Argentine Army: SPH Crusader Mk.1

Self-propelled Gun Crusader Mk.1 is AA service

 
 

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

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

He also added:

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

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

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


 

Specifications

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

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

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


 
 

TANKS!

Anti-Subversive War: Larrabure and His Martydom

Larrabure and His Martydom

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo: Cadet Larrabure, 1950s.

Goose Green: The End of Two Sea Harriers

 

The Death of Lieutenant Nick Taylor over Goose Green

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

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

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

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

Argentine Army: The Discipline of the MechIR 3

DISCIPLINE
Account by Quartermaster Second Lieutenant Dardo José Forti. The second lieutenant took part in the Malvinas campaign as a member of the quartermaster section of Infantry Regiment No. 3 “General Belgrano”.

Malvinas: Historias de Coraje

A delicate issue in war is discipline. From my humble point of view, and without being a specialist, I believe there is one way to maintain it: by example. It is quite easy to write that; the difficult part is putting it into practice. Once again, Colonel Tocagni warns about this matter: “Discipline must be strengthened. A certain limitation of activities, the short duration of the day, the harsh climate, a monotonous landscape, shortcomings in accommodation, failures in equipment and food, all tend to cause a relaxation of discipline and fighting morale, against which timely and energetic measures must be adopted.”

Thanks be to God, I did not find it too difficult to lead my group of men in Puerto Argentino. Without setting out to do so, perhaps because of my personality, I liked to be present in every task, both those related to our work and those involving recreation. Just as I could carry supplies, I would also join in when it came time to tell a joke or recite something. Besides, as I have already said, those soldiers and non-commissioned officers had their own drive; they were committed to the task. Under those circumstances, leadership becomes much easier.

What else is discipline? Jorge Vigón, in Estampas de capitanes, quotes a fitting answer by Bocaccia: “Discipline is solidarity in action for the common purpose.” Even today, so many years after those events, one of my former soldiers will still remind me of some anecdote from those hours of shared conversations. I believe that, should I be able to leave you one piece of advice, it is this: personal example carries people along, mobilises them, enthuses them. Try it, and you will be surprised.

However, as is usually the case, there are exceptions. One night I asked about one of those souls, and he was not there. Still not losing my sense of humour, I mobilised my aide and right-hand man, Gustavo De Vincenzo, so that he could go around the sector and ask whether anyone had seen Private Donda.

—No, my second lieutenant, he is nowhere to be found.

Donda was adding one more ingredient to this war: he had disappeared.

Only when I had exhausted every means of finding him did I have to report the news. I felt a little calmer; that is what always happens when one shares a problem with another person. From another point of view, that person offers a possible solution — and the solution was given to me.

—Forti, find him! —Lieutenant Colonel Comini ordered me.

So, with my jeep and three volunteers, we went out to look for him. It would not be simple; many hours had already passed. We began in the town. Four pairs of eyes examined every place as we moved forward. Every soldier we crossed seemed to be him, but each sighting turned out to be a mirage that vanished when we got closer and saw their faces. We discovered that everyone looks alike from a distance if you put them in a green uniform. The more time we spent searching, the more our anxiety grew, and anxiety manufactured Dondas in every corner of the town.

—Let’s go towards the Sapper Hill area —I told the driver.

We kept moving, now along the road. The time to hand out dinner was approaching, and I wanted to be there. But returning without Donda, and with night falling, would not be good.

—There he is! —shouted one of the searchers.

—Donda! What the hell are you doing here, for f…’s sake?

—I went to see a friend, Sergeant First Class Edgardo Taylor. He needed cigarettes.

—And you crossed half the island for that?

In reality, he had walked a little over ten kilometres.

—Well, yes… I left at dawn.

—Get in the jeep. We’ll talk when we get back to the ranch.

In truth, I did all the talking. Donda paid for his adventure with the much-hated “run to the sea, hit the ground”, breaking the frost every now and then as he crashed against the ground. Much later, when I remember that action, I think of the loyalty of those men: a simple soldier putting himself in danger because a comrade needed something.

