COAN: The Night of the Banzai

 

The Night of the Banzai

Brief Account of a Frustrated Attack on the British Fleet

On 25 April, the British recaptured South Georgia. From that moment, a tense calm settled over the Falkland Islands, as the Argentinians awaited the enemy's arrival. At that time, the Argentine Fleet at Sea was attempting to interdict the movements of the British Fleet. To this end, two Task Groups were deployed: one to the north of the Falklands, the other to the southeast.

The northern group centred around the aircraft carrier A.R.A. 25 de Mayo, from which Tracker aircraft were conducting reconnaissance missions to detect the enemy. By the end of April, authorisation had been given to open fire on enemy forces. On 29 April, with the carrier located approximately 150–200 nautical miles north of San Carlos Strait, long-range reconnaissance flights began. On the night of 30 April, signals intelligence detected British radar emissions to the N-NE of Port Stanley.

In the early hours of 1 May, a British Vulcan bomber carried out an airstrike on Stanley Airport, followed hours later by naval bombardment — the vigil in the Falklands was over. That same morning, a reconnaissance flight from the carrier returned with no radar contacts. However, at 1513 hours, a second flight detected radar contacts with six medium-sized vessels and one large ship — a British task force. The Argentine fleet now knew the enemy’s location. The British, however, were still unaware of Argentina’s position. The tactical advantage was clearly with Argentina.

However, the A-4Q Skyhawks lacked night-time operational and attack capability, preventing immediate offensive action. Reconnaissance efforts continued from the carrier to maintain contact with the British fleet and plan for an attack in the early hours of 2 May, involving six A-4Q aircraft, each carrying four MK82 bombs. The last known position of the enemy was obtained at 2300 hours on 1 May from a Tracker reconnaissance flight.

1. The British commander was aware he had been detected, but did not know the position of the Argentine naval force. His priority was to locate it, and he ordered Harrier reconnaissance flights. One such Harrier intercepted the Tracker mentioned earlier, which managed to evade it by flying low over the sea at night. Nonetheless, the Harrier had likely acquired a reasonably accurate estimate of the Argentine fleet’s location.

This prompted Argentine battle stations to be manned, and the destroyer Santísima Trinidad was authorised to launch missiles at the Harrier, though it never came within range.

During that night, the Argentine Battle Group went to combat alert at least three times, each time Harrier flights approached. Few slept. These incidents gave the British commander a clearer picture of the Argentine fleet’s position and combat capability.

After the conflict, the commander of HMS Invincible would remark:

“The Trackers were a real headache throughout the 45 days of combat. Knowing I had been detected, I launched my Harriers seventeen times to shoot them down, but I never succeeded.”

The tactical situation required maintaining contact with the British fleet. At 0528 on 2 May, a Tracker was launched to confirm enemy presence. Later that morning, a second Tracker would follow the location data of the first and continue surveillance to guide the attack of six A-4Qs.

2. The mission briefing was conducted by the ship’s Operations Department, attended by the Tracker crew and officers of the Third Naval Air Attack Squadron, where all operational details were decided. One unexpected issue delayed the mission: lack of wind, an uncommon condition in those latitudes.

In simple terms, bomb tables determine the number and type of bombs required to hit a target. In this tactical scenario, four bombs per aircraft were necessary. The actual wind was nearly calm, so even at full speed, the ship could only generate enough wind over the flight deck to allow the launch of aircraft carrying just one bomb each.

Although the mission briefing was complete, it was decided to wait for stronger winds to enable a proper launch with full bomb load.

Analysing the British air and anti-air capabilities, it was assessed that of the six A-4Qs to be launched, four could reach the target and drop their bombs, and two could return to the carrier. Of sixteen bombs, about 25% (four) might hit a ship — enough to neutralise an aircraft carrier if struck.

Launching with only one bomb per aircraft would likely cause insignificant damage, while risking loss of life and half of the carrier’s embarked strike and interception force.

3. The Tracker launched at 0528 failed to locate the British fleet, which had turned east, moving away from the Argentine battle group. However, throughout that morning, Harriers repeatedly approached, attempting to pinpoint the Argentine fleet, triggering frequent combat alerts aboard Argentine ships.

It is important to note that the Argentine naval group remained under the constant threat of air attack. This required a pair of A-4Qs to remain on deck, ready to launch within five minutes as interceptors. Each combat alert saw the aircraft launched on time, and in at least one or two instances, a second reserve section was also launched.

During a combat lull, the carrier’s commander spoke with the co-pilot of the lead Tracker aircraft and shared his tactical assessment: both fleets had comparable anti-air and anti-ship missile capabilities. The number of Harriers was assumed to be similar to that of the A-4Qs, and the latter were believed capable of engaging them successfully. When he mentioned the submarine threat, however, he added, "better not to think about it."

Committing six A-4Qs to an attack mission would have reduced the carrier’s interception capacity to zero. The remaining pair of aircraft onboard was intended to support the attack — one in reserve, the other as a tanker for mid-air refuelling of returning aircraft if needed.

