircrafts: The Demential Design of the IA-36 Cóndor

History of the Argentine IA 36 Cóndor passenger jet

The FMA IA 36 Cóndor was a 40-passenger aircraft project studied in Argentina by Kurt Tank in the early 1950s. It had the peculiarity of having five Rolls-Royce Nene II engines arranged in a ring around the rear part of the fuselage and fed by an air intake that completely encircled it.
The ambitious project, which was scheduled to fly in 1956, was delayed and would be buried in 1958 following a change of government.


With beautiful aerodynamic lines and five engines hidden within its fuselage, the Argentine IA 36 Cóndor passenger jet could have been the first commercial jet designed in Latin America at a time when jet aviation was in its infancy. Globally, only three jet airliners were pursuing that same direction of using jet propulsion: the De Havilland Comet, the Avro Canada C102, and the Tupolev Tu-104. Only the first managed to establish itself—though only briefly—since two of them crashed due to design errors, killing all passengers and crew. A fourth competitor seized the lead in commercial aviation: the Boeing 707, which capitalised on previous experience, with a suggestively very similar outline to the Argentine jet, which was ultimately cancelled by decision of the de facto government of the dictator Pedro Eugenio Aramburu during the regime known as the Revolución Libertadora in 1958.

Río Grande.—Designed by Kurt Tank, father of the Pulqui II, in 1951, the IA 36 Cóndor was a medium-span passenger aircraft fitted with jet engines, and would have been the first commercial jet designed in Latin America at a time when jet aviation was in its infancy, when only the De Havilland Comet, the Avro Canada C102, and the Tupolev Tu-104 constituted the only existing offer. With the Avro shelved for lack of resources, and sales of the Tupolev restricted to countries behind the Iron Curtain, the only option was the British Comet, whose fatal design flaws turned it into a death trap, crashing one after another in 1954. With good design and good engineering, the Argentine IA 36 could have become the leader of modern commercial aviation worldwide; however, with a similar design, it was the Boeing 707 that took the lead in commercial aviation.

The I.A. 36 Cóndor was a passenger transport aircraft project designed in Argentina by the Fábrica Militar de Aviones in the early 1950s. Project studies began in late 1951 with a design by Kurt Tank, from which a 1:34 scale mock-up was built for the wind tunnel, and a 1:1 scale wooden fuselage model.

The project featured five turbines (the turbojets would be the Rolls Royce “Nene II” model) in an enveloping annular configuration, although it was envisaged that they would be replaced by lighter and more powerful ones.

It could accommodate 32 to 40 passengers and reach a speed of 950 km/h (in that decade the British de Havilland Comet 3 developed 780 km/h).

The Cóndor had a wingspan of 34 m and, like the Pulqui II, had pronounced swept wings, benefiting its performance and economy in flight at high speeds, with an estimated range of 5,000 km.

The project was cancelled by decision of the de facto government of the dictator Pedro Eugenio Aramburu during the regime known as the Revolución Libertadora in 1958.

History

Alejandro Franco produced a historical summary of this emblematic aircraft and recalls that it is the 1940s; the course of the Second World War has changed and the Nazis have lost the initiative, thanks to the counter-offensive mounted by the Russians in the massive Battle of Kursk in July 1943. Not only has the German advance been halted, but the Russians have the initiative and will not stop until they reach the gates of Berlin in April 1945. It is only a matter of time before Adolf Hitler’s Germany falls, so, little by little, the Allied countries begin to make plans for the post-war period, even as German bombs continue to devastate Europe.

Among the reconstruction projects is the modernisation of commercial aviation. The aircraft the army uses to transport troops and war matériel—such as the enormous four-engined Lockheed L-049 Constellation—can easily be converted for civilian use, but they remain limited and noisy, even though it has an endurance range of 6,500 kilometres. Many begin to cast a sideways glance at jet technology, which is still cutting its teeth. Jet turbines are faster and quieter, but they are ravenous fuel guzzlers… and their maximum range is lower than the L-049 and similar aircraft of the period.

By the end of the 1940s, three models appeared: the de Havilland Comet (considered the first commercial aviation jet in history), which debuted in July 1949. The following month the Avro Canada C102 appeared, which never got beyond the prototype stage and would never be mass-produced. Six years later the third model debuted, the Tupolev Tu-104 (June 1955), which put the Soviet Union in the skies.

But a fourth passenger jet aircraft could have existed… and it would have been the Argentine IA 36 Cóndor.

This is the chronicle of a home-grown design with an unusual appearance and iconoclastic engineering, which could have put Argentina on the map of the world’s leading commercial aircraft producers. It is a pity the project never went beyond a sketch and only a couple of scale models were ever built.

A revolutionary and deranged design

The person responsible for the IA 36 Cóndor project was Kurt Tank, the father of the Pulqui II. We have already told the story of the Pulqui I and Pulqui II in the relevant article, but it is worth a brief recap here. Tank was a German engineer who worked designing fighters for the Nazis during the Second World War. When the conflict ended he was left unemployed and, unlike many of his peers—who were recruited by Americans and Soviets—Tank was left wandering around Europe without any valid job offer until Perón offered him employment. Perón wanted Argentina to have its own fighter and had tasked Emile Dewoitine—a Frenchman who had been a Nazi collaborator with the Vichy government during the war—with its development. But Dewoitine could not fully master jet technology—his speciality had always been propeller aircraft—and the project, called Pulqui I, had produced an unstable aircraft, difficult to fly and with poor performance. By contrast, Tank was more battle-hardened in jet technology and brought with him the plans for a pocket fighter—the Focke-Wulf Ta 183—which he expanded and refined to turn into the Pulqui II. And although it was superior in many respects to the Pulqui I, it still needed much work to be a practical and stable fighter.

