Malvinas: Zubizarreta and the Absurd Accident that Costs His Life

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

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

Based on the article by Marcelo Larraquy || Infobae

A Squadron on the Edge: Skyhawks and Broken Wings

The War’s Beginning: Scarce Resources, Unbreakable Will

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 Their wings were cracked, their systems outdated, and their ejection seats were more luck than science.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

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 Pilots trained relentlessly, often with simulators or outdated manuals.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

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

Captain Rodolfo Castro Fox: Leadership Born from Pain

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

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

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

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

Flying into Fire: The Final Mission

The Mission Brief: Objectives Over San Carlos

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

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

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

The Assault Begins: Low Flight and Courage Under Fire

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

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

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

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

The Flight Back: Fear, Faith, and Fuel

Mid-Air Decisions: Life or Death Over the Sea

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

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

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

Captain Fox’s Solitary Journey Back Home

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

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

Zubizarreta’s Return: Silent Hero with a Burden

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

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

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

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

Tragedy on the Tarmac: The Final Moments

The Slippery Runway and the Unarmed Hook

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

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

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

A Deadly Descent: Ejection Seat Failure and Fallen Hero

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

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

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

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

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

Patriotism in the Air: What Zubizarreta Stood For

The Spirit of the Malvinas: More Than a Conflict

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

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

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

Zubizarreta's Legacy: Symbol of Argentine Valor

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

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

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

Video: Skyhawk Crashed in the Salar of Tolillar

FAA Skyhawk Crashed in 1996

On June 23, 1994, during a training flight, the Argentine Air Force A-4B Skyhawk, registered as C-209, suffered an engine failure while flying over the mountainous region of the Salar de Tolillar in the province of Salta. The pilot, then-Captain Oscar Charadía, attempted to restart the engine without success. When the ejection system failed, he managed to execute an emergency landing in the salar, surviving the incident.

Over the years, the aircraft's remains have remained at the crash site. In 2019, a group of motorcyclists, accompanied by now-Brigadier Major Oscar Charadía, traveled to the site to pay tribute and place a new Argentine flag on the wreckage.

Although no specific videos of the aircraft in the Salar de Tolillar have been found, images and testimonies document the current state of the wreckage and the visits made to the site.

Naval Aviation: The Captain Castro Fox Accident

Castro Fox's Accident

Memoirs of Captain (Ret.) VGM Rodolfo Castro Fox, Commander of EA33.

Sunday, August 9, 1981

That afternoon, under calm skies, I was catapulted from the deck in my A-4Q, 3-A-303. I was undergoing requalification, having already completed two arrestments in the 3-A-307 earlier that morning.

“Stable deck, wind at 28/30 knots.” The signal officer's voice came through the radio, relaying the conditions for my landing on the aircraft carrier 25 de Mayo.

“03, ball, three five,” I responded, acknowledging the yellow light indicator projected by the stabilized glide slope system on the port side of the ship. At the same time, I confirmed my fuel in hundreds of pounds.

Completing my turn into the final leg at 500 feet, I caught sight of the ship's white wake below and to my left, contrasting against a nearly calm, greenish-blue sea. Ahead, a thick yellow inverted “T” marked the start of the angled deck, positioned eight degrees off the carrier’s centerline. To the right, the “island,” crowded with platforms, antennas, and the ship’s smokestack, released a column of smoke aligned with the relative wind, running parallel to the deck’s axis.

My focus was split: keeping the “ball” centered with the green reference line flanked by guide lights, ensuring the angle-of-attack indicator in “Donna” showed a yellow light, and aligning with the deck’s axis, which slightly shifted to the right as the ship moved.

Gentle adjustments on the throttle and flight controls kept everything aligned, maintaining engine thrust between 80 and 90 percent of its 8,200 pounds of power. The ship's high stern swayed slowly as the sharp turbine whine was interrupted by instructions from the Landing Signal Officer on the radio.

Though I had over 250 arrestments, the concentration and tension remained the same. There’s no room for distraction; only after the flight can one relax, reliving and savoring this demanding and cherished activity of naval aviators.

