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.”

BIM 5: Argentine Marines Arrives in the Malvinas

 

The Legendary BIM 5 Arrives in the Malvinas

Account taken from the book Batallón 5
This concerns the arrival in the Malvinas of the 5th Marine Infantry Battalion (School) and the loyalty of its members to the battalion.

C̲a̲p̲t̲a̲i̲n̲ ̲(̲t̲h̲e̲n̲ ̲a̲ ̲f̲r̲i̲g̲a̲t̲e̲ ̲c̲a̲p̲t̲a̲i̲n̲)̲ ̲R̲o̲b̲a̲c̲i̲o̲ recounts:

On 8 April, at nine in the morning, I received a telephone call from the command of Marine Infantry Force No. 1, based in Río Gallegos. The commander, Captain Manuel Tomé, who had replaced Captain Jorge Ranni, told me: “Robacio, I’m going to set up over there. You’re coming with me.” Two hours later I was already at the Battalion.

Around midday I called in my subordinates and ordered a general formation, in which I addressed them.

“I want to make it absolutely clear that we are going to fight, with everything that entails,” I said in an energetic tone. “We are going to fight, and we are going to do it well, as we have practised it a thousand times over here. No one is obliged to go, but whoever does not wish to be part of the Battalion should say so right now. Later will be too late.”

No one moved. Everyone stayed in place, motionless and silent—an eloquent silence indeed. As soon as the conscripts from the cohort that had been discharged heard the news, they tore up the tickets that would have taken them back home and immediately rejoined their companies. None of them wanted to remain on the mainland. None wanted to miss the chance to give themselves to the Battalion that had become part of their lives—even with the possibility of never returning, of dying far away on land that belonged to them, yet which they did not know.

Those who were not fit to go, because they were not operational, asked to be authorised to form part of the Battalion all the same. Those who were rejected did not hesitate for an instant to protest and to express their anger. Petty Officer Julio Saturnino Castillo, in charge of the Battalion’s maintenance group, had to remain at the barracks for organisational reasons. He became very upset and asked again and again—almost to the point of exhaustion—to be allowed to travel. In the end this petty officer went to the islands and was killed fighting on Mount Tumbledown, together with many of his soldiers from the maintenance group, who had also volunteered and joined the now legendary 4th Section of Nacar Company.

A particularly special case was that of the conscript Roberto Silva, from the province of Misiones. He had suffered an accident with a mortar and was therefore hospitalised while awaiting a decision, as he would have to be discharged. Once recovered, Captain Robacio placed him under the orders of Senior Petty Officer Jorge Hernández, so that he could serve as a messenger. Being illiterate, in the afternoons he attended the school, while in the mornings Hernández’s daughter gave him two hours of lessons and helped him with his homework. In a short time he had become one more member of that family. (The 5th Marine Infantry Battalion carries the abbreviation “ESC”, meaning “school”; illiterate soldiers learned to read and write.)

But then came the recovery of the Malvinas and, without hesitating for an instant, he asked to go. The senior petty officer refused authorisation, so the conscript resolutely went to Captain Robacio. He insisted so much that he finally obtained permission.

Before leaving for the islands, Silva said goodbye to Mrs Hernández. “Please, I want you to keep this,” he said, moved, handing her his civilian clothes, letters, money and some personal effects. Mrs Hernández could not hold back her tears. “This is my mother’s address. If I die, please write to her.” “Are you sure you want to go?” Mrs Hernández stammered. “Yes. It’s what I want most.”

As the Battalion began arriving in Puerto Argentino on several aircraft, the airfield was a hell. Aircraft arriving, others departing; loads being unloaded; people trying to find their groups. “Everyone to work,” Captain Robacio ordered, and he said to Lieutenant Commander Ponce (the Battalion’s second-in-command): “I want the ammunition crates here, and let’s get away from this chaos.” Robacio had not taken the entire Battalion, as some people had to stay behind to maintain the minimum functioning of it, and to assist the personnel who would be sent to cover the post they were leaving in Río Grande.

But his surprise was great when he saw that many of those men were arriving as stowaways, having slipped onto the aircraft. Such was the spirit of belonging among his people that they did not want to remain there on the mainland. Men from the reconnaissance squadron, conscripts from other sections, began to appear. Robacio counted them: forty men! But he would not stop being surprised there. At a certain moment he heard, behind him, a familiar voice. He turned at once and found himself face to face with his driver, the conscript Ricardo Khouri, whom he had also left on the mainland.

“What are you doing here?”
“Sir, I’m not going to stay with the Battalion while you’re here.”
“You’re going back,” Robacio said, trying to muster an anger he did not feel.
“No, sir, please. I’ve accompanied you everywhere; this time I’m not leaving you.”

Robacio looked into those eyes, shining with the mischief of someone who knows he is up to something. “All right, stay—but I’m going to have you locked up,” he replied jokingly.

“Sir,” the conscript said, pointing to the steps of an aircraft, “is that not…?”
“No! Him as well?” Robacio interrupted, clutching his head.

Grispo, “the fat one”, a civilian technician (the Navy has civilian personnel who work in certain areas such as workshops, offices, etc.), responsible for the Battalion’s electrical repairs, had also slipped onto a plane and there he was, as bold as brass.

“I’d better head into town,” Robacio said, and he started walking, then boarded a Jeep towards Puerto Argentino to report to his superior and receive orders.

