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.

Malvinas: Ambush of a Harrier

Ambush of a Harrier

The 20th of May did not bring any major change. The soaked Commandos gathered up their disordered and even damaged kit to load it into the helicopters, where at least the pilots and ground crew had been spared the full force of the elements. But this difference in comfort was accepted by all, since it was in the troops’ interest that the pilots should remain as clear-headed as possible. They were on the slopes of Mount Rosalía. Only at about ten in the morning did things improve a little and, despite the risk of colliding with some rise in the ground, the helicopters took off; after fifteen minutes of flying practically blind, they had to set down again. A new opportunity around midday took them to an abandoned little house to the south — Rosalie House — where they landed with all the security measures appropriate to the warning that had brought them there. At about two in the afternoon the weather cleared, and half an hour later they finally arrived at Port Howard, thirty kilometres away. The operation was carried out late in relation to the original warning about the possible presence of the enemy, based on signals detected four days earlier. Even so, Major Castagneto detached two Puma helicopters — each carrying a section — to reconnoitre to the north and north-west of Howard, to a depth of fifteen kilometres, which produced no visible results. Nor was it the first time the Commandos had been used, as they said, “to chase sheep”…

There was little daylight left, and 601 Commando Company prepared to spend the night in the settlement, which was occupied by 5th Infantry Regiment. At that point Major Yanzi, in charge of the four helicopters, decided to return to refuel. Castagneto had argued, in front of General Parada, commander of 3rd Brigade, and Lieutenant Colonel Reveand, commander of the Helicopter Company, that those aircraft had to remain with the Commandos and must not deprive them of mobility. Castagneto and Reveand became embroiled in a heated argument: the helicopter commander cited the risks, and the Commando commander replied that in war everything was risky, and that even a shoot-down was compatible with the missions they were carrying out:

“Much more than the dollars a helicopter may be worth, the life of one of my Commandos is worth, and he may need that aircraft!” exclaimed an enraged Castagneto.

But no reasoning could change Lieutenant Colonel Reveand’s stance, and Major Yanzi set off back to the capital, leaving the Company isolated at Howard, completely cut off from the likely British landing areas on Gran Malvina Islando (East Falkland). That night the forty men bivouacked in a shearing shed near the rudimentary jetty, where part of a section of Engineers was also billeted. There they endured the rigours of atrocious cold, made worse by a constant wind that intensified it, and by the damp that seeped up through the gaps in the floorboards.

At first light on Friday 21st, Captain Frecha went to identify the dominant points from which to establish the anti-aircraft ambush, which was set up near the command post of 5th Regiment, in the centre of the settlement, practically along a fence that divided two fields. At Port Howard the regiment’s only anti-aircraft defence consisted of .50 calibre (12.7 mm) machine guns, with limited effective range: eight hundred metres at most. The Blowpipe missiles, by contrast, were effective out to three thousand metres. Although that Infantry Regiment was deployed there with two sections from 3rd Engineer Company and elements of 3rd Signals Company, up to that point Howard had lived a life similar — as Castagneto put it — to that of “a quiet summer afternoon in some Argentine province”.

Further south, at the mouth of Malvinas Strait (Falkland Sound), 8th Infantry Regiment with 9th Engineer Company was encamped at Fox Bay. The Commandos’ anti-aircraft group took up position one hundred and fifty metres from the water, near where A Company was located, in the following order: Captain Ricardo Frecha towards the bay area, near a peat store; then First Lieutenant Sergio Fernández; and then Corporal Jorge Martínez as aiming unit no. 3, each one separated by twenty metres. Fernández remained unhappy in that team because, as the commander of an assault section and eager to lead it in war, he had had to give up that role in the interests of the whole. He felt frustrated in the ambition of his entire life: he was a mere aimer, performing a task that, in his view, could have been carried out by a non-commissioned officer…

But the role of the man in charge of a surface-to-air missile is not as subordinate as this officer, in his state of mind, made it out to be. First, the aimer must place himself along the likely line of flight the aircraft will take, given the characteristics of the terrain; and secondly he must stand fully exposed, without any protection, in order to fire as nearly head-on as possible, since, owing to the aircraft’s speed, the missile is hard to guide effectively if it passes across the front: beyond three thousand metres it becomes uncontrollable.