4. The delayed reconnaissance flight took off at 1435 hours and conducted a maximum-range mission. It picked up both radar and electronic contacts and landed at 1900 hours. Upon returning, the crew noticed a change in the crew’s expressions on board — the A.R.A. General Belgrano cruiser had been sunk. The submarine threat had now become a grim reality.

In the days and nights that followed, combat stations were manned continuously.

Had the attack on the British fleet been carried out on 2 May 1982, it might be remembered today as the Day of Naval Aviation. But that was not to be. However, just two days later, a section of Super Étendard aircraft, guided by a Neptune patrol plane, sank HMS Sheffield — a clear demonstration of Argentina’s determination to fight.

That day, marking the baptism of fire of Argentine Naval Aviation, was later commemorated as the “Day of Argentine Naval Aviation”.

The night of 1–2 May has remained etched in the memory of its participants as the so-called:
“Night of the Banzai.”

Text: by CL VGM (RE) Rafael L. Sgüeglia
Painting 🖼: Illustrative, by Carlos Adrian Garcia
@aviationart_argentina 🎨

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.”

The Well-Deserved Sinking of HMS Sheffield

Argentine Naval Aviation: Snakeyes Against the Fleet

Details regarding bombing operations

When releasing up to six 500-pound bombs using a multiple ejector rack, we employed automatic release with a 200-millisecond interval between bombs. At a speed of 450 knots, this allowed the bombs fitted with retarded tails (Snakeye) to fall approximately 40 metres apart. Dropped at a 45-degree angle off the ship’s longitudinal axis, the probability of at least one bomb hitting the target—thus neutralising it—was very high.

We had shared these experiences with pilots of the Argentine Air Force who, at the time, had been training at the Espora Naval Air Base. Although our armaments differed, we strongly emphasised the need to avoid high-altitude approaches, as radar systems such as the Type 965 could detect them from 150 nautical miles away. This would increase the risk of interception by CAPs (Combat Air Patrols using Sea Harriers armed with AIM-9L Sidewinder missiles) or of engagement by Sea Dart missiles with a 30 NM range. Furthermore, early detection of an attack would allow ship-based anti-aircraft fire to be directed by radar, thereby making it far more accurate.

We also warned those same pilots that a bomb dropped in a dive bombing run was unlikely to achieve a hit, given the bomb’s time of flight and the ship's manoeuvrability at 30 knots in open sea.

The American MK-82 bomb from our stockpile, weighing 500 pounds and fitted with a retarded tail, could be dropped from low-level flight. Its fall was delayed relative to the aircraft due to the high-drag fins that deployed after release. This ensured that, upon detonation, the explosion did not affect the launching aircraft, which would have already moved ahead.

To ensure that bombs were armed after release, we tied the cables that activated the tail and nose fuzes directly to the aircraft’s bomb rack structure, rather than connecting them to the designated solenoids. The latter is the standard procedure, allowing for the bomb to be released either armed or, if necessary—by means of a cockpit switch—unarmed, by opening the solenoid and detaching the arming wire. As these solenoids could fail, we opted not to use them. This ensured the fuzes were always armed once the bomb was released, ready to detonate. In the event of an emergency, we would jettison the bombs into the sea, where they would explode.

During this period, we also conducted air interception exercises, guided by the radar systems of the aircraft carrier and its escort ships, targeting Argentine Air Force aircraft operating south of Comodoro Rivadavia that simulated attacks on the Fleet.

We disembarked at Puerto Belgrano Naval Base on 25 April, and over the following days, VLF Omega navigation systems were installed on two aircraft to improve navigational accuracy over the sea.

This had been a longstanding request in previous years, but the Navy's leadership had always found reasons not to implement it—just as our requests to fit 30 mm cannons to the A-4s, to increase firepower and reliability, had never been heeded. We also installed, as a test, OTPI equipment in two other aircraft. These are sonobuoy receivers, typically used for anti-submarine warfare by Tracker aircraft, allowing pilots to home in on the signals of sonobuoys deployed at sea. The goal was to enable aircraft to reach a sonobuoy deployed by a Tracker and, from that point, obtain bearing and distance to a target designated by the reconnaissance aircraft, which could not remain in the area due to limited endurance or the threat posed by the enemy.

—

Testimony of Navy Captain (Ret.) and Malvinas War Veteran Rodolfo Castro Fox, A-4Q Skyhawk pilot of the Argentine Navy's Third Fighter and Attack Squadron.

Malvinas: Zubizarreta and the Absurd Accident that Costs His Life

Everything failed, except his courage: the last flight of the pilot who died after returning from a mission in the Malvinas

Captain Zubizarreta departed for the islands on May 23, 1982, in his A-4Q Skyhawk. Over the fleet, he was unable to release his bombs due to a technical malfunction. Loaded with explosives and almost out of fuel, he returned to the mainland. He landed on the wet and slippery runway at Río Grande. He was supposed to eject, but the mechanism also failed. The final moments of a hero

Based on the article by Marcelo Larraquy || Infobae

A Squadron on the Edge: Skyhawks and Broken Wings

The War’s Beginning: Scarce Resources, Unbreakable Will

From the very start, the Argentine pilots flew with courage but also with hardship. The A-4Q Skyhawks they operated were aging warriors. Their wings were cracked, their systems outdated, and their ejection seats were more luck than science. Ammunition was scarce. Missiles, if they worked, were miracles. But none of this stopped them.

