Malvinas: Argentine Naval Prefecture Shot Down a Harrier

1982, The Malvinas War
22 May, Choiseul Sound
Argentine Naval Prefecture Vs Royal Navy
Z-28 Patrol Boat Vs Sea Harrier Fighter

David Vs Goliath

On 22 May 1982, at 08:25, the GC-83, a small Z-28 patrol launch of the Argentine Naval Prefecture, the PNA Río Iguazú, commanded by Deputy Prefect Eduardo Adolfo Olmedo with 14 men under his orders, was sailing through Choiseul Sound and was about to reach Darwin. She was carrying two 105/14 mm Otto Melara Mk-56 howitzers and 15 Argentine Army artillerymen as artillery reinforcement for Lieutenant Chanampa, when she was intercepted and attacked by two Sea Harrier aircraft. The Argentine vessel was destroyed — but not before knocking one Sea Harrier out of action and damaging another.

When Argentina recovered the Malvinas Islands on 2 April 1982, that very same day, after expelling the English usurping authorities, it began the immediate military withdrawal back to the mainland. Argentina decided to deploy only a limited unit for policing duties until the United Nations resolved the dispute. Thus, two patrol launches from the Argentine Naval Prefecture were sent to the islands for coastguard, policing and SAR duties, in compliance with UN Security Council Resolution 502, while Great Britain was violating that same resolution by sending a massive naval invasion force from 5 April onwards.

The GC-83 Río Iguazú was assigned to the mission together with the GC-82 Islas Malvinas. The two small security vessels of the Argentine Naval Prefecture were placed under the Malvinas Naval Command and were tasked with everything from reconnaissance to logistical supply for the different garrisons scattered across the islands, patrol work, radar sweeps, pilotage for ships entering Puerto Argentino so they could be guided clear of mined areas, communications interception, and search-and-rescue missions.

While carrying out one of those missions — supplying a garrison — on 22 May, the vessel undertook what, unbeknown to her crew, would be her final run. The coastguard launch left Puerto Argentino. Her task was to transport 15 men from Battery A of the Argentine Army’s 4th Airborne Artillery Group, along with the two Otto Melara howitzers already mentioned. Since those pieces could be dismantled for mountain use, they were taken apart and stowed below deck on the small vessel, so as not to endanger her stability. She was bound for Goose Green, where it was already expected that the enemy would make its move before attempting to assault Puerto Argentino, the main objective.

At 08:25, over Choiseul Bay on Gran Malvinas Island (East Falkland), the patrol launch was intercepted by two Sea Harrier FRS.1 fighter-bombers of the Royal Navy. The crew of the Río Iguazú mistook them for RAF Harrier GR.3s. They were caught off guard. The Sea Harriers came in low, proper low, and opened fire with their 30 mm ADEN cannon, mortally damaging the vessel, killing Corporal Benítez and seriously wounding Assistant Baccaro and Corporal Bengoechea, all gunners on the ship’s M2HB .50 calibre machine gun, with which they had been returning enemy fire.

The British rounds also struck the rudder, destroyed the electrical panel, and opened a breach in the hull, which led to flooding in the engine room. With the electrical panel out of action, the bilge pumps could no longer be used effectively, and the ship was done for. Deputy Prefect Olmedo therefore made the decision to beach the Río Iguazú on the coast, so that, once stabilised, the crew could better concentrate the fire of their weapons and, at the same time, protect the men ashore until they could be rescued.

Even so, while that was being attempted, Second Corporal Julio Omar Benítez, who was operating one of the machine guns, had already been killed by a shot to the chest, leaving that weapon out of action. The other machine gun, manned by Third Assistant Juan José Baccaro, was also put out of service, while Baccaro and Second Corporal Carlos Bengoechea were both seriously wounded, along with Principal Officer Gabino González.

Olmedo presented the stern of the GC-83, where the two machine-gun mounts were located, to face the second attacking pass of the Sea Harriers now bearing down on them. But with all the vessel’s gunners either dead or wounded, it was Second Corporal José Raúl Ibáñez, an engine-room man, who at that moment was trying to bail out a breach that had already become unstoppable. Water was coming in with such pressure that the jet was smashing against the engine-room ceiling. When he came up on deck to report the situation, he was met with the grim sight of Baccaro and Bengoechea dragging themselves across the deck, and Benítez dead at the foot of the machine gun.

Although Ibáñez had no specific training as a machine-gunner, he did know how to use the weapon. He saw that the Sea Harriers were already diving once again towards the vessel and immediately took Benítez’s place at the Browning .50 calibre machine gun. He aimed and began firing at the attacking aircraft, shouting:

“¡Viva la Patria!” — Long live the Fatherland!

His courage and marksmanship allowed him to hit one of the Sea Harriers that was approaching from astern, firing at point-blank range. The aircraft withdrew inland, trailing a thick plume of smoke behind it. The other aircraft managed to veer away and left the area, following its badly wounded mate.

Minutes later, the vessel ran aground. The crew disembarked and took shelter on land, tending to the wounded, and by nightfall they were evacuated. Later, the howitzers and ammunition, which had remained inside the vessel in a section that had been flooded, were recovered by an improvised diving mission carried out by Chanampa’s men. They were then transported to Darwin by helicopter. In this way, the mission assigned to the Río Iguazú was completed after all, and those guns went on to take part in the fierce fighting that later broke out at Darwin-Goose Green.

And what happened to the English aircraft and its pilot? The CIC at Puerto Argentino, using its AN/TPS-43 radar, had detected three aircraft and was able to monitor two of them breaking off for the attack. Later, it tracked the withdrawal of the three aircraft until one of them began descending and disappeared a few kilometres from the target, while the other two continued flying until they were lost beyond the radar horizon. Naturally, the British did not acknowledge any loss at the time.

According to the British, the Sea Harriers involved were XZ496, flown by Lieutenant Hale, to whom they attributed the attack, and XZ460, commanded by Lieutenant Commander Frederiksen, who provided top cover. Not only do they deny that any aircraft was damaged, they also make no reference whatsoever to the third aircraft detected by the CIC at Puerto Argentino.

In Argentina, it is taken as fact that a Sea Harrier was shot down — almost certainly ZA192, flown by Lieutenant Commander Gordon Batt, who was killed. Batt had been one of those who attacked and sank the Argentine fishing vessel Narwal while it was carrying out intelligence work, and for that he was decorated posthumously with the DFC. The British, however, claim that the loss of this aircraft and pilot occurred, with no rational explanation to this day, one day later — on 23 May — when, after allegedly taking off alone, something impossible since British fighters operated in pairs or threes, the aircraft mysteriously exploded without reporting any fault or alarm and fell into the sea without leaving a trace.