With the sun up, at about quarter past eight, the sound of helicopter rotors began to be heard. At first the Commandos thought they were friendly, because they were coming from the direction of Darwin–Goose Green; but shortly afterwards they spotted, far off over the Sound, an aircraft that was clearly overflying the area on a reconnaissance mission, which Argentine helicopters did not do, as they took the most direct route. Half an hour later it approached Shag Cove — a nearby inlet — and any doubts were dispelled: it was an armed British Lynx. It remained there for quite some time and then left relatively close by, at about four kilometres, but beyond the range of ground fire.

The Company commander went to the central communications post to establish contact with Port Stanley and find out whether the aircraft would be hunted. The sound of jet engines was then heard. It could only be an enemy aircraft, and First Lieutenant Fernández thought immediately: “We are going into action.” He looked at his watch: it was five minutes to ten. They quickly took up their firing positions, aiming to the south-east towards the far end of the bay (four kilometres away), from an excellent location with a wide field of fire. As it came into clearer view, all doubt vanished: it was the unmistakable silhouette of a Harrier, with its two wide air intakes and swept wings. It was approaching on a slightly oblique course, possibly to observe the coast better, and when it was three thousand metres away, Frecha and Fernández opened fire. The two missiles shot off in parallel, simultaneously, towards the target.

The aircraft was flying low over the water, twenty metres above the surface, when it suddenly banked to its right, towards the opposite shore closing the bay. The pilot had seen the attack and was manoeuvring evasively, and it looked as though he were about to smash into the heights on the far side of the bay. But after some three hundred metres on that heading, and without reducing speed, he changed course and flew at low altitude over Howard. The incredible manoeuvrability of the aircraft meant that the two missiles exploded along the strip of shore running beside the Sound. As it flew over the settlement, the men of 5th Regiment, taken by surprise, did not manage to fire at it, and the aircraft disappeared behind the hills inland.

The three men handling the missiles were relatively close to one another so they could communicate without radios, as both their hands were occupied. Close by stood Major Mario Castagneto, who had come to join them, also in the open. “Those were moments when you had to set an example,” he explained to me. Four or five minutes later, a second Harrier appeared from the same direction as its partner. As everyone was now on full alert, it was observed more carefully. Its approach seemed endless to the anti-aircraft team tracking it through their sights. They tried to ensure an accurate shot by letting it come closer, since the further away it was, the more chance it had to evade the missiles. They felt the twenty-one kilos’ weight of the Blowpipes, which had now been reloaded.

The aircraft was coming in more head-on than the previous one, flying low, at around seven hundred and fifty kilometres per hour, enough to allow it to manoeuvre comfortably around the hills. Despite the aimers’ composure, through the sight it looked enormous, very close. When the Harrier began to turn side-on, at a thousand metres, Frecha and Fernández fired their missiles almost diagonally. A moment later and the shot would have been inaccurate. Because of a technical fault in his missile — which veered out of control towards some houses — Captain Frecha had to bring it down, and it fell some twenty-five metres away (it later had to be blown up). Corporal Martínez had not fired. But First Lieutenant Sergio Fernández had, and an explosion briefly hid the enemy aircraft from sight.

“I have that instant image seared into my mind,” recalls Fernández, “the explosion and the nose of the aircraft emerging from it.” Once the guidance phase of the missile was over, he lowered the weapon to see the whole picture and assess the effect of his shot. Disappointed, he saw that the Harrier was still flying, “and it had not disintegrated in the air like confetti”. But it began to trail smoke, to roll, and a fraction of a second later its pilot ejected and his orange-and-white parachute opened. The fighter-bomber continued on its path and then crashed a short distance away, at the bottom of the bay.

Everyone’s excitement was intense: now the infantry had gone into action for the first time, because they were forewarned, and their conduct had been outstanding, given that they were raw conscripts. They fired at the aircraft with every weapon they had, even pistols. The noise of rifle fire was impressive, though of limited effect, with their commander, Colonel Mabragaña, setting the example by firing his FAL standing fully exposed. Shouts of triumph, the characteristic correntino sapucai cries, filled the air, sharply contrasting with the tears of the kelper children, the hysterical outbursts of their mothers and the nervous crises of their fathers, who came out of the houses in which they had taken refuge when the aircraft activity began. Shots were still being fired, because the soldiers, who had fired at the already damaged Harrier, now continued to shoot at the figure of its pilot…

Without losing a second, Major Castagneto and the medical officer, Captain Llanos, jumped on two motorbikes and headed towards the bay where the airman was floating. Officers, NCOs and soldiers ran after them, some shouting as they went for the firing to stop:

“Cease fire! Cease fire! You’re going to hit the pilot!”