The Third Naval Fighter and Attack Squadron, tasked with aerial assaults on enemy fleets, faced near-impossible conditions. Every sortie they flew risked not just combat casualties, but technical failure before even reaching the target. Mechanics worked miracles overnight, often cannibalizing one plane to get another airborne. Pilots trained relentlessly, often with simulators or outdated manuals. What they lacked in hardware, they made up for in heart.

Every time one of them took off, everyone on the base knew the risk. The chances of return were slim, and the margin for error was nonexistent. Yet, men like Zubizarreta flew because surrender wasn’t an option—not to a foreign flag flying over Argentine land.

Captain Rodolfo Castro Fox: Leadership Born from Pain

If courage had a face during that campaign, it might have looked like Captain Rodolfo Castro Fox. Just nine months before the war, he had survived a near-fatal training accident. Ejecting too late from his aircraft during a drill, he had hit the sea hard, fracturing his arm and suffering cardiac arrests. For most, that would end a flying career. But for Castro Fox, it was just another hurdle.

When war was declared, he was barred from combat due to his injuries. But something inside him wouldn’t accept that. He believed a leader couldn’t send his men into danger unless he too was willing to face it. Despite his limited mobility and pain, he climbed into his A-4Q Skyhawk. Mechanics had to help him close the cockpit. He operated the landing gear by crossing arms mid-flight. It was more than grit—it was defiance, a mirror of the national spirit.

On May 23, 1982, he led the mission to San Carlos Bay. Alongside him were Capt. Zubizarreta, Lt. Oliveira, and Lt. Benítez. It wasn’t just a routine strike—it was a bold charge into the lion’s den, knowing full well the lion had teeth, claws, and aircraft carriers.

Lieutenant Commander Carlos Maria Zubizarreta with pilot Lieutenant Gustavo Diaz (castrofox.blogspot)

Flying into Fire: The Final Mission

The Mission Brief: Objectives Over San Carlos

San Carlos Bay was a hot zone, crawling with enemy vessels and ready-to-fire Sea Harriers. The objective was simple: inflict damage, disrupt logistics, and remind the enemy that Argentina would not surrender. Castro Fox and his team took off just after noon, their Skyhawks loaded with bombs, their hearts heavier still.

They flew in formation, hugging the ocean, low and fast—trying to avoid radar. Oliveira soon experienced a malfunction and had to return. The rest pushed on. Over the hills of Gran Malvina, the coast came into view. It was time. The mission was live.

Just minutes earlier, Captain Pablo Carballo had passed through the same airspace. He radioed back: enemy ships were in position, anti-aircraft fire was intense, and Sea Harriers were on patrol. His warning was clear: "It’s hell up here." But still, they flew in.

The Assault Begins: Low Flight and Courage Under Fire

Castro Fox dropped to just 100 meters above sea level—barely enough to clear the waves. He saluted his men behind him. And then the hell began.

As they pierced into the strait, the sky turned black with smoke and tracer fire. Every second was life or death. Anti-aircraft guns blazed, missiles locked on. But they kept going. Castro Fox spotted his target—Intrepid—dodged a missile, dropped his payload, and veered away. Behind him, Benítez and Zubizarreta faced their own crucible.

Missiles were launched. Two whistled between their aircraft but missed. Benítez unloaded on Antelope. Zubizarreta couldn’t—his system malfunctioned. His bombs stayed locked in. That failure would change the course of his fate.

Castro Fox had suffered a serious accident months before and two heart attacks, however he informed his superiors that he felt obliged to disobey the prohibition: he could not send his pilots into aerial combat if he did not do so. (castrofox.blogspot)

The Flight Back: Fear, Faith, and Fuel

Mid-Air Decisions: Life or Death Over the Sea

After surviving the bombing run, the pilots were not out of danger. In fact, the return journey was often more perilous than the attack itself. With enemy aircraft possibly in pursuit, low fuel levels, and aircraft damaged or malfunctioning, every second in the sky could be your last.

Captain Castro Fox, already dealing with impaired mobility, discovered his external fuel tanks weren’t transferring properly. The fuel gauge dipped into the red. At that altitude and speed, any miscalculation would mean crashing into the cold South Atlantic. He climbed to over 12,000 meters, adopting a flight profile that might just extend his range long enough to reach the coast. But he was uncertain. He may have to eject over the freezing waters, alone and vulnerable.

Fox made a decision that speaks volumes of his character. He told Zubizarreta and Benítez not to accompany him on the high-altitude route. He didn’t want them wasting precious fuel, or worse, dying trying to save him. “Fly safe,” he said. “I want to be alone.” This wasn’t fear—it was love. A leader protecting his men with his own sacrifice.

