April 2nd: Landing Accounts of Conscript Sergio Díaz

Landing in First Person

Accounts of 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘰 𝘙𝘶𝘣𝘦𝘯 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘻, 𝘤onscript class 63 𝘴𝘦𝘤t𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘎𝘢𝘵𝘰

Source: Malvinas: Historias de coraje

Top paragraph:

This photograph was taken on 24 April 1982 at the School House, 800 metres from Goose Green. On this day, the National Flag oath was taken.
Here are the 36 members of Section “GATO” of Company “C” of RI 25, made up of one officer, 5 NCOs and 30 soldiers.

From left to right, they are:

Standing:
Private (Class 63) Pesaresi Sergio
Private (Class 63) Bergero Sergio
Private (Class 63) Alarcón José
Lance Corporal Pérez Luis
Corporal Godoy Hugo
Second Lieutenant Reyes Roberto
Sergeant Colike Martín
Lance Corporal Maidana José
Corporal Salas Rubén
Private (Class 63) Clot César
Private (Class 63) Gauna Rito

Kneeling:
Private (Class 63) Rodríguez Víctor
Private (Class 63) Vélez Daniel
Private (Class 63) Cabral Walter
Private (Class 63) Carletti Víctor
Private (Class 63) Baudracco Sergio
Private (Class 63) Fraire Raúl
Private (Class 63) Almonacid José
Private (Class 63) Moyano Carlos
Private (Class 63) Cossaro Juan
Private (Class 63) Escudero Sergio
Private (Class 63) Cepeda Héctor
Private (Class 63) Amarante(s) Víctor
Private (Class 63) Vargas José

Seated:
Private (Class 63) Velázquez Sergio
Private (Class 63) Murúa Eduardo
Private (Class 63) Oporto René
Private (Class 63) Bertone Víctor
Private (Class 63) Massey Gabriel
Private (Class 63) Rodríguez Carlos
Private (Class 63) Fazzi Sergio
Private (Class 63) Squizzato Juan
Private (Class 63) Rivas Porfirio
Private (Class 63) Vélez Fernando
Private (Class 63) Díaz Sergio
Private (Class 63) Noel Daniel

It is 4:30 a.m. We are woken up — the time has come. I make the sign of the cross (nothing else comes to mind), I simply entrust myself to God and try to control my nerves… so that no one notices. We wash, have a quick breakfast, and return to the barracks. We finish gearing up; the NCOs check everyone’s equipment. We also paint our faces and mentally go over all the training we have received since joining the beloved Regiment 25 in Colonia Sarmiento. This was no game — we were to take part in an amphibious landing and might enter combat. We put on woollen balaclavas and are ready to go.

The order comes to move to the embarkation hold, and we set off. Once there, everything is incredible: we see many Navy personnel carrying out manoeuvres, preparing the amphibious vehicles towards the ship’s exit (although many of these sailors are our age, they are true professionals). The ARA Cabo San Antonio looks like a great monster with its jaws open.

Lieutenant Colonel Seineldín was already waiting for us, prepared for the landing. His face was painted for combat, two grenades hung from his chest, and he carried an automatic machine gun. For me, it was reassuring that he would land with us — with the lieutenant colonel alongside us, we could not lose. He looked at us one by one, checking that everything was in order, as if trying to read our thoughts… but we were all ready to carry out what would be the GLORIOUS DEED OF THE MALVINAS.

It is 6:00 a.m. In a few minutes we begin boarding the amphibious vehicle. I am on the right-hand side near the door, next to Sergeant Colque (a great soldier). Once aboard, I am wearing a life jacket that inflates automatically by pulling small tabs, like those used on passenger aircraft. Again, I recall all the steps we must follow in case we have to evacuate the vehicle in an emergency. The ramp closes; we are ready to begin the landing. We hear the sound of the amphibious tracks on the ship’s metal deck. The movement makes me tense — I just hope everything goes well. The lieutenant colonel asks for music to be played on a tape recorder he brought, commemorating the British invasions. The operation was called Rosario, after the Virgin.