Fortunately, the euphoria, the distance and the movement combined to prevent them from hitting him. But the freezing water is merciless, and when Doctor Llanos arrived first by motorbike near the bay and saw the British airman a hundred metres away, he had no option but to watch him, unable to swim out to him in those conditions.

Castagneto had branched off as they left the settlement, heading towards where the aircraft had crashed. At that moment the doctor spotted a boat, and an NCO from 5th Regiment who had reached the shore told him:

“I’ll go and get him!”

Helped by another comrade, the corporal rowed out to the downed pilot and between them managed to haul him aboard. When they reached the shore, several officers from the Commando Company — Llanos, Fernández, García Pinasco, Anadón — dragged him onto the beach along with his parachute and survival gear. The pilot had injuries to his face and a fractured left collarbone, as a result of his violent ejection from an aircraft travelling at full speed and banked over, which had caused him to slam into the side of the cockpit as he came out; he did not even have his helmet, which had shattered on impact. Although he was wearing a flying overall that gave him some protection from the water, he was almost frozen and struggled to speak; but at no point did he lose consciousness, to the extent that Sergio Fernández noticed that, as he sat up to get out of the boat, the pilot rubbed the transparent kneeboard on his right thigh — where aviators make their notes — with his hand, in order to erase the course written there. The Argentine officer managed to memorise the double group of numbers and letters and later reproduced them to report to Port Stanley.

Llanos, with his perfect command of English, identified himself as a doctor and, after asking about his injuries, he and Fernández tried to calm the prisoner:

“Are you okay, are you hurt? Don’t worry, we are friends now; take it easy.”

The pilot, without speaking, nodded with movements of his head. With the help of Staff Sergeant Poggi, they settled him on Llanos’s motorbike, and the doctor told him to hold on to him because he was going to take him to a hospital. Using the international sign used by aviators — thumb raised — the pilot indicated his agreement. First Lieutenant Fernández wrapped him in his jacket and they set off.

Meanwhile, Major Castagneto had headed towards the place where the Harrier had come down, some ten kilometres from Howard. He rode parallel to the narrowing bay, then crossed the river — “those bikes would do anything,” he told me — and, after a further stretch, reached the crash site half an hour later. “The largest piece I found was the wheel,” he said. “I even came to think it might be the remains of an aircraft from another era…”

In its final run, as it broke up against the ground, the aircraft had hit a horse, cleanly severing its neck so that the head lay a good distance from the body. Castagneto loaded all the pieces he could carry, which he thought might be important for intelligence analysis — including the communications equipment — and set off back. It was near midday, and the naval–air battle in San Carlos had already taken place.

Malvinas: GC-83 Río Iguazú, the Cutter that did not Surrender

GC-83 Río Iguazú: The Cutter that did not Surrender

The icy winds of the South Atlantic cut like blades against the skin of those brave sailors aboard the Río Iguazú. They were not on a warship. They had no armor, no firepower comparable to that of a destroyer, no speed to match that of a frigate. They were men of the Argentine Coast Guard, servants of the sea, embarked on a mission that, unbeknownst to them, would turn them into legends.

Since their arrival at Puerto Argentino (previously Stanley) on April 13, 1982, the GC-83 Río Iguazú had eluded the invisible threat of British nuclear submarines. A small, agile vessel designed for coastal patrols, it now sailed defiantly in those hostile waters, ready to fulfill its duty. On May 22, with the war already raging and the blood of battle still fresh on the Malvinas soil, it was given a critical mission: to transport two 105mm Oto Melara howitzers from Puerto Argentino to Darwin. These artillery pieces would be vital for the defense of the Argentine troops who, just days later, would fight bravely in Goose Green.

Under the command of Sub-Prefect Eduardo Adolfo Olmedo, the Río Iguazú set sail in the early hours of that fateful day. Fifteen men on board. Fifteen souls devoted to their country. They knew they were sailing in enemy-controlled waters. War offered no mercy, and neither would their adversaries. At 08:20, the ship’s radio crackled to life, delivering a chilling message: Red Alert!

