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.

Malvinas: Sergeant First Class Héctor Ricardo Montellano, A Hero

A Little-Known Hero: Sergeant First Class Héctor Ricardo Montellano

As recounted by then Second Lieutenant Jiménez Corbalán

On the night of 8 June, while an attack was being launched against the 3rd Section, B Company, RI 4 under my command, the enemy struck the sector of my support group led by Sergeant Solís, killing Private Martiniano Gómez and wounding both the sergeant and Private Funes, in fierce fighting in which they had to employ rockets to dislodge my men. However, we managed to stop them and the British were unable to capture the entire sector. After a while, the battle had ground to a stalemate.

We had been engaged in heavy combat for nearly twenty minutes when a group of men from a section that had been attached to our company as reinforcements (they belonged to the Command and Services Company of the III Brigade, this section being composed of service personnel) arrived at my positions.

They were led by a sergeant whom I did not know. With a piercing gaze, this sergeant said to me: “Sir, I bring you a night sight sent by the company commander, and I place myself at your orders.” Much later, I learnt that this man was Sergeant First Class Héctor Ricardo Montellano. He had arrived with ten men, ready to go into action.

I gathered these men and explained that I would join them in carrying out a counter-attack to assist and clear the sector of my support group, which was under heavy pressure. Using the sight, I would mark targets with tracer fire so that we could then concentrate our fire together.

Our mission was extremely dangerous, as it consisted of advancing against the enemy while the remainder of my section supported us with covering fire. As I was finishing my explanation, British artillery fire began to fall, a clear sign that they wished to support their advance and secure the position they were attacking. Flattened to the ground, we kept firing upon them. Suddenly, we saw them beginning to reorganise, and I thought to myself: “It is now or never (before they regroup and launch their attack).”

At my signal, half of the group leapt forward with this sergeant at the front, while the other half provided covering fire. We then leapt ahead, passing the first group, and in this way we alternated, advancing in ten-metre bounds amidst tracer fire and the smell of gunpowder. This took the British by surprise, and our satisfaction was great when we saw them fall back.

After a short while, I checked with the night sight in a full 360°, and there were no enemies. Sergeant Montellano confirmed that his men were all safe and promptly reported to me. We exchanged glances, and I could see in his expression a hint of satisfaction. He then took his leave and returned to his sector.

This brave sergeant would lose his life on the night of 9 June, when an artillery shell struck his foxhole directly.

Patagonia: When the British Tried to Buy Peninsula Valdés

Península Valdés, 1880: The Falkland Island Association Offers to Buy It – The Navy Fights to Ensure Our Flag Flies

When the Welsh landed at Puerto Madryn, “the flag with the red dragon in the centre was flying on the hill above the caves…”. In 1965, to mark the centenary of the arrival of the first contingent of Welsh immigrants, Camwy magazine – published by the regional museum in Gaiman – reproduced in its July issue (No. 5) the diary of Lewis Humphreys, but transcribed the phrase as: “the Argentine flag with the red dragon…” (emphasis mine – C.I.D.). This version, with the word “Argentine” inserted, has been repeated by other writers without verifying its accuracy or providing any explanation. From the original account it is clear that it referred to the Welsh flag, which the Emigration Commission had given to Luis Jones and Edwin Roberts when they departed from Wales on 10 February 1865 to prepare the site for disembarkation. This is confirmed by Edwin Roberts’ own account, in which he relates that, once the warehouse was built, “as the friends of the Colony in Liverpool had sent a flag with the Red Dragon, a tall pole was set up in front of the depot and that flag was raised” (quoted by Matthew H. Jones in Trelew, un desafío patagónico, vol. I, p. 122). Another Welsh chronicler gives the same version: “On 27 July [1865] Edwin saw the Mimosa approaching and hurried to the white rocks near the shore. He hoisted the Red Dragon flag and fired into the air, then went out by boat to the ship to welcome them”.

To carry out the Interior Minister’s instructions, the military commander of Patagones, Lieutenant Colonel Julián Murga, was sent. On 15 September 1865, at the very spot where Enrique Líbanus Jones had established the settlement, he raised the Argentine flag once again.

