Malvinas: The Medical Unit in Combat (Part 1)

The Medical Unit in Combat (Part 1)

Private “VGM” DAVID DIAZ

As I belonged to the Medical Unit of the Service Company, when the detachment that was to depart for the Malvinas was being formed, I was assigned as a stretcher-bearer together with Private Dardo Romacho, who had studied medicine and was from Añatuya. Like the rest of the members of the Military Aviation School, we left for Comodoro Rivadavia, then for Puerto Argentino, and finally for Goose Green.

At first we were quartered in an old school together with members of the Argentine Army’s 25th Infantry Regiment. We were then moved to one of the islanders’ empty houses, since, by order of the commanders of the various detachments, the Kelpers had been instructed to leave their homes and go to live all together in the church, as a way of keeping them under control and preventing them from carrying out intelligence activities or observing our positions, movements, and so forth.

After the British attack of 1 May, we occupied a house located between Darwin and Goose Green. With regard to that first enemy attack, I remember that on that day I was on guard duty at the Command Post, and I was feeling rather sad because I was thinking of my beloved Santiago, since that day is Labour Day and in my city people go to Aguirre Park intending to spend a pleasant day, eating barbecues and dancing chacareras. I would normally go there with my family and friends. But that nostalgia was abruptly interrupted when I suddenly heard a very loud noise and saw, on the horizon, two aircraft coming straight at us dropping bombs.

By instinct I threw myself flat on the ground and managed to escape unharmed, but unfortunately other comrades were not so lucky and were hit by the aircraft’s accurate fire, some losing their lives and others being wounded. Sadly, the members of the Medical Unit were given the most thankless mission, having to move and bury the dead and tend to the wounded. Private Romacho normally dealt with the wounded because he had medical knowledge, while I had to deal with the dead. As I could not carry out this task alone, First Lieutenant Beranek asked for two soldiers to be assigned to assist me. They dug the graves, while I wrapped the dead in black plastic zip bags, and then we buried them.

“It was a very hard experience for me, one that marked me for life,” because it was the first time I had ever had to touch a dead person or help treat the wounded. The impact this had on me was such that I did not eat for three days.

Two days later, while we were digging the last graves for burial, we were attacked by a formation of Sea Harrier aircraft which flew over our heads. As soon as we heard the alarms, we “dived head-first” into the graves, thus avoiding being cut down by the bullets that were “sweeping the ground”. Once the assigned task had been completed, I went to the settlement, where I obtained timber and nails, built some crosses, and placed them on the makeshift graves as a sign of Christian respect and to honour their memory.

In one of those attacks, I remember that one of the pilots ejected wounded as a result of shots fired by Private Loaiza, but when he hit the ground he died. Once again I had the sad mission of burying him. He was a heavily built man, and it took me a great deal of effort to wrap him in plastic because his body was very contracted and partly burnt. I had to cut the tendons below the knee, bend his leg, and in that way I was able to fit him into the bag.

But besides carrying out that very hard task, I also performed medical duties, that is, supporting the men through treatment, providing them with medicines, and so forth, which gave me some comfort because I was helping to relieve people’s suffering. In general, our function was to go round the positions every day handing out a pill that we called a “vitamin” tablet because it “gave greater strength and endurance”, as it allowed us to stand guard and work for several hours without feeling any tiredness at all.

We provided medical support both to Air Force personnel and to the Army soldiers. The fact of taking our medical support to the personnel defending the Darwin area, Goose Green, and other places on East Malvinas allowed me to get to know many people and places, and to take part in and witness events which I shall now relate.

One day we stretcher-bearers were ordered to move under Corporal Waitima’s command to a place on the island where a ship carrying survivors had run aground. We were loaded into a helicopter and, when we reached the ship, we could see that it was half-sunk, but we saw no sign of any living personnel. On the way back, the helicopter pilot, faced with the presence of enemy aircraft, began flying at ground level, skimming past the mountains, until he landed and ordered us to evacuate quickly and take up position well away from the aircraft. And so we remained for more than two hours, and when we were sure that the danger had passed, we boarded again, took off, and were able to return to our positions.

Another event in which my companion Romacho and I took part occurred when, in the midst of the calm of a sunny and peaceful day, we first heard the alarm sound, then anti-aircraft fire, and finally saw a combat aircraft crash. Unfortunately, it was a Navy aircraft that had entered the exclusion zone without requesting due authorisation. In that incident its pilot, Lieutenant Gavazzi, was killed. Romacho was ordered to go to the site where the aircraft had come down and bring back the deceased. When he returned, he brought only some human remains that had been scattered around the aircraft. We buried him together with the others.

One day a Prefecture launch approached, bringing us medicine and food. As it entered San Carlos Strait, it was attacked by two Sea Harrier aircraft. In that action one person was killed and two others were wounded. The latter were evacuated by helicopter to Puerto Argentino, and the dead man was buried in the cemetery that, without intending to, we had inaugurated.

