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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malvinas: Argentine Troops had Orders not to Kill on April, 2nd

'We had orders not to kill'

Poder Naval

What was the recovery of the Malvinas like from the perspective of an Argentine military officer?

 

Jacinto Batista is the symbol of the reconquest of the Malvinas Islands by the Argentines on April 2, 1982. Jacinto told his story to journalist Guido Braslavsky, from the newspaper Clarín, on April 1, 2002.

He was wearing a wool cap. His face was blackened with combat paint. He carried the weapon close to his body in his right hand and with the other arm he indicated to the English prisoners to remain in line with their hands raised. Jacinto Eliseo Batista is the protagonist of this photo above that traveled the world, becoming a symbol of the taking of Puerto Argentino, on April 2, 1982.

Twenty years later (the article was written in March 2002), approaching his 52nd birthday and less than two months after retiring after 35 years in the Navy, Petty Officer Batista lights his fourth cigarette on a humid morning in Punta Alta and affirms :“I am not homesick for the Falklands. It was a stage in my life and my career. I received an order and followed it. "That's what the State pays me for.".

Probably not all members of the Amphibious Command Group that surrendered to the British behave in the same way as this Columbus-born man, who says he has no interest in returning to the Falklands as a guest or tourist. However, he affirms that “if the State tells me to recover them again I will be there.” Because, like all elite soldiers, Batista is made of a special wood. Amphibious commandos are at the same time divers, paratroopers, commandos and reconnaissance specialists on land and water. They learn to endure everything. They are soldiers trained for war, the exact opposite of many young people who did not choose the Malvinas as their destination, nor do they live in a war and die in it.

Maybe that's why Batista was never afraid. Not even at the beginning when they embarked in Puerto Belgrano aboard the frigate “Santísima Trinidad”, heading in an unknown direction, even with everyone's suspicion that a real operation was being carried out in the Malvinas.

“As soon as we were on the high seas, they gave us the necessary guidance to carry out the mission. We disembarked on April 1, shortly after 9:00 p.m. I was the boat's guide and, from the shoreline, the explorer. We only had night vision equipment and I was the one wearing it, who was ahead for about 200m.”

“We were sure that the English were not expecting us. We walked all night. The targets were the Royal Marines barracks and the governor's house. We had orders not to kill, because the plan was possibly to take the islands and negotiate a withdrawal.

“We separated into two groups. I went to the barracks, but I didn't find anything because the marines were outside guarding the targets. There we raised the Argentine flag for the first time. The group that went to the governor's house, however, encountered resistance and constant shots were heard. “It was almost daylight and the resistance persisted. The first Englishman I met was a sniper with a Mauser rifle. I took it apart. When we met at the house, the situation was almost under control.

The only casualty in this action – the first death of the war – was Captain Pedro Giachino. “When I arrived I was hurt. He had entered the house and, upon leaving, he was knocked down by a soldier who was behind a nearby tree line. I asked him: “What happened to you, Pedro,” and I touched his head. He was conscious, but very pale, he had lost a lot of blood and was dying.

Batista does not remember at what point during that frenetic day the photographer Rafael Wollman took a photograph with the English prisoners. He knows, however, that this image is a relentless portrait of the old imperial lion's wounded pride. “On June 14, they had to look for me to take a photo with my arms raised,” he imagines with a smile.

But the cable was not in Puerto Argentino on the day of the fall: “On April 2 we returned to the continent.” Batista never returned to the islands, but this almost happened when an infiltration mission was planned during the British landing, but the Hercules that would carry them suffered a breakdown on the runway.

“The British were no better than us. They had more means and more support. From Americans and Chileans. But if Argentina had had the firm conviction to fight…” says Batista, leaving the phrase in the middle, like a question.

Source: Clarín