Abraham Matthews, in his Chronicle of the Welsh Colony in Patagonia, recounts it as follows: “Captain Murga (who was the military commander of Patagones) came on behalf of the Argentine government to raise the flag of the Argentine Republic in the place and to give us formal permission to take possession of the land and settle it.”

The official record drawn up by Murga states that “in the name of his government he made formal delivery and placed in possession of the national lands granted to the Colony from the Country of Wales… After this, and having raised the Argentine flag and saluted it with a rifle volley as a sign of respect to the Argentine Nation which it represents, the Colony from the Country of Wales was established.” “The flag was raised in complete silence. The raising of the Argentine flag that day dealt a mortal blow to the idea of a Welsh Colony. Nonetheless, there was not the slightest sign of protest from the settlers.”

The flag raised on that occasion was brought to Chubut by Commander Murga from Patagones, and it remained there. This is evident from a note Murga sent on 1 October 1866 to the Inspector and Commander General of Arms of the Republic, General Benito Nazar, requesting the dispatch of “two National Flags”, as there was none in that Command “as one had been sent to Chubut, and the one left behind” was completely destroyed “due to the strong and constant winds”.

There, “inside and outside the Old Fort”, or on the embankment itself, the first houses were built, forming the initial nucleus of the city of Rawson – the oldest in Patagonia after Patagones and Viedma. When, ten years later, Antonio Oneto was appointed as the Executive Power’s representative for the administration of the colony, his instructions emphasised: “Prudence, tolerance, morality and the strictest justice must be the standard of all your administrative acts, so that the national flag may fly proudly over your residence and be respected and blessed by all.”

Ensuring the presence of the national flag in Patagonia – so coveted by foreigners – was no easy task, as the reader will see in the following pages. In late 1878, Commander Daniel de Solier of the gunboat La República found a company on Tova Island, in the northern part of the Gulf of San Jorge, engaged in hunting penguins and seals without Argentine government authorisation, operating under the French flag. Solier ordered them to lower it and to raise the Argentine flag on land, which they did without resistance.

A similar situation occurred on Leones Island, east of the previous one. Ordered by Captain Augusto Lasserre of the gunboat Paraná to suspend operations, the manager did so some time later. Upon leaving, he left the French flag flying and the Argentine flag rolled up at the base of the mast. This is how, in 1883, Captain Francisco Villarino of the schooner Santa Cruz found them, ordering the French flag lowered and the Argentine flag raised, with the corresponding honours. Similar incidents took place at other points along the Patagonian coast. Companies from various countries (United States, Britain, France, Chile), flying their own flags, exploited natural resources as if they were their property.

On 21 December 1880, the Falkland Island Association attempted to purchase from the Argentine Government the Península Valdés and “one hundred and sixty leagues in the vicinity of San Sebastián Bay in Tierra del Fuego” for the purpose of colonisation and livestock breeding. The request was denied; had it been accepted, it is certain the Argentine flag would never have been flown there.

From the book “Patagonia azul y blanca” by Clemente Dumrauf.

La Voz de Chubut

Sinking the HMS Ardent: A Mission for the Brave

A Mission for the Brave – Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Marcelo “Parrot” Márquez

12 June. It was a cold autumn day at the “Almirante Quijada” Naval Air Station in Río Grande. It was raining, and the mechanics of the Third Naval Fighter and Attack Squadron (EA33) already had the A-4Q Skyhawk aircraft ready for the first combat mission during the South Atlantic conflict.

One of them was A-4Q number 3-A-314, which carried on its ventral station four 500-pound (230 kg) MK-82 “Snake-eye” bombs. Its pilot, Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Marcelo “Parrot” Márquez, carried out a meticulous visual inspection, checking every detail of the old aircraft as if it were his legendary Ford A, to which he had a special attachment.

During the pre-flight briefing, they had defined the mission’s objective and the tactics to be used. The weather was unfavourable: medium and low clouds, showers, and reduced visibility. Under these conditions, they had to fly in tight formation and rely on the section leader, Corvette Captain Alberto “Mingo” Philippi.

The three aircraft started up and began their coordinated taxi to runway 25. The aircraft did not respond as usual due to being close to maximum take-off weight; it felt slow and heavy. Not all the aircraft had a VLF-Omega navigation system—although imprecise, it was better than relying solely on time, speed, and heading from visual references. They selected their armament without switching on the master arm.