Captain Fox’s Solitary Journey Back Home

Alone in the sky, thousands of meters above the sea, Castro Fox had only the hum of his struggling Skyhawk and the hope that his calculations would hold. He couldn't contact base properly, and with low visibility, navigation became guesswork. He was flying on fumes and faith.

But somehow, he made it. Against all odds, he brought his crippled aircraft home. When he landed, there was no applause, no ceremony—just his breath fogging the cockpit glass. He had done his duty. And yet, his heart was heavy. He didn't know that Zubizarreta’s fate was about to unfold before his eyes.

Zubizarreta’s Return: Silent Hero with a Burden

Captain Carlos Zubizarreta was not supposed to return with bombs. His mission had failed due to a technical glitch, a malfunction that rendered his payload useless during the heat of battle. But instead of ditching the bombs into the sea—as protocol permitted—he brought them home.

Why? Perhaps he wanted them preserved for another mission. Perhaps he didn’t want to discard something so precious in a war where every piece of ammunition mattered. Or maybe, just maybe, he wanted to return whole. Bombs or not, he had done his duty. He faced the same missiles, the same gunfire, and emerged unscathed. His courage was intact.

As he approached Río Grande, the weather had turned. It had started to drizzle, the wind howled, and the airfield’s condition deteriorated rapidly. A slippery runway with no braking system armed greeted him—a dangerous welcome.

HMS Antelope sinks after being attacked by Argentine pilots in the San Carlos Strait (AP)

Tragedy on the Tarmac: The Final Moments

The Slippery Runway and the Unarmed Hook

Landing a Skyhawk on a perfect day is a challenge. Doing so with minimal fuel, live bombs onboard, and a slippery runway is nothing short of a miracle. Zubizarreta touched down on the slick surface, but the plane’s design wasn’t made for wet airstrips—it was meant for carrier landings. The wheels, inflated for deck use, couldn’t grip the asphalt. The aircraft began to veer off.

Captain Curilovic rushed to arm the emergency braking cable system—but it was too late. The plane slid out of control. Mechanics, pilots, and ground crew watched in horror as Zubizarreta’s jet skidded across the runway, disappearing behind a mound of earth.

Third Naval Fighter and Attack Squadron, photographed on May 20, 1982: Sylvester, Medici, Lecour, Oliveira, Carlos Zubizarreta, Olmedo, Arca, Alberto Phillippi, Castro Fox, Rótolo, Benítez and Alejandro Diaz

A Deadly Descent: Ejection Seat Failure and Fallen Hero

At that moment, Zubizarreta knew he had to eject. The standard ejection protocol required enough speed and altitude to ensure the seat’s rocket mechanism would launch the pilot into the air, giving the parachute time to deploy.

But this wasn’t a normal moment. His seat’s rocket had expired—another legacy of outdated equipment. Maintenance had delayed its replacement. He pulled the lever. The canopy detached. But the rocket didn’t fire properly. The seat didn't reach the required height. The parachute failed to open.

In front of his comrades, Zubizarreta fell to the hard pavement with brutal force. His bombs didn’t detonate. The plane’s nose was barely damaged. The Skyhawk would fly again within a week. But Zubizarreta would not. His body, broken by impact, held a spirit that refused to quit until the very end.
Aftermath: A Plane Flies Again, A Hero Does Not

It is one of the cruel ironies of war. The machine that failed him lived on. Fixed and flown within days. But the man—the soul who rode that machine into battle—was gone. Carlos Zubizarreta succumbed to his injuries shortly after. There was no spectacular explosion, no enemy kill, no banner headline. Just quiet death on a lonely runway.

His coffin was loaded onto a Navy Fokker F-28. Fellow pilots flew in formation, giving him a warrior’s farewell. A national flag draped over him, bearing witness to the price of patriotism.

Patriotism in the Air: What Zubizarreta Stood For

The Spirit of the Malvinas: More Than a Conflict

The Malvinas cause is not about a war lost. It’s about dignity. It’s about memory. And it’s about men like Zubizarreta, who didn’t have the luxury of modern aircraft, perfect intelligence, or diplomatic protections. All they had was courage—and love for their homeland.

For Argentines, the Malvinas symbolize a national wound that still aches, but also a collective pride that refuses to fade. Every schoolchild learns the map showing the islands as part of Argentina. Every plaza has a monument. Every April 2nd, the country pauses to remember.

Zubizarreta’s sacrifice embodies that patriotism—not abstract, but raw and real. He didn’t die for land. He died for honor. For sovereignty. For his brothers-in-arms and for every Argentine who still says with pride: “Las Malvinas son Argentinas.”

Zubizarreta's Legacy: Symbol of Argentine Valor

In a country where true heroes often go unsung, Zubizarreta’s story deserves to be shouted from rooftops. His name should be etched in every classroom, his courage studied, his memory honored. He didn’t die trying to kill. He died trying to live another day—to fly again, to fight again.