Using the expertise learned in the development of the Pulqui II, Tank began to develop the prototype of a medium-span passenger aircraft fitted with jet engines. The idea was for it to be mass-produced to form the fleet of the newly established Aerolíneas Argentinas (1950). Development began in 1951 and it soon became evident that it was not a conventional design. While the Comet, Avro and Tupolev had their turbines set into the wings—a design decision that improved aerodynamics but made engine maintenance excessively complicated—Tank came up with the idea of putting the engines literally inside the aircraft, in a tail section larger and wider than the rest of the fuselage and mounted over the main section where the passengers were. The five Rolls Royce Nene II engines would use a single nozzle that would project thrust out through the tail of the aircraft.

Although it was innovative, the flaws in such a design were obvious at first glance. The 40 passengers of the IA 36 would be travelling “stuck” to the engines—as if they were strapped to a rocket—and the noise and heat would be unbearable. On the other hand, it was necessary to detach half the aircraft to slide the tail back, expose the engines and be able to maintain them. And the last (and potentially most dangerous) flaw was that if one of the engines failed (or, worse, if it exploded) it would immediately affect the other four, causing not only an immediate loss of power but raising to intolerable levels the risk that a fire would spread to the passenger section in a matter of seconds.

Aside from those details, the IA 36 Cóndor’s specifications sounded promising. It would have a wingspan of 34 metres; the five Rolls Royce engines would give it a maximum speed of 950 kilometres per hour, surpassing by almost 20% the performance of the de Havilland Comet 3, which was the standard of the day and which reached 780 kilometres per hour. Its range was 5,000 kilometres, which was ideal for flights both within our country and to reach most countries in South America without the need to refuel.

But even if the design had been successful, its passenger capacity worked against its viability. When commercial jets became the standard, it soon became evident that operating costs had to be offset by a greater number of passengers per flight. The Comet only became profitable when version 3 appeared in 1954 with capacity for 76 passengers instead of the 36 of the initial version. All these jet aircraft would be eclipsed by the appearance in 1957 of the Boeing 707 which, with capacity for 179 passengers (and turbines installed externally under the wings), would end up becoming the new and definitive standard of commercial aviation, which remains to this day. The rest of the jets mentioned above would fade away in its shadow and only the DC-8 from Douglas Aircraft (later, McDonnell Douglas) would be able to compete for the market by having similar capacity and performance.

Of the IA 36 Cóndor, some plans remained and two wooden models were made: one full-scale 1:1 and one 1:34 scale to be tested in the wind tunnel. With Perón’s fall in 1955 the project would be frozen and would ultimately be cancelled in 1958.

Argentine Aces: Bernardo De Larminat, From Neuquén to Face the Afrika Korps

The gaucho who fought the Nazis. He grew up in Neuquén, became a fighter pilot and was an “ace of the air” in the Second World War

By: Claudio Meunier
La Nación 




The lineage of a fighter pilot in the desert, symbolised in this well-known shot of De Larminat for Allied propaganda. (Claudio Meunier Archive).

In the endless wait, Bernardo De Larminat looks for his cigarettes. His fingers feel an envelope; he remembers that he must open it and read it. He takes it out with his trembling hand; he has not yet fully recovered from his first bout of Malaria which, days earlier, plunged his body into a dense drowsiness of fever.

He opens the envelope and, with his mouth, holds a small lit torch. The message, dated 25 August in London, comes from the Argentine Consulate General. They invite him to continue his paperwork for an extension regarding compulsory military service in Argentina. He laughs out loud; his comrades look at him; they do not understand what is happening to him. He knows that in days or hours he could be dead. The life of a combat pilot in the desert is short, too short. But, we bring forward the end of the story, Bernardo will not die (nor will he do his military service in Argentina).

Note from the Argentine Consulate in London issued on 25 August 1942 that arrived in Egypt shortly before the start of the second battle of El Alamein against the German forces in October 1942. (Claudio Meunier Archive).

Born on 25 December 1920 in Buenos Aires, Federal Capital, he was baptised Bernardo Noel Marie De Larminat. He is the son of Santiago De Larminat, a Frenchman, a pioneer of Patagonian development at the beginning of the 20th century.
Bernardo spends his childhood at the distant Estancia Cerro Los Pinos, the family home, a paradisiacal tract of land in the geography of the province of Neuquén. His life, marked by rural activity, keeps him far from any contact with civilisation. And, even less, with aviation.
The Second World War motivates him. Principles of other times: chivalry, representing France through his volunteering and the defence of democracy, for our country, Argentina.
Determined to become a volunteer, he tries to join the Argentines who converge on a training camp in Canada where the “Free French” of General De Gaulle gather.

However, the passenger ship that transports him houses another group of idealistic Argentines with whom he strikes up a friendship and they, too, are going to war in Canada, but with another direction, to a flying school.

The group’s unanimous objective is to obtain the brevet and become Canadian combat aviators. Bernardo joins the initiative and for the first time in his life thinks about something he has never paid attention to: flying.

A Toronto newspaper reports on the Argentine volunteers who join the Canadian army to fight in the Second World War.

Accepted into the Royal Canadian Air Force, he must begin his flying instruction. Then he discovers an obstacle he had not foreseen, which blocks his way: he does not speak English. But his lack of knowledge of the language will save his life.

