Argentine Army: The Discipline of the MechIR 3

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

Malvinas: Historias de Coraje

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—And you crossed half the island for that?

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

—Well, yes… I left at dawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malvinas: The Counter Attack of the "3 de Oro" at Wireless Ridge

The Counterattack of the "3 de Oro" (Golden 3) (Part 1)

By Lt. Col. (R) (Malvinas War Veteran) Víctor Hugo Rodríguez

The author served in the Malvinas as a First Lieutenant, Chief of the 1st Section of Company "A" of the 3rd Mechanized Infantry Regiment "Gral. Belgrano," nicknamed "3 de Oro" (Golden 3) during the Triple Alliance War, due to the yellow breastplate that adorned their blue jackets.





June 13, 1982, 22:00 hours — Tumbledown Hill, overlooking Moody Brook Valley. To the left was Longdon; in front, the 7th Infantry Regiment of La Plata was enduring relentless fire for two days, June 11th and 12th. It was hell. Positioned 100 meters above them and 5 kilometers away, we witnessed how the British enemy left no centimeter unscathed by naval, artillery, and mortar fire. It was clear they were preparing an assault on the regiment's heights. Occasionally, they turned their attention to us, a forewarning of their advance towards Tumbledown.

Below Longdon, Captain Soloaga—a war hero who carried his Sanmartinian values into peace—"clung like an oyster" to the rocks. His men were already fighting, enduring an infernal bombardment day and night. From our vantage point, we watched, both awestruck and helpless, as their resilience unfolded. Occasionally, patrols emerged—but only to retrieve their fallen and place them in an abandoned ambulance stuck in the valley's mud before returning to combat. Watching them march back into that artillery barrage was profoundly moving.
At 22:00 hours on June 13th, Captain Zunino, commander of Company A "Tacuarí" of the "3 de Oro," summoned us. A remarkable officer for wartime, Zunino convened 2nd Lt. Dobrovevic (support group leader), 2nd Lt. Mones Ruiz (2nd rifle section), Sub-Lt. Aristegui (3rd section leader), and me (1st section leader).

“We need to support the 7th Regiment, which is under attack on those heights,” he said.”. 

We knew the terrain only by sight—no reconnaissance had been done. The day before, we had deployed to Tumbledown, abandoning previous positions. Defending our spot against the expected assault the next day was our sole focus. Our positions consisted of low rocks; our aluminum screw-shovel “Tempex” tools had broken within a week, unable to withstand the greda soil. Digging foxholes was impossible. Equipment? Just a blanket, a shared tent cloth, and only five magazines per soldier. Night vision? Only the captain had one. Radios? None. Batteries were dead, leaving us with no communication within or outside the company. To supplement ammo, I ordered rounds carried in socks tied around our necks.



Aristegui, a 4th-year cadet serving as a "commissioned sub-lieutenant" in the Malvinas, was barely older than his soldiers. Yet, he was an example of leadership. I said,

“Aristegui, form up. You take the right, and I'll take the left. Let's cross the valley quickly and head for the heights.”. 

The battlefield was chaos—roaring, blazing, hellish. Longdon, the valley, Wireless Ridge where the 7th Regiment was positioned, Port Argentino, Mount Williams—all were alight with tracer rounds and rocket fire. It was full-on war, the final assault. We waded through a freezing brook, soaked to the waist. Snow fell. The cold? I can’t remember. The adrenaline heated our bodies.

From the valley, we realized the heights, where the 7th Regiment was supposed to meet us, were instead occupied by British forces, firing rifles and rockets at the abandoned Royal Marines barracks. Without communication, we had to resolve it on our own. I turned to Aristegui:

“The enemy’s up there. Let’s surprise them. Don’t advance straight—move to the right, gain the height advantage.”

Moments later, I heard, 

“The sub-lieutenant’s been hit in the neck!” 

I ran to him, blood pouring from his neck, when one of his men, slapping his cheek, shouted:

"You’ve been good to us, kid. We’ll get you out of here."

They carried him back to safety. Today, Aristegui, nicknamed “Nono,” is an exemplary Malvinas officer, earning the respect of his soldiers at just 19 years old. The bullet had pierced his neck, narrowly missing his spine..

Still in the valley, the enemy illuminated us with flares. Forty of Aristegui’s men and forty of mine were exposed. Knowing artillery fire was imminent, I ordered an assault on their positions, 100 meters above us on Wireless Ridge’s heights. Seconds later, an artillery barrage rained down where we had stood moments earlier. The shells exploded 50 meters overhead, showering us with lethal fragments.

“Charge!” I yelled. There was no other option to reach the heights and support the 7th Regiment. What a sight—my soldiers and Aristegui’s, running uphill, driven by sheer determination. “Cata” Carballo, my speedy aide; “Mono” Paz, my radioman without a radio; Aumasane, Izaguirre, “Bombón” Díaz, Juan Fernández—young men from Buenos Aires, cold, hungry, yet filled with love for their country, surging from the valley to claim that piece of Malvinas soil.

They were just 18 years old. They had little food, no communications, yet an unyielding spirit. To think the tabloids later dismissed them as mere “boys of war”...