He chose duty over safety. He chose loyalty over life. And in doing so, he joined the eternal ranks of Argentina’s most honored. Not with medals or fanfare, but with a legacy that speaks through time.

* Marcelo Larraquy es periodista e historiador (UBA) Su último libro publicado es “La Guerra Invisible. El último secreto de Malvinas”. Ed. Sudamericana.

Argentine Pilots in Super Etendard

Malvinas: A Daring Rescue at Calderón Naval Air Station

The Longest Day: A Daring Rescue at Calderón Naval Air Station

On May 15, a British commando raid, supported by naval gunfire from a frigate, left the T-34 Mentor, IA-58 Pucará, and Skyvan aircraft stationed at Calderón Naval Air Station on Borbón Island completely inoperable. With no possibility of repair, the Naval Aviation personnel integrated with Marine Infantry units, assuming new roles in ground defense, combat air patrol (PAC) observation, naval and meteorological reconnaissance, and pilot rescue operations.


The Two Sea Kings on Malvinas soil, in the photo From left to right: SI Montani, TF Brandenburg, TN Iglesias Osvaldo, CC Barro, TN Iglesias Guillermo and SI Giqueaux

The Sea Kings on Malvinas

The British landing at San Carlos forced the Command of Naval Aviation to reassess the situation of the ten aviation personnel stranded on the island, weighing the possibility of their evacuation.

Since Marine Infantry units were also still stationed there, coordination was sought with the Marine component commander to evacuate all personnel to Puerto Howard on Gran Malvina (West Falkland), where they could regroup with the Argentine Army detachment stationed there.

The only way to accomplish this was to cross the three-mile-wide strait between the islands using two outboard motor boats. However, the Marine Infantry commander decided his troops would remain at Calderón, leading the Naval Aviation commander to opt for an aerial extraction of his men.

Mission Orders: A High-Risk Operation

The Commander of Naval Aviation immediately issued orders to:

• Captain Rivero, Commander of Naval Air Force No. 2, to prepare SH-3D “Sea King” helicopters and the necessary support personnel for the mission from Río Grande.
• Captain Martini, Commander of Task Group 80.1, to provide coordination, control, communications, and search-and-rescue support.

The Second Naval Helicopter Squadron, then deployed in Viedma, conducting anti-submarine operations in the Gulf of San Matías, received what was effectively a suicide mission: an extraction operation in British-controlled airspace.

On the night of May 28, all planned flights were canceled, and the squadron began preparing the only three available SH-3D Sea Kings (2-H-231, 2-H-233, and 2-H-234).

The rescue zone was dangerously close to enemy lines at San Carlos, where the Royal Navy’s Harrier jets maintained total air superiority. The helicopters would operate with complete vulnerability, lacking any weapons, sensors, or countermeasures, and being easily detectable due to their large radar cross-section and the unmistakable roar of their engines.

Mission Challenges: A Deadly Gauntlet

From the outset, planners identified critical risks:

• Extreme vulnerability: The helicopters were easy prey for any enemy interceptor.
• Zero defensive capability: They carried no weapons to counter aerial threats.
• High detectability:
  • Radar signature: The large rotor provided an excellent reflective surface, ensuring detection.
  • Acoustic signature: The Sea King’s powerful engines could be heard from miles away.
• Limited speed for evasion: Factory-restricted top speed of 120 knots.

.

Sea King painted by Arsenal Aeronaval N° 2 for the rescue mission on Isla Borbón (photo: Frigate Lieutenant Antonio Urbano -in the photo- via Claudio Meunier).

• Operational range exceeded: The extraction point was far beyond their maximum combat radius.
• Return flight under extreme conditions:
  • Night operations at low altitude, navigating through mountainous terrain.
  • Possible need for instrument flying due to deteriorating weather.
• Icing hazard: The Sea King was not certified for flight in icing conditions.
• Navigation accuracy issues:
  • Unreliable equipment for long-range overwater flight.
  • Potential errors of 10-15 nautical miles per hour.
  • High failure rate of onboard systems.
• Lack of radar: No meteorological or navigation radar available.
• No electronic countermeasures (ECM): The helicopters had no means of jamming or evading enemy radar or missiles.
• Evacuation from a highly contested zone: The North San Carlos Strait, a key area occupied by British forces, was dangerously close to the extraction site.

A Desperate Gamble in Enemy Territory

To enhance their chances of survival, one Sea King was repainted by Naval Arsenal No. 2 specifically for this mission, applying camouflage modifications to reduce visibility.

The pilots and crew fully understood the odds were against them—they would be flying directly into the jaws of the British forces, with little hope of returning unscathed. However, the Argentine Navy was not willing to abandon its men.

With courage as their only advantage, the Sea King crews prepared to embark on one of the most perilous rescue operations of the Malvinas War.

Would they succeed, or were they flying to certain death?

 

 

Original sketch published in the book History of Argentine Naval Aviation Volume III – Héctor A. Martini.