The attack came instantly. Two British Sea Harrier jets swooped down from the gray sky, their roar shaking the very air. The men on deck barely had time to react before a storm of fire rained down upon them. The 30mm cannons ripped through the ship’s hull, destroying navigation equipment and sowing chaos aboard. In the engine room, Second Corporal José Raúl Ibáñez fought desperately against the flooding that threatened to doom the vessel. But the damage was beyond repair—the water was rising fast.

On deck, resistance had a name and a face. Julio Omar Benítez, the youngest crew member, manned one of the ship’s two 12.7mm machine guns, the only defense against the enemy aircraft circling above like hawks. But fate was merciless. A British volley struck him down where he stood. His body collapsed beside the weapon he had so valiantly fired. Nearby, Juan José Baccaro and Second Corporal Bengochea lay wounded, their blood soaking the deck.

The Río Iguazú was critically damaged, but it would not surrender. Olmedo, his resolve unshaken, ordered a desperate maneuver—set course for the nearest islet, zigzagging to evade another deadly pass from the Harriers. Every second counted.

And then, Ibáñez, his heart pounding with rage and grief, made a decision that would change everything. Leaving the flooded engine room, he climbed to the deck and rushed toward the unmanned machine gun. With swift hands, he pulled his fallen comrade’s body aside and gripped the weapon. His eyes locked onto the sky.

A Harrier was lining up for the final strike. Ibáñez held his breath. He squeezed the trigger. A hail of bullets erupted, tracing a path of fire through the air. The aircraft, caught in the storm of gunfire, began spewing thick black smoke. For a brief, eternal moment, it seemed to hover in midair, before gravity took its toll—it plunged into the sea, vanishing beneath the icy waves.

The surviving Harrier pilot, seeing the fate of his wingman, turned away and disappeared over the horizon.

The battle was over. The humble patrol boat had struck down a titan.

Severely damaged, the Río Iguazú was deliberately beached on a nearby islet to save the remaining crew. The survivors were later rescued and taken to Darwin, where, on May 24, with full military honors, Julio Omar Benítez was laid to rest. His sacrifice had not been in vain. The artillery pieces that the Río Iguazú had been transporting were salvaged and flown to Darwin, where they would play a crucial role in the upcoming battle.

Thus ended the journey of the patrol boat that dared to defy the impossible. It was not a warship. It was not a heavily armed frigate. But it was Argentine. And that was enough to carve its name into history.

Malvinas: The Fall of Gazelle XX-411 Under Güemes Team’s Fierce Fire

A Unique Photo… and Why It Matters

This photo is unique because the British NEVER show their dead—by law. In stark contrast, we have been bombarded with images of our fallen, displayed as trophies by them. To put it into perspective, the contingent of journalists embedded with British forces during the war was strictly forbidden from photographing bodies—unless they were already inside a body bag.

Now, let’s analyze this moment: May 21, 1982.

The wreckage belongs to the Gazelle helicopter of 3BAS, shot down by the brave men of Equipo Güemes (Güemes Combat Team), stationed in San Carlos. That day, they didn’t just take down this aircraft—they brought down three more helicopters. After the battle, they managed to break through the British encirclement and reached an estancia called Douglas, in the center of the island. There, on May 25, they formed up to honor Argentina’s national day before being airlifted to Puerto Argentino. Legendary footage by Eduardo Rotondo captures their arrival, where they were greeted with chocolates by Colonel Seineldín himself.

That same day, May 21, as British troops were landing, Sea King helicopters were transporting components of a Rapier surface-to-air missile launcher. One of these Sea Kings came under concentrated Argentine fire from a hill defended by Lieutenant Esteban (RI-25) and Sub-Lieutenant Vázquez (RI-12). The aircraft was forced into an emergency landing.

Then came the Gazelle XX-411, piloted by Sergeants Andy Evans (Royal Marines) and Eddy Candlish, rushing to assist. But as it approached, it was met with a relentless storm of Argentine gunfire. It crashed into the water—Evans perished, while Candlish managed to swim to shore, where kelpers helped him.