At 14:10 on 21 May, after a long run along the 2,000-metre concrete runway, 3-A-314 began its climb to join the leader on the right wing. At 30,000 feet (10,000 m) and with a good tailwind, they headed towards the islands. At 100 miles from the target, they descended to avoid detection and preserve the element of surprise.

Under strict radio silence, communicating only with visual signals, the leader gave brief orders. They armed the master switch and began a low-level flight along the west side of East Falkland. The weather had worsened—cloud ceiling down to just 500 feet (150 m), showers, and visibility of only 1,000 metres. They maintained tight formation, searching for a valuable target.



The three aircraft turned left to cross the southern mouth of San Carlos Water. The water was dark in colour. Reaching the coast of East Falkland at 50 feet (15 m) altitude and 450 knots, with improved weather, they continued towards Port San Carlos. They sighted a ship to the north—the 2,750-tonne Type 21 frigate HMS Ardent—and manoeuvred gently to the right to attack westward from the port quarter. The aim was to surprise from different angles.

The wingmen switched positions and began the attack run. The leader attempted to fire his 20 mm cannons, but they jammed. Passing over the ship, he released his bombs—one struck the stern. The ship had begun firing its anti-aircraft guns and missiles in a desperate defence. The right wingman, Lieutenant José César “Cacha” Arca, flew through a curtain of shells and shrapnel from the leader’s bomb, made his release, and flew through a cloud of black smoke. Another bomb hit the stern. Finally, 3-A-314, focused on the target, released its bombs and then escaped that hell.

The three aircraft fled at wave-top height. Seconds later, the voice of “Parrot” came over the radio, tense and urgent: “Harrier to the left!” Immediately, they jettisoned their external tanks and began evasive manoeuvres, heading for the south of the strait and the cover of cloud.

At that moment, a Sea Harrier fired its 30 mm cannons twice at 3-A-314, and the engine exploded into pieces. In a fraction of a second, we lost Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Marcelo “Parrot” Márquez—and gained a hero. Simply, a HERO.

Lieutenant (Posthumous) Marcelo Gustavo “Parrot” Márquez was a man always distinguished by his composure, professionalism, and humility. A sailor respected by superiors and admired by subordinates. An exceptional human being, with a rebellious and passionate spirit, an excellent professional, cheerful, witty, humble, and generous.

Malvinas: The Odyssey of the 4th Section (3/5)

The Heroes of Nacar's 4th Section

(Part 3 of 5)



“Sir! They’re coming again!” shouted one of the sentries from a nearby foxhole. Vázquez, half his body exposed, immediately began directing fire, pointing out targets, asking for ammunition status, and giving firing orders.

Combat resumed once more, intense and all-encompassing — everyone firing at anyone who got close. The inferno of infantry battle returned: the staccato of machine guns, explosions of grenades, rockets, projectiles of all calibres, rifle shots, and the screams of the wounded all merged in a single, deafening chaos.

By 2:30 a.m., the group led by Sergeant Julio Castillo, positioned at the far right of the Section, was trying to hold off the enemy onslaught. With Castillo were Second Corporal Amílcar Tejada — who had travelled to the Falklands with Lieutenant Vázquez — and Dragoon José Luis Galarza, a young man who had stood out and whom Castillo affectionately referred to as “my lad.”

The firefight raged on. Sergeant Castillo kept firing and shouting “Long live the homeland!” But as the minutes ticked by, the situation grew increasingly dire. The British were almost upon them. Castillo shouted, “Fire, you bastards! Don’t act stupid — fight back!” referring to those in the centre sector (where Vázquez and the reconnaissance group were positioned). The Scots were throwing everything at them. Tejada fired the MAG, taking turns with a conscript. Castillo, a quintessential “trooper’s sergeant” in Marine Infantry terms, commanded the right flank.

Suddenly, Castillo saw a Scot assault and kill Dragoon Galarza. Enraged, he shot at the attacker with his FAL — but was immediately struck by three rounds. Castillo collapsed, a gaping 20-centimetre wound torn through his back. A nearby soldier rushed to him, hoping he was only wounded, but Castillo had died instantly.