As for Private Donda, he stayed with us. The war was not such that we could leave him without work.

Expo Ejército 2026

Expo Ejército 2026/ 2026 Army Expo

Thousands of families have already participated in the 2026 Army Expo and shared a weekend full of history, tradition, and experiences for all ages. Vehicles, equipment, exhibits, interactive activities, and the opportunity to tour the Plaza de Armas at the Libertador Building offered a close-up look at the present and capabilities of our Argentine Army.




The best part was seeing so many children amazed, asking questions, climbing into the vehicles, and discovering a little more about those who dedicate their lives to serving their country. The Argentine Army is celebrating its 216th anniversary in the best way possible, alongside all Argentinians. 🇦🇷

Desert Conquist: Victory at Aluminé Against Araucanian and Chilean Army Forces

Battle of Laguna Aluminé

On 17 February 1883, near Laguna Aluminé, in what was then the National Territory of Río Negro (now the province of Neuquén, Argentina), an armed incident known as the Battle of Laguna Aluminé took place, in the context of Argentina’s Conquest of the Desert and Chile’s Occupation of Araucanía. An Argentine Army scouting patrol, made up of three officers and 33 soldiers under the command of Sergeant Major Juan Gabriel Díaz, was reduced to 19 effective men after sending out two reconnaissance groups. This force was surrounded by a group of approximately 100 to 150 Indigenous people (mainly Araucanians, self-identifying as Mapuche), who were threatening to attack.

At that moment, a Chilean infantryman approached the Argentine left flank carrying a flag of truce. When Díaz detected that an infantry company was advancing behind him under cover, he ordered his men to open fire. The attackers charged with bayonets, but were repelled by the Argentines. According to the official Argentine report, seven Chileans were killed in the field, while the wounded were evacuated by the Indigenous men. Six Martini-Henry rifles were captured; these were standard issue in the Chilean Army during that period (see), having been adopted around the time of the War of the Pacific (1879-1884).



Argentine sources describe the episode as a clash with Chilean troops, emphasising the heroism of the local patrol. However, Chilean or neutral versions clarify that the Chileans involved may not have been regular soldiers of the Chilean Army, but possibly deserters, settlers or individuals allied with the Mapuche in a context of blurred frontiers and territorial tensions. The incident, one of several minor frictions in Patagonia, did not escalate into a larger conflict and was resolved through diplomatic channels between Argentina and Chile.

The GADA 601 Becomes Support Artillery

ANTI-AIRCRAFT ARTILLERY ENDED UP CONDUCTING SURFACE FIRE
Account taken from the Gaceta Malvinense

What follows is a transcription based on the account of then Second Lieutenant Claudio Oscar Braghini, Commander of the Third Section of Battery “B” of the 601st Air Defence Artillery Group (GADA 601) of the Argentine Army…

During the fighting on 1 May, the RAF had identified the positions of the Argentine anti-aircraft artillery pieces, making a change of position necessary. A reconnaissance of the area was first carried out, as the route to be taken was littered with Beluga bombs that had failed to detonate due to the low altitude at which they had been released. The guns had to be moved over 1.5 km and be operational by the early hours of 2 May. Although the distance was short, only one tractor was available to tow two Oerlikon Contraves 35 mm guns (each weighing 6,000 kg), a Skyguard radar (around 5,900 kg), two field generator units (900 kg each), and 280 ammunition crates. This required an extraordinary effort from personnel, whose numbers had been halved, as the remainder were in Puerto Argentino and could not be redeployed because helicopters from Cóndor Air Base were engaged in airlifting Infantry Regiment 12 from Puerto Argentino to Darwin.

Despite everything, the section was operational at first light on 2 May.

To avoid a repeat of the surprise attack of 1 May, it was decided to maintain a permanent “red alert” posture, as the section was located about 80 km from Puerto Argentino and the terrain allowed Sea Harriers to attack at very low altitude without early warning from the surveillance radars in Puerto Argentino.