Malvinas: My Experience in the 12th IR

 

My Experience in the 12th Infantry Regiment (Final Part)

VGM Soldier JUAN ALBERTO VACA

On 21 May, the British landing at San Carlos took place, coming up against the Argentine troops who were deployed forward. We were several kilometres from that area. The English pirate had set foot on our islands, and we knew that before long rifle fighting on our own ground was imminent; “at last I’ll be able to face them and see the British in the flesh,” I thought to myself. From that moment on, the attacks by ships and aircraft against our positions intensified. I remember that in one of those attacks a large number of bombs fell on us, destroying the troops’ hut area and all of the officers’ tents. By a miracle, and thanks to God’s help, we did not have any fatalities to mourn—only a few wounded with minor injuries.

On 27 May, we entered into direct combat with the enemy. We fought for two days without stopping, resting sporadically for a few hours or minutes whenever we could. The troops who were deployed forward absorbed the first attack, but because of the enemy’s superiority they began to fall back, leaving us on the front line of defence. The assault on our positions was ferocious: we were harassed by enemy riflemen, while at the same time we endured bombardment from frigates and from the air. I recall that before attacking us they lit up the sky with flares—but only over the sector where we were—so that they could see us, while we could not see them. That night we fought for several hours, until the order came to withdraw towards Goose Green, where the Regiment’s other companies were located.



The following day we reorganised and prepared to face another onslaught. The Air Force personnel were with us as well, having also withdrawn. Goose Green is a small settlement near the sea, surrounded by low hills. There, more than a thousand of us were packed together. The enemy, taking advantage of the ships’ attacks that were giving us a hard time that day, encircled us and took the high ground. On the night of the 28th we learned that the British had demanded our surrender, and our commander replied in the negative, as we believed they would not open fire because they might cause casualties among the islanders. But after a further attack by enemy artillery, Lieutenant Colonel Piaggi, together with the commander of the Air Force personnel, decided to surrender in order to avoid an unnecessary massacre.

We had to hand over our weapons; we had resisted as much as we could. I remember our wounded being taken to a hospital ship, where they were operated on, while those with light injuries were treated in the shed where we were being held. In San Carlos, I continued working at my trade as a cook, always under guard by the Gurkhas, who were recognisable—besides their Asian features—by their short stature and by carrying a large, curved knife. They directed everything with gestures, but they treated us well.

When the war ended they took us to Uruguay, and from there to Buenos Aires by ship. As soon as we arrived, we were transferred to the Campo de Mayo barracks, where we were warmly received: we were given plentiful food, soft drinks, issued with new clothing, and we were able to bathe. Unfortunately, I was kept in hospital for two weeks because of a condition caused by the blast wave from a bomb that fell near me during the battle. The explosion threw me into the air and, as I came down, I struck my head on a stone. In that bombardment, two sergeants, a corporal and two soldiers were wounded. Thank God I recovered just in time to return with the rest of the soldiers to Mercedes, where, after completing the usual formalities, we were discharged and I was able to return to my beloved Santiago.



“Lastly, I want to say that I feel proud to have taken part in that great deed for our country. Sadly we could not overcome the military superiority of a powerful nation, but I am convinced that we did what we could and gave the best of ourselves. The images of the war—the cold, the anxiety, the fear, the sound of bombs falling close by, the aircraft and helicopters harassing our positions, the shouting, comrades dead and wounded—will never be erased from my memory, and form a body of recollections that will remain with me until the end of my days. But we were not ‘boys’, as some would have people believe: we were soldiers.”

Malvinas: The Navigator of a Canberra Bomber (Part 1)

The Navigator

Account taken from the book WITH GOD IN THE SOUL AND ALCOHOL IN THE HEART
Narrated by: Captain Pastran – Canberra Pilot
Date: Night of 13 June 1982

At the aircraft flown at II Air Brigade, based in the city of Paraná, camaraderie and team spirit are vital, for the Canberra’s crew consists of a pilot and a navigator. A team was precisely what we became throughout the whole war—my course-mate, friend, and navigator, Captain Fernando Juan Casado, and I. For nine years we served together at the same postings: six years at II Brigade and three at the Military Aviation School, until we returned to Paraná in December. We also went to war together.

Our callsign that day was “Baco”.

On the final armed raid carried out by the Argentine Air Force, on 13 June 1982 at 22:55 hours, once the mission had been completed and the bombs released—only six hours before the ceasefire—our aircraft was struck by a British missile and fell into the sea. I managed to eject; he remained forever in our Malvinas. Sadness overwhelmed me, yet I accepted God’s will, for only He knows what awaits each of us.

When I hit the water, the shock of the cold was tremendous. My hands froze almost instantly, making it extremely difficult to inflate the life raft. My reactions were slow, even though my mind urged haste, for I knew my life depended on it; without the anti-exposure suit I would not have survived more than a minute before suffering cardiac arrest. By God’s grace I managed to inflate my life jacket and raft, free myself from the parachute, and climb onto my fragile little means of salvation. In the moment when I could not inflate the raft, I thought God had abandoned me, but I later realised that was not so.

Then came that terrible night, shivering with cold and navigating by the light of the flares fired during the final battle for Puerto Argentino. I knew that, even if only slightly, the bombs I had dropped on a concentration of British troops and equipment had delayed the final assault.

Everything unfolded just as we had been taught in our survival classes. When I finally reached the coast, it was extremely hard to get out of the water due to the exhaustion of the mission, the strain of ejecting, and the supreme effort of navigating through the night in a tiny raft upon the immensity of the sea.