While his Argentine comrades of British stock advance easily, Bernardo is sent to acquire basic knowledge of English. To his disappointment, while he begins as an aviation cadet, his comrades receive their aviator wings and are sent to the European theatre of war.

Bernardo only receives his aviator wings on 6 December 1941, a few months later than his comrades. His instructor suggests to him:
—De Larminat, very good effort. Don’t go to the bombers; your Argentine comrades have almost all died on operations. Don’t get yourself killed; you know what to do to avoid it.

The best averages of each intake enjoy a unique benefit: they can choose the speciality they want to develop. Flying fighters or bombers. The curious thing is that the great majority of requests are denied or receive a contrary answer. Bernardo, who was a standout cadet, tests his luck: he requests to fly bombers. The answer does not surprise him: his wish is rejected and they send him to train as a fighter pilot. The trick works.

Bernardo de Larminat was born in the Federal Capital, but was raised in Neuquén. He took part in more than 300 combats, first with Canadian aviation and afterwards with De Gaulle’s “Free French”.

Take-off of Captain De Larminat in a Spitfire Mk. VIII during 1944 when he was acting Flight Commander of Squadron 417. (Claudio Meunier Archive).

On 7 December 1941, one day after obtaining his wings, Bernardo is shaken by news that comes over the radio: Japanese aviation carries out a massive attack on the American fleet moored at Pearl Harbour. He listens to President Roosevelt’s speech in which he declares war on the totalitarians of Europe.

Bernardo becomes a fighter pilot at 21 and flies one of the most advanced aircraft of his era, the last word in technology, the mythical Spitfire. Two years later, after calling at different flying schools perfecting himself in air combat, he is deployed first to Europe and later to North Africa. On 19 April 1943, being a veteran of the air, some miracle works on him and he avoids his first encounter with death (eternal and silent companion, it will stalk him until the end of the conflict). During a patrol flight, his flight commander bellows over the radio in a single shout:
—Half-turn to the left, German fighters!

Bernardo responds with an instinct —a thousand times rehearsed— and makes a violent turn. He evades the rain of shots falling from above. His comrade, flying in front of him, does not have the same luck and is shot down. Trapped in his Spitfire. Bernardo looks around; he has been left alone, surrounded by at least twenty-five enemy fighters. He desperately searches for his comrades, but they have vanished in the sky. The German fighters occupy his world: they are below, above, everywhere. He fires at one of them and misses. He attacks another with no result. There are so many that he can choose. He opens fire on several that rush quickly in front of his sights and hits one of them.

Practically at the same time, a strong explosion shakes his Spitfire. He feels a lash in his left leg that tears his foot off the control pedals. Yes, he has been hit.

Bernardo De Larminat aboard his Spitfire carrying out a patrol over the Tunisian desert. (Claudio Meunier Archive).

He is surrounded, over enemy territory. He flies hemmed in by Messerschmitt 109 fighters, an aeroplane that in the hands of a good pilot means certain death. Locked in an invisible cage, Bernardo believes he is living his last seconds of life. He takes advantage of the opportunity; he knows that if they fire on his aeroplane it is likely they will hit each other. Captain Gerhard Michalski, leader of the German group, realises the disorder and how the Spitfire is taking advantage of them at that moment. He orders a few to fly behind the lone Bernardo to shoot him down.

But the Argentine pilot attempts his last manoeuvre before dying: he pretends to lose control of his Spitfire and throws himself into a crazed descending spiral. Michalski and his pilots watch the aeroplane’s fall as it dives into some clouds and then disappears. Bernardo emerges below the clouds only to add more misfortunes to the events and regains control of his aeroplane just in time, before dying embedded against a hill he passes scraping. He escapes at low altitude, reaches the coast, continues across the plains of Tunisia, sights an aeroplane: it is a German Stuka bomber on a training flight. He opens fire and continues without being able to see what happens to his adversary. He flies at low altitude; the anti-aircraft batteries of the nearby enemy aerodrome fire at him; they also want to end his life.

Bernardo manages to reach the base, Goubrine, south-west of Tunisia, where his mechanics receive him. When he stops the engine, he hears several cries; the shouts multiply and his alarm grows. The petrol tank, which is located in front of the cockpit, has an enormous hole. Had it exploded, it would have turned him into a mass of flames. He has another hit on the engine, a direct shot that would have made him blow up into the air. But De Larminat, bearer of the lucky star of destiny, evades death.

Bernardo Noel Marie De Larminat aboard his Spitfire Mk.Vc while he was a pilot of Canadian Squadron 417 which operated against the forces of the Afrika Korps. (Claudio Meunier Archive).

At 23, he is promoted to Flight Commander. He leads into combat the select group of Canadian pilots who support with their flights the advance of the British Eighth Army. Death follows him and almost reaches him in 1944.

Everything ends abruptly when his Spitfire’s engine stops over the Adriatic Sea. He must jump by parachute, which will bring consequences for his body. When the parachute opens, his arm gets tangled and causes him serious injuries. He falls into the water. For a moment he cannot unfasten his parachute, which begins to drag him towards the depths. Finally he manages to free himself and swims with one arm. A rescue aircraft goes searching for him and everything ends in a hospital, with a cast. During his recovery, he receives bad news: the Canadians have decided to remove him from operations.
—That’s enough, De Larminat: you have completed 300 combat missions. You can return to your home in Argentina or serve as a flying instructor in Canada.