The vehicle is moving — we head out to sea. I realise it as the vehicle drops into the water. The engines begin to roar, drowning out the music… at that moment we begin to pray that the vehicle keeps moving, because if it does not, water will start to come in and it could sink. I try to look out through the small window; I can only see the sea level, almost covering it completely. At the top, a few stars and a very dark sky are visible. The engines continue roaring until, at one point, it gains momentum and we feel that we are moving forward.

After a few minutes that pass very quickly, we continue across the sea until suddenly there is a very loud noise, as if we had collided with something, and the vehicle jolts sharply. We had reached land. We are on the islands.

Second Lieutenant Reyes opens the upper hatches, stands on the seats, looks outside and begins shouting: “There they are, those sons of bitches — there they are!” I thought the British were waiting for us, and the vehicle kept advancing. Suddenly the bell rings, signalling that we must disembark (we had already removed our life jackets), and then we stop. The green light indicates the ramp will open… Every second feels like an eternity.

As soon as the ramp is fully open, we begin to disembark — I am the third to go down. We move out as quickly as possible and lie flat on the ground. The first thing I notice is that the island seems to move beneath me, as if I were still on the ship. I try to regulate my breathing (I think I am very nervous — that is why “the island is moving”). The order is given to continue, and I get up. My FAL rifle is loaded, safety off.

We advance in a fan formation, trying to look in every direction — it is still dark. We reach the airfield and continue moving forward, weapons aimed ahead, watching everything. The terrain is flat, with low grass; we move along the runway. At the sides, the ground has irregularities formed by stones. As we continue advancing, some comrades remain behind, taking up positions to secure the ground gained.

I keep walking and feel as if the stones are moving. We stop, kneeling, and I glance sideways to determine whether something is really moving among the stones or if it is just my imagination. Shortly afterwards, we continue advancing, covering almost the entire runway, when we begin to hear the sounds of fighting in Port Stanley — machine-gun fire, sometimes drowned out by naval bombardment.

We keep moving until we reach the end of the runway. There I am ordered to remain in position. I look in all directions, not wanting to be caught off guard by any British soldier. I see that the runway is blocked with lorries and engineering vehicles to prevent aircraft from landing. The group continues towards the lighthouse further ahead.

I remain kneeling with my rifle, scanning all around. In the direction of Port Stanley, I can see the flashes of rockets fired by the British. The noise continues — there is clearly resistance. Here at the airfield everything is very calm, very still, yet the island still seems to move beneath me. I do not understand what is happening to me.

Suddenly, I see personnel beginning to operate in the control tower, while vehicles blocking the runway start being moved. Everything is going perfectly, without incident — better than expected. So far, we have not had to engage the British.

Soon, some of those who had advanced to the lighthouse return and tell me they found British soldiers who surrendered without resistance. When the last vehicle is removed from the runway, I see a light in the sky blinking on and off — it is an aircraft approaching. As it comes closer, I see it is a Hercules aircraft passing overhead. I am at the runway threshold, and it is an impressive sight — I had never been so close to an aircraft before.

I continue on watch, rifle ready to fire. The aircraft stops, and the air landing begins. The sounds of fighting in Port Stanley are no longer heard. Day is breaking; aircraft continue arriving — everything is synchronised, everything unfolding normally.

The new day now reveals these beloved islands. I can see the ground clearly: where I am, the sand is very fine and white, with some shrubs. I remain in position, now calmer and more composed — the islands have been recovered.

Relief soon arrives. Everything has gone better than planned. We leave the airfield with the satisfaction of having accomplished the mission. Now we continue towards Port Stanley.