I searched for shelter to avoid freezing during the night. Soon I found a crevice between some rocks and covered myself with the rubber dinghy. I kept my hands and feet moving constantly while fighting against sleep, fearing that I might never wake again. In the morning of 14 June, I began to walk; the disorientation and cold were intense, until I managed to orient myself by the sight of a helicopter flying from Darwin towards Puerto Argentino.

As I walked, I sang and whistled, trying to keep my spirits up—already greatly diminished by the loss of my closest friend and the situation I was enduring. Later I was taken prisoner by the British, who already held control of the entire island. They truly treated me very well; I could almost say as though I had been one of their own.

That same night, General Moore informed Brigadier Castellano that I had been rescued, though the news only reached my home on the 15th; for two days my family lived with the sole information that I was “missing in action”. After that came the uncertainty of captivity.

I was told that when General Moore spoke to Brigadier Castellano in Puerto Argentino, he asked how we managed to bomb with such accuracy with the Canberra, and how we knew the location of his command post, as it had been hit twice. He had survived only because he happened to be inspecting British positions at the time. That was a source of pride for our Group.

Lastly, I wish to pay tribute to Captain Casado and, through him, to all the brave and devoted navigators of the Argentine Air Force.

Before 1 May, the Canberras carried out reconnaissance and exploration sorties over the Islas Malvinas.
During the war they executed 35 combat sorties, 25 of them at night, performing low-level and high-altitude bombing runs and dropping nearly 100,000 pounds of bombs.

Among their honoured dead in combat were Captain Casado, Lieutenant De Ibáñez, and First Lieutenant “Coquena” González.

Gibraltar and Malvinas: The Same Claim

Malvinas and a Decision with the 22nd Century in Sight

The joint Spanish-British resolution regarding Gibraltar is a strategic move that belongs more to the future than to the present. It would be a mistake to interpret this particular action as a mere gesture of compliance with international law on the part of the United Kingdom.
Por Juan Recce

This was not an act driven by a iure vocation. It was a pragmatic manoeuvre that instantly dissolved a massive snowball threatening British interests in Europe. The UK chose to eliminate outright any possibility of Argentine involvement in continental European disputes — and, by extension, the involvement of Latin America as a whole. It was a low-cost move with high strategic return.

The United Kingdom is not a country of double standards — it is a country of multiple standards: Malvinas, Gibraltar, Chagos, the Caribbean, and so on. The only consistent thread in its international conduct is pure, unvarnished pragmatism. The issue here is not how much Malvinas resemble Gibraltar, but rather how much Gibraltar resembles Malvinas.

Gibraltar, while still a strategic enclave, is clearly in decline — due both to the global shift of power towards the Pacific axis and the retreat of European private capital from the Middle East and hydrocarbon-rich Africa.

In the eyes of Britain’s power elites and corporate interests, Gibraltar is far cheaper than Malvinas. Malvinas serve as the gateway to the last planetary frontier of natural resources: Antarctica — the final large, unallocated landmass on Earth — and the world’s second-largest continental shelf, encompassing six million square kilometres of submerged Argentine territory.

One must never underestimate British cunning. With its gaze fixed on the 22nd century, the UK pre-emptively blocked the landing of a Malvinas-style logic at Europe’s doorstep — all in one calculated move.

InfoNews

Malvinas: Cover Operation on Cow Beach, 1966

Secret Landing at Cow Bay/Playa Vaca

Operation Cow Beach was conceived in the shadows of a turbulent era—an epic chapter in the history of the Argentine Navy, where determination and stealth combined to confront a challenge that had lingered for over a century. The year was 1966, and Argentina, ruled by a military junta following the overthrow of President Arturo Illia, was growing weary of its diplomatic claims over the sovereignty of the Falkland Islands. The shadow of British incursion, cast over the islands since 1833, loomed heavily in the minds of naval strategists.




The incident involving Aerolíneas Argentinas Flight 648, hijacked by a group of extremists and diverted to the archipelago, had stirred already turbulent waters. It was a stark reminder that the situation in the Falklands could escalate without warning, and that Argentina needed to be prepared for a confrontation scenario. Thus, in the shadowy offices of Buenos Aires, a plan was drawn up involving one of the fleet’s most veteran submarines—the ARA Santiago del Estero, a former USS Lamprey from the Second World War, repurposed as the guardian of a secret mission.



Aerolíneas Argentinas Flight 648 was hijacked by Argentine extremists on 28 September 1966 and diverted to the Falklands, where they meekly surrendered to the British colonial authorities.


On 28 October 1966, with its diesel engines roaring beneath the waves, the ARA Santiago del Estero silently navigated the frigid waters of the South Atlantic. Under the command of Frigate Captain Horacio González Llanos and Corvette Captain Juan José Lombardo, the submarine stealthily approached the coast of East Falkland, just 40 kilometres from Port Stanley, the capital of the British colony. On board, twelve Navy men—including Sub-Lieutenant Oscar Héctor García Rabini—waited tensely for the moment to act.


Diagram of the Navigation Route Taken by Submarine S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero of the Argentine Navy During Operation "Cow Beach", Late October 1966




Cow Bay, Soledad Island/East Falkland (Argentine Republic)

The plan was clear: they were to land on a remote beach, just a few kilometres north of the British position, to gather vital intelligence for future landings. The beach had to be thoroughly surveyed—its gradient, potential underwater obstacles, approach routes—everything needed to be charted without leaving a trace. In the dimness of night, the men assembled their kayaks on the deck of the barely surfaced submarine, and the silence was broken only by the gentle lapping of the waves.


Crew and Command Staff of Submarine S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero – Argentine Navy.