The Longest Day: The Countdown to a Daring Rescue

With orders to exhaust every resource to ensure the mission’s success, it was deemed essential to deploy two helicopters for mutual support. Operating in pairs provided greater payload capacity, improved navigation accuracy, and redundancy in case of failure. Additionally, at least one of the helicopters needed to be equipped with a VLF OMEGA navigation system to compensate for severe navigational limitations, preventing an inaccurate landfall on the islands—or worse, an unintended and disastrous descent into enemy territory.

Critical Mission Requirements

To mitigate the extreme risks, the following were requested:

• Electronic Countermeasures (ECM) to detect enemy presence, particularly in concealed inlets where British forces might be stationed.
• Meteorological or navigation radar to improve flight precision and safety.
• Intelligence on enemy activity in the operating area.
• Communications support for coordination and potential emergency responses.
• Confirmation of fuel availability at Borbón and its operational condition.
• Weather updates for both the target area and flight route.
• Night vision goggles to facilitate the low-altitude nocturnal approach.
• Camouflage paint to reduce visual detection—however, due to time constraints, only one helicopter could be repainted.

Mission Preparations: Engineering a Survival Plan

At dawn on May 29, with weight calculations adjusted to the last possible pound, logistical work began to modify the helicopters to match the planned configurations. All anti-submarine warfare (ASW) equipment and non-essential components were systematically removed to maximize fuel and payload capacity.

Among the first items discarded were the seats, followed by the bomb racks, which each saved 14 pounds. This seemingly minor adjustment underscored the desperate need to maximize available load capacity, primarily for carrying 200-liter fuel drums—a crucial move to extend the operational range as far as possible.

Since in-flight refueling was impossible, the fuel transfer solution was brutally simple yet effective: the floor panel above the main fuel tank was removed, and a manual clock-style pump was used to transfer fuel from the drums as the internal tanks emptied.

A final operational check revealed that the Sea Kings’ flight envelope had to be pushed beyond its limits. Torque limits were reassessed, allowing for a maximum speed of 135 knots—15 knots above the factory limit, a dangerous increase that risked blade detachment but was necessary to improve survivability.

Final Modifications and Crew Deployments

On May 30, the Sea King 2-H-234 (crew: Lieutenant Commander Guillermo Iglesias, Lieutenant Ricardo Rey, and Petty Officer Second Class Beltrán Giqueaux) was deployed to Comandante Espora Naval Air Base (BACE) for the installation, testing, and calibration of the VLF OMEGA navigation system.

By May 31, the calibration was completed, but the crew had just two hours of training to operate the system before taking off. That night, 2-H-234 (now crewed by Commander Raúl Lorenzo, Lieutenant Commander Guillermo Iglesias, Lieutenant Ricardo Rey, and Chief Petty Officer Roberto Montani) departed BACE for Río Grande, arriving at 23:45 hours.

Meanwhile, the two other helicopters, which had remained in Viedma for final preparations, departed for Río Grande on June 1, arriving at 17:00 hours:

• 2-H-231 (Commander Norberto Barro, Lieutenant Antonio Urbano, and Petty Officer Second Class Henrique Beltrán Giqueaux).
• 2-H-233 (Lieutenant Commander **Osvaldo Iglesias, Lieutenant Oscar Brandeburgo, and Chief Petty Officer Hernán Verdugo).

That night, with all three helicopters and their crews finally assembled in Río Grande, the final mission details were reviewed. Takeoff was scheduled for 14:00 hours the next day, ensuring arrival at Borbón by twilight to reduce exposure to enemy detection and interception.

Mission Greenlight: Last-Minute Adjustments

Upon arrival in Río Grande, the following mission-critical elements were confirmed:

✔ Fuel at Borbón: The exact quantity remained uncertain, but estimations suggested a sufficient margin to complete the mission. However, its condition was unknown.
✔ Night Vision Goggles: Secured and distributed among the crew.
✔ Camouflage Painting: The crew managed to paint only one helicopter overnight due to time constraints.
✔ Aerial Reconnaissance Request: Task Group 80.1 formally requested that Task Force 80 conduct a scouting flight along the planned route to detect potential threats and assess enemy activity.

With all available resources exhausted, three unarmed Sea Kings, pushing beyond their operational limits, prepared to fly directly into one of the most hostile airspaces in the South Atlantic.

The clock was ticking.

Original sketch of the base in Malvinas published in the book History of the Argentine Naval Aviation Volume III – Héctor A. Martini

The Longest Day: Into the Storm

Green Light for the Mission

On June 1, reconnaissance aircraft reported the area was clear of enemy forces—the green light was given.

The helicopter commanders conducted a final weather check, but poor visibility over the target area delayed takeoff. A second report from the Meteorological Center confirmed low cloud ceilings at the objective but also assured clear conditions at Río Grande for the return. This finalized the decision to return to Río Grande instead of San Julián, which had also been considered as an alternative.