For the personnel, this operating regime meant extreme physical exhaustion, alleviated only by night-time rest—rest that was constantly interrupted by alerts from Puerto Argentino, British naval harassing fire, or reconnaissance flights detected by the Air Force’s ELTA radar near the position.

There was no alternative, despite insufficient personnel to rotate combat posts, since under these conditions aerial surveillance could not be neglected “for even a minute”—a statement based not on rhetoric but on mathematical calculation.

A combat aircraft such as the Sea Harrier has an attack speed of between 250 and 300 metres per second. Given that the maximum range of the Skyguard fire-control radar is 16 km, and assuming no terrain variations causing blind spots, and that the Harrier flies above 50 metres altitude, it could only be detected at 16 km. At 300 m/s, it would take 53.3 seconds (less than a minute) to cover that distance; by then, however, it would already be over the position, making engagement too late.

The maximum range at which fire can be opened is 4 km from the fire-control director, provided that radar “acquisition” and tracking of the target begins two or three seconds before the aircraft reaches that distance. Thus, timing is reduced as follows: from 16 km to 4 km—40 seconds—minus 3 seconds for acquisition and tracking leaves 37 seconds, and that under ideal conditions, which were certainly not those in the Falklands.

All this caused considerable strain. Personnel had to watch the radar screen with intense concentration from morning until nightfall; similarly, gun commanders and ammunition handlers had to remain at their posts in the open all day under harsh weather conditions. However, this demanding regime proved worthwhile on 4 May at 13:45, when three echoes appeared on the radar screen. All relevant communications were made. Second Lieutenant Braghini, together with his radar operator, Corporal First Class Ferreyra, allowed the three Harriers to approach to within 5 km without “acquiring” them, thereby preventing early warning and avoiding the risk of anti-radiation missile launch. The image of a Harrier approaching at high speed in low-level flight appeared on the TV monitor. Braghini fired the first burst, which struck the ground in front of the aircraft. The shells exploded ahead of the nose, and the aircraft immediately broke away in zigzag evasive manoeuvres. The Second Lieutenant waited for it to stabilise and pressed the firing switch again. This burst struck it directly, likely causing its fuel tanks to explode and completely tearing off its port wing. Engulfed in flames, the Harrier lost level flight, pitched up sharply, rolled along its longitudinal axis, and crashed to the ground. On impact, the pilot was thrown clear along with the ejection seat. His parachute deployed but became entangled in a fence. The wreckage, now a fireball, rose again, passed over infantry positions—burning two soldiers—and finally scattered across the end of the runway (Darwin airfield). Later, the body of the pilot, Lieutenant Nick Taylor of the Royal Navy, was found still strapped to his seat. The Sea Harrier bore the serial XZ450 and belonged to 800 Squadron.

As this aircraft was crashing, a second one was acquired by the fire-control system; it jettisoned its bombs to lighten its load and escape. Fire was opened, causing some damage, as it withdrew trailing a long plume of smoke. The third Harrier departed without causing damage.

This second attack confirmed the value of the section’s change of position, as the attack came from the opposite direction to the previous one—likely aiming to strike the former position and then operate freely. Continuous “red alert” also proved correct, as early warning from Puerto Argentino was not feasible due to the distance. After this, enemy aircraft limited themselves to reconnaissance at a distance. In the days prior to the ground advance, they again attempted to soften infantry positions, this time using chaff (metallic strips) to deceive radar, without success, as they were consistently met with heavy fire from GADA 601 and 20 mm Air Force guns near the runway. Harriers often withdrew damaged, and on one occasion one exploded in mid-air about 5,000 m from the position, falling into the sea.

From 27 May onwards, heavy artillery fire began to hit the runway and infantry positions. On the 28th, following bombardment, small-arms fire was received, with tracer rounds visible at night. From the position, it was unclear what was happening at the front. Argentine field artillery, under First Lieutenant Chanampa with three 105 mm Oto Melara howitzers, fired continuously through the night and into the next day until ammunition was exhausted. On the morning of the 28th, there was still uncertainty about events at Darwin, until the Air Force command post reported that friendly aircraft would attack British troops.