Arrival of S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero (SS-372 USS Lamprey) at Mar del Plata Naval Base from the United States, 1960
(Photograph by Enrique Mario Palacio)


The two Balao-class submarines, S-11 ARA Santa Fe and S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero, which served in the Argentine Navy between 1960 and 1971, should not be confused with the later submarines of the same class modernised to GUPPY IA standard—S-21 and S-22—which replaced them from 1971 onwards and carried the same names. In this image, the veteran S-11 and S-12 can be seen at the end of their service life at the Mar del Plata Naval Base, while in the background lies the new S-22 ARA Santiago del Estero, their replacement, ready to take on the duties left behind by its predecessors. The S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero was retired after a decade of service, having taken part in important missions such as Operation Cow Beach, which became a notable chapter in the history of the Argentine Navy.



S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero Moored at its Home Pier, Mar del Plata Naval Base.

The First Incursion and an Unexpected Encounter

The first incursion was a success. The men landed and explored the coastline, mapping every detail. However, the second night brought an unexpected twist. In the darkness, García Rabini spotted a kelper—a local island settler—watching them from atop a cliff. They knew that being discovered could spark an unprecedented diplomatic crisis. Acting swiftly, they captured the islander and tied him up as they debated their next move. Killing him was not an option—the mission was one of intelligence gathering, not combat. But they also couldn’t risk the man alerting the British authorities.

Then, an idea emerged—both bold and unusual. Some crew members returned to the submarine to fetch a bottle of whisky from the captain’s cabin. They went back to the cliff and forced the kelper to drink until he was semi-conscious, leaving him behind at the very spot where they had found him. With the mission aborted to avoid further complications, the group returned to the submarine, carrying with them the valuable intelligence they had collected.

Born on 19 March 1927 in Salto, Buenos Aires Province, Juan José Lombardo was a key figure in the history of the Argentine Navy. As a Sub-Lieutenant, he served as Second-in-Command aboard submarine S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero during the successful Operation Cow Beach in the Falkland Islands on 28 October 1966—a mission that would become a landmark in Argentina's intelligence operations in the South Atlantic. On 15 December 1981, by then holding the rank of Vice Admiral, he was summoned by the Chief of Naval Staff, Admiral Jorge Isaac Anaya, to receive a mission that would alter the course of Argentine history: the Falklands.

The Return to Mar del Plata
The journey back to Mar del Plata was as silent as the outbound voyage. Upon arrival, absolute silence was ordered regarding the events that had taken place. None of the participants—not even to their families—were to speak of what had happened in the frigid waters of the South Atlantic. Despite the unforeseen developments, the mission was deemed a success. The data gathered was handed over to the Navy General Staff—a strategic asset that could have proved critical had diplomatic negotiations failed.


The two Balao-class submarines, S-11 ARA Santa Fe and S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero, which served in the Argentine Navy from 1960 to 1971, should not be confused with later submarines of the same class—modernised to GUPPY IA standard—S-21 and S-22, which replaced them from 1971 and bore the same names. In this image, one of the original submarines is seen underway shortly after its arrival in Argentina, already without the forward gun that had been removed as part of its adaptation and modernisation for new missions in the South Atlantic.

Legacy of a Silent Mission
Years later, Commander García Rabini would recall those days with quiet pride, fully aware of the significance of the mission. Although the Cow Beach operation report was not directly used during the 1982 Falklands conflict, it stood as a testament to the commitment and audacity of those sailors who defied history to keep the flame of Argentine sovereignty alive.

The Story of Operation Cow Beach

Interwoven with both legend and fact, the story of Operation Cow Beach remains a hidden episode within the broader struggle over the Falklands—a moment when a small group of men faced the sea, the darkness, and the looming shadows of a war that, though not yet begun, echoed with the weight of the inevitable. It stands as a reminder that the fight for sovereignty is not waged solely on battlefields, but also in silences, in the waves, and in the whisper of the wind on a lonely South Atlantic beach.


Commander Oscar Héctor García Rabini. Now aged 83, retired Commander Oscar Héctor García Rabini is the Argentine naval officer who, in 1966 as a Sub-Lieutenant, led one of the most daring missions in the history of the Argentine Navy. At the head of a special forces incursion, he landed on the shores of East Falkland on 28 October of that year, during the secret Operation Cow Beach. Launched from the depths of the ocean by the submarine S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero, the mission was cloaked in silence and darkness, aimed at collecting vital intelligence to support Argentina’s sovereignty claims over the Falkland Islands/Islas Malvinas.


Cow Beach/Playa Vaca, Southern Tip – Photograph Taken from ARA Santiago del Estero by Miguel Salvatierra, 28/10/1966


Balao-Class Submarine S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero. The Balao-class submarine, formerly the US Navy’s SS-372 USS Lamprey, served the United States from 1944 until 1960, when it was transferred to the Argentine Navy and renamed S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero. In the photograph, the submarine is seen departing from the Mar del Plata Naval Base, home to Argentina’s Submarine Force Command. It operated from this base until 1971, when it was replaced by the S-22 ARA Santiago del Estero—a submarine of the same class but modernised to the GUPPY IA standard. The arrival of this updated vessel marked the end of an era for the veteran S-12, which had taken part in key operations such as Cow Beach, demonstrating the Navy’s steadfast commitment to national sovereignty.


