Italian Legions in Argentina

The Italian Legions in the Argentine Republic

José Luis Alonso y Juan Manuel Peña.
Published in the Revista Superior de Guerra, Number 553, Apr-Jun 2004

The prolonged struggles faced by the Argentine nation during the 19th century gave rise to significant human actions that have largely faded into obscurity or are briefly mentioned in history books.

On February 5, 1856, 352 Italian soldiers under the command of Colonel Silvino Olivien arrived by sea at the present-day city of Bahía Blanca, in southern Buenos Aires Province. At the time, the city was a modest settlement surrounding the old Fort Argentino, facing the vast pampas and the constant threat of Indigenous attacks. The enthusiastic welcome from the sparse local population prompted Colonel Olivien to issue a printed proclamation, urging the people of Bahía Blanca to see the legionnaires as “brothers who wished to help them continue the great task of settling that rich and expansive southern region of Buenos Aires Province.”

Origins of the Italian Legion

Who were these foreigners? Where did they come from? And who was Silvino Olivien?

The prolonged siege of Montevideo (1843–1851) had attracted numerous Italians with liberal and Masonic ideals. These individuals—defeated in Italy’s Wars of Independence and the Roman Republic—were inspired by Alexandre Dumas’ book The New Troy, which portrayed Montevideo’s siege as another fight against tyranny for freedom. Many were Ligurian, Piedmontese, and Savoyard exiles who, under Giuseppe Garibaldi’s command, extended their struggle for liberty to the shores of the Río de la Plata, forming a Legion.

Their shared experiences, dangers faced, and shared ideals forged strong bonds between these European exiles and their Uruguayan and Argentine comrades. These ties were further solidified by the close friendship between Garibaldi and Bartolomé Mitre, then an Argentine military leader and later the President of Argentina. After the siege ended, many Italians moved to Buenos Aires, where Mitre became not only their best ally but also their “brother in cause and principles,” a title he gave to both Mazzinians (followers of Giuseppe Mazzini) and Garibaldinians.

Formation of the Italian Legion in Buenos Aires

On December 9, 1852, Buenos Aires faced a siege by forces loyal to General Hilario Lagos, who had rebelled against the state government. A decree authorized foreign residents to take up arms “exclusively to maintain public order.” Numerous volunteers formed the German, Spanish, and Swiss legions. Among these, the Italian Legion stood out not only for its size but also for its refusal to limit itself to police functions, insisting on active participation in the trenches defending the city.

The force was organized by two Italian officers: Colonel Silvino Olivien, born in Bruscios in 1820 and trained at the Naples Military Academy (La Nunziatella), and Major Eduardo Clerici, a Milanese graduate of the Milan Military Academy and former lieutenant in the Austrian Army. Both men had fought in Italy’s revolutionary struggles and were exiled following their defeats.

Together, they assembled approximately 300 Italian residents of Buenos Aires into a battalion named the Italian Legion. This force fought valiantly alongside the defenders of Buenos Aires, earning praise for their military skills. Their first casualty was Lieutenant Erba, who fell on January 9, 1853, and was honored with burial in the city’s cathedral.

Distinctions and Honors

The Italian Legion distinguished itself in battles at Plaza Lorea and the English Cemetery (near present-day Pasco and Pichincha streets). Their bravery earned them recognition from General Manuel Hornos, commander of the Argentine forces. On April 21, 1853, the Buenos Aires government presented the Legion with a blue-and-white flag featuring the city’s coat of arms embroidered in silver and gold. The flag bore a blue silk ribbon inscribed in gold: "Con questa bandiera vinceremo" - Buenos Aires, 16 aprile 1853. The flag, gifted by “porteñas” (women of Buenos Aires), remains preserved in the National Historical Museum.

Further recognition came on May 30, 1853, when a government decree officially renamed the force the Valiant Legion. Its members were granted the use of honor cords, a prestigious distinction for both officers and soldiers.

Disbandment and Legacy

In July 1853, following the conclusion of the conflict, the Italian Legion was disbanded at the request of Colonel Olivien, who returned the Legion’s flag to the government before departing for Italy. There, Olivien participated in new revolutionary activities, was captured, and sentenced to death. Buenos Aires authorities intervened successfully to secure his commutation, and he returned to Buenos Aires on October 31, 1855, exiled for life from the Papal States.