Minutes later, two Pucará aircraft arrived from Puerto Argentino and fired their weapons 4 km from the GADA 601 section’s position. Initially it seemed they had missed, but in fact British forces had advanced past the first lines during the night and were very close. Field artillery fire resumed immediately, reinforced by improvised rocket launchers mounted by Air Force personnel. Soon flares were seen and troops advancing in line formation north of Goose Green. It was unclear whether they were friendly forces withdrawing or British advancing. The sector—about 2,000 metres long and 700 wide—was open ground. The doubt ended when Air Force anti-aircraft crews reported incoming small-arms fire. Immediately, one of the GADA 601’s 35 mm guns opened fire—manned by Second Lieutenant Braghini with Corporals Rubina and Gallo feeding ammunition while soldiers continuously supplied rounds. The twin guns, firing at about 550 rounds per minute each, proved devastating in ground fire; British troops nearest the runway were left scattered across the terrain. Over the radio, Vice Commodore Pedrozo was heard urging: “Very good, GADA—keep it up, hit them hard!”

Fire continued for some time, always targeting concentrations of troops attempting to reach cover behind terrain features. At one point, the gun jammed due to a casing stuck in the chamber, fouled by dirt and grass from the intensity of combat. Corporal Gallo cleared it, but the brief delay allowed British troops to reach a small schoolhouse about 800 m away. Shortly after, mortar rounds began falling closer. Reports indicated small-arms fire coming from the schoolhouse windows. Braghini targeted the base of the structure; successive hits destroyed large sections and set it ablaze. It was later struck directly by 105 mm artillery, leaving only metal framework and piping.

Meanwhile, mortar fire closed in. One round struck the generator panel, cutting power to the gun. Manual operation was possible but ineffective against air attack, so Braghini ordered his men to move the 900 kg generator from another gun about 100 m uphill by hand. Although the northern advance had been halted, mortar fire intensified.

While attempting to move the generator, a shell landed just 5 metres from the previously used gun, damaging it and its generator. With the weapon unusable, Braghini ordered his men to take cover. At that moment, a Harrier dropped a Beluga bomb on the already disabled gun, but its aim was poor: half fell into the sea, the rest about 80 m away.

A British account later noted that radar-directed guns had been harassing 2 PARA, prompting an air strike by Harriers dropping cluster bombs, after which the intensity of the battle decreased significantly—suggesting the effectiveness of the Argentine fire.

Anti-Aircraft Artillery: Mission Accomplished!

April 2nd: Landing Accounts of Conscript Sergio Díaz

Landing in First Person

Accounts of 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘰 𝘙𝘶𝘣𝘦𝘯 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘻, 𝘤onscript class 63 𝘴𝘦𝘤t𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘎𝘢𝘵𝘰

Source: Malvinas: Historias de coraje

Top paragraph:

This photograph was taken on 24 April 1982 at the School House, 800 metres from Goose Green. On this day, the National Flag oath was taken.
Here are the 36 members of Section “GATO” of Company “C” of RI 25, made up of one officer, 5 NCOs and 30 soldiers.

From left to right, they are:

Standing:
Private (Class 63) Pesaresi Sergio
Private (Class 63) Bergero Sergio
Private (Class 63) Alarcón José
Lance Corporal Pérez Luis
Corporal Godoy Hugo
Second Lieutenant Reyes Roberto
Sergeant Colike Martín
Lance Corporal Maidana José
Corporal Salas Rubén
Private (Class 63) Clot César
Private (Class 63) Gauna Rito

Kneeling:
Private (Class 63) Rodríguez Víctor
Private (Class 63) Vélez Daniel
Private (Class 63) Cabral Walter
Private (Class 63) Carletti Víctor
Private (Class 63) Baudracco Sergio
Private (Class 63) Fraire Raúl
Private (Class 63) Almonacid José
Private (Class 63) Moyano Carlos
Private (Class 63) Cossaro Juan
Private (Class 63) Escudero Sergio
Private (Class 63) Cepeda Héctor
Private (Class 63) Amarante(s) Víctor
Private (Class 63) Vargas José