ASW Frigate P-36 ARA Piedrabuena in the Periscope Crosshairs of ARA Santiago del Estero During Combat Exercises


Cargo Transfer Between Submarine ARA Santiago del Estero and Destroyer D-10 ARA San Luis


Surface Navigation of S-12 ARA Santiago del Estero en Route to Its Objective. As a Balao-class submarine that had not undergone the GUPPY IA modernisation, the vessel lacked a snorkel and high-capacity batteries. Consequently, it still had to operate like a Second World War-era submarine—navigating mostly on the surface, at least at night and in low-risk areas.

Goose Green: The 2 Para Clash and Flesh

Darwin-Goose Green: The Corporal Ramírez (12 IR) Experience

Account of Corporal "EC" Ramírez, RI-12

Malvinas 1982


 

Warrant Officer Ramírez was born in the city of Río Cuarto, Córdoba Province. His decision to enter the "General Lemos" School was made from an early age. "I joined the Army out of vocation. In primary school, I already had admiration for the military, the soldier, and national holidays. As I grew up, I got closer to the Army because I had a distant uncle who was a non-commissioned officer. We would sometimes visit him in Córdoba, and I’d see the soldiers and their uniforms. From the age of 8 or 9, I wanted to be a soldier. After finishing my fourth year of secondary school, I joined the Lemos School."

Ramírez described the life of a cadet as a tough stage: "As a cadet, it was a difficult period because I went from the comfort of home to the harsh discipline of the school – it was a big change. Still, I had strong family support. It was hard at first, but I never doubted my decision; I knew exactly what I wanted. I felt proud to belong to the Force and I truly enjoyed it." In early 1982, the second year of his training was going normally, and that week was meant to be leave for Easter to spend time with family. That changed abruptly when they learned they would be promoted to NCOs – corporals of the Argentine Army. 



Warrant Officer Ramírez continued: “I was fortunate to be assigned to Infantry Regiment 12, which was then based in Mercedes, Corrientes, under the III Infantry Brigade. We were assigned to the Command and Services Company. At first, we were packing combat rations, but soon the whole brigade was mobilised south, leaving only a detachment behind. We were among the first to arrive in the islands, along with the medical section. That was a proud moment for me as an Argentine soldier. Once everyone arrived, the regiment began to be airlifted to Darwin. By 25 May, we could no longer be transported due to the presence of British commandos. That day we celebrated the national holiday by marching from our position in Challenger to Puerto Argentino – a 20 km walk. We were preparing to move to Darwin when soldiers from our regiment who had already seen combat in San Carlos arrived after retreating. We all boarded an Air Force helicopter, standing, in tense silence. The door gunner was alert, as British aircraft were nearby, and the pilot flew low, hugging the terrain to avoid detection. We landed in Darwin and Goose Green – the helicopter touched down in the village to avoid being spotted. As we disembarked, the siren sounded – red alert – and we scrambled to find defensive positions.

That night, combat began with British field artillery and naval fire, as we were in the Darwin isthmus, the land bridge connecting the north and south of East Falkland. The enemy advanced from the north, and we could see the artillery flashes and combat. The most striking moment was the final enemy assault – watching tracer rounds approaching until they reached our position. We fought until past noon the next day. Second Lieutenant Peluffo took command of our sector. We had no communication or chance to retreat. Our section surrendered, and the fighting stopped. There was a terrible, indescribable silence. When things calmed down, I left my position and saw the whole scene – smoke, and British troops already present. I approached them, saw the surrender flag, returned, and left my rifle, which was already out of ammunition. The British weren’t hostile. I asked them to assist a wounded soldier beside me. We were taken to another part of the island as prisoners – those uninjured stayed two or three days, while the wounded were flown out. We were later moved to San Carlos, where the rest of the regiment was held. We were captured on 28 May. 29 May was Army Day. A few days later, the ship moved, and we realised we were headed somewhere else.

On 13 June, we were dropped off in Montevideo. We were among the first to be captured and ended up in a neutral country. After disembarking, we passed through Red Cross tents for registration and boarded Argentine ships to return to the mainland. The next day, Puerto Argentino surrendered. That return was painful. I felt I hadn’t given everything – because I was still whole, uninjured. To me, giving everything meant dying or being unable to continue fighting. Afterwards, there was much uncertainty. We were taken by bus to ESPAC. We all returned to the same unit. I remained four more years at Infantry Regiment 12 – the most cherished posting of my career. I retired in Campo de Mayo, at the Army Aviation Directorate.

Nacar Section: A Story of a Marine

 

A Story of a Marine Infantryman

Account taken from the Gaceta Malvinense

My name is Fernando Claudio Martín. I was CC/61 (I joined with the class of ’62 due to a study deferment). I belonged to BIM 5, Company “Nácar”, 3rd Section, under the command of Sub-Lieutenant Jorge “Pechito” Lucero.

As I begin to write these lines, I can’t help but feel a touch of nostalgia. I’ve heard countless stories about the Malvinas campaign — thanks to my friend, veteran Pascual Distefano, I’ve had the privilege for several years to take part in his radio programme “Malvinas Hoy… Historia de una Guerra”. That’s why telling my own story feels harder — I’m far more comfortable listening than speaking.

I joined the Naval Infantry Service on 1 April 1981. After completing my first training period at the Naval Infantry Training Centre (CIFIM), I was posted to BIM No. 5, based in Río Grande (Tierra del Fuego). I arrived at the end of May 1981, and from then began an intense but essential period of formation and training as a Marine infantryman.