Quick-witted, he requests discharge from the Royal Canadian Air Force and, appealing to his French origin, enlists in General De Gaulle’s Free French air force.
—Very well, De Larminat, tell me… What can I do for you?, General Vallin, director of the Free French Air Force, asks him.
—I want to fly combat missions again, Bernardo answers.

Vallin looks at the impeccable record of the Argentine warrior. His experience in dive-bombing missions, his three confirmed shoot-downs and others damaged make Vallin not hesitate.
—Very well, De Larminat. You will be Flight Commander and you must operate in the advance on the Netherlands against the Germans, Vallin replies.

Bernardo, enthused by the answer, requests a few days’ leave before joining his new squadron, because he has paperwork to do. The request is granted.

He presents himself at the Argentine Consulate in London dressed in the aviator’s walking-out uniform to continue the extension for Compulsory Military Service in Argentina. The official, embarrassed on seeing his captain’s stripes, invites him for a coffee and suggests:
—Please, forget the matter; there are several cases, like yours; this will have some solution.

Bernardo flies as Flight Commander in the select French Squadron 341 composed of pilots of the same veteran status. Some of his comrades fly like him, without interruption, since 1942. In that same unit served the famous Franco-Brazilian volunteer and ace of the skies Pierre Clostermann. Bernardo will be the one to guide them into combat. Death pursues him and on 1 April 1945 sets a new trap for him. But De Larminat knows how to deal with it and, once again, evades it.

After attacking a German train behind enemy lines, with cannon fire and bombs, Nazi anti-aircraft projectiles hit the engine of his Spitfire which, damaged, stops. Bernardo knows he will not be able to return to his base and that he will fall behind enemy lines. He makes an emergency landing with the wheels up. The fighter slides over some furrows, crashes through a fence, some posts fly, and finally his aircraft stops. He opens the cockpit canopy, unfastens the harnesses and escapes from the aircraft. He discards his yellow life jacket that makes him visible and refrains from setting fire to the aircraft, as protocol indicates, because he does not want to draw attention.



1954. Bernardo De Larminat in his natural environment, the countryside and Patagonia with his dog and tack behind him. (Claudio Meunier Archive).

Some shots pass over his head. They are the Germans firing and converging on him from a nearby wood. Bernardo runs towards a ditch full of water, crosses a barbed fence and, covered in mud, reaches a house asking for help. A young woman answers him; she replies in perfect English:
—I’m very sorry, I can’t help you. I’m alone.

He continues his escape pursued by the echo of the battle. He heads towards a pine forest, where he hides. He sees petrol barrels hidden among the trees and is alarmed. What is that doing there? He looks carefully; he discovers German troops occupying the rings of the forest. He decides to hide very close to them. They will never think that an evader they are looking for is metres from their improvised detachment.

Bernardo, who at that moment has 320 war missions, thinks:
—How stupid it is to have come this far to die on the ground and isolated, without my parents knowing what has happened to me.

He remains hidden in a cave, covered with vegetation. He waits for night to escape under cover of darkness. When he emerges from his hiding place, he discovers that his legs are completely numb and barely allow him to stay standing. If he is discovered, he is a dead man.

Members of the Dutch resistance find him and evacuate him. Dressed in a mechanic’s overalls and an old cap, he walks through the rural streets until he reaches a refuge where he will be sheltered, together with other shot-down Allied aviators and a German sailor who has deserted the war. Days later, on a bicycle, pretending to be a local inhabitant, Bernardo crosses German troops withdrawing from the battle. The tired soldiers signal for him to stop; they ask him for cigarettes. Bernardo, naturally, speaks to them in French and offers them cigarettes. He greets them and continues his way towards the Allied lines.

Guided by the resistance to a Canadian regiment, he is received with joy. Despite his insistent protests, they cut his hair, subject him to frantic fumigations, inoculate him with vaccines against lice and force him to take a good shower to dispel the adrenaline in his body, after six intense days as an evader in enemy territory. At his squadron’s airfield there are celebrations at his return. Captain Andrieux orders him to take a holiday leave in Paris. Bernardo refuses. He requests to join operations immediately. One day later, he leads new attacks with his flight over the German front.

Not far from that front, his brother Andrés —an Argentine volunteer in the service of Free France— fights as a crewman of a Sherman tank under General Leclerc’s orders. Like Bernardo, the lucky star of destiny makes him a surviving veteran of the Second World War.

When Germany capitulates, Captain Bernardo De Larminat receives all kinds of decorations. Great Britain awards him the Distinguished Flying Cross. He is also consecrated a “Knight of the Legion of Honour” and receives the French Croix de Guerre with four palms and seven citations from the French government for his professionalism and devotion to duty in combat.

Happy to have evaded death day by day for four years, he requests his discharge and returns to his beloved Patagonia, to his life in the countryside. He feels privileged to have flown one of the best fighters of the Second World War. Bernardo decides that he will only fly again as a passenger, on airliners. But on two occasions destiny puts him again in front of an aircraft’s controls. The first time was during a cattle auction, in La Pampa. The commission firm transports him as a passenger. The pilot, on discovering Bernardo’s interest in his aeroplane, since he did not stop asking him questions, invites him to fly on his right, in the co-pilot’s seat. During the flight, the aeroplane enters a storm zone; the pilot becomes disoriented and loses control. De Larminat takes the controls, stabilises the aeroplane, gives control back to the pilot and teaches him something learned in the war:
—Man! You have to trust your instruments blindly!