Colonization Plans and New Frontiers

Olivien’s forced return coincided with government plans to secure internal frontiers against Indigenous attacks in southern Buenos Aires Province. The plan involved creating militarized colonies, where settlers would be granted land in exchange for defending and developing present and future settlements. Thus, the legacy of the Italian Legion extended beyond their valor on the battlefield to contributions in shaping Argentina’s southern frontier.

Bahía Blanca, founded in 1828 and whose characteristics have already been pointed out, was the site chosen to test the project.

Italian Legionnaire

The Agricultural-Military Legion and the Founding of Nueva Roma

On November 18, 1855, a decree established an agricultural-military colony of 600 men under the jurisdiction of the Buenos Aires state army ordinances. Initially settled in Bahía Blanca, the colony could be relocated to other points in the southern frontier as needed. Colonel Silvino Olivien, due to his military background and engineering expertise, was appointed commander, with Major Clerici serving as his second-in-command. Among the recruits were 150 former members of the Italian Legion, alongside their previous officers.

One notable member was Juan Bautista Cúneo, a former soldier and journalist, who founded the first Italian-language newspaper in Argentina, named after the military force: La Legión Agrícola Militar. Thirteen issues of this publication were printed.

Uniform and Symbolism

The Agricultural-Military Legion adopted uniforms modeled after the French Zouaves from the Crimean War, featuring a kepi similar to those of the Buenos Aires army but in red, a nod to the Garibaldinian roots of its members. As a continuation of the Valiant Legion, the governor of Buenos Aires, Dr. Pastor Obligado, and the Minister of War and Navy, Bartolomé Mitre, ceremonially returned the Legion’s original flag to the new Italian formation on January 11, 1856.

Arrival and Organization

On February 5, 1856, the Legion arrived in Bahía Blanca with approximately 300 men. While not all had military experience, they were selected for their knowledge of agricultural practices. Captain Felipe Cavanti, who had been exiled from the Papal States, remained in Buenos Aires to organize the rest of the force.

Between February and July 1856, after enduring a yellow fever outbreak, the Legion began exploring the surrounding territory and divided itself into three branches:

1. Infantry: Comprising six companies.
2. Artillery: Commanded by Captain Juan Penna, a Milanese born in 1830 with extensive experience in the Italian Wars of 1848–1849. Penna would go on to have a distinguished military career in Argentina.
3. Cavalry: Led by Captain Mariano Barilan, a revolutionary from Rimini and former officer of the Royal Guard, who had also been exiled.

The Founding of Nueva Roma

On July 1, 1856, the Legion laid the foundations for the colony of Nueva Roma, located 25 kilometers west of Bahía Blanca along the Sauce Chico River. This colony was established to fulfill the dual objectives of the Agricultural-Military Legion: to populate and defend the region.

Notable Events

Two significant events marked the development of Nueva Roma. First, Major Clerici, who had established cordial relations with the influential Indigenous chief Calfucurá, was forced to step down due to illness and passed away in October 1856. His efforts in diplomacy with the local Indigenous communities left a lasting legacy.

The Agricultural-Military Legion exemplified a unique blend of military prowess and agricultural ambition, contributing to the expansion and defense of Argentina’s southern frontier.

The Years of the Agricultural-Military Legion

On September 28, 1856, Colonel Silvino Olivien was assassinated by mutinous members of his own force, angered by the severe punishments they were subjected to. The perpetrators deserted, and their crime remained unpunished. The arrival of Captain Felipe Caronti months later restored order and ensured the continuation of the Legion’s mission.

The government appointed Lieutenant Colonel Antonio Susini as the new commander of the Agricultural-Military Legion. Susini, a Milanese sailor and veteran who had sailed and fought alongside Giuseppe Garibaldi during campaigns on Argentine rivers, was one of the founders of the Italian Legion during the siege of Montevideo.

In 1853, Susini arrived in Bahía Blanca accompanied by Major Juan Bautista Charlone, a valiant officer who would later distinguish himself in the Paraguayan War, and Captains Sagani, Zonza, and Valerga, along with forty soldiers. All these men were veterans of the Italian and Valiant Legions.