Time would prove our commander right in pushing us to the limit — our performance in Malvinas would later justify his demands. On 2 April 1982, we were already in the field when we heard on the radio about the recovery of our Malvinas Islands. We were overjoyed, without imagining what was to come next. Everything happened so fast that, if memory serves, by 8 April we were already flying to the islands aboard a Navy aircraft.

Upon arrival, we were first stationed near the airfield, and later transferred to our final defensive position on Mount Tumbledown. I was in the 3rd Section of Company Nácar, and our position was established on the northern slope of the mountain.

Life in the islands became increasingly difficult. The weather grew harsher and the terrain more hostile, but we managed to endure thanks to constant work improving our defences and training. Generally, we didn’t suffer much from shortages — food wasn’t abundant, but it was sufficient, and our equipment was in good condition and suited to the environment (we came from a region with similar conditions).

I’d like to recall a small anecdote about two remarkable conscripts from my section, Miguel Fernández and Jorge Ponce. Every time they went down to the settlement, they came back well supplied — drinks and chocolate mostly — which we’d later trade for yerba, flour, and other goods.

Days passed until 1 May, when the first British attack took place. From that day onwards, everything became much tougher. The fighting had begun, and with it, the uncertainty of what would happen to us, and how we’d respond under such pressure. We learnt to live with bombardments, watched from afar the attacks on the airfield, witnessed the battles of Longdon, Two Sisters, and Wireless Ridge, and awaited with determination the British assault on our positions.

In the final days of the battle, we came under a devastating artillery barrage that wounded my comrade Vicente Zurzolo in the back. In my desperation to get him out of our partially collapsed shelter, I didn’t realise that I, too, had been wounded. I carried him as best I could to the aid post near the service area, where both of us received medical attention.

Now, so many years later, with the experience and perspective that time brings, I sometimes think I might have handled things differently. Not out of regret, but simply as a reflection on the choices one has in those moments.

By the end of the war, I was in the hospital at Port Stanley. Watching the British troops enter the town was deeply painful. The war was over — but I could never have imagined that the post-war period would prove even harder than the conflict itself.

I can’t finish this account without expressing my thanks — first, to all the conscripts of BIM 5, especially those of Company Nácar; to Captain (Ret.) Carlos H. Robacio, our guide and mentor who taught us to be good soldiers and honourable men; to Sub-Lieutenant Jorge Lucero, our section commander; to all the officers and NCOs who trained us throughout our service in the Marine Infantry; to Commander (Ret.) Guillermo Botto for his friendship and wise advice; and to my family, for their patience and love.

All that remains for me to say is that, as an Argentine, I am proud to have defended the sovereignty of our Malvinas Islands, and I will always continue to uphold the honour of our fallen heroes and the justice of our national cause.

VGM Fernando Claudio Martín

 

Logistic Battallion 3: Quartermaster Corps also Fought

The Quartermaster Corps in the Malvinas also Fought

Malvinas 1982

Account by Corporal First Class Víctor Schwindt, who lived his whole life in Pilar, Buenos Aires Province. He tells us: “My father greatly influenced my decision to enter the academy. He had served in the Marine Corps, and I had an adventurous spirit like any 15- or 16-year-old. I found that adventure in the Armed Forces. The year 1981 was very demanding, both in the classrooms where I studied the quartermaster speciality and in combat training. We underwent intense physical and mental training, during which we gained knowledge and adapted to military doctrine, ‘to live by the chain of command’. It was all very unexpected. On 2 April we were at the shooting range in Campo de Mayo. That’s where we learned that we had recovered our islands. I felt immense joy. Although at that time there was not much information about the Malvinas circulating in the media, from that deed onwards the existence of, and sense of belonging to, that territory took root across Argentine society. We were just starting the second year of the course and we did not expect to graduate so abruptly.”

In general terms they had an early graduation, something that has not happened again since. After graduating and receiving their corporal insignia, they swore loyalty and respect to the national flag dressed in combat uniform—something that would ordinarily be done in dress uniform, with a military parade and family present. Once they graduated, they joined the institution and immediately received their unit postings, already as junior non-commissioned officers.

Regarding his own experience, Corporal First Class Schwindt told us: “I went with a group of 12 quartermaster mates to Curuzú Cuatiá, to Logistic Battalion 3. When we arrived in the Malvinas we spent a couple of nights at Puerto Argentino airport and were then moved to some depots in a remote area. After a few days I was separated and assigned to the guard of General Daher until 26 May. From there I moved to the front line with my comrades Albarracín, Mansilla and Labalta, who were already there. The three of us joined a section that had been formed to reinforce the 4th Infantry Regiment. We were quartermaster men—drivers, signallers—the only one from the infantry arm was Sergeant Montellano. Our assigned sector was on Mount Harriet. We stayed there until the final British attack, when we were taken prisoner. I remember the constant siege and harassment from frigates, aircraft and British artillery. Their aim was to weaken us morally and physically. On the front line we were going full tilt all the time. We were tired, physically affected by the cold and rain, but mentally prepared to face all those situations. The position was held at all times, even though we were at a major disadvantage, because the situation was completely dominated by the British.

“I was one of the last to reach the front line. When troop movements ceased, positions across the mountain were occupied and I found a position about 30 metres away from my group on the mountainside. When they began to attack and due to the way they infiltrated, my position ended up forward and very separated from my section mates. I was caught in the middle of the crossfire between my comrades and the British as they advanced. Given where I was, I had two options: get out and try to climb in the middle of that chaos, or stay put and fight from there. I looked back and thought that retreating in those circumstances was riskier than holding where I was, so I fought from there. When I ran out of ammunition, that was when I felt most afraid, because I was defenceless and could not leave my position with the enemy so close. I decided to squeeze in between two rocks where I had set up a shelter and stay there in the dark, trying to survive.