The wounded Argentines were transported by Air Force helicopters to Puerto Argentino for treatment. The rest of the crew, including the Army personnel who had not suffered casualties, were taken to the settlement at Darwin, where they remained for two days until they could be returned to Puerto Argentino, where their presence was later deemed unnecessary for the fighting.

On 24 May, the remains of Second Corporal Julio Omar Benítez were buried with military honours at Darwin, in the presence of his Prefecture comrades who had not yet been evacuated, as well as senior personnel and troops from the Army and Air Force of the local garrison.

When the fighting at Darwin-Goose Green ended, Royal Navy experts inspected the GC-83 and determined that she could be recovered. But bad luck for them: on 13 June 1982, a Royal Navy Lynx helicopter, XZ691 of 815 Squadron, assigned to the Leander-class frigate HMS Penelope, mistook her for a vessel on an incursion and fired a Sea Skua missile, which struck the launch’s bridge and rendered her completely useless.

While the GC-82 was captured when Puerto Argentino fell the following day, the GC-83 remained abandoned for many years at the spot where she had been beached, until, on an undetermined date, she was freed, towed to a deeper area of the bay, and sunk. Not like what was done with the submarine ARA Santa Fe in South Georgia, which they tried to take to the United Kingdom as a war trophy, only for the operation to fail and the submarine to sink hundreds of kilometres off the South Georgia coast — when she could perfectly well have been sunk a couple of kilometres offshore, where she posed no danger whatsoever to navigation.

Second Corporal Julio Omar Benítez was promoted posthumously to the rank of First Corporal and was awarded the medal “The Argentine Nation to the Fallen in Combat.”

Second Corporal José Raúl Ibáñez, a Corrientes man from the town of Libertador, in the district of Esquina, received the highest decoration in existence: “The Argentine Nation for Heroic Valour in Combat.” In 1984 he married. He has one daughter, Rocío Belén, and two sons, Hernán and Gustavo Joaquín. He continued serving the Fatherland, proudly wearing the uniform of the Argentine Naval Prefecture, until reaching the highest rank in his career branch, and now enjoys his recent retirement.

The Argentine wounded were awarded the medal “The Argentine Nation to the Wounded in Combat.”

All of Benítez’s comrades, the crewmen of the Río Iguazú, also received the distinctions “Operations in Malvinas” and “Prefecture in Malvinas,” which to this day they wear with pride for having fulfilled their duty and their oath to defend the Fatherland — just like San Martín’s grenadiers, Brown’s sailors, Güemes’s gauchos, Mansilla’s artillerymen, Roca’s horsemen, the engineers of Manchala, the infantrymen of the 29th Regiment of Formosa, and the soldiers and policemen of La Tablada.

As the Liberator, General Don José de San Martín, rightly said:

“Argentines are not empanadas to be eaten with no more effort than opening one’s mouth.”

FIRST CORPORAL JULIO OMAR BENÍTEZ — SALUTE!
LONG LIVE THE FATHERLAND!

Images: We see the heroic PNA Second Corporal José Raúl Ibáñez of the coastguard GC-83 Río Iguazú, later as First Corporal; in another image, in the Malvinas, still a Second Corporal, holding the M2HB with which he would be responsible for the downing of Sea Harrier ZA192; and later, as a Senior Non-Commissioned Officer, acting as standard-bearer for the Argentine Naval Prefecture at an official ceremony. There are also images of the Río Iguazú and her crew during operations in the Malvinas; Sea Harriers in action; the Islas Malvinas captured by the British and moored alongside HMS Cardiff; a Z-28 class patrol launch in its traditional peacetime livery; the Río Iguazú out of action in Choiseul Sound; and the man from Entre Ríos, born in Basavilbaso, PNA Second Corporal Julio Omar Benítez, 1962–1982, who joined the Argentine Naval Prefecture in 1979 and gave his life for the Fatherland on that 22 May 1982.

Argentine Marines: Colemil and his Men en Monte Longdon

Lance Corporal Colemil and his men on Monte Longdon

The Marines of the 12.7 mm machine-gun company attached to RI-7 on Monte Longdon prepared the defence of their position as they were accustomed to: deep works, with shelters, communication trenches, ammunition stores, etc., always working to improve them. It was the best way to pass the time before going into combat, as they were convinced they would have to fight, and constant work was the best way to overcome the انتظار, in line with Marine Corps tradition. When the British assault came, they saw how right that attitude had been. Those who had not done so suffered unnecessary casualties and were unable to fight effectively.

Two days before the attack, Lance Corporal Colemil went to the Marine Corps Combat Support Service. There, Lieutenant Scotto told him: “Vizcacha (another of Colemil’s nicknames), here are the newly arrived night sights—take these for the rifles and machine guns.” The lance corporal took three for rifles: he gave one to his commanding officer, Lieutenant Dachary, another to Chief Corporal Lamas, and kept the third. He also carried six Litton sights for the machine guns and five or six head-mounted night vision devices that proved of no use. The following day, the Marines spent time training with the night sights.

The night of 11 June 1982

Carlos Rafael Colemil, in charge of a 12.7 mm machine gun (the one positioned furthest to the west on Monte Longdon), had taken conscript Leiva, who felt unwell, to the aid post. After being examined and treated, he was authorised to return to his position. On their way back, they passed by Chief Corporal Lamas’s machine gun, who said to Colemil: “Stay very alert. Don’t let your guard down—there could be an attack tonight.” They continued on. When they reached the shelter they used for rest, Colemil woke the relief and, together with two conscripts who had already completed their watch on the 12.7, began the nightly patrol. They stopped briefly near the Army’s Racit (S) radar (an infantry radar used to detect the enemy) and exchanged a few words with the operator sergeant. “Get into your dugout—they’re about to start firing,” he warned Colemil.

The radar, capable of detecting enemy infantry movements, was switched off at 8 p.m., as British ships had detected it and subjected it to naval fire from the south, which facilitated the infiltration of British paratroopers for the attack. These paratroopers, roughly a company in strength, made their way through the minefields without triggering them. Silently, they infiltrated sectors held by the Bravo Company of RI-7, under Second Lieutenant Juan D. Baldini, whose front faced west on Monte Longdon.

Colemil and the two conscripts continued moving among the rocks until he stopped and looked west through his rifle’s night sight. To his surprise, he saw a diffuse shape moving not far away. Uncertain, he aimed his FAL rifle and fired a shot. In response, he heard the unmistakable rattle of a Sterling machine gun. There was no doubt—it was the enemy, and close. At the same time, a paratrooper stepped on a mine; the man’s cry and the explosion alerted the whole of Monte Longdon.

Once the enemy was detected, Colemil ran to the shelter and used the field telephone to call Lieutenant Dachary’s command post: “Cobra, this is Araucano. Cobra, this is Araucano.” —“Go ahead, Araucano.” —“Man the weapons—we are under attack, we are under attack.” —“Received.” (The machine guns were connected to Dachary’s command post and to each other.)