Bernardo De Larminat, together with his ten children. Raised in a rural environment, they continued their father’s legacy. (Mercedes De Larminat Archive).


A cross in Neuquén, by a fence

Bernardo married María Inés Teresa Francisca Cornet D’Hunval (Manina) and they had ten children. A marriage that lived with minimal comfort, in primitive rural areas far from any town. Without communications and with bad roads, in that way they made their way in life. At the end of the 1960s, Bernardo became vice-president of the Rural Society of Choele Choel. He kept working the rest of his days in the countryside. He spent his last summers in Tierra del Fuego. After shearing, he asked his son Eduardo for the Veranada post in the mountains. With his eighty years on his back, he went to look after the cattle that were driven there, accompanied by some of his daughters and grandchildren. He did not leave a corner untravelled. Hills, peat bogs, ravines. He slept on the saddle blanket. They were his holidays, if that word was ever in his vocabulary.



Manina and Bernardo, a marriage that, together with their children, upheld by their example livestock and agricultural work, without any rest, until their last days. (Photograph Inés De Larminat).

He died on 6 January 2010, aged 89, in Zapala. He was buried at Estancia El Bosque, El Huecú, Neuquén, next to his wife Manina, by a fence. That was his wish. There he lies now, turned into legend.

Regarding his Compulsory Military Service, the government of the time decreed that Argentine volunteer pilots who fought alongside the Allied forces were to be exempted from that obligation. And not only that: the same law made Bernardo an Officer of the Reserve in the Argentine Air Force. A similar case to that of Claudio Alan Withington, a man from Córdoba from Villa Huidobro who flew in the Second World War with the British air force (RAF) and who later, in 1982, during the Falklands War, flew with the Argentine Air Force.

……………..But that is another story…

Assault on La Tablada: The Story of a Widow of the Nation

4: Liliana’s grief on the cover of GENTE. Ten days had passed since the attack on La Tablada, and it was still difficult to grasp what had happened.

The Widow of a Patriot Who Gave His Life for the Nation

 

1: Liliana’s memories: “We’d been married ten years. I don’t speak of Horacio as if he were perfect just because he passed away—I say it because that’s how I genuinely feel. We never had a problem. We had a solid marriage. That’s why, since he’s been gone, I’ve tried to continue with what we’d planned.”

La Tablada: The Widow of Lieutenant Colonel Horacio Fernández Cutiellos Speaks
Liliana Raffo, widow of the second-in-command of the regiment, remembers her husband, Horacio Fernández Cutiellos. He was the first soldier to fall under guerrilla fire on Monday, 23 January 1989.

On 21 January 1989, Liliana Raffo was celebrating her 34th birthday in Córdoba with her parents, siblings, and four children: Horacio Raúl (then aged 9), Inés María (7), María Victoria (4), and María del Rosario (2). From Buenos Aires, her husband, Horacio Fernández Cutiellos (37), rang to wish her well. Due to work commitments—he was then serving as deputy commander of Infantry Regiment No. 3 in La Tablada and would later be promoted to lieutenant colonel—he could not be part of the celebration. Sadly, he would also not be present at any future ones.

Fernández Cutiellos was the second-in-command of the 3rd Mechanised Infantry Regiment. According to the judicial investigation, he was struck by gunfire at 9:20 a.m. on Monday the 23rd while engaging the attackers from a column near the parade ground. He was the first of five soldiers to fall following the assault.

Today, Liliana Raffo welcomes GENTE magazine into her home in the city of Córdoba. Her 64th birthday is two days away, and as has happened for over three decades, her emotions are mixed. On one hand, she recalls the last time she spoke to Horacio—the last time she heard his voice. On the other, the memory of the attack on the barracks, on 23 and 24 January 1989, which took her husband’s life, comes flooding back.

"It never crossed my mind that something like this could happen. We were living under a democratic government—Alfonsín’s," she reflects. She pauses, sighs, and adds: "But well… life goes on. It’s become routine now to have unpleasant Christmases, unpleasant birthdays, or simply none at all—because every year on the anniversary I travel to Buenos Aires. This year I’m going to Pigüé, the new base of the regiment, where on Wednesday the 23rd there’ll be an official ceremony. The first in thirty years."

Liliana still refers to her four children as “the kids”, though the eldest is nearing 40. “I got through it thanks to them. When I felt like crying, I’d go to my mum’s or a friend’s. At home, I tried to stay strong for them. I spoiled them too, I admit… Instead of raising them with strict rules or asking for help around the house, I’d say: ‘Go play.’ Just to keep their minds off things,” she recalls of the years following her husband’s death.

3: “I try not to show it, but I feel a lot of anger. Sometimes I think my husband died in vain. My children lost so much. They had to learn to live without their father from a very young age.”

"Horacio is here, there, and there." From the armchair, Liliana points to various framed photos of her husband placed around the living room. What she regrets most, she says, is not having a recording of his voice. "It’s the first thing you lose. I don’t remember it anymore. I always say, ‘Why didn’t I record him?!’ I don’t even have a video—can you believe that? It was a different time," she consoles herself.

Liliana’s memories: “We’d been married ten years. I don’t speak of Horacio as if he were perfect just because he passed away—I say it because that’s how I genuinely feel. We never had a problem. We had a solid marriage. That’s why, since he’s been gone, I’ve tried to continue with what we’d planned.”


2: In her home in the city of Córdoba, Liliana Raffo keeps the memory of her husband, Lieutenant Colonel Horacio Fernández Cutiellos, alive.