“When I decided to leave, I fell back towards Puerto Argentino. I crawled for a stretch, in the dark and unarmed, trying to find something to defend myself with, when suddenly two British soldiers appeared. They were surprised; they saw I was unarmed, pointed their weapons at me and asked if I spoke their language. I was so taken aback that I froze, so I raised my arms and surrendered. I was unarmed, there was nothing I could do, and they took me prisoner. After a while I saw a column with other prisoners, among whom were my friends. Oscar Labalta was not there because he had died on the morning of 10 June from artillery fire—he was 17 years old. But I met up with Alejandro Albarracín and Carlos Mansilla. I joined the group of prisoners and they took us to Fitz Roy, where we were searched and interrogated. The questioning was very demanding on their part, but I never experienced or saw physical violence. We fought with great ethics and honour, and they recognised that. They were surprised by our attitude—our defence of our territory, all the values instilled in our training, our love for the Fatherland. From there we were moved to a cold-store in San Carlos and then embarked on the Canberra (the ocean liner) to Puerto Madryn.

“Corporal First Class Schwindt told us something heartening about the return. ‘The welcome and affection of the people of Puerto Madryn were extraordinary. It was the feeling of being back home; people hugged us—they truly showed us great warmth. That was when I began to realise that the war was over. Afterwards, they took us back to Curuzú Cuatiá by train.’”

Words of Jeremy Moore on the Argentine Soldiers

 

Words from a British General – Jeremy Moore confessed:

"I was afraid the war might continue.
I do not hate the Argentinians, and I never would. I felt ashamed when Parliament mocked them — that was no way to approach a war..."

He also answered the big question posed by the Clarín journalist: Could the Argentinians have won the war?
“Yes, they were only days away from winning. They forced us to operate at night… and in the night, confusion and chaos reign. We were prepared to dominate that chaos.”

"The Argentine soldiers fought bravely, defending the ground inch by inch. Every metre of the islands cost us the sacrifice and blood of our men."

“We had been instructed from London to use the term unconditional surrender, but logic told me that unconditional held only a psychological meaning,” he recalled. “I was very aware that the Argentinians are a proud people and that military honour is deeply important to them, so I feared that term might cause them to refuse to sign the document,” he noted.

“So, on my way to Puerto Argentino to meet Menéndez, I contacted my staff and told them that if the Argentine general objected to the term, I would remove it. And I immediately ended the communication.”

General Moore said he felt shame and awkwardness upon seeing General Menéndez clean and neatly dressed, while he himself had just arrived from the front lines — still in combat gear, mud-covered and with soiled trousers, as he had fallen into his own excrement during the bombardments.

He died at the age of 79, as announced by The Times, a local newspaper from his hometown.
When current politicians were asked why no honours were paid to him, the response was:
“He was a general no longer in active service.”

Malvinas: The Deployment of the Gendarmes

The Start of the Adventure for the Gendarmes 

By the Principal Commander of Communications (R) VGM Carlos S Vega

Malvinas Historias de Coraje




Everything began, after the pertinent orders, in the Logistics Squadron of the National Gendarmerie, beside the “Centinela” Building. There we were provided with winter clothing, new weaponry, helmet, and other equipment that we would later use in the Islands. I also met who would be my superior, my companions and my subordinates – not all of them, but a considerable number gathered there. The Chief of the Squadron, Commander José Ricardo Spadaro, the 2nd Commander San Emeterio, the 2nd Commander Santo, the 1st Alférez Sánchez (whom I already knew from the “Atucha” Security Squadron), Sergeant 1st Class Ramón Acosta, Sergeant 1st Class Figueredo, Sergeant 1st Class Pepe, etc.

The waiting increased the anxiety, the men were nervous, all leaving their families, not knowing if they would return; nevertheless the enthusiasm overflowed, it was the opportunity of our lives, it could be the last. A question: would we be capable?... We were not just any men, we had been chosen to be the first gendarmes to depart for the Islands. The mere thought of it made our chest swell – it was truly a great honour to represent the National Gendarmerie in an event that would remain engraved in the great history of the Homeland. Truly, the commitment was very great.

One must feel and be supermen to attempt to emulate the feats of the gendarmes who had preceded us and taught the way. To recall the courage and moral integrity of the comrades who would remain on the continent, whose capacity was in no way less than ours; the weight of responsibility was truly overwhelming.

The men gave each other advice, all listened attentively to the Commandos specialists, on whose guidance our survival would depend; the wait thus became long and monotonous. Always checking the equipment, always the last glance, seeing how to carry so many things without discomfort: the weight of the helmet, the FAL, the kit bag, in my case the photographic camera, the nerves, etc.

The departure was postponed until the following day – dismay, the wait wore us out. Personnel were offered the possibility to return to their homes, to come back the next day at 07.00 hrs. Only one accepted; the rest did not wish to, or had nowhere to go. We slept on the floor; we had to begin to get used to the harsh conditions that surely awaited us.

At last, at 14.20 hrs on 27 May, we would embark on an Air Force plane bound for Comodoro Rivadavia. In the Logistics Squadron, the hours became eternal. The 2nd Chief of the Logistics Squadron, Commander Jorge Sachitela, offered us castor oil to soak our new TAM (high mountain troop) boots in order to make them waterproof – later we would confirm that it was a very wise measure. Sachitela saved us much work and did all he could for the good care of those who had to depart. A genuine man from Corrientes.