The carrier rapidly grew larger; I crossed over the stern at 130 knots, with the “ball” centered, reaching the zone of the six arrestor cables. Just as I touched down, my left hand automatically pushed the throttle to 100 percent while my thumb engaged the dive brake switch, ready to take off again if the hook missed the cable.

The deceleration began immediately. I had caught the third cable, right on centerline, and my body was held back by the harness straps across my torso, while my head moved freely forward.

The Precise Moment When the 3-A-303 Breaks the Arresting Cable and Heads Toward the Sea

In that critical instant, the 3-A-303, having engaged the arresting cable, suddenly broke free. The snap was abrupt, and instead of decelerating as expected, the aircraft continued forward. The deck rushed past beneath me, and in those split seconds, I knew the plane was headed off the edge and toward the open sea.

With no time to lose, my reflexes kicked in. My hand was already at the throttle, pushing it to full power in an attempt to regain altitude. The aircraft barely cleared the edge of the flight deck, plummeting toward the water before the engine’s thrust began to pull it back up. That brief but intense moment, where I was suspended between sky and sea, brought every skill and ounce of training to the fore.

The nose of the aircraft, now lowered, shook with oscillating lateral movements due to the immense deceleration it was experiencing as the 14,500-pound plane came to a halt at a relative speed of 100 knots within less than 60 meters. Just in front of me lay the ocean, separated only by a few meters of deck.

Suddenly, at very low speed and reducing the throttle to minimum, my body pressed against the seatback, and my head jerked back into the headrest. The plane had freed itself from the arresting cable as it snapped, and it surged forward. Instinctively, I pushed the throttle to 100 percent—a habit from touch-and-go landings or "bolters" on the deck—believing I was gaining speed.

But this time, I didn’t have enough speed to take off again, as I had once done four years earlier in the same plane. I quickly reduced the throttle and applied right rudder to guide the plane toward the axial runway centerline, aiming to maximize the space to try to brake. There, I would have an additional 50 meters of deck, but the speed was too high, and the plane skidded leftward.

Over the radio, I heard the signal officer shouting, "Eject—Eject!" Instinctively, I pulled the lower ejection seat handle with my right hand. I felt a muffled explosion behind me as the canopy, propelled by the fired cartridge, detached and slid backward. I expected the seat’s rocket to fire next and propel me out—but the seat didn’t eject.

The plane continued its path toward the angled deck’s end; the nose wheel dipped into the edge, and the plane crossed over a 40 mm anti-aircraft mount, sharply turning left as the left wheel was the first to lose contact with the deck. The carrier’s deck disappeared from view; I was plummeting toward the sea from a height of 13 meters, inverted, strapped tightly to the ejection seat by upper and lower harnesses. Less than five seconds had passed since the cable snapped, and I was losing consciousness as we struck the water.

Every action and image from recognizing the emergency as the cable snapped is vivid to me, with time seeming to slow as if in slow motion, until the aircraft hit the sea at dusk.

It was only later that I regained consciousness, being airlifted in a Sea King helicopter to the Puerto Belgrano Naval Hospital, some 100 miles away. Tied to the stretcher, I wondered about my slim chances of surviving a water landing in the dead of night.

I only learned what happened after the crash from the accounts of those involved, as I have no memory of those moments. When the plane hit the water, nose down and inverted, the ejection seat fired, likely launching me like a torpedo toward the seabed, propelled by the rocket that ignited at that moment. Otherwise, I would have gone down with the plane to the ocean floor.

The condition of my left arm evidenced the force with which the seat left the aircraft. My left hand had been on the throttle—a critical mistake during ejection—and my forearm was crushed in the narrow space between the cockpit’s interior side and the side of the ejection seat. As a result, I suffered fractures to the ulna, radius, and humeral tuberosity, as well as a scapulohumeral dislocation.

The seat continued its sequence through the various explosive cartridges, releasing the harness around my torso, inflating the bladders to separate me from the seat, and deploying the pilot chute to extract the parachute. Had this sequence failed, I would have remained strapped to the seat and descended to the seabed.

