Biography: Captain Héctor Sánchez, the destroyer of Bahía Agradable

Captain Hector “Pipi” Sanchez (AAF)

By Hernan Longoni in Historia de Aviones

1) When did he graduate from the EAM (Military Aviation School)?
December 1975.

2) What reasons led him to join the Aviation School?
He had no idea that the EAM existed, nor what the Air Force was. When my desk mate in 5th year at the Urquiza National School in San Nicolás told me that he was going to join the EAM, I asked him to explain everything related to the Air Force. Since there was the possibility of becoming a military aviator, that fact led me to decide to register to join the Institution. I made this decision almost at the end of the year, so I had to make a great effort to prepare myself to take the exams, with the help of my friend, who had already been preparing for quite some time. Later, Orlando Pons and I would graduate as Ensigns, being classmates of Class XVI.

3) What did you feel when you graduated from it?
Primarily great emotion and relief for the effort that my parents had to make to finance my studies. From that moment on, I had a salary that allowed me to support myself by my own means, without being a burden on my family. Regarding the future, everything was uncertainty and big questions. Would I be able to meet the expectations that the organization placed on me? Would I be able to fulfill my dream/vocation of becoming a military pilot? Would I be able to fly combat aircraft after achieving the goal of overcoming the demands of basic training as an aviator? I was always very aware that, above all, one was a soldier first, and then came the next goal of becoming a Military Aviator. But what decision would I have made if I had not become a pilot, and above all, a fighter pilot?

4) What rank and age did you have when the Malvinas Conflict broke out?
In 1982, I was a 1st Lieutenant in the second year (it takes 4 years in the rank to be promoted to Captain), and I was 28 years old.

5) What position and role did you have?
When the recovery of the Islands occurred, I was undergoing the adaptation course to fly Mirage III aircraft at the VIII Air Brigade. I had not completed more than 5 flights in two-seater aircraft, so I was not qualified to intervene in the conflict with these aircraft. Thanks to Captain Varela, one of the Flight Leaders of the A4-B Squadrons, and at my request, I was called to join as an attaché to the II Air Squadron to fly in the Weapons System.

6) What were the most pressing needs during the conflict from the perspective of your position?
Having accurate information on the position of naval targets, ensuring that all aircraft had the OMEGA navigation system, having the appropriate weaponry to attack naval targets, obtaining proper intelligence information on the positions of British troops after the landing, having a landing strip in the Malvinas suitable for our aircraft, and being allowed to operate from Puerto Argentino despite the risks involved, etc.
It is important to note that the primary responsibility of the Air Force is to train and equip (including weaponry) for air and air-land battles. On the other hand, the primary responsibility of the Navy is to be prepared for air-naval battles, which is why they had weaponry suited to the conflict they faced. For the above reasons, all Air Force Squadrons during the conflict had to adapt to a battle that was not their primary responsibility. The most important thing to keep in mind is that they had never trained in tactics to attack naval targets (ships), nor did they have the appropriate weaponry to attack those targets. All knowledge had to be acquired during the conflict, based on the experiences learned from each mission that was carried out.

7) Who or what was your source of confidence during the conflict?
The training and preparation I had flying the A4s, our Flight Leaders (Tony Zelaya and Trucha Varela, two idols), my Squadron Leaders, those of us who formed a combat formation every time we flew a real mission, the camaraderie and companionship that developed within the group, the Argentine people who supported the conflict to recover our Islands, and, of course, everything was ultimately in the hands of God, for the fate of my life during my engagement with the British.

8) What did your loved ones say regarding the risk?
At that time, there were no cell phones, emails, or the means of communication we have today. Everything was done by telephone, and even that was limited to those who had a phone line installed in their homes. My mother always believed I was in Buenos Aires during the development of the conflict, thanks to the collaboration of the rest of the family who maintained my deception to avoid causing her distress (my father had passed away in 1976). My family was far away and had no military background, so for them, the concept of the risk associated with military activity was difficult to grasp.

9) What do you feel about the performance of your weapons system during the conflict?
I feel proud to have been able to participate in the conflict with such an incredible human group that came together. Everyone was included: the "Gordo" Romero (the Group's doctor), pilots, technical support staff, logistics personnel, etc. Everyone was part of a perfectly functioning team where each specialty contributed its grain of sand to ensure we could fulfill the assigned missions.
In particular, the air squadrons were very united; we knew the risks we were taking and enjoyed every minute we had available when we were not engaged in aerial operations. Each of us contributed goodwill and a sense of humor to always keep the group's spirit high.
When it was time for aerial missions, we always volunteered to go on them. With my dear friend Tucu Cervera, we even argued at times to be part of certain missions.
The Air Squadrons were a perfect combat machine that, despite the old nature of the aircraft, demonstrated to the world what can be achieved with training, ingenuity, effort, sacrifice, and a will to fight.