Castillo, Tejada, Galarza and the mobile group conscripts had withstood the enemy’s advance with stoic bravery. Their position, at the far right of the 4th Section, bore the brunt of the British assault. The Scots, advancing from the west towards the centre and left of Nacar’s line, had to pass through the right flank first — where they were filtered and held off by this group.

With Castillo’s death, Tejada became the only leader left to Vázquez on the right flank — the only one left to give orders and keep morale alive.

Meanwhile, Second Lieutenant Silva was trying to defend himself as best he could. The battle was fierce — the enemy appeared from behind rocks as close as three to twenty metres away. Two conscripts near him were wounded by machine-gun fire. Without hesitation, Silva left his cover and dragged one of the injured towards the shelter of a nearby rock, some 30 metres away. He knew the man would likely die within minutes, with no time or means to treat him.

“Stay here,” he told him, trying to offer comfort. “You’ll be fine. I’ll come back for you as soon as I can. Please don’t move.”
The conscript clutched his bleeding abdomen with both hands and looked silently at his officer — perhaps a final farewell.
“Hang in there, I’ll be back,” Silva repeated.

Crawling back under heavy fire, he reached a foxhole where a FAP machine gun had been abandoned — its operator dead. Silva began firing until it jammed.
“Pass me something I can fire with!” he shouted to a nearby conscript, who handed him a rifle.
“Thanks — it’s something at least,” Silva said, trying to smile through his soot-covered face.

Gradually, the British — advancing in perfect formation — grew stronger. Casualties among Nacar’s men mounted. More and more British soldiers were infiltrating the section’s foxholes.

Why had the Argentines suffered so few casualties in the initial assault, despite the intensity of the combat?
The answer lay in mutual support: the 4th Section had been intact. Each foxhole was covered by the adjacent ones — no one was left unprotected. Thus, the British had to fight not one position, but two or three at once.

But in the second assault, the British changed tactics — with devastating effect. Groups of three or four men, crouching 10 to 20 metres away, would rise and charge the nearest foxhole. They might be shot at — maybe one or two would fall — but the others reached their target and killed whoever was inside.
Over time, the disparity in numbers became obvious.

Vázquez grew increasingly anxious. He couldn’t shake off the enemy or stop them occupying positions. He asked Fochesatto to connect him with Lieutenant Villarraza.

—“Green, this is Green 4.”
—“Green here.”
—“What’s happening with reinforcements?”
—“Hold out — they’re about to set off.”
—“Understood.”

Around 3:00 a.m., a soldier from the Army — Private Do Santos from RI-4 — crawled to Vázquez’s position and shouted:
“Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Sub-lieutenant Silva’s been hit!”
“What happened?”
“He was shot in the chest and arm. Blood’s coming from his mouth.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right — drag him carefully into a foxhole and try to give him some aid.”

“What can I do? What can I say?” thought Vázquez.
At that moment, wounded Marine Infantry soldier Félix Aguirre came to Silva’s aid, despite his own injury. Bravely, he dragged Silva to what he thought was a safe spot.
Returning to his position, Félix Aguirre was killed by enemy fire.

Five minutes after reporting to Vázquez, the same Army soldier returned.
“Lieutenant, Sub-lieutenant Silva is dead.”

Vázquez had lost a vital officer — one who constantly motivated the men, issued orders, and covered areas where Vázquez’s voice could not reach.

What had driven the soldier to return under fire to announce Silva’s death?
Why take such a risk?
Because for a soldier, there is no worse fate than losing his commander. It destroys his hope.
The commander is the one who knows the most, the one who protects them.
If the commander dies, what hope remains for the less trained conscript?
Who will take care of him? Who will tell him, “Move — you’ll be killed there,” or “Take cover,” or “Aim that way”? Who will lead the retreat?

No one.

The death of a commander quickly leads to the death of his subordinates — disorientation, fear, and hesitation take over, especially in close combat, where only the quickest survive.

The conscript had risked himself twice: first to try and save Silva, and then to avoid the feeling of abandonment if his leader died.
A deeply human action. One of the many faces of war.