The British response was immediate. Another Gazelle, XX-402, armed with rocket pods, was dispatched to the battlefield. Lieutenant Ken D. Francis RM and his co-pilot, Corporal Brett Giffin, were at the controls. But once again, the Argentine riflemen struck with precision. The helicopter was torn apart by FAL fire, crashing at Punta Camarones, killing both men on board.

And that’s what we see in the photo: the shattered XX-402, guarded by a sentry. The lifeless bodies of the pilots lie on the ground.

Approaching rapidly, with his back to the camera, is Dr. Rick Jolly, the British medic who was later decorated by Argentina for saving the lives of countless soldiers—a true man of honor.

This image holds countless details of significance: the rocket pods, the antennas, the helmets… every element a silent witness to that day.

And there was yet another Gazelle—XX-412—that came in for a direct attack on our troops. It, too, was hit by Argentine fire. According to British reports, it managed to withdraw and was later repaired.

That afternoon, four British helicopters were knocked out of combat—by just a handful of brave men.

This isn’t just history. This is the untold story of courage, strategy, and sacrifice.

Source: Pucará de Malvinas

Biography: Second Corporal Julio Omar Benitez (Argentine Naval Prefecture)

Second Corporal Julio Omar Benitez

He was born on January 22, 1962 in Basavilbaso, Entre Ríos province. He was discharged as a First Class Sailor on February 1, 1979, and was assigned to the "Martín Jacobo Thompson" Petty Officers School in the city of Zárate, Buenos Aires province, from which he graduated in December 1980 as Second Corporal of the Navigation Ladder.
He took various courses specific to his training, such as the one he took in 1981 on "Damage and Fire Control." That same year he passed the courses on the "12.7-millimeter caliber Browning machine gun" and the "20-millimeter caliber Oerlikon cannon."




Between July 1981 and January 1982, he served as a machinist in the Patrol Division of the Directorate of Zone Prefectures, joining the crew of the Coast Guard PNA GC-83 "Río Iguazú," which actively participated in the Malvinas Islands Theater of Operations.

On May 22, the "Río Iguazú" set sail early, bound for Puerto Darwin, transporting personnel and material from the Argentine Army. At 8:25 a.m., it came under attack by two Sea Harrier aircraft from Squadron 800, part of a Combat Air Patrol (PAC). The Coast Guard GC-83 defended itself using its 12.7 mm Browning machine guns, managing to shoot down one of the enemy aircraft. During the attack, Corporal Julio Omar Benítez, operating one of the machine guns, was killed. Chief Officer Gabino González, Third Assistant Juan José Baccaro, and Corporal Carlos Bengochea were also wounded. Corporal José Raúl Ibáñez took over Benítez's position, repelling the attack and downing one of the aircraft.

Due to severe hull damage and water ingress, the ship was grounded on an island, 13 miles east of Puerto Darwin. Anticipating further attacks, the order was given to abandon the "Río Iguazú," rendering it practically unusable. All personnel were evacuated by Argentine Air Force helicopters to Puerto Darwin. On May 24, at 6 p.m., Corporal Benítez was buried with full military honors. Senior personnel from the Army, Air Force, and the "Río Iguazú" crew attended the ceremony. The cannons, communications equipment, and military supplies were recovered and transported by air to Darwin, fulfilling the original mission of transporting support weapons crucial in the battle of Goose Green.

This action is considered the First Air-Naval Combat in Argentine History. Corporal Benítez was posthumously awarded the medal "The Argentine Nation for Heroic Valor in Combat" and promoted to First Corporal on May 24, 1982. He is buried in the Darwin Cemetery in the Malvinas.



Second Corporal José Raúl Ibáñez, a crew member of the patrol boat "Río Iguazú," demonstrated remarkable heroism and courage during an air attack by two enemy Harrier fighters. Despite the overwhelming superiority of the enemy in terms of armament and firepower, Corporal Ibáñez did not hesitate to act. When the machine gun operator was incapacitated, he took the initiative to man the machine gun himself. With this light weapon, ill-suited for combating aircraft, he managed to seriously damage one of the enemy planes, compelling the British air patrol to withdraw.

In recognition of his bravery and decisive action, Corporal Ibáñez was awarded the "Argentine Nation Medal for Heroic Valor in Combat" under Law 22,607 (1982) and its subsequent amendments.