Malvinas: My Experience in the 12th IR

 

My Experience in the 12th Infantry Regiment (Final Part)

VGM Soldier JUAN ALBERTO VACA

On 21 May, the British landing at San Carlos took place, coming up against the Argentine troops who were deployed forward. We were several kilometres from that area. The English pirate had set foot on our islands, and we knew that before long rifle fighting on our own ground was imminent; “at last I’ll be able to face them and see the British in the flesh,” I thought to myself. From that moment on, the attacks by ships and aircraft against our positions intensified. I remember that in one of those attacks a large number of bombs fell on us, destroying the troops’ hut area and all of the officers’ tents. By a miracle, and thanks to God’s help, we did not have any fatalities to mourn—only a few wounded with minor injuries.

On 27 May, we entered into direct combat with the enemy. We fought for two days without stopping, resting sporadically for a few hours or minutes whenever we could. The troops who were deployed forward absorbed the first attack, but because of the enemy’s superiority they began to fall back, leaving us on the front line of defence. The assault on our positions was ferocious: we were harassed by enemy riflemen, while at the same time we endured bombardment from frigates and from the air. I recall that before attacking us they lit up the sky with flares—but only over the sector where we were—so that they could see us, while we could not see them. That night we fought for several hours, until the order came to withdraw towards Goose Green, where the Regiment’s other companies were located.



The following day we reorganised and prepared to face another onslaught. The Air Force personnel were with us as well, having also withdrawn. Goose Green is a small settlement near the sea, surrounded by low hills. There, more than a thousand of us were packed together. The enemy, taking advantage of the ships’ attacks that were giving us a hard time that day, encircled us and took the high ground. On the night of the 28th we learned that the British had demanded our surrender, and our commander replied in the negative, as we believed they would not open fire because they might cause casualties among the islanders. But after a further attack by enemy artillery, Lieutenant Colonel Piaggi, together with the commander of the Air Force personnel, decided to surrender in order to avoid an unnecessary massacre.

We had to hand over our weapons; we had resisted as much as we could. I remember our wounded being taken to a hospital ship, where they were operated on, while those with light injuries were treated in the shed where we were being held. In San Carlos, I continued working at my trade as a cook, always under guard by the Gurkhas, who were recognisable—besides their Asian features—by their short stature and by carrying a large, curved knife. They directed everything with gestures, but they treated us well.

When the war ended they took us to Uruguay, and from there to Buenos Aires by ship. As soon as we arrived, we were transferred to the Campo de Mayo barracks, where we were warmly received: we were given plentiful food, soft drinks, issued with new clothing, and we were able to bathe. Unfortunately, I was kept in hospital for two weeks because of a condition caused by the blast wave from a bomb that fell near me during the battle. The explosion threw me into the air and, as I came down, I struck my head on a stone. In that bombardment, two sergeants, a corporal and two soldiers were wounded. Thank God I recovered just in time to return with the rest of the soldiers to Mercedes, where, after completing the usual formalities, we were discharged and I was able to return to my beloved Santiago.



“Lastly, I want to say that I feel proud to have taken part in that great deed for our country. Sadly we could not overcome the military superiority of a powerful nation, but I am convinced that we did what we could and gave the best of ourselves. The images of the war—the cold, the anxiety, the fear, the sound of bombs falling close by, the aircraft and helicopters harassing our positions, the shouting, comrades dead and wounded—will never be erased from my memory, and form a body of recollections that will remain with me until the end of my days. But we were not ‘boys’, as some would have people believe: we were soldiers.”

Memories from an Intelligence Officer in Malvinas

 

 

Memories from My First Days in Malvinas

Account by First Lieutenant Echeverría – Intelligence Officer, RI-4

After the fall of Darwin — though I can't recall the exact date — a series of reports came in warning us about the British positions. They were advancing roughly twenty kilometres from our location. Between us and them, although we had some of our own troops, they were small groups, whose main task was to raise the alarm and report movements.

We had a number of experiences ourselves — like finding traces of British commando patrols very close to us. Direct contact didn’t happen simply because we never came face-to-face with them, but we did come across remains that clearly showed they’d passed through.