While Colemil alerted his superior, the fighting spread. Thanks to the element of surprise, the British managed to position themselves at the western end of the hill, advancing with machine guns, rifles, and 66 and 84 mm rockets. The atmosphere was hellish. Colemil marked targets with tracer rounds from his rifle, aided by the night sight. Then came artillery fire. The Argentine Marines dived into their foxholes; as soon as it stopped, they emerged to keep firing, only to be hit again. The paratroopers took advantage of these moments to advance, overrunning Colemil’s position, leaving him isolated and unable to rejoin Dachary’s men.

Undeterred, Colemil continued firing the 12.7, but not for long—the weapon jammed and went out of action. From that point, a long night began for “Araucano” Colemil, a brilliant NCO whose determination and bravery caused the British many problems and numerous casualties.

“Well, we’ve got rifles and plenty of ammunition,” he told conscripts Ferrandiz and Leiva, who had remained with him. “Let’s shoot them to pieces.”
“Corporal, they’re coming in their hundreds,” said Ferrandiz.
“That’s fine—we’ll let them pass and then hit them from behind.”

At one point, Colemil saw British troops trying to set up a mortar. “These won’t get away,” he said, opening fire, wounding one and forcing the others to withdraw.
“Watch your back, Corporal!” warned Leiva as three paratroopers approached at speed. Colemil turned and fired a burst of about fifteen rounds. One fell; the other two retreated wounded, shouting.

Lying prone, he searched for targets through his sight. Whenever one came into range, he put them out of action. Alone, he caused heavy losses among those attempting to take the Argentine positions in that sector of Longdon. His conscripts supported him with their rifles.

At one point, he saw the enemy trying to recover a recoilless rifle near his position. He opened fire, saw one fall, and then his position came under intense fire. At that moment he thought: if I don’t fight, I’m dead. He began crawling from position to position, firing whenever he saw an enemy. He spotted one standing on a parapet with a bipod-mounted rifle—he fired, and the man dropped instantly. He continued firing at others trying to reach him.

While exposing himself to find targets, Colemil was hit—the round struck the front of his helmet, pierced it, and lodged in his scalp, stopping at the back of his head. A paratrooper, from just over twenty metres away, had thrown a grenade which exploded nearby, but a rock stopped the fragments. As Colemil rose to locate him, the same man fired his rifle. The bullet grazed his head. Because of this wound, running from forehead to nape, Colemil earned the nickname “Moneybox”. He felt warm blood running down his face. Dazed, he steadied himself, took up his rifle, and waited. As soon as his attacker appeared from behind a rock, he aimed at his chest and fired. The man cried out and fell backwards.

“Corporal, let’s bandage your head,” said Ferrandiz.
“Yes, but quickly—we can’t stop firing.”

“We’re cut off—we won’t hold much longer.”

At around 3 a.m., they began receiving fire from their own artillery, which was striking the area assuming it had already fallen.
“Corporal, why don’t we surrender?”
“No—no way. I won’t be taken prisoner.”
“Then let’s fall back.”
“All right—let’s go. We’ll link up with Corporal Lamas.”

They tried to withdraw but were immediately engaged and forced back. Colemil had offered fierce resistance and was clearly pinpointed.

At approximately 03:00, he decided to withdraw towards Bravo Company’s command post. Taking advantage of a lull, they tried again. The two conscripts managed to escape, but Colemil was hit in the leg. He tried to crawl but lost consciousness after a few metres. When the British advanced, they left him where he lay, believing him dead. He was later taken prisoner and regained consciousness aboard the British hospital ship Uganda, where a platinum plate was inserted in his skull.

That night, he expended five FAL magazines and reloaded twice. British accounts speak of a “sniper” who caused heavy casualties—this was likely Lance Corporal Carlos Rafael Colemil.

In 1982, he was awarded the decoration “Honour for Valour in Combat”.

South Georgias: Operational Debut of the Argentine Army Aviation

Courage Under Fire

On 3 April, a Navy Alouette, crewed by Lieutenant Remo Busson, Sub-Lieutenant Guillermo Guerra and Second Petty Officer Julio Gatti, carried out an armed reconnaissance over the area.

Following this reconnaissance, which met with no opposition, the landing of the Marines was ordered to begin aboard the Argentine Army’s Puma helicopter, crewed by Lieutenants Alejandro Villagra and Eduardo López Leguizamón, and Sergeant Jorge Díaz Medín. In the first wave, a group of 15 Argentine Marines under Lieutenant Luna was landed.

The second wave was then carried out. It took off from ARA Bahía Paraíso in a Puma helicopter, transporting Sub-Lieutenant Giusti and another 14 Marines, with the aim of landing in an area different from that of the first wave. During the approach, both helicopters came within range of British weapons, which opened intense fire, mainly directed at the Puma aircraft.

Although the Puma was struck by a large number of rounds, this did not prevent the pilot from crossing the bay and making an emergency landing on the opposite shore from where the British were positioned, at a distance of approximately 500 metres.

From the Alouette, Sub-Lieutenant Guerra disembarked with a MAG machine gun and, together with Sergeant Díaz Medín, provided support so that the helicopter could evacuate the wounded and the dead, and the landing of the Marines could continue. In that attack, the conscripts Mario Almonacid and Jorge Néstor Águila were killed, while four other men were wounded.

This historic event was the baptism of fire of Argentine Aviation, and all the aircraft crew members were decorated.

In the photographs are the now retired Captain Guillermo Guerra of Naval Aviation and the retired Lieutenant Colonel Alejandro Villagra of Army Aviation, a Malvinas War veteran.

San Carlos Landing: Accounts of the Troops of the 12th Regiment

Accounts of the Landing at San Carlos

By former Second Lieutenant “VGM” José Alberto Vázquez

Malvinas: Historias de Coraje




I was in command of a section of the 12th Regiment. On 15 May, in the Goose Green area, I embarked with my section aboard an Argentine Air Force Chinook helicopter, together with one 105 mm recoilless gun and two 81 mm mortars. Destination: somewhere in the north of the island. Two hours earlier, First Lieutenant Esteban and Second Lieutenant Reyes had done the same with their rifle section. At approximately 15:30 we arrived north of Height 234. The disembarkation was very rapid, as there were CAPs (combat air patrols) in the area. “Tell me where my commanding officer is,” I asked the vice commodore in charge of the helicopter. He replied that he had been unable to pick up First Lieutenant Esteban because of the notorious CAPs, and that he was on the other side of the height. The Chinook lifted off heavily and disappeared behind the rise.