Reorganization and Military Campaigns

Susini undertook a comprehensive reorganization of the force, renaming it the Military Legion. He discharged less capable members and restored the unit’s renowned reputation. Under Susini’s leadership, the Legion distinguished itself in campaigns against Indigenous forces, including actions at Salinas Grandes and the Battle of Pigüé in February 1859, where they faced Chief Calfucurá’s forces. General Wenceslao Paunero, commander of the Bahía Blanca Division, praised their valor.

In May 1859, the Legion defended Bahía Blanca against an attack by 2,500 Indigenous warriors, defeating them, recovering stolen goods, and freeing numerous captives. For his leadership, Susini was promoted to the rank of colonel by the Buenos Aires government in July 1859.

Contributions Beyond the Battlefield

The Legion’s impact extended beyond military accomplishments. Captain Felipe Caronti spearheaded significant development projects in the Bahía Blanca region, including the construction of the first port pier, two schools, and the first church. He also manufactured ammunition, repaired weapons, drafted topographic maps, and conducted meteorological studies. Caronti, unable to complete his engineering studies in Italy due to political exile, realized his aspirations in the country that adopted him.

Final Campaigns and Legacy

After four years of campaigns against southern Indigenous tribes, the Buenos Aires government ordered the Military Legion to return and participate in the conflict against General Urquiza’s army during a renewed civil war between Buenos Aires and the rest of the country.

The Legion fought valiantly at the Battle of Pavón, further cementing its legendary reputation. Colonel Juan Bautista Charlone, renowned for his courage and leadership, was promoted and awarded an honorary sword for his service.

Recognition from Garibaldi

The Military Legion’s exploits reached Giuseppe Garibaldi, who, from his home in Caprera, sent a letter to his former comrades on November 15, 1861. In it, he expressed his admiration and pride in their contributions to Argentina, ensuring that their heroic deeds remained part of both Argentine and Italian history. The enduring legacy of the Legion reflected the ideals of liberty and resilience shared by its members. It stated:

"Alía Legione Italiana de Buenos Aires Abete combattuto valerosamente per la libertá della Reppublicá Argentina, che é un popolo caro, honesto e generoso".

"Vi invio una parola de omaggio, cl 'affette di gratitudine, in nome della Italia intera e del vostro vecchio compagno d¨armi G. Garibaldi".

The Final Chapter of the Military Legion and Its Legacy

An emotional ceremony took place on February 4, 1864, in the city of Rosario, Santa Fe Province, where the Military Legion was stationed. During the event, the legionnaires received a new Argentine flag to replace their original one, which was nearly destroyed after so many campaigns and battles.

In early 1865, the Legion returned to Buenos Aires to complete its ranks with Argentine officers and troops. In April of that year, it was merged into the 8th Line Infantry Regiment, which then marched to the Paraguayan War, initiated on May 25, 1865. On that date, Paraguayan forces under Marshal Francisco Solano López, already at war with the Empire of Brazil, launched a surprise invasion of Argentine territory, triggering the War of the Triple Alliance. In this conflict, the armies of Brazil, Uruguay, and Argentina fought against Paraguay in what became the bloodiest war in South American history.

Massive numbers of men were sacrificed against Paraguayan fortresses, defended with extraordinary bravery amidst dense jungles. Both sides demonstrated courage bordering on madness. The Paraguayan government, desperate after prolonged battles, even formed battalions of children and women, continuing the struggle until the annihilation of the last 1,000 soldiers of Solano López’s army, with López himself perishing alongside them.

The Legion in the Paraguayan War

The men of the Military Legion proved their valor throughout the war, distinguishing themselves in all the battles they fought. They participated in the defense of the city of Corrientes and fought in the battles of Yatay, Uruguayana, and the infamous massacre at Curupaytí. In this brutal engagement, Colonel Juan Bautista Charlone fell while leading an infantry charge in a futile attempt to breach Paraguayan trenches, reminiscent of the trench warfare horrors that would shock the world during World War I.