That morning, preflight checks were completed, and the crews gathered one last time before heading to the aircraft platform, where their helicopters stood ready. Around them, pilots and personnel from various squadrons operating out of Río Grande wished them good luck. The final piece of advice was clear: fly low and be extremely cautious when transitioning from land to sea, as enemy naval units were known to hide in inlets and along irregular coastlines.

Mission Crew Assignments

• 2-H-233: Lieutenant Commander Osvaldo Iglesias, Lieutenant Oscar Brandeburgo, and Chief Petty Officer Roberto Montani.
• 2-H-234: Commander Norberto Barro, Lieutenant Commander Guillermo Iglesias, and Petty Officer Second Class Henrique Beltrán Giqueaux.

At 14:17 hours, the two SH-3D Sea Kings lifted off, joined by a Super Puma from the Naval Prefecture. Ten minutes later, the third Sea King (2-H-231) departed for Río Gallegos, where it would remain on standby as a search-and-rescue asset.

• 2-H-231 Crew: Lieutenant Antonio Urbano, Lieutenant Ricardo Rey, and Petty Officer Second Class José Ponce.

The Super Puma PA-13 had a critical role:

• Verifying the functionality of the only VLF OMEGA navigation system installed.
• Guiding the SH-3Ds to their pre-designated release point, 120 nautical miles from Río Grande.

Everything proceeded as planned—low altitude, smooth conditions, and maximum cruising speed maintained.

A Critical Malfunction and Freezing Conditions

Shortly into the flight, a strong fuel odor flooded the cabin of 2-H-234. The crew immediately opened the forward windows and partially unlatched the cargo door to allow airflow to clear the vapors. The risk of fire or explosion now became a constant concern. From that moment on, they were forced to fly with the heating system turned off, enduring freezing temperatures for the remainder of the flight.

At 15:24 hours, a Beechcraft B-200 (4-G-44), piloted by Commander Santiago Barrios, took off from Río Grande to provide communications support. Since the helicopters were flying low, radio transmissions were deliberately minimized to avoid enemy detection. The 4-G-44 maintained an orbit at mid-distance between the departure point and the objective, acting as a relay while using deception techniques to mask transmissions.

Despite the extreme conditions, the helicopters pressed forward, flying at 5 meters (16 feet) above the ocean, pushing their airframes beyond their operational limits.

A Dangerous Approach to Malvinas

As they neared the islands, the weather deteriorated—low cloud ceilings, rain, and reduced visibility made navigation more difficult. However, as they closed in, the rain ceased, and the cloud cover began to lift, revealing clear skies and bright sunlight—a disastrous development for a mission dependent on darkness for concealment.

The initial landfall occurred exactly as planned, between San José and San Rafael Islands, southwest of West Malvina. From there, the final approach to the objective began, flying along the terrain contours or skimming the water’s surface to avoid detection.

With visibility still low, the helicopters inadvertently passed over a house, increasing concerns about compromising the mission. They pressed on, crossing San Francisco de Paula Bay, then over the Trinidad, Vigía, and Borbón Islands, finally reaching the Elephant Seal Bay Isthmus, where Naval Aviation units had previously operated.

At 17:25 hours, both SH-3Ds touched down in the middle of the settlement. To avoid the catastrophic risk of engine failure, they kept the rotors turning rather than shutting down completely—especially given the lack of maintenance tools, which could complicate any restart attempt.

Unexpected Delays: A New Threat Emerges

A new problem arose immediately: the officer in charge of the stranded personnel was only expecting one helicopter. This miscommunication delayed refueling operations, a setback further aggravated by the sudden failure of the VLF OMEGA system—the only reliable navigation aid for the return flight.

Without it, the extraction became far more dangerous, particularly during the low-altitude, nighttime departure through a maze of islands and enemy-controlled waters.

The Extraction and a New Crisis

At 18:35 hours, the two Sea Kings lifted off, carrying:

• Lieutenant Marcelo Félix Batllori
• Chief Petty Officer José Sabat
• Chief Petty Officer Rubén Laureiro
• Petty Officer Second Class César Bogado
• Petty Officer Second Class Federico Leus
• Petty Officer Second Class Pablo Chiodini
• Petty Officer Second Class Osvaldo Gutiérrez
• Petty Officer Second Class Héctor Gauna
• Petty Officer Second Class Ricardo Telaina
• Corporal First Class Nelson Talone
• Corporal Second Class Marcelo Iturbe

Heading northwest, the pilots carefully navigated a pre-planned return route designed to avoid detection and natural obstacles.

However, a catastrophic failure in one of the night vision goggles forced one helicopter to ascend to 300 meters (984 feet) for safety—exposing them to enemy radar detection.

Nearing Isla Blanca, west of Borbón, the worsening weather forced them into instrument flight conditions. Torrential rain lashed against the windshields, while salt deposits from the ocean spray completely obscured visibility. The pilots, unable to rely on their instruments, were forced to lean out of the side windows, using their night vision goggles to navigate through the storm.

Meanwhile, the control aircraft continued attempting radio contact. Unable to break radio silence, the helicopters maintained strict radio discipline, refusing to respond.