We were left in absolute silence, feeling only the cold wind striking our faces. I was alone with my soldiers at the north-western tip of East Malvina; the sky was covered by a great mass of grey clouds, but on the far side of the strait one could clearly make out West Malvina. Behind me was the famous Height 234 (where Reyes, with 20 soldiers, would fight a short and violent battle against British commandos), and before me the immense Atlantic Ocean; and beyond that, Buenos Aires, where my wife and son were. I quickly abandoned my thoughts and organised the defence of the position. I had no idea whatsoever where the rest of the combat team was, and I needed to make contact as soon as possible, as I had less than two hours of daylight left. This task took me 45 minutes.

I left the section with its senior NCO and set off with Private Alberto Espinosa and Corporal Mansilla to look for the rest of the detachment. Strictly speaking, I should have sent out a patrol, but in real combat situations, and at the lowest command level (section), every activity was either led by the commander of the detachment or it was not done at all. That would become a defining characteristic from then on. There are circumstances in which the smallest tactical-level unit must divide. That is why, in war, the figure of the sergeant (section senior NCO) becomes fundamentally important in leading the section if necessary.

Armed with our personal weapons and ration bags, we began marching south, skirting the height on its eastern side. After 15 minutes of marching, we came upon a great stretch of water jutting eastwards into the island like a wedge. There was no trace of the detachment, only a small light visible on the far side of the strait (3 km away) to the south, and to the east, along the coast, a tiny glimmer that occasionally disappeared. There was no alternative but to head towards it.

The ground near the coast was full of irregularities, but I could not abandon the only point of reference I had, because I had neither compass nor map of the area, night was already closing in, and I had not the slightest idea where I was. After four hours of marching in pitch darkness, we came upon a small settlement, the first house 100 metres from our position. I knew that enemy special forces (SAS and SBS) were operating on the island, and I had to take the necessary precautions. For that reason I left my two men covering me from that position while I carried out a reconnaissance. Through one of the windows I saw a man and a woman having dinner. After giving the agreed signal, we entered the house, to the fright of its occupants. With my poor English I managed to learn that the place was San Carlos settlement and that Argentine soldiers had been occupying it since midday.

I left the NCO in the house and had the man accompany me to the bivouac of the supposed Argentines, with my pistol held 10 cm from the back of his neck. When I heard, “Halt, who goes there?”, I calmed down, and the kelper breathed again. I offered the appropriate apologies and joined my commanding officer. We spent the night there. First Lieutenant Esteban brought me up to date on the mission: in the event of a landing, we were to provide early warning and defend the position. He had established San Carlos settlement as the base and the observation post on Height 234. The combat team would be divided into three groups of 20 men, and together with Second Lieutenant Reyes (we called him Chelco) we would rotate; reliefs would take place every two days. The first shift would be under my command.

As my combat role weapon was a PA3 machine-pistol, Esteban had given me, before we left Goose Green, an Enfield .303 rifle with a case full of ammunition; thus, together with Private Espinosa, who did not carry an FAL because he was a radio operator, we formed an inseparable pair for the rest of the war, as he would be responsible for keeping me supplied with ammunition and I would be his shield of fire with that splendid Second World War rifle.

Before dawn, we drank some hot mate and set off for the post on Height 234 with First Lieutenant Esteban and 20 men. We arrived after two and a half hours of marching, and once the defence had been organised, Esteban and a group of men returned to base.

It was 16 May and my first wedding anniversary. Right then, two men set off and returned with a lamb, which we spitted and roasted using posts broken off from a wire fence. I had brought several packs of tinned soft drinks hidden in empty projectile boxes; I had borrowed them the night before departure from the store kept in the stone house (the command post of Task Force “Mercedes”) at Goose Green. Eight kilometres away lay the base of Combat Team “Güemes”, at Port San Carlos. The route was extremely difficult: stones, peat, and streams that could scarcely be seen, which made movement very hard indeed.

On the 17th I awoke very early, at first light, put water in my helmet, washed my face and teeth, and combed my hair. I heated a little water in my mug and prepared some mates. We had improvised the mate cup out of a soft-drink tin cut in half, and the bombilla was an empty BIC pen with the white cap and a few holes made with a heated nail.

At around 10:30, Second Lieutenant Reyes arrived with the relief. He had sprained his ankle. They were quite tired, and I offered them cold lamb and Coca-Cola. Chelco laughed and said to me: “You’re the only one who could welcome me with such a feast at the end of the earth, Rat.” And he embraced me. Rat was the nickname they had given me at the Military College, because I always found ways of getting hold of provisions, finding somewhere to curl up, and sleeping whenever possible.

Before leaving, we agreed to carry out the relief every five days because of the great wear and tear caused by marching across such terrain. I handed my helmet over to Reyes because he did not have one; the men of RI 25 wore berets. I then returned with my men to the base, with one less problem on my mind. At Goose Green I had had a fairly heated argument with a more senior officer who wanted me to wear my helmet in order to set an example to the troops, and he became quite angry when I told him that the example ought to be set by him, sleeping and eating rations with his men rather than under a roof in a house, as he had been doing.

At San Carlos we lived relatively well compared with the point on the strait. The inhabitants carried on with their normal lives, and we had to buy sugar, flour, and other things from them at market prices — their market prices, depending on how they happened to feel that day. Through our communications equipment (a Yaesu FT-101, a radio amateur set requisitioned from the kelpers in Darwin), I was able to speak with my wife.

On the morning of the 19th, sweeping frequencies, I picked up Belgrano II Antarctic Army Base communicating with the Antarctic Command. Since January, my wife’s cousin, engineer Gustavo Fossati, had been stationed there. In a matter of minutes, they established a radiotelephone connection with my in-laws’ house, and I was able to hear news of my family.

On several occasions during the night, enemy helicopters flew over us on reconnaissance missions, and with increasing frequency. That, together with other factors such as the geographical characteristics of the place, indicated that the enemy would carry out some action against our positions, and would do so soon.

On the night of the 20th, while I was organising my patrol for the next day’s relief on the 21st, the enemy began an intense preparatory, or softening-up, bombardment on various points of the island. Over the radio we heard several posts confirming those attacks. Lieutenant Esteban called me and informed me that he had changed the plans. A landing was now obvious. I had to send an NCO and a soldier to Height 234, with the համապատասխան communications set (Thompson), to give early warning in the event of a British landing. Reyes had to withdraw to our base with the men and the mortars, in order to form a defence with the whole combat team on the heights behind us. Unfortunately, we had no engineering tools, but the position was highly advantageous.

At approximately 01:30 we heard a great explosion in the distance and, 20 minutes later, an attempted transmission from Reyes. Then absolute silence. Before dawn, I woke the men who were to relieve Reyes. At first light they would begin the march. With the first daylight I was checking the radio and the weapons they would carry when a soldier posted 150 metres away on the upward slope of a rise began shouting for us. The sight was astonishing. Where only hours earlier a few seagulls had circled above the calm waters at the mouth of the San Carlos River, there were now five frigates surrounding a ship ten times larger (the Queen Elizabeth), and landing craft heading towards Ajax Bay and towards Port San Carlos, which was our position.