Dressed as I was in an anti-exposure suit that trapped air between my body and the fabric, along with the rest of my flight gear—torso harness, survival vest, and dry anti-g suit—my body began a slow ascent to the surface due to positive buoyancy. Those who saw me surface after almost two minutes reported that I was paddling with my right arm. Immediately, an Alouette helicopter stationed for rescue, commanded by then-Lieutenant Commander Carlos Espilondo, approached my position. Two rescue swimmers dove into the sea, detached my parachute, and slipped the rescue sling under my shoulders.

They hoisted me up with the helicopter winch and began to transport me; however, I didn’t stay aloft for long. Unconscious and with a dislocated shoulder, my arms rose, causing the sling to slip, and I fell back into the sea. This time, the rescue swimmers had to reach my new position and pull me from beneath the surface, as my now-soaked gear no longer provided positive buoyancy and they hadn’t inflated my life vest.

They attached the sling to the carabiner on my flight suit, designed for such cases, and this time successfully lifted me into the Alouette.

When they placed me on the flight deck, their first move was to remove the water from my lungs. I was quickly transported on a stretcher via the forward elevator on the flight deck to the onboard surgical room.

On the way to the infirmary, I suffered my first cardiorespiratory arrest, from which they successfully revived me.

For a long time, I didn’t respond to external stimuli, and in the operating room, I experienced a second arrest, but again, the medical team managed to bring me back. Days later, the doctors asked if I remembered how they had revived me from these arrests; my denial brought them a sense of relief.

The diagnosis read like a list of battle wounds: multiple trauma, drowning-induced asphyxia, lung shock, cardiorespiratory arrest, cranial trauma with loss of consciousness, bilateral orbital trauma, radial and ulnar fractures, left rib fracture, anterior shoulder dislocation, submental, supra-auricular, and left eyelid wounds, bipalpebral hematoma, conjunctival hemorrhage, and multiple abrasions. This grim report was signed by Lieutenant Commander and Medical Officer Edgar Coria, who, along with the Naval Air Group’s medical team, treated me.

That night, I was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital, where I remained for four days.

Around midnight, Commander Jorge Philippi and his wife Graciela called our apartment in Bahía Blanca to inform Stella of my accident and hospitalization. Months later, I would be the one to inform Graciela of her husband’s disappearance during the Malvinas conflict.

My appearance must have been quite unsettling, with swelling, bruises, stitches, and more. I realized this when visitors who weren’t medical staff would turn pale and quickly leave the ICU. The nurses, using various excuses, refused to provide me with a mirror despite my repeated requests.

Even days later, when I had been moved to a regular room, my children were visibly shaken upon seeing me. If any of them had thought about studying medicine, I likely discouraged that notion. According to specialists, factors that helped prevent neurological sequelae included the cold water and the fact that I had been breathing 100 percent oxygen during the flight. The A-4 lacks a demand system that mixes oxygen with cabin air; instead, it uses a liquid oxygen system with a converter and regulator that delivers pure oxygen.

Perhaps, “Tata Dios” hadn’t planned on calling my number that day—or St. Peter simply made a mistake with the list.

After overcoming the major risk of pulmonary or renal complications, the ordeal of recovering my left arm began. Pins were placed in both bones of my forearm, and I was fitted with a cast that I wore for over three months, constantly adjusted in posture and size.

Declared unfit for flight, I attended medical evaluations every two months, where they noted my recovery from various traumas, abrasions, and interstitial pneumonia, yet my left arm remained restricted in movement. I continued my duties as Deputy Commander at the squadron, but with envy as I watched my fellow pilots take to the skies.

Toward the end of the year, the awards for the 1980 weapons exercises were presented in a ceremony held at the Puerto Belgrano Naval Base Auditorium. I was called up to receive the La Capital of Rosario award for the highest annual individual score in air-to-air shooting among all attack squadron pilots. Seeing me with my arm in a cast, someone joked, “Imagine if he had both arms!”