Seated:
Private (Class 63) Velázquez Sergio
Private (Class 63) Murúa Eduardo
Private (Class 63) Oporto René
Private (Class 63) Bertone Víctor
Private (Class 63) Massey Gabriel
Private (Class 63) Rodríguez Carlos
Private (Class 63) Fazzi Sergio
Private (Class 63) Squizzato Juan
Private (Class 63) Rivas Porfirio
Private (Class 63) Vélez Fernando
Private (Class 63) Díaz Sergio
Private (Class 63) Noel Daniel

It is 4:30 a.m. We are woken up — the time has come. I make the sign of the cross (nothing else comes to mind), I simply entrust myself to God and try to control my nerves… so that no one notices. We wash, have a quick breakfast, and return to the barracks. We finish gearing up; the NCOs check everyone’s equipment. We also paint our faces and mentally go over all the training we have received since joining the beloved Regiment 25 in Colonia Sarmiento. This was no game — we were to take part in an amphibious landing and might enter combat. We put on woollen balaclavas and are ready to go.

The order comes to move to the embarkation hold, and we set off. Once there, everything is incredible: we see many Navy personnel carrying out manoeuvres, preparing the amphibious vehicles towards the ship’s exit (although many of these sailors are our age, they are true professionals). The ARA Cabo San Antonio looks like a great monster with its jaws open.

Lieutenant Colonel Seineldín was already waiting for us, prepared for the landing. His face was painted for combat, two grenades hung from his chest, and he carried an automatic machine gun. For me, it was reassuring that he would land with us — with the lieutenant colonel alongside us, we could not lose. He looked at us one by one, checking that everything was in order, as if trying to read our thoughts… but we were all ready to carry out what would be the GLORIOUS DEED OF THE MALVINAS.

It is 6:00 a.m. In a few minutes we begin boarding the amphibious vehicle. I am on the right-hand side near the door, next to Sergeant Colque (a great soldier). Once aboard, I am wearing a life jacket that inflates automatically by pulling small tabs, like those used on passenger aircraft. Again, I recall all the steps we must follow in case we have to evacuate the vehicle in an emergency. The ramp closes; we are ready to begin the landing. We hear the sound of the amphibious tracks on the ship’s metal deck. The movement makes me tense — I just hope everything goes well. The lieutenant colonel asks for music to be played on a tape recorder he brought, commemorating the British invasions. The operation was called Rosario, after the Virgin.

The vehicle is moving — we head out to sea. I realise it as the vehicle drops into the water. The engines begin to roar, drowning out the music… at that moment we begin to pray that the vehicle keeps moving, because if it does not, water will start to come in and it could sink. I try to look out through the small window; I can only see the sea level, almost covering it completely. At the top, a few stars and a very dark sky are visible. The engines continue roaring until, at one point, it gains momentum and we feel that we are moving forward.

After a few minutes that pass very quickly, we continue across the sea until suddenly there is a very loud noise, as if we had collided with something, and the vehicle jolts sharply. We had reached land. We are on the islands.

Second Lieutenant Reyes opens the upper hatches, stands on the seats, looks outside and begins shouting: “There they are, those sons of bitches — there they are!” I thought the British were waiting for us, and the vehicle kept advancing. Suddenly the bell rings, signalling that we must disembark (we had already removed our life jackets), and then we stop. The green light indicates the ramp will open… Every second feels like an eternity.

As soon as the ramp is fully open, we begin to disembark — I am the third to go down. We move out as quickly as possible and lie flat on the ground. The first thing I notice is that the island seems to move beneath me, as if I were still on the ship. I try to regulate my breathing (I think I am very nervous — that is why “the island is moving”). The order is given to continue, and I get up. My FAL rifle is loaded, safety off.

We advance in a fan formation, trying to look in every direction — it is still dark. We reach the airfield and continue moving forward, weapons aimed ahead, watching everything. The terrain is flat, with low grass; we move along the runway. At the sides, the ground has irregularities formed by stones. As we continue advancing, some comrades remain behind, taking up positions to secure the ground gained.