One morning, while we were resting, we were ordered to go to Elephant Bay to collect an English pilot who had ejected and, after falling into the water, had been rescued by an Argentine Commando, who had taken him prisoner. We went by helicopter and brought him back together with the commando, who spoke perfect English. The prisoner had a fractured collarbone and, after receiving first aid, he was transferred to Puerto Argentino.

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!”

Malvinas: Argentine Nurses Dare to Help

The nurses who dared to travel to the Malvinas during the war

Six instrumentalists saved lives during the conflict with England; soldiers still write them letters of gratitude
By Natalia Pecoraro | LA NACION

They were in their twenties and were surgical instrumentalists at the Central Military Hospital. In June 1982 they voluntarily applied for a call to serve in the Malvinas. A day later they embarked heading south and worked on the ARA Almirante Irízar Icebreaker, which functioned as a hospital ship off Puerto Argentino.

Marta Lemme and Susana Maza remember those days with emotion and respect. 30 years after the war, they can relive every moment and tell their experiences in detail. They acknowledge that they were afraid and very anxious, but they do not regret it. "Our function was to serve the Homeland and that is what we did," they maintain.



Marta had started working at the Central Military Hospital (HMC) in 1980. Susana, four years before. On April 2, 1982, when the Argentine landed in the archipelago, they asked if they could sign up to go, but there were no precise instructions. Furthermore, the woman was not incorporated into the Armed Forces with a military rank: only at the end of that year were her first promotions received.

In June, at the request of the Puerto Argentino Hospital, the HMC management opened a call: the combat was leaving people seriously injured and they needed qualified personnel for surgeries. "They told us that if we wanted, we could participate. They required people who knew how to prepare the rooms, the material, the apparatus...At that time, since there were no military personnel, the instrument technicians were all women and were civilians. The nurses who had a degree military personnel were not instrumentalists," explains Susana.

The call bore fruit: five nurses from HMC and one from Campo de Mayo Military Hospital signed up. "It was a quick thing, they told us one noon and we left the next day," she says. Marta adds that the family members had little time to digest it. "Sometimes they ask me what my parents said, but they didn't have time to think," she says.

At five in the morning they gathered at the HMC guard, on Luis María Campos Avenue, in Palermo. From there, Aeroparque, Río Gallegos, helicopters, the Irízar. They equipped them with boots, jackets, and coats. And they set sail for Malvinas. They synthesize: "Deep emotion, anxiety, uncertainty."

There were 300 military men on the icebreaker converted into a hospital. "They received us very well, they were very attentive. First they were amazed that we were there," they describe.

"When we got to the ship, the first thing I wanted to do was call my family to say I was okay. Until I found a radio to do so, I didn't stay calm," says Marta.

The first moments on board were uncertain. "I was afraid, uneasy. Nobody knew anything and that made me feel bad. I started to question a lot of things. Had I done well? Will I be useful for something?" she recalls.

"Once they told me where and how we were going to work, I was calm," she adds.

The nurses worked on El Irízar, transformed into a hospital ship. Photo: Courtesy Susana Maza

When they arrived at Puerto Argentino, the combat did not let up. The Irízar was caught in the crossfire and the captain made a decision. Susana relates: "They told us that our presence would be more useful on the ship than on land. The cessation of hostilities was already foreseen: we were going to join the line of prisoners."

"We shouted to the sky. We had traveled to be in the Malvinas, we wanted to go down and we were there, right in front. But soon they began to evacuate the wounded and the pace of work became intense," they remember.

"We were in an operating room, after a while we went to therapy, to post-surgery. You went from one side to the other and in full action, accelerated, you don't think, you don't complain: you act," they summarize.

According to what they say, the hospital ship was well equipped: intensive and intermediate therapies, several operating rooms, radiotherapy, portable radiology, hyperbaric chamber, clinical laboratory and dental office.

"The soldiers were surprised to see women. After the surprise, they began to open up, to have more confidence, they saw in us a protective figure; the sister, the mother, the girlfriend," they remember.

The faces of some injured people and certain surgical interventions are not erased. Months and even years later, they didn't forget either. "They always thanked us, they have written us letters. One even invited me to his wedding," says Marta.

The return from Malvinas was hard: the day they were informed of the cessation of hostilities they cried. Marta remembers a soldier who prayed the rosary. "Those things excite me. There was a mass and I unloaded. I cried, I relaxed. I still get emotional," she says.

Susana talks about an officer who moved her. "He showed us a chest with the Argentine flag and told us that in case of attack or sinking, he was going to run there to get it out, so that it would not fall into enemy hands. It's not that I'm sentimental, but today I hear a national song and I I'm excited," he confesses.

The group of women returned from Malvinas on the third Sunday in June. The next day they showed up for work, but were given a week's leave. Today, they continue to work as scrub nurses at HMC.