The comrades with Commando training reminded us of how important it was to have neckerchiefs long enough to be truly useful and not merely decorative. For example, they could serve to filter water, tie presumed prisoners, make an improvised stretcher with several of them, immobilise a broken limb, make a tourniquet, place it under the helmet to warm the ears – and so on, a series of useful ideas. For this reason, people were sent to buy green cloth for that purpose. Several metres were obtained, cut and sewn into neckerchiefs by the Squadron’s seamstresses. They proved to be really useful, if only to keep our necks warm and protect our ears. On our return we decided to adopt them and included them as necessary in a report drafted to assimilate the experiences gathered during the war, recommending very especially that the National Directorate order their use throughout the Gendarmerie, as indeed happened.

Before leaving there was time for everything, especially for thinking. There was an idea that gripped us, not spoken aloud but present in all: most probably we would not return alive, and we accepted our responsibility. Despite the overly optimistic news from broadcasters and journalists, we did not deceive ourselves. The fact that the enemy had managed to establish a beachhead at San Carlos, and that our troops had been unable to prevent it, represented a great vulnerability. Of course, it had cost them dearly, but as in truco, what costs is worth it, and we knew that too. However, there was something of which we were certain: as long as we were together, our blood would not come easily to the gringos.

Slowly we were growing accustomed to the idea of death – not in a fatalistic sense, but in being prepared for a possibility. Before departure we had each drawn up our individual will, we left authorisations for our families to collect our salaries; despite the rush, matters were resolved. Within the possible, everything necessary had been foreseen.

The time arrived to board the bus that would take us to the military airport of “El Palomar”. Prior to departure, we were bid farewell by Major General Ortiz, then National Director of the Gendarmerie; his words reminded us of the representation we bore and his certainty that we would play our part well.

As we left the Logistics Squadron, when traffic was cut on Avenida Antártida Argentina, the drivers from their cars greeted us with horns and handkerchiefs, arms raised, fingers in the “V” for victory. It was an emotional moment; despite the simplicity of the scene, for us it was the farewell of our people, those for whom we were going to lay down our lives.

Personally, I remember the farewell of my Director of Communications to me; he asked if I had warm clothing, I do not recall what I answered, but minutes before boarding the bus they brought me a parcel sent personally by Major Commander Emilio Faustino Rius. It contained a very warm pullover, a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, a roll of black insulating tape, and a handwritten note where he explained that the pullover was his and he hoped I would return it “without holes”. That garment proved most useful and, thank God, I was able to return it exactly as he had asked.

Shortly after the vehicle began moving, and as a way to lighten the moment, ideas were exchanged on the name that should be given to the Squadron, which had to have some relation to the mission we presumed awaited us. Several names were expressed, which I do not now recall, but ultimately someone mentioned “Scorpion” – I believe it was Commander Spadaro – because it is an insect that acts at night, is native, and sometimes its sting is lethal. In the end, this was the one adopted.

Minutes before boarding the Air Force “Fokker” that would take us to Comodoro Rivadavia, we saw arrive on the runway the Deputy National Director, General Commander Becich, together with all the members of the High Command of the National Directorate – that is, the General Commanders based in the “Centinela” building – who bid us farewell with heartfelt words, also greeting us each personally. It is curious, but in those moments, although it may seem futile, we all sincerely appreciated the gesture.

In column we boarded the plane that awaited us, which had already been loaded with our belongings as well as other cargo with the same destination. Here I must clarify: there were no stewardesses in sight, the seats (simple straps holding up the benches) were rather uncomfortable, there was no space to move, and the onboard service consisted only of some mate prepared by the mechanical NCO before landing. I managed to drink some accompanied by two sweet biscuits; undoubtedly it was not a commercial flight nor a journey of tourism.

At last we took off! The plane vibrated, the fresh air entered from all sides, a marvellous sunny afternoon. I sat alongside Commander Spadaro, 1st Alférez Sánchez and myself occupying the front of the aircraft.

During the flight some managed to sleep. Commander Spadaro, 1st Alférez Sánchez and 2nd Commander San Emeterio conceived an organisation for the Squadron which coincided with what was later adopted. The Operations Officer, 1st Alférez Sánchez, was ordered to draw up the “War Diary”.

Halfway through the flight I went to where the pilots were, speaking with the commander of the aircraft, who showed me how the onboard radar functioned, allowing me to observe the terrain and coastline to our left. I called our Chief, and the said commander, whose name I do not recall, told us what he knew about the situation in the Islands.

Truly, our previous assessments were not far from reality: the enemy continued its advance towards Darwin – Goose Green despite the attacks of our Air Force.

At that moment I remembered that we did not carry our own flag; I said so aloud, and we agreed to obtain one upon our arrival at Comodoro Rivadavia.

The flight from “El Palomar” to “Comodoro Rivadavia” lasted four hours and was quite heavy.

Arriving at the airport, we disembarked and went to the runway, where the wait would continue. While there, we saw some large devices with the appearance of bombs, about six metres long, without visible markings, slim and painted a greyish-brown colour. They were being loaded by soldiers from a flatbed to a lorry, and then onto an aircraft. Much later, in Port Stanley, we learned that these were the famous “Exocets”.

Thus ended the first stage of our mission, characterised by waiting, anxieties, and moving sensations. Then would come the baptism of fire, participation in the combats, the final outcome, and the return tinged with sadness and with fewer men. Some remained prisoners, and others as eternal sentinels of our irrenounceable sovereignty in the Archipelago.