A few days after the barracks were recovered, a handwritten letter by Horacio was found. “It was in his office, on his desk. It looks like he was writing it to the kids. I’ll let you read it, but please don’t publish it—my children would kill me,” she asks the journalist.

In black ink and cursive handwriting on a plain sheet of now yellowed paper, Horacio wrote to his “dear children” a sort of life manifesto speaking of love for others, respect for the environment, nature, and animals. Coincidence or not, one of his daughters—Inés María, now 37—is a qualified vet. “That was Horacio,” says Liliana as she wraps the letter in plastic. “I try not to show it, but I feel a lot of anger. Sometimes I think my husband died in vain. My children lost so much. They had to learn to live without their father from a very young age.”

“I try not to show it, but I feel a lot of anger. Sometimes I think my husband died in vain. My children lost so much.
They had to learn to live without their father from a very young age.”

– Did you tell them the truth straight away or wait until they were older?
– I told them straight away. I never lied. I remember that a few days after the assault, my eldest, Horacio Raúl, would sneak off to the newsagent to look for reports about his father. Later, on a flight to Buenos Aires, I had María Victoria—the four-year-old—on my lap. There was a terrible storm outside, and suddenly I saw her waving. I asked her: “What are you doing, my love?” She replied: “I’m saying goodbye to Daddy.” I nearly died.

– Do your children have memories of him?
– At one point, the youngest would say to me: “Why didn’t he stay with us? Why did he have to go and die?” And she’s right. With the four-year-old, every time I gave her a bath, I’d say: “Do you remember how Daddy used to dry you?” and I’d pat her with the towel like he did. She remembers that, but most of what they know is from what I’ve told them. Since he died, I’ve tried to carry on with what we had planned. Our top priority was always the children and their education. Today they’re all professionals. I believe—just like me—he would be proud of them.

23 January 1989
"I’m going to die defending the barracks—recover it, all of you."
— Major Horacio Fernández Cutiellos, Deputy Commander of the 3rd Mechanised Infantry Regiment of the Argentine Army, during the defence of the La Tablada Army Garrison.

Every Argentine Military Arsenal

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.

Conscript Falcón, A Leader at Mount Longdon

Miguel Ángel Falcón – A Leader at Mount Longdon

He was born on 6 October 1962 in Barranqueras, Chaco Province. His family recalls that Miguel was always a rebellious child. He didn’t follow rules—neither at home nor at school. In fact, he was known for skipping school at least one day every week. He served in the 7th Infantry Regiment “Colonel Conde”. He was killed in action during the battle of Mount Longdon, and among his belongings a deck of Spanish playing cards was found.

That youthful rebelliousness would lead him to star in a memorable story on the night of his final battle. The event was recounted in a letter by a fellow veteran:

"On the night of 12 June, when the British attacked us—in a true hell, with hundreds of shells and tracer rounds lighting up the sky—I saw the first section of our company getting ready to support Company 'B'. Among them were Lieutenant Castañeda, a corporal, and 44 conscripts like myself. I saw them preparing in the dark, all in single file, silent, trembling. Suddenly, from the line, a very skinny soldier jumped out—a humble lad who barely spoke because he was shy. It was Private Falcón.

He started rallying the men, clapping his hands, doing squats, with his FAL rifle slung over his back, shouting: ‘Come on, dammit! Bloody Brits, we’re going to smash you! We are the 7th, the 7th Regiment, let’s go, dammit!’

Out of nowhere, a leader emerged—someone who, in the most extreme circumstances, lifted the spirits of the rest."

This section’s actions were later recorded in British books as among the most heroic feats of the land battles in the Falklands. Out of the 46 men who went forward, 25 returned. Falcón was among those who stayed behind.




The Passage to Eternity – Conscript Soldier Miguel Ángel Falcón

As recounted by then-Lieutenant Castañeda:

We were ordered to launch a counterattack, flanked by an infantry section and an engineering unit that had already attempted to advance and had only made it halfway up the ridge due to the intense British fire. It was the night of 11 to 12 June.

We were guided by a message-runner, a conscript serving Major Carrizo. This soldier knew a sheep trail across Mount Longdon, as he crossed it daily carrying messages and knew all its nooks and crannies.

Once in position, we faced an enemy that seemed to grow in number as the hours passed. Without hesitation, I sent the runner back and we launched the assault, regaining a large portion of the lost ground.

Castañeda’s men tried to match the British rate of fire to prevent them from gaining confidence. At the same time, they shouted and hurled insults. The British responded in kind. Some conscripts used ammunition and weapons taken from dead or retreating enemy soldiers, driven back by the momentum of the Argentine attack.

Returning to Lieutenant Castañeda’s account:

A few metres from me, Private Miguel Ángel Falcón’s rifle was spitting fire nonstop, showing the same drive he had when we first moved out. Suddenly, something extraordinary happened. Falcón became enraged. He left his position, stood defiantly in front of the British, and kept firing from the hip while screaming insults at them.

The noise was deafening—gunfire, grenades, rockets, artillery. The air was unbreathable. The explosions shook our bodies. I shouted at him, 'Don’t be a fool, get down!' But perhaps he didn’t hear me—or didn’t want to.

He fired everything he had, threw grenades. Eventually, a machine-gun burst hit him. Falcón dropped to his knees, and as he fell forward, the barrel of his rifle drove into the ground, his chest resting on the buttstock. He looked as if he were kneeling in prayer.

Braving enemy fire, Private Gustavo Luzardo ran to him, laid him gently on the ground, looked at me, and with a gesture made it clear that Falcón was gone."