I keep walking and feel as if the stones are moving. We stop, kneeling, and I glance sideways to determine whether something is really moving among the stones or if it is just my imagination. Shortly afterwards, we continue advancing, covering almost the entire runway, when we begin to hear the sounds of fighting in Port Stanley — machine-gun fire, sometimes drowned out by naval bombardment.

We keep moving until we reach the end of the runway. There I am ordered to remain in position. I look in all directions, not wanting to be caught off guard by any British soldier. I see that the runway is blocked with lorries and engineering vehicles to prevent aircraft from landing. The group continues towards the lighthouse further ahead.

I remain kneeling with my rifle, scanning all around. In the direction of Port Stanley, I can see the flashes of rockets fired by the British. The noise continues — there is clearly resistance. Here at the airfield everything is very calm, very still, yet the island still seems to move beneath me. I do not understand what is happening to me.

Suddenly, I see personnel beginning to operate in the control tower, while vehicles blocking the runway start being moved. Everything is going perfectly, without incident — better than expected. So far, we have not had to engage the British.

Soon, some of those who had advanced to the lighthouse return and tell me they found British soldiers who surrendered without resistance. When the last vehicle is removed from the runway, I see a light in the sky blinking on and off — it is an aircraft approaching. As it comes closer, I see it is a Hercules aircraft passing overhead. I am at the runway threshold, and it is an impressive sight — I had never been so close to an aircraft before.

I continue on watch, rifle ready to fire. The aircraft stops, and the air landing begins. The sounds of fighting in Port Stanley are no longer heard. Day is breaking; aircraft continue arriving — everything is synchronised, everything unfolding normally.

The new day now reveals these beloved islands. I can see the ground clearly: where I am, the sand is very fine and white, with some shrubs. I remain in position, now calmer and more composed — the islands have been recovered.

Relief soon arrives. Everything has gone better than planned. We leave the airfield with the satisfaction of having accomplished the mission. Now we continue towards Port Stanley.

Malvinas: Height 234 and the 21-Day March

Height 234 and the 21-Day March

What took the Güemes Combat Team three days of marching and a helicopter flight cost Section “Gato” 21 days, physical deformities, lower-limb amputations, and, ultimately, surrender. After arriving in the San Carlos area, First Lieutenant Daniel Esteban deployed an advance element to warn of and ambush a potential British landing. On Tuesday 18 May, Second Lieutenant Roberto Oscar Reyes was due to relieve Second Lieutenant José Alberto Vásquez at the so-called Height 234, or Fanning Head according to British cartography. Section “Gato” consisted of four NCOs and 15 soldiers: the group of 21 infantrymen marched 14 kilometres towards the mouth of the strait with the mission of “providing early warning to the Force and, once reinforced with heavy weapons, ambushing any British troops that might enter through the channel”.

“The previous night was much like the ones before it, that is to say freezing and with very poor visibility — you couldn’t see two metres ahead,” recalled Reyes, who at the time was 25 years old and had four years of military training. Half an hour before Thursday turned into Friday, a soldier posted on security duty informed him that he could hear noises in the channel: conversations in English and acoustic signals coming from the mouth of the strait. The second lieutenant confirmed the suspicion: vessels were moving silently and with their lights off towards San Carlos.

The group of soldiers had two 81 mm mortars and two 105 mm recoilless guns to carry out the ambush. Reyes issued orders to prepare for combat and warned of the imminent opening of fire. But the first thing he tried to do was establish communication with First Lieutenant Daniel Esteban at the San Carlos command post. The batteries in the radio, after three days exposed to the cold, had very little charge left: the call went through, they could hear them, but they could not be heard in return. “This is Gato, this is Gato,” they said, unsuccessfully. The attempt at communication, and the subsequent explosion of the shells, may already have been warning enough.