At approximately 600 metres, one could see an advance element of the British 2nd Parachute Regiment beginning its approach in combat formation towards our positions. As we ran down at full speed, Esteban said to me: “Gather everyone and form two groups, the one on the left under your command and the one on the right under mine.”

We had less than five minutes left to take up position on the north-eastern heights. While Esteban communicated with the commander of III Brigade to report events, I organised the two columns. I remember the soldiers looking at me with wide eyes, tense faces, and quickened breathing, waiting for orders. For an instant I remembered the telegram from my father received a few days earlier: “Your wife, an example of fortitude. Your son healthy and strong. Be an example to your soldiers.” I felt my heart pounding madly, as though it were about to burst. It had never happened to me before. It was fear, a great deal of fear, and suddenly I found myself giving orders, I do not know how.

We began moving with only our weapons, with the enemy entering the small settlement. Had we not done so, it would have been a massacre, for they would have pinned us with their advance and overrun us with the helicopter we shot down minutes later; tactically, we would have been lost. What might have happened afterwards, only God knows. The fact is that Esteban’s decision was the right one. For when we reached the summit, we saw a Sea King attempting to land behind our base. First Lieutenant Esteban ordered: “Open fire!” The aircraft was hit and turned orange from the tracers striking it, then collapsed from low height (5 or 6 metres).

At that moment I saw Esteban begin a change of position. I followed him. I believe what worried Esteban was being pinned down: 42 men with two machine guns and ammunition for one hour of combat against a landing force which, from what we could see, numbered 400 men in our sector — 2 Para Battalion — supported by naval artillery and helicopters.

The ground before us consisted of small ridgelines 70 to 100 metres high, with a general slope down towards the river. Our direction of movement was parallel to the river and perpendicular to the ridgelines, generally west to east. We went up and down. We were descending a gentle slope; the mist had already lifted and we had good visibility, when the second helicopter appeared, this time a Gazelle with rocket pods on its sides. It came along the river, which is quite wide there. At that moment the two columns were parallel to the river, separated by 60 to 70 metres from one another. Mine was the furthest away, about 100 metres from the shore.

The attack began with the first shot fired by First Lieutenant Esteban, as agreed: concentrated FAL fire. That is the combat tactic against aerial targets when one has no missiles. It seemed that what my first-year instructor at the Military College, First Lieutenant Abete, had taught me actually worked. The aircraft crashed into the water. The soldiers shouted every kind of epithet as the helicopter sank.

At a signal from Esteban, I carried out another change of position. At that moment, enemy mortar fire began falling on our initial position. We crossed another ridgeline and a third helicopter appeared, another Gazelle. There was no longer any need to issue orders: the conscripts were already behaving like veterans, they knew what to do. But the aircraft spotted our position and manoeuvred to bring fire to bear. When it dipped its nose to take aim, we once again emptied the whole magazine at the same time and at the same target. As the ammunition was tracer — that is, one could see the trajectory of the projectile as a trail of fire — it looked as though it were being attacked with a flamethrower. By then several of the soldiers were firing from one knee or even standing up.

The Gazelle passed over the first column and flew completely out of control towards my column. Everything happened so quickly that there was no time to move. It crashed 15 metres in front of me. The soldiers’ shouting was uncontrollable: “LONG LIVE THE NATION, DAMN IT!”, mixed with some sapucai cries and various other words, was heard until a crewman emerged from the machine and many of us opened fire on him. He was defenceless, he posed no danger to my soldiers. Why did we kill him? I still feel deep anguish over that death. Although I know that in the emotional state we were all in, the only thing one thinks of is firing and firing and firing until nothing moves. Besides, moments earlier he had wanted to kill us, so at the time it seemed just.

The mortar fire continued, but it was obvious that they did not have our location, since it was falling on the previous position and the shape of the ground was shielding us. We crossed a great rise, like a headland, projecting into the wide San Carlos River, and found ourselves at a cliff 10 or 15 metres high. We climbed down with difficulty and took up position among the rocks beside the shore. We could already hear the engine of another helicopter. It appeared round the side of the headland, as though searching for us along the coast, but our cover was excellent and we let it come closer. When it entered range we opened fire again. It began to fall and we stopped shooting. Before hitting the water, the pilot managed to lift it and cross the headland, crashing on the far side.

We were too far away to expect reinforcements. It was clear that what we had to do was withdraw until we made contact with our own troops, 80 km away. We had no ammunition, provisions, or equipment for sleeping out in the open. We were all on the alert, waiting to see what the enemy’s next move would be, when we heard an aircraft approaching, and within seconds it passed at great speed and very low towards the enemy positions. It was an Aermacchi; later we learned it was being flown by Lieutenant Crippa. He had taken off as soon as our warning was received. It was the first aircraft to arrive and drop its bombs and fire its machine guns at a frigate.

At that moment I felt great relief and thought: “Now we’ll throw the whole air force at them and, in five hours, our commandos and B Company of RI 12, which is in reserve at Port Stanley, will counter-attack.” That was merely the thought of a second lieutenant. We had suffered no casualties. The British had lost four helicopters and nearly a dozen men.

We decided to wait to see whether we had any news of Reyes; besides, it was a safe place in which to catch our breath and clear our heads. Second Lieutenant Reyes and his group had fought a short and violent battle in the early hours of 21 May. He first endured naval bombardment on his positions and then an attack by the Special Boat Squadron (SBS), naval commandos, and several amphibious armoured vehicles. In that action he suffered six casualties.

Given the scale of the landing, and having lost almost half his men, he decided, taking advantage of the poor visibility of the night, to try to break out of the encirclement closing around him in order to avoid annihilation. He succeeded 24 hours later and began a withdrawal that lasted almost 20 days, with no food, exposed to the elements, and suffering severe health problems, to the point that, with a penknife, he had to amputate a corporal’s foot. Port Stanley had already fallen, and Reyes, with the five starving soldiers he had left, malnourished and some already without teeth because of decalcification, was finally surrounded by British forces who demanded his surrender.

He asked his soldiers whether they were willing to fight. But they did not answer; they simply awaited their commander’s order, as always. Reyes, knowing he had not the slightest chance of success, surrendered. In Buenos Aires, when two years later we met again and told each other what we had lived through, he said that it was the expression on those five faces that led him to surrender on that occasion.

Later, we began a slow withdrawal eastwards and by dusk reached an outpost of San Carlos settlement. But that is another story.