We already knew they were there, and like us, they were deploying people to gather intelligence. These patrols continued for a while without actual clashes, and we still hadn’t felt their artillery — except for the naval guns that fired at night, or during the day when there was heavy fog.

That’s when the anti-radar and anti-radio missiles began to appear — and hit us. At the same time, we started facing limitations in using our radar and radio systems. The interference was heavy, and the British even insulted us over the airwaves. They had tools and technologies we simply didn’t. Still, we didn’t believe they would beat us. We told ourselves: “They won’t be able to defeat us.” Among those I spoke to, the general feeling was: we had to fight with whatever we had — even stones if it came to that. Our weapons weren’t bad, but they required more careful handling than on the mainland, mainly due to the extreme humidity.

The cold changed everything, just like what happens to a car. It's not the same as having one in Buenos Aires compared to parking it in Ushuaia.

At Mount Kent, a small unit had to retreat with the British literally on their heels. They reached us with the enemy right behind. Our troops were going along one side of the hill, while the British were climbing up the other. That unit didn’t have enough manpower or weapons to hold off a serious attack.

By then, our own commandos had already engaged with the British on multiple occasions, but luckily many were recovered — wounded, yes, but alive.

Harriers came and went, mostly over Puerto Argentino, and the ships kept firing at us at night. As I said, we also found remnants of British commandos operating very close to our positions. That was the situation. We had already lost helicopters, which reduced our mobility, and also ships like the Carcarañá, the Isla de los Estados, and a Coast Guard vessel. Our commandos, operating deep behind enemy lines, told us about extensive British helicopter traffic. We could already hear them nearby on calm, dark nights.

One evening around eight o'clock, our commander returned from a command meeting in town and updated us on the situation. All options were considered, and there was no choice but to fight while retreating — or risk getting caught mid-manoeuvre. The plan was to regroup and make a stand at Mounts Dos Hermanas and Harriet.

We already had small detachments at Harriet. Think of it like using your hands to protect your body — we were the “hands” of Puerto Argentino. And when one of those hands starts to feel the heat, that’s where you focus your defences. Don’t overreact, but observe, and try to understand why the enemy is moving in that direction.

It was decided to change front and redeploy to Dos Hermanas and Harriet, where the regiment would hold its ground. The withdrawal had to be swift — lightning fast. A decision was made about what equipment to leave behind, and the rest — weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, all vital gear — had to be moved. We were assigned three helicopters for the operation. The idea was to move everything possible at night, gather heavy equipment in specific spots, and if the helicopters couldn’t carry it, to bring it down to where three lorries were waiting — and then transport the troops.

But just after 10 p.m., the ships started firing again, and on top of that, it began to snow. It was chaos. We had to suspend the descent from the hills for two valuable hours — it was dark, snowing, and under naval fire.

Fortunately, the ships shifted fire to another sector, the snow stopped, and a thick layer settled. Around three or four in the morning — keeping in mind that darkness lasts until eight — we resumed the descent. At first light, troops were loading lorries or moving on foot. Others were loading the helicopters. A small anti-air unit stayed behind to cover the operation.

The Harriers arrived just after the helicopters had departed — luckily — but they did strike our marching columns: troops moving along a road, lorries gathered in a clearly visible and exposed area. From our hilltop position, waiting for the helicopters, we opened fire on the Harriers with tracer rounds. I don’t know if we managed to bring one down, but we hit them repeatedly. Still, we never saw one fall.

The British planes flew over daily, at all hours. They photographed us — we even made faces at them. That’s the truth. They attacked with mixed results, mainly damaging storage areas and equipment. Some of our lorries were destroyed, and although we started taking casualties, at that point they were still light — mostly wounded.

Back to the Harrier attack I was mentioning — we had to suspend helicopter use, and the troops kept retreating — even if it meant crawling through the rocks. The whole withdrawal was extremely tough — like being caught at home in your pyjamas.