Why did he act that way? “Only he knows,” said Lieutenant Castañeda. “I believe he no longer cared—he was doing what he truly felt. God had called him, and he went happily, knowing he had fulfilled his duty.”

The Battle of Mount Longdon lasted over twelve hours, despite the vast imbalance in forces. That night, Argentine soldiers endured more than 6,000 rounds of gunfire, mortar shells, grenades, and artillery barrages. It was a brutal fight that displayed the extraordinary courage of our combatants.

Private Falcón was posthumously awarded the Medal of the Argentine Nation for the Fallen in Combat, and was officially declared a National Hero of the 7th Infantry Regiment.

 

JAR: The Funeral of Colonel Artemio Gramajo

Roca, Heartbroken, Bids Farewell to Gramajo

Photograph depicting General Julio Argentino Roca, visibly moved and holding a handkerchief in his right hand, at the Recoleta Cemetery on the day of the funeral of his aide-de-camp and friend, Colonel Artemio Gramajo, on 12 January 1914.

That day, many were surprised when Roca asked to say a few words in farewell to his friend, as he was not a gifted speaker and disliked public speaking. Never before had the general been seen crying in public as he did that day. With a trembling voice, Roca said: “For me, carrying the mortal remains of Colonel Artemio Gramajo is like bringing forward my own funeral.” Only nine months later, Roca himself would die, and since then, they have lain buried in nearby mausoleums within Recoleta Cemetery.

Roca and Gramajo first met in 1869, when the Tucumán-born Roca was appointed commander of the 7th Regiment, stationed in the province of Tucumán, while Gramajo served as his aide. From that moment on, Roca and Gramajo were together in every military campaign and significant event in the following years: the battles of Ñaembé and Santa Rosa; Gramajo served as Roca’s aide-de-camp when the latter became Minister of War in 1878 and accompanied him throughout the Conquest of the Desert. Gramajo would continue in the same role during Roca’s first presidency and travelled with him on all his international visits.

Gramajo’s death deepened the melancholic emotional state that engulfed the former president during his final year, as reflected in letters he sent to his friend Eduardo Wilde in mid-1913, where Roca wrote: “What has become of my life? I do, my dear doctor, what you do: live among the ashes of our dead things, without the aid of an absorbing passion or that intense vanity that drives some old men, who live and die content with themselves and whom death surprises in that unconscious state of beatitude. Such mystery! To you, who are a profound analyst of the human soul and a great philosopher, I can pose the question that mankind has been asking since the dawn of humanity: What is life?” He concluded the letter by writing: “It is hard to guess what tomorrow may bring. Whatever it is, it will be. Tonight, I am going to ‘La Larga’, to sink into the silence and solitude of the pampas. Lucky you, who can create a pampa at your desk.”

In another letter to Wilde from the same year, Roca wrote: “The years go by, destroying everything in their path. Fortunately, they haven’t completely worn me down. For better or worse, I am still managing to stay on my feet. For how long? Only God knows.”

Argentine Naval Aviation: Remembering a Great Pilot

Remembering a Great Figure of Naval Aviation

By Malvinas War Veteran (VGM) René Augusto Gómez

  

Early one afternoon in 1980, I left Comandante Espora Naval Air Base to enjoy a spell of leave in Bahía Blanca. Once outside the gate, I decided to walk along the road for a bit—just to breathe in a little freedom—until the bus that took me into town came by. After only a short distance, a car horn startled me. I turned, and at once I knew who it was. If you can picture one of those cars from the old black-and-white series The Untouchables, you’ll have a fair idea of the one I mean. The officer had been my boss in the First Attack Squadron at Punta Indio; and now, promoted, he was training on the A-4Q. When he recognised me, he pulled over.

“Off to Bahía, Gómez? Get in!” he said with a grin.

Pleased by the invitation, I sat down beside him and we set off. Almost immediately I felt a certain embarrassment, because I hadn’t the faintest idea what a mere Cabo Segundo could possibly talk about with an officer I respected deeply. They were two worlds—distant, and very different. Even so, I answered his questions about where I was going and the like, and before long we were having a genuinely pleasant conversation.

At some unknown junction on the outskirts of Bahía, a red light brought us to a halt. I looked left and right, and when I saw how deserted it was, I glanced at the officer in genuine puzzlement. Inside my head the question was: “If there’s no one coming, why doesn’t he go? Who would dare stop him for it?”

“The rules are there to be obeyed,” he said, barely looking at me.

I was astonished. It was as though he’d read my mind. And the strange thing is I didn’t think, “Blimey, what an upright chap.” Instead, his behaviour made me feel like a petty corrupter of traffic laws. Then, out of nowhere, a little boy—poor as the day is long—came up to his window.

“Got a coin for me, sir?” he asked, hand out, without any gesture or flourish.

The light had already changed ahead of us. I assumed the officer would give him one of the coins lying in plain sight and we’d carry on. But the car didn’t move.

“What’s your name, lad?” the officer asked.

“Rodrigo, sir,” the boy replied.

The officer reached into one of the many pockets of his green flight overalls, pulled out his wallet, and without hesitation took out what today would be the equivalent of a modest ten-peso note.

“Here you go, Rodrigo,” he said. “And behave yourself, all right?” At last he smiled.