BIM 5: The War of Second Corporal Agüero (1/2)

The Fight of Second Corporal Agüero – Part 1

Account taken from Revista Desembarco

Second Corporal Juan Carlos Agüero took part in the Malvinas War as a member of OBRA Company of the 5th Marine Infantry Battalion (BIM 5).

Second Corporal Agüero says: in 1982 I was posted to the 5th Marine Infantry Battalion. I was the leader of the 3rd Riflemen Group of OBRA Company. Our commander was Commander Carlos Robacio.

OBRA Company was, in reality, a reinforced rifle section: we were about 88 men—small for a company and large for a section. Our Company Commander was Sub-Lieutenant Ricardo Luis Quiroga, and the company senior NCO was Second Petty Officer Roberto Tejerina. The company’s organisation was three rifle groups, a 60 mm mortar and machine-gun group (two guns), a rocket-launcher detachment, the PELCA (command platoon formed by the commander and some 3 or 4 conscripts) and, when we arrived in the Malvinas, Second Corporal (medic) Angelossi joined us.

Once we arrived in the Malvinas and positions were assigned to BIM 5, we occupied a position between Mount Longdon and Wireless Ridge. Because of its size, our company had always been used in training as a reserve unit or as a forward observation unit, and in the Malvinas that was our mission: we were the battalion reserve. But with the arrival of Army regiments, we were ordered to move to another sector, near the positions of a company from RI-3. At that time we were still the reserve of BIM 5, but on 5 June, after repeatedly asking higher command to protect the avenue of approach—the only road linking Fitz Roy with the settlement—Captain Robacio decided to move his OBRA Company to Pony Pass, a forward sector. There the company would establish a blocking position.

Second Corporal Agüero recalls:

“My rifle group’s position was laid out on ground sloping down from W to E, but cut by a dried-up pond and a small natural rocky embankment, which allowed us to conceal ourselves if we had to fall back to the East. The northern end was marked by a distinctive rock beside the road leading to Fitz Roy. We had a frontage of 70 metres and were 150 m from the Company Command Post. The positions were about 150–200 m from a livestock fence and the anti-personnel minefield. That distance was chosen to achieve the effectiveness of our own fires on the interdiction line.

About 50 m to the rear and in the centre of the Group there was a rest and storage area (rations, sleeping bags, etc.) called the ‘Bunker’. This place did not protect against fire—only shelter for resting under cover. The terrain offered fields of fire and observation sectors for all weapons, being more open and flatter towards the Group’s left flank. The Group was reinforced, almost at the end, with a machine gun and a 3.5-inch rocket-launcher detachment.

At night the positions were manned two men at a time, and the rocket-launcher detachment was tasked to cover a post beside the road. All positions were double and had roofs made of corrugated sheet, timber, or tarpaulins with stops. They protected us from wind and rain; protection against fire was limited.

The road to Fitz Roy forked about 2,000 m to our front; we could clearly observe the branch that ran along the slope of Mount Harriet, while the other was partly masked by the undulations of the ground.

We had a light intensifier for the FM, and a Litton helmet-mounted night sight with the MAG. Only I had PAF and PD EF grenades. Each soldier carried 7.62 mm ammunition according to the weapon he carried:

FAL: 500 rounds; FAP: 1,000 rounds; MAG: 4 to 6 boxes plus a reserve of 2,000 rounds; 3.5-inch rocket-launcher.

‘C’ rations for about three days, plus supplementary mess improvements.

During the period up to 11 June the Company received sporadic naval gunfire, without causing casualties or affecting us. It was evident that this fire was not directed at the position; it was attributed to dispersion or the ships’ corrections. Harrier aircraft also flew over the area on photographic or strike missions, though the latter were always carried out against the Main Battle Area.

During the night of 11 June and the early hours of 12 June we saw the fighting for Mount Harriet, but there was little we could do. The British were more than 2,000 m from us; only a fraction that attempted an attack from the mountain’s rear came within our range, at a distance of about 800 to 1,000 m. From my position, using the night sight, we could see them clearly; some wore fluorescent markings on the back of their helmets. As they climbed, we fired at them from behind with the machine gun brought by Master Corporal Álvarez, together with conscripts Rava and Patrone. At that range our fire was not very effective; we fired one belt and suddenly began receiving fire from 6 or 7 machine guns, so we had to take cover. The master corporal received the order to return, but the machine gun remained with us on the front line.

Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga ordered the 60 mm mortars forward to hit the British; the mortar rounds fell on the enemy, but we had no way of verifying their effectiveness. At the same time, Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga adjusted the field artillery fire onto Harriet.

Apparently, by around 00:00 the enemy controlled part of the mountain, but RI-4 was still fighting; we could see and hear the explosions. Around 01:30 the British pushed upwards again. While this was happening, the company commander, Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga, reported to the BIM 5 command post. Captain Robacio informed the sub-lieutenant—and the sub-lieutenant informed us—that we were to prepare, because we might be used in a counter-attack if higher command authorised it; the authorisation never came.

At about 03:00 we managed to recover two conscripts from RI-4’s service section (soldiers Ibañes and Vallejos). They were given dry clothing, combat rations and ammunition and were incorporated into the company. They remained with us until the end of the fighting. At dawn on 12 June, Mount Harriet was in British hands.”

Repulse of the Enemy — 13 June

During the night of 12/13 June the enemy continued moving troops and helicopters in the Mount Harriet area, but our company had no significant developments. Twilight began at 08:16. At 22:34 the moon rose, on its first day of the last quarter. Artillery fire intensified over Tumbledown–William, Sapper Hill… Morning broke, and 13 June passed without major developments. At 15:30, at about 900 m, we saw elements advancing in an extended line abreast in front of the Company, with an estimated strength of 2 or 3 sections, wearing black berets (Welsh). The company’s support weapons were in a position to open fire, but the Company Commander ordered us not to, in order not to give away the position. He decided to engage them with our own artillery and made the corresponding requests. He reported to the BIM 5 command, which in turn reported to the Army grouping command (AGRUP. EA), which ordered the area to be shelled with all available artillery (B/BIAC taking part, Battery B of the Marine Infantry field artillery battalion). The fire was highly effective and the enemy withdrew in disorder; bodies could be seen being blown into the air. They then pulled back westwards towards helicopters that were waiting for them. Once the mission by our artillery ended, two enemy helicopters collected the wounded, observed from “OBRA” and from the BIM 5 observation post at Tumbledown; we allowed this medical evacuation to be completed without fire. In Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga’s words: “Not the wounded.” These actions were seen by the entire Company.