10) Is there a specific aircraft you flew during the conflict that holds a special memory for you?
Fundamentally, the A4-B with registration number C-231, as it was the aircraft that brought me back on June 8th after surviving the attack of two Sea Harriers in Bahia Agradable.

11) Before or after the conflict, did you ever fly a mission that pushed the limits of your aircraft's capabilities?
During our preparation and training in peacetime, we always conducted long-duration navigation flights. This is part of the training for combat pilots in the Air Force, as our potential targets to attack are always located in the heart of enemy territory (runways, command and control centers, enemy power centers, logistics bases, etc.).
I have several examples of these training flights we carried out (some of them with training ammunition, as we ended the navigation flights with shooting practice in designated areas).
One of the flights I remember was from Villa Reynolds (the natural base for A4-Bs in San Luis) to the Iguazú Falls, air refueling with the C-130s, and returning via a different route to the 5th Air Brigade (Villa Reynolds).
On another occasion, we took off at night with Tucu Cervera (before dawn) from Río Gallegos (where we were deployed to train for operations in the southern part of the national territory), flew at low altitude during the night, carried out a simulated night attack on the Comodoro Rivadavia Air Base, and returned to Río Gallegos. The entire final phase of the approach and attack on Comodoro Rivadavia was carried out with the aircraft's external lights turned off.

12) Did you ever have a mission where you couldn't reach the target? What did you feel?
On June 7, 1982, we set out on a mission to attack naval targets southeast of Gran Malvina Island with Danilo Bolzan as the leader, "Conejo" Dubourg (our Squadron Leader) as Number 2, and myself as Number 3. Unfortunately, despite flying over the area, we were unable to locate any ships, so we had to return to Río Gallegos. The feeling is mixed; on one hand, there is the risk and fear that comes with the aerial formation remaining in the combat zone searching for the enemy (due to the possibility of being detected and intercepted by Sea Harriers). On the other hand, there is the frustration of not being able to locate the targets to neutralize them. Every target that was not attacked or found at the time represented an enormous risk for future attack formations heading into the conflict zone.

13) What is your relationship with your veteran comrades today?
There is a great friendship reflected in the permanent gatherings we organize to share a meal and remember the harrowing days we lived through during the conflict. Of course, our fallen friends and comrades are always present with us, remembered with affection and especially for the human qualities that characterized them. What always stands out during our gatherings is maintaining the same spirit we had during the conflict. Through jokes, songs, and good humor, we avoid dwelling on the risks we faced during those days.

14) When — if it is the case — did the war end for you?
The war still hasn't ended for me; we only lost a battle. None of the members of our group ever surrendered — we were simply ordered to suspend aerial operations. We still had the equipment and crew members to continue fighting despite the losses we had suffered up to that point (9 pilots). Today, the war must continue, even if it is through other means (for example, diplomacy or politics). The strategic objective must never be abandoned.

15) Did you have a mission assigned to be carried out after June 14, 1982, and were you surprised by the surrender?
Aerial missions were suspended on June 14. The surrender in the Islands did not personally surprise me; after the British landing at San Carlos Bay and their advance toward Puerto Argentino, without facing resistance with the available means, the outcome that occurred was foreseeable. Airpower alone is insufficient to stop a landing or the advance of ground forces.

16) Did the war end for you?
The conflict did not end, and it remains a part of my life that has not been fully closed. What's more, even today, we must fight against the forgetfulness of our blessed people regarding the noble cause that was undertaken to recover our Malvinas. I don't want to be simplistic or generalize, as there are always exceptions to the rule. It is sad to see today how divided we are in every area we observe: those who fought and those who did not; the professionals versus the conscripts; those who receive a pension and those who do not. It is truly painful to see the neglect of the effort made by those who gave their lives in combat. At the time, everyone volunteered to fight for their country, without expecting any medals, recognition, or economic compensation. It seems that today, our leaders "buy" or satisfy us with handouts, whether we are poor, war veterans (VGM), or friends of those in power. An example to follow is the one being set by the Japanese people in the face of the difficult times they are going through after the natural disasters they have had to endure. Only national unity will eventually allow us to achieve our strategic objectives, be it the Malvinas, progress and growth, stability, etc. But for that to happen, our people (including their leaders) must set aside personal and sectoral interests.

 

17) Did you go to the islands (landing) during the conflict? Under what circumstances?
No.

18) Did you go to the islands after the conflict? Why? (in case of a yes or no answer)
I haven't gone yet, but I plan to visit at some point. I would like to visit the places where I fought alongside my comrades during the conflict. Stepping on the soil of the Malvinas, even if it is not under our administration, might allow me to shed the "backpack" I have been carrying on my shoulders since the end of the conflict.

Relatos Históricos de la Guerra de Malvinas

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!”