The boy took the money and vanished with the same skill with which he’d arrived. My inner shame—having dismissed him in my mind—made me look away. “If I don’t learn something valuable for my future from this trip to Bahía, I’m an idiot,” I told myself. And another thing struck me too: it was uncommon for an officer to offer a lift to someone like me, who—apart from the odd sailor—ranked about as low as you could be in the pecking order. It confirmed what I’d already suspected: his manner (that exotic car, and the ease with which he moved among both the “top” and the “bottom”, among other things) wasn’t snobbery. It was simply the way he lived.

Once in Bahía, I sat on a bench in the square and thought about what I had just experienced. I’ve always been the sort of person who notices good conduct. And as for that officer, above all he seemed to me an excellent human being—someone worth taking as an example in a world where you’re often made to believe that “being better than others” means running red lights, or cleverly ignoring the needs of those who have least.

And that is why he deserves this tribute I’m paying him today, in 2006—so many years later. Because that Gentleman Lieutenant, with a capital G and a capital L, whom I’m speaking about, was never killed by the British. I kept him alive all these years. And I haven’t said his name yet—deliberately.

Among my notes from those days there are two other anecdotes that show his philosophy and unusual character even more clearly. One happened in 1978. As a pilot in the First Attack Squadron, he agreed to take one of my mates up with him on an acrobatic training flight. “Big-Nosed Reynoso” was flying in an Aermacchi for the first time. To make the story clear, I need to explain what an anti-G suit is. It’s not a full-body garment; you strap it over your flight overalls using Velcro fastenings. A hose protrudes from it and connects to the side of the seat in the aircraft. Through that hose it receives air from the engine automatically, but only when the aircraft is manoeuvring with or against the force of gravity. As it inflates, it compresses the main arteries and prevents sudden shifts of blood from causing physical effects—grey-outs, blackouts, and the like. And you should know this: the longer and more sustained the aerobatic manoeuvre, the stronger the pressure the suit exerts on the body.

The anecdote is that, during the flight, while they were holding a fairly steep and sustained inverted turn, Big-Nosed Reynoso couldn’t take the pressure any longer and over the intercom he blurted out:

“Sir, sir! It’s squeezinnng me!”

To which the Lieutenant replied, laughing, imitating Reynoso’s suffering voice:

“Me toooo!”

The other anecdote is from 1979. We were at Río Grande Naval Air Base, about to return to Punta Indio in a B-200 after a tasking down there. A Vice Admiral was travelling with us, so we had to form up at the foot of the aircraft like an honour guard—four Cabos Segundos travelling with him. The problem was I’d mislaid my white cap, and I was in a state about it.

Soon the officers arrived: the pilots, my mates’ chiefs, my chief, and the very senior flag officer. They stopped in front of us; the three Cabos saluted—except me, because I had no cap. The Vice Admiral looked at me and, in a foul mood, snapped at the officers:

“Whose man is this?”

My Lieutenant answered immediately: “He’s with me, sir.”

“Why are you without your cap, Cabo?” the Vice Admiral demanded.

“No excuse, sir!” I shouted, feeling the second-hand embarrassment of my comrades.

“When we get to Buenos Aires, I want an exemplary punishment for this man, Lieutenant!”

“Understood, sir,” my chief replied.

We boarded the aircraft. Naturally, the Cabos took the rear seats. At one point my chief turned round and, very quietly, said to me: “What are you playing at, Gómez?” I didn’t know what to say. One advantage of being dark-skinned is that you can go bright red and nobody notices.

The next day, at Punta Indio, Captain Espina called me in. He was a particular character too, and he always made me feel that, in some way, he rather liked me. He didn’t call me by surname or rank; on top of that, he addressed me informally. Once we were alone, he said:

“RRRéné!”—he always rolled the R when he said my name—“You absolute fool. How on earth do you show up without your cap, of all times, right in front of a Vice Admiral?”

“I lost it, sir! I don’t know what came over me!”

“As if there aren’t more important things… and that bloke gets worked up about a Cabo without a cap!” Then, lowering his voice, he added: “Honestly, I think it’s utter nonsense that he demanded we give you thirty days in the nick for that stupidity. Your chief asked me not to punish you, because he says your performance in the squadron is good. But you do realise, RRRené, I’m sticking my neck out here.”

In the end, Captain Espina decided I’d get five days’ confinement.

For all of this, today I feel like shouting at them—from this humble corner, as an apprentice to life that I still am:

“Gentlemen of England: in that cold autumn of 1982, near the San Carlos Strait, you shot down and sent to the icy waters of the ocean an old A-4Q combat aircraft of the Third Naval Air Squadron of Fighter and Attack. But do you know what? Although the records say that aircraft was flown by Lieutenant (JG) Marcelo ‘LORO’ Márquez, it’s NOT TRUE. What you brought down that day was only an empty old aeroplane. Those of us who knew Lieutenant Márquez up close are convinced he wasn’t there. He surely lives on in the memory of a humble lad from the outskirts of Bahía—the very boy to whom he gave a note that probably lasted him no time at all, while what he gave me that day was an example that lasted me my whole life. Some green light must have let him pass so that his decency could continue beating inside the philosophy of life of this humble servant. Because the laws of God that govern those men who leave indelible traces will always be there to be obeyed. I am sure his anti-G suit will never squeeze him again. And when the troops formed up on the seabed shout ‘Preseeeent!’ each time the god Neptune speaks his name—me toooo!”

“No, gentlemen. You did not manage to bring down Lieutenant (JG) Marcelo Márquez. However much it pains you, he is still alive—just like that old cap, now yellowing, which he ordered me to buy back in ’79 and which I still treasure, with the greatest honour, in my sock drawer.”