On this, Second Corporal Agüero, leader of the 3rd Group, says:

“On 13 June, at about 12:00, we saw enemy troops moving on foot over Mount Harriet, coming from the north-west. We judged them to be about the size of a company. They emplaced 81 mm mortars on the mountain; their hand-carriage could be made out, and we observed about four weapons. Then some of the personnel came down from the mountain towards the crossroads. They set up about five 7.62 mm machine guns on the road fork (prominent rocks in the terrain). Enemy helicopters unloaded crates—probably ammunition. Later, between Mount Harriet and the crossroads, a helicopter lift of personnel began, with an estimated strength of less than a company. The helicopters were Sea King and Wasp types, all dark-coloured. The movement lasted about an hour. I discussed these events with the group and we prepared for combat. There was noticeable nervousness and tension among the men. We had it in our heads that we had come for something—and that something was going to happen.

At about 15:00 the enemy advanced in an extended line; our artillery fired, but the first rounds fell long, on the far side of Harriet, and we could not see the subsequent impacts—only the smoke rising into the sky. Then I saw clearly, halfway up the visible face of Harriet, an artillery impact. They were falling in the enemy’s general area, but far from him. Three more impacts were corrected and only then did we get onto the target. Then effective fire was delivered: I saw an explosion that threw three or four bodies into the air. Wounded could be seen; they scattered seeking cover, shouting, and we could hear them clearly. There were more explosions and more wounded; bodies flew and were scattered. After about 15 or 20 minutes, Sea King-type helicopters were seen evacuating the wounded; their number could not be determined because the aircraft were positioned facing our lines and masked them.

After that nothing else happened until, before dark, I observed along the road from the West a force of English troops in tight column, assessed as a company. Before reaching the crossroads they deployed into an extended line to the south of the road and halted in the ground they had reached. The English marched calmly, apparently because our positions were well camouflaged and they did not know we were there. I reported the situation by radio to Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga, left my position and checked the Group’s readiness for combat, reiterating that we would be attacked that night.

At that time Sub-Lieutenant Quiroga had a fractured ankle, the result of some artillery rounds falling short and, while running to cover to make the correction, he broke his ankle. He was later evacuated and replaced by Lieutenant Commander Carlos Alberto Calmels, who had been our Company Commander the previous year. Lieutenant Commander Calmels arrived about 20 minutes before the attack on our positions began.”

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.

Conscript Falcón, A Leader at Mount Longdon

Miguel Ángel Falcón – A Leader at Mount Longdon

He was born on 6 October 1962 in Barranqueras, Chaco Province. His family recalls that Miguel was always a rebellious child. He didn’t follow rules—neither at home nor at school. In fact, he was known for skipping school at least one day every week. He served in the 7th Infantry Regiment “Colonel Conde”. He was killed in action during the battle of Mount Longdon, and among his belongings a deck of Spanish playing cards was found.

That youthful rebelliousness would lead him to star in a memorable story on the night of his final battle. The event was recounted in a letter by a fellow veteran:

"On the night of 12 June, when the British attacked us—in a true hell, with hundreds of shells and tracer rounds lighting up the sky—I saw the first section of our company getting ready to support Company 'B'. Among them were Lieutenant Castañeda, a corporal, and 44 conscripts like myself. I saw them preparing in the dark, all in single file, silent, trembling. Suddenly, from the line, a very skinny soldier jumped out—a humble lad who barely spoke because he was shy. It was Private Falcón.

He started rallying the men, clapping his hands, doing squats, with his FAL rifle slung over his back, shouting: ‘Come on, dammit! Bloody Brits, we’re going to smash you! We are the 7th, the 7th Regiment, let’s go, dammit!’

Out of nowhere, a leader emerged—someone who, in the most extreme circumstances, lifted the spirits of the rest."

This section’s actions were later recorded in British books as among the most heroic feats of the land battles in the Falklands. Out of the 46 men who went forward, 25 returned. Falcón was among those who stayed behind.




The Passage to Eternity – Conscript Soldier Miguel Ángel Falcón

As recounted by then-Lieutenant Castañeda:

We were ordered to launch a counterattack, flanked by an infantry section and an engineering unit that had already attempted to advance and had only made it halfway up the ridge due to the intense British fire. It was the night of 11 to 12 June.

We were guided by a message-runner, a conscript serving Major Carrizo. This soldier knew a sheep trail across Mount Longdon, as he crossed it daily carrying messages and knew all its nooks and crannies.

Once in position, we faced an enemy that seemed to grow in number as the hours passed. Without hesitation, I sent the runner back and we launched the assault, regaining a large portion of the lost ground.

Castañeda’s men tried to match the British rate of fire to prevent them from gaining confidence. At the same time, they shouted and hurled insults. The British responded in kind. Some conscripts used ammunition and weapons taken from dead or retreating enemy soldiers, driven back by the momentum of the Argentine attack.

Returning to Lieutenant Castañeda’s account:

A few metres from me, Private Miguel Ángel Falcón’s rifle was spitting fire nonstop, showing the same drive he had when we first moved out. Suddenly, something extraordinary happened. Falcón became enraged. He left his position, stood defiantly in front of the British, and kept firing from the hip while screaming insults at them.

The noise was deafening—gunfire, grenades, rockets, artillery. The air was unbreathable. The explosions shook our bodies. I shouted at him, 'Don’t be a fool, get down!' But perhaps he didn’t hear me—or didn’t want to.

He fired everything he had, threw grenades. Eventually, a machine-gun burst hit him. Falcón dropped to his knees, and as he fell forward, the barrel of his rifle drove into the ground, his chest resting on the buttstock. He looked as if he were kneeling in prayer.

Braving enemy fire, Private Gustavo Luzardo ran to him, laid him gently on the ground, looked at me, and with a gesture made it clear that Falcón was gone."

Why did he act that way? “Only he knows,” said Lieutenant Castañeda. “I believe he no longer cared—he was doing what he truly felt. God had called him, and he went happily, knowing he had fulfilled his duty.”

The Battle of Mount Longdon lasted over twelve hours, despite the vast imbalance in forces. That night, Argentine soldiers endured more than 6,000 rounds of gunfire, mortar shells, grenades, and artillery barrages. It was a brutal fight that displayed the extraordinary courage of our combatants.

Private Falcón was posthumously awarded the Medal of the Argentine Nation for the Fallen in Combat, and was officially declared a National Hero of the 7th Infantry Regiment.

 

Lamadrid, the Bravest of the Brave

The Bravest of the Brave

Domingo Faustino Sarmiento once said of him:

“General Lamadrid is one of those natural-born figures of the Argentine land. At the age of 14, he began waging war against the Spaniards, and the feats of his romantic bravery go beyond the limits of possibility: he has been in a hundred and forty encounters, in all of which Lamadrid’s sword emerged nicked and dripping with blood; the smoke of gunpowder and the neighing of horses drive him into ecstasy, and as long as he can slash everything before him—cavalry, cannons, infantry—it matters little to him whether the battle is won or lost.