After a sufficiently long silence to ensure they were clear, they clicked their microphones once—a signal confirming to Task Group 80.1 that they had successfully lifted off.

Out of the Fire—But Not Yet Home

The most dangerous part of the mission was still ahead. The storm, failing equipment, and exposure to British radar meant their return to Río Grande was anything but certain.

Would they make it back?

Helicóptero Sikorsky S-61D4 Sea King 0678/2-H-234 participante del rescate. (Foto: Archivo MUAN)

The Longest Day: Against All Odds

A Final, Deadly Challenge

As the two Sea Kings made their way back, both helicopters experienced a critical fuel system warning—the fuel filter obstruction alarm lit up, signaling a high risk of imminent engine shutdown. The crews knew they were flying on borrowed time.

British Response: The Enemy Was Watching

Just thirty minutes after takeoff, reports came in from the Marine Infantry personnel who had remained behind on the island:

A section of British Sea Harriers had swept over the extraction site, illuminating the area with flares.

This confirmed the crew’s suspicions—British forces had eyes on them the entire time. There were enemy observers nearby, and the helicopters had narrowly escaped detection.

Navigating Through a Frozen Hell

The return flight was a battle for survival:

• Unreliable instruments that malfunctioned intermittently.
• Windshields obstructed by frozen salt deposits, forcing the pilots to lean out of the side windows to see.
• Icing conditions worsening, despite the Sea Kings not being certified for such environments.

At Río Grande, the Second-in-Command of the Squadron anxiously followed the mission’s progress. A new crisis emerged—dense fog had unexpectedly formed over the airbase.

For a moment, a diversion to Río Gallegos was considered. But the crews pressed on, determined to complete their journey.

Mission Accomplished—But Barely

When the two helicopters finally reached Río Grande at 21:55 hours, they were barely holding together:
✔ No heating—crews frozen to the bone.
✔ No functioning navigation system—they had flown entirely on skill and instinct.
✔ Landing gear malfunctions—risking a dangerous touchdown.
✔ Contaminated fuel—threatening engine shutdown at any moment.

Yet, despite every obstacle, they had done it.

After over seven hours of flying in marginal conditions, they had rescued ten men and lived to tell the tale.

The Impossible Victory

When the war ended, a detailed analysis was conducted at the Naval Air Force No. 2 Training Center, reviewing all operations conducted by the Second Naval Helicopter Squadron—including the Isla Borbón rescue.

The statistical probability of success?

🔴 Only 8% in their favor—92% against.

And yet, they made it home.

The Heroes of the Mission

Sea King 2-H-234

• Pilot: Commander Norberto Ignacio Ramón Barro (Squadron Commander)
• Co-Pilot: Lieutenant Commander Guillermo Oscar Iglesias
• Mechanic: Petty Officer Second Class Beltrán Giqueaux

Sea King 2-H-233

• Pilot: Lieutenant Commander Osvaldo Iglesias (Deputy Squadron Commander)
• Co-Pilot: Lieutenant Osvaldo Brandeburgo
• Mechanic: Chief Petty Officer Roberto Montani

The Legacy of the Longest Day

They returned cold, battered, and exhausted, but with an unbreakable conviction:

💬 They would do it again—if duty called.

🔻 End of Mission.

"If There's Poverty, Keep Up Appearances": 2nd Huron for the Naval Aviation

Argentine Weapons: CITEFA MP1000 Martín Pescador ASM

ASM CITEFA MP1000 Martín Pescador

Martín Pescador was an anti-ship missile developed by CITEFA (the Scientific and Technical Research Institute of the Argentine Armed Forces) since the early 1970s.



The first evaluations were carried out in 1983 from T-28 Trojan aircraft, and the first shot was carried out by Captain Castro Fox in an aircraft of that type modified to be able to operate the missile. 
This is a remote-controlled air-to-surface missile. After visually identifying its target, the pilot activates a control in his cockpit, with which he must radio-control the missile during its flight. To assist him in seeing the missile, it has two coloured flares at the rear. The pilot must control the missile visually and compensate for any deviation that may occur until reaching its target.



This guidance system has similar characteristics to the American Martin AGM-7 Bullpup missile.
Despite the training required to operate the missile and the aircraft at the same time, the guidance system is really simple and can be mounted on a wide variety of aircraft. It has been successfully used on the T-28 Trojan and the Aermacchi MB-326 of the Argentine Navy, and on the I.A. 58 Pucará of the Argentine Air Force. It can also be used from helicopters in hovering flight, for which a wire-guided version was developed.


 

After being withdrawn from service in the late 1990s, the missiles were transferred back to CITEFA to contribute to the development of the improved CITEFA AS-25K.





Type Air-to-surface guided anti-ship missile
Service history
In service 1983 to 1990
Production history
Manufacturer CITEFA

Specifications

Weight 140 kg
Length 295 cm
Diameter 22 cm
Effective range 19 km (11 mi)
Wingspan 75 cm
Guidance system Radio




Wikipedia