Vázquez had no time to grieve.

A machine gun opened fire on him from a stone wall nearby. The British had his position marked — whenever he raised his head to give orders, he was met with a barrage.
But he couldn’t stop commanding.
“I’ll blow you to bits,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

He grabbed an anti-tank grenade launcher and fired at the machine gun nest — then another. One hit the base of the stone, the other missed.
It was futile. He couldn’t silence it.

—“Gascó! Gascó! Fire at that machine gun!” he shouted to a conscript on his left, whom he’d promoted to Dragoon that very day — in the middle of battle. “War things,” he thought.
He’d trusted the lad, and now he desperately needed him.

—“Gascó! Gascó! Don’t be a bastard — don’t leave me alone now!”

He knew Gascó was alive.
Why wasn’t he responding?

Gascó was trying to unjam the machine gun.
“Thank God,” he muttered when it finally worked.
Without wasting time, he opened fire on Vázquez’s attackers, taking them out.

The situation was desperate.

Vázquez decided to descend into the foxhole and use the radio — normally Fochesatto’s task, but this message was too urgent.
He pressed the button — and at once the background hum of reception ceased.
Underground, all outside noise was crystal clear: explosions, screams, gunfire. The blasts shook the earth.

These men, though, no longer feared how they’d die. They knew full well they might not make it out alive — but they also knew the British wouldn’t have it easy.

Suddenly, someone spoke in English — right at the mouth of the foxhole.
Vázquez and Fochesatto froze.

“Shit! They’re going to chuck a grenade down here!” cried Fochesatto.

Vázquez had a habit of leaving two rifles outside: one with an anti-tank grenade aimed in one direction, the other pointed the opposite way.

In his desperation, he knocked over the radio but leapt out of the foxhole and grabbed the nearest rifle.
A few metres away, a British soldier lay prone, speaking into a radio. In the confusion, he hadn't noticed the foxhole.
Vázquez didn’t hesitate — he aimed and fired.

The anti-tank projectile exploded less than half a metre from the British soldier, tearing him apart.

At the same time, further right, another British soldier reached a foxhole occupied by an Army conscript. A nearby soldier, some 30 metres away, saw him — but hesitated, unsure if he was British or not, a natural reaction amidst the chaos.

“Yes, he’s British!” he shouted — and fired.
Too late.

A second before being hit in the back, the Brit had thrown an incendiary grenade into the foxhole.

The blast was instant. Flames shot from the hole.

A soldier emerged — ablaze.
Without hesitating, he tore off his poncho-style blanket, rolled on the ground and extinguished the flames. Vázquez couldn’t believe he wasn’t burned.

The man stood up like a spring, scanned the area for a weapon, found a rifle, and crawled into another foxhole to continue fighting.

Vázquez called Lieutenant Villarraza again:
“What’s happening with the reinforcements?”
“They’re on their way — already marching.”

Sub-lieutenant Lamadrid’s section from RI-6 and Marines under Lieutenant Miño had begun a counterattack, but they hadn’t yet reached Vázquez’s position.

Still, help wasn’t arriving fast enough. The situation worsened.
Casualties increased. Ammunition was running low.

At that moment, Vázquez made a drastic decision:
He would shell his own position with their 60mm mortar — all 54 rounds.

A desperate move. A last resort.
There was no other option but surrender — or die.

Since mortars fire on a high arc, the only way to hit nearby positions was to remove the bipod.

That’s what they did — they placed it upright on two ammo crates.

“Rotela,” Vázquez said to the Dragoon acting as gun chief, supported by conscript Güida and another nicknamed “Pankuka.”
“Is Güida wearing the glove?”
“Yes, sir. He’s ready.”

Güida, his gloved right hand protecting him from the hot tube, held a round in the other. Eyes fixed on the mortar, he awaited the order.

“Fire!” Vázquez commanded.

They started at the right flank, moved through the centre, and reached the left.
Each shot caused tremors, smoke, and dirt clods — but accuracy was poor.
Despite heavy casualties, the British did not retreat.

They were many — and well dug in.

“This is going to hell,” Vázquez muttered. “We can’t last much longer. Let me try to reach command.”

He grabbed the radio and began calling Captain Robacio.