I said he is a natural type of this country, not for his fabulous courage alone, but because he is both a cavalry officer and a poet. He is a kind of Tyrtaeus, inspiring soldiers with war songs—the same bard I mentioned in the first part; he is the gaucho spirit, civilized and devoted to freedom. Sadly, he is not a 'square' general, as Napoleon required; bravery outweighs his other qualities by a hundred to one.”

They say he was an inveterate candy eater.
He was terrified of water and did everything possible to avoid boarding boats and ships.
He would sing vidalitas to his soldiers before battles.

When San Martín took command of the Army of the North in early 1814, replacing Manuel Belgrano—recently defeated at Vilcapugio and Ayohuma—the Dragoon Captain from Tucumán, Gregorio Aráoz de Lamadrid, served as aide-de-camp to the future Condor of the Andes.

He was present in Tucumán and Salta. Also at Vilcapugio and Ayohuma.
And when he became entangled in the fratricidal civil wars between Unitarians and Federalists, fate took him to a place called El Tala.
There, fortune turned against him.
It was 1827. And he was nearly killed in that battle.

He received eleven saber blows to the head; his nose was broken and the tip dangled over his upper lip. His right ear, nearly sliced in two, hung by a thread of skin. Another slash severed the biceps of his left arm, and a bayonet struck deep into his shoulder blade.

When he fell to the ground, still gripping his saber, they clubbed him with rifle butts, trampled him with their horses, and broke his ribs. As they stripped him of his weapons and clothing, Lamadrid summoned his last strength and shouted, as best he could, that he would not surrender.
His body bathed in blood, they finished him off with a shot to the back.
They left, believing he was dead.

But he survived—against all odds.
And earned the nickname: “The Immortal.”

General Gregorio Aráoz de Lamadrid was born on November 28, 1795, in Tucumán.

A daguerreotype of the General reveals the true face of the warrior.
And a photograph of the bullet that was removed from his back—the one that shattered his shoulder blade—is on display at the National Historical Museum.

 

Mount Longdon: The Letter of Private Albert Petrucelli

The Letter of Private Alberto Petrucelli (7th Mechanised Infantry Regiment)

Malvinas 1982

This is the story of a letter that was never sent to its addressee, written by the Argentine soldier Alberto Daniel Petrucelli before he was killed in action during the Battle of Mount Longdon, in the Malvinas, in 1982.




Although this letter did not come directly into my hands, I learned about it thanks to the kindness of Malvinas veteran Fernando Arabio. We got chatting after I posted on social media about the circumstances in which Sergeant Ian McKay, a British soldier of the 3rd Battalion of The Parachute Regiment, was killed while assaulting Argentine positions on Mount Longdon on the night of 11–12 June 1982. The Argentine soldier Alberto Daniel Petrucelli had been born on 18 October 1962 in the Federal Capital, and in the Malvinas he formed part of the First Rifle Group, Second Section, B “Maipú” Company, 7th Mechanised Infantry Regiment “Coronel Conde”.

The letter is addressed to Nancy, Alberto Petrucelli’s girlfriend, and is dated 29 May 1982. It is possible that he wrote it at a moment when he was left on his own because Corporal Gustavo Pedemonte, the group commander, and soldiers Enrique Ronconi (A Team Leader) and Felipe Ramírez (B Team Leader) had gone out on patrol to carry out a forward observation on the Murrell River. It is written on a sheet of Government Telegraph Service, Falkland Islands, stationery which Corporal Pedemonte himself had given him. Pedemonte in turn had received it from another soldier who had managed to get hold of some of the stationery that was seized in the house of the British governor Rex Hunt after Operation Rosario.



In the letter “from a hero to his official girlfriend” (as he himself headed it), Private Petrucelli conveys his deep love for his girlfriend and other feelings he was harbouring, from a strong faith in God and in the Virgin who protected him, to uncertainty about how events would unfold, which had remained unchanged since 1 May. Not least is his mention of that very day on which he was writing, when he was delighted to see snow start to fall and then disappointed shortly afterwards because the snow turned into British shells. The paragraph begins by telling her that he was well and that he would stay “escondidito” (“nicely hidden”), just as she had asked him to do in previous letters. However, in another passage of the letter Petrucelli wrote that he felt like crying but did not, because he “made himself strong and felt like a man”.



During the assault on the Argentine positions, carried out by the 3rd Battalion of The Parachute Regiment, Privates Alberto Petrucelli and Enrique Ronconi together with Corporal Gustavo Pedemonte brought down Sergeant Ian McKay, who fell on the edge of the foxhole they occupied. An hour later Private Julio Maidana joined the position and began refilling the magazines with two or three rounds at a time so that they could keep firing without delay. The three soldiers died heroically when a grenade managed to get into the foxhole and its explosion killed them. Corporal Pedemonte, who was at one end of the hole and shielded by the bodies of the soldiers, was hit by shrapnel in a leg and a buttock but survived. Afterwards, when the British soldiers who had approached the position moved away, he was able to climb out of the foxhole to seek help desperately for his men.

Private Gareth Rudd, belonging to the machine-gun team of 3rd Section, 2nd Platoon, A Company, 3rd Battalion The Parachute Regiment, told his comrade David J. Reeves that after the assault on Mount Longdon the British held firm in their defensive positions to protect themselves from the Argentine field artillery fire that was pounding them. Later, he went out with another soldier to patrol the northern side of Mount Longdon and they discovered the bodies of Sergeant Ian McKay and of the soldiers who had died with him while assaulting an Argentine position that had been very well constructed. They searched the position and found the bodies of three Argentine soldiers, pulled them out of the foxhole and laid them alongside the fallen British. The Argentine soldiers were better equipped with clothing and boots for the climate of the Malvinas, and as it was bitterly cold, Gareth Rudd took the duvet from one of the dead soldiers in an attempt to keep himself warmer. He then informed a non-commissioned officer about the bodies they had found and went back to his own shelter, as the Argentine artillery fire had started up again.



Gareth Rudd was part of the group of British soldiers who wrapped that whole group of dead British and Argentine soldiers in ponchos. It was not until he reached Puerto Argentino and settled with other soldiers in one of the houses that, when checking the pockets of the duvet, he discovered the letter from Alberto Petrucelli to his girlfriend Nancy. The letter ended up being kept in a wardrobe where he also had photographs, newspaper cuttings, maps and his own correspondence with his family.

More than forty years later, Mr David J. Reeves got in touch with Fernando Arabio and sent him the letter and the note in which his comrade Gareth Rudd told him how he had found it. Fernando managed to contact Mrs Nancy, who now lives in Chile with her family. At first, Mrs Nancy agreed to receive the letter, but in the end she decided not to, perhaps because of the memories it would stir up. Fernando then contacted Gustavo Pedemonte and the letter was donated to be placed on public display in the Museum of the 7th Mechanised Infantry Regiment.