A few minutes after two in the morning on Friday 21 May 1982 came their baptism of fire. The ships were within mortar range, but visibility was almost non-existent. “A few improper lights could be seen on deck and some conversations could be clearly heard carrying across the water; the fleet continued its stealthy advance and apparently had not detected us,” Reyes described. He ordered fire to be opened with the mortars using illumination rounds in order to determine the exact location and improve the effectiveness of the guns. But the strategy failed and the element of surprise was lost: the rounds did not light up the trajectory, and their own position was revealed by the flash of the shot. “From the moment the firing began until around three in the morning, I ordered several changes of position until the mortar ammunition was exhausted. From then on, the enemy reaction became more intense,” the second lieutenant later wrote in a personal account. Enemy fire was beginning to find the Argentine soldiers’ position. It was time to withdraw: “I ordered preparations for the retreat to begin. I was convinced that we had fulfilled the mission of alerting our forces and ambushing the British.” In perfect Spanish, a spokesman from a British ground patrol called on them to surrender. “They told us they were part of a battalion that had landed and that they would not harm us if we gave ourselves up, that we were surrounded and would not be able to get out, that we should hand over our weapons. This psychological action by the British had exactly the opposite effect on all of us: it made us want to break contact, withdraw, and rejoin our forces in San Carlos,” Reyes recalled. It had been more than three hours of intermittent, varied, but sustained attack.

Of the 21 combatants, only 11 remained together. The wounded and those who had gone missing amid the confusion of the withdrawal and counter-action had been captured as prisoners of war: none had been killed. The British were still searching for them and were so close that it seemed incredible they had not spotted them. They had just 40 rounds per man left. Their hiding place became a privileged front-row seat from which to watch Argentine aircraft attacking the British fleet of 17 ships.

On the first night they set out south-eastwards towards Puerto Argentino, following the coastline. They walked at night, covering roughly 3 kilometres a day. “We had no protection from the cold other than the clothes we were wearing. The damp, thick mist was always present; at times it was indistinguishable from a fine, freezing drizzle,” the second lieutenant recounted. Fear and the instinct for survival masked the hunger and the anguish. To escape a detachment of 15 British soldiers, they had to cross an inlet of the sea with soldiers who could not swim. They lost rifles, and Corporal Hugo Godoy nearly drowned, but the worst came afterwards: soaked clothing and the certainty of permanent cold.

Trench foot and gangrene were advancing rapidly in three soldiers. Godoy, Moyano and Cepeda needed urgent medical attention. They were left in the care of Clot, the soldier in the best physical condition, with enough food for two days, a first-aid kit, and orders to delay enemy pursuit by a day so as to give the other seven combatants time to continue their feat.

After marching for five nights, they reached a small settlement identified as New House, apparently deserted. “We were a truly pitiful group. Our clothes were in tatters, we were ill, our faces disfigured by suffering. None of us was older than 25, yet we looked like a group of wandering old men,” Reyes recounted. On the 21st day of the epic attempt to reach their own lines, they were woken by a full section that had encircled the settlement: a kelper hidden on the property had betrayed them. “From a position in the shed, I had a British soldier in my sights, and I told my men to do the same with others, but not to fire until I gave the order,” he described. Reyes calls himself a “professional soldier”: “I was prepared for the worst, and if I had ordered fire to be opened, those soldiers, though at the very end of their strength, would have done so. But I turned around and looked at them: we had lost the capacity to fight, we were in no condition to withstand even the slightest attack and get out of the place. I decided this was the end of our war; the time had come to surrender. I walked outside and laid down my weapon.”

Section “Gato” never managed to return to Puerto Argentino or reunite with the Güemes Combat Team. It was 11 June 1982: three days later, the Malvinas War would come to an end. The landing at San Carlos remains a source of pride for First Lieutenant Carlos Daniel Esteban and Second Lieutenant Roberto Oscar Reyes. It matters little that the operation was successful for the British troops. Such were the symptoms of an unbelievable war.

Puedo hacerte también una versión más literaria, más periodística, o más fiel al tono militar original.

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

Accounts of the Landing at San Carlos

By former Second Lieutenant “VGM” José Alberto Vázquez

Malvinas: Historias de Coraje




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.