That same morning, while the Harriers were still attacking, a lone commando arrived from enemy territory — the only one left from his patrol. He gave us a clearer picture of where the enemy was and what movements they had made. He came back completely shattered, desperate to explain what he had seen. The rest of his patrol was still out there, ahead of our lines. In time, it was confirmed that some of those brave commandos had been killed, and others made it back, wounded, to our positions.

Malvinas: The Return

The Return

Morning of the 23rd of June — but not this year — rather, of 1982. The setting is Bahía Blanca Sud station.
That Wednesday, train 325 was due to arrive from Plaza Constitución. This service ran via Pringles, and the scheduled time of arrival was 9:04 a.m.

The station looked the same as always. The arrival of the train that day seemed like just another service, one of the regular trains that came into the station as usual.

Everything appeared normal up to that point — except for one small detail. At the rear of train 325 that day, a second-class coach had been coupled. Its 103 seats were reserved for a kind of passenger not often seen in those days. In that coach were the Malvinas War Veterans. That carriage was allocated exclusively to the soldiers who, by that time, were officially recognised as war veterans.

They were boarded onto that last coach, without the possibility of moving through the train, as the door connecting it to the rest of the formation had been locked. A small ham and cheese roll and a half-litre bottle of mineral water was the “ration” provided for the journey.

There was no welcoming committee. The city, with its typical scepticism, was unaware that the returning soldiers were arriving. Hardly anyone came to greet them. Just a few family members who had somehow found out — at that time, few homes had landlines, and of course, social media or WhatsApp didn’t exist.

There was no band to greet them upon arrival — our country is so obsessed with success that, for example, if the national football team loses a World Cup final, no one turns up to welcome them home. The same thing happened with the veterans. Not even their own families had fully realised they were coming back.

The train arrived on time. A long line of passenger coaches left the last one nearly aligned with the “Bahía Blanca” sign just south of the station, near the black bridge. A few fathers, who had learned of their sons’ return, approached the station almost timidly. They had spent over 70 days filled with uncertainty and anxiety. Worried faces searched through the train, hoping to find their sons and hold them tightly at last.

Inside the second-class coach, emotions ran high. The joy of returning was genuine, yet mixed with the pain for those who had not made it back. And to that was added the bitter fact that the war had been lost — this was by no means a joyful train. Tired faces, emaciated bodies showed signs of malnutrition, revealing the hunger they had endured during the conflict — despite efforts to convince the public that our soldiers had suffered neither hunger nor cold.

During their days at Campo de Mayo, the army had tried to feed the soldiers as much as possible so they would arrive “reasonably presentable.”

Behind them were long, sleepless nights. Naval, air, and finally ground bombardments had left them no rest. They had slept in makeshift tents or, when alerts demanded, in damp, cold foxholes. The thinness of their bodies reflected just how scarce the food had been.

They had bathed only once throughout the war, and only again when they boarded the ships back to the mainland. Left behind were those nights spent shivering — from the cold and, why not, from fear — with wet feet and the constant question of where the British would come from.

Behind them remained the sounds of war — sounds only known by those who had to live through them. The whistles of bombs, the wailing of sirens, the thunder of cannons, low-flying jets at terrifying speed, shouted orders during battle, and the gut-wrenching cries of the wounded… All of it was endured by young bodies, most of whom had not yet turned twenty.

"I stood on the carriage steps because I saw my dad and got ready to hug him. He was on the platform, looking past me, trying to find me. He didn’t recognise me — that’s how skinny I was." — Guillermo.
“We felt ashamed because we had lost the war, and that weighed heavily on us. We came back defeated.”

There were heartfelt embraces, tears, a few smiles, and a flood of emotion. Orders soon arrived to board the trucks bound for command headquarters. The veterans were taken in lorries to the Fifth Army Corps.

For them, a new reality was beginning. Almost without realising, they were entering something immensely complex: the return, the process of reintegration into working life. For our Veterans, a new life was starting. Bahía Blanca Sud station stood witness to that moment.

Without doubt — once again — THANK YOU FOR SO MUCH, AND SORRY FOR SO LITTLE.