After Charlone’s death, command of the Italian forces passed to Colonel Baldomero Sotelo, an Argentine officer. Under his leadership, the Legion fought at Lomas Valentinas and Paso Hondo, where on October 21, 1869, they captured an eight-cannon battery in a bayonet assault.

Following these actions, the Legion became part of the Occupation Army, stationed in Asunción, the Paraguayan capital, until January 1871. Throughout the War of the Triple Alliance, the Legion wore its distinctive uniform, though it became increasingly adapted to the campaign’s necessities and shortages. After the war, the remnants of the once-glorious Legion returned to Corrientes, where they were incorporated into the 1st Battalion of the 8th Infantry Regiment.

Other Italian Forces

The Military Legion was not the only Italian-origin force serving with the Argentine Army. Two additional Italian formations were established:

1st Volunteer Legion or Volunteers of Liberty

This unit was organized by Commander José Giribone, born in Genoa in 1823 and exiled for political reasons. Giribone arrived in Montevideo in 1843 and fought alongside Giuseppe Garibaldi and Francisco Anzani during the siege of the Uruguayan capital. Known for his musical talent and exemplary bravery, Giribone composed a military march, La Marcha del Tala, which he bequeathed to the Argentine Army as a legacy of his sacrifice and dedication, notably displayed in the Battle of El Tala.

A Lasting Legacy

The Military Legion, alongside other Italian volunteer forces, embodied the ideals of courage, sacrifice, and dedication. Their contributions to the Argentine military during some of the nation’s most challenging conflicts remain a testament to the enduring bond between Italy and Argentina, rooted in shared struggles for freedom and justice.

Cnel. Antonio Sussini

On August 10, 1861, he was appointed commander of a force to be organized under the name Volunteers of Liberty. This unit was tasked with protecting the city of Rosario, Argentina, but after only a few months, it was disbanded to form a new unit called the Foreign Legion. This new force included volunteers of various nationalities, though Italians remained the majority.

The Foreign Legion committed to serve under a three-year contract and was sent to reinforce the Third Line Infantry Regiment, which defended the town of Azul in southern Buenos Aires Province from Indigenous attacks. Its name was later changed to the First Volunteer Legion, and under this designation, it fought in the War of the Triple Alliance as part of the allied Army of Operations.

On February 17, 1868, Commander Gribone fell in battle, succumbing to 18 wounds, “all from the front,” as recorded in the military report of the time, during an engagement against superior forces. With his death, the second heroic Italian figure in this war was lost.

Second Volunteer Legion: The aforementioned Colonel Antonio Susini, who had reorganized the Agricultural-Military Legion, had previously delegated its command to Lieutenant Colonel Charlone when Susini was appointed Commander of the Buenos Aires State Government’s Naval Squadron in 1857. However, unable to remain detached from the ongoing conflict in Paraguay, Susini returned to active service on land. He organized another unit, named the Second Volunteer Legion, with which he marched as part of the Army of Operations, participating in the entire campaign.

Juan Bautista Charlone

From the very beginning, Antonio Susini was appointed to command a brigade that included his Legion and ultimately rose to the prestigious position of Commander of the 1st Corps of the Argentine Army.

At the conclusion of the war against Paraguay, remnants of the Italian forces participated in some actions during subsequent Argentine civil wars before being discharged after their extensive campaigns.

There would no longer be Italian Legions in the Argentine Army, but many of their members, both soldiers and officers, requested and were incorporated into the national army. They went on to hold high and important positions, contributing to the final struggles against Indigenous forces and the definitive organization of an army to which they had always belonged—by the right earned through their spilled blood.

Bibliography:

* Álbum de la Guerra del Paraguay. Imprenta Jacobo Peuser, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1893-1894.

* De Marco, Miguel Angel - La Guerra del Paraguay. Editorial Planeta, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1995

* Granienigo, Gaio Italiano entre Rosas y Mitre. Ediciones. Sediliba, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1987.

* Comando en Jefe del Ejército - Reseña histórica y orgánica del Ejército Argentino. Ediciones-Círculo Militar, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1972.

* Best Félix - Historia de las Guerras Argentinas. Torno II. Editorial Peuser, Buenos Aires, Argentina 1960

* Caronti, C. Luis -. Legiones Italianas. Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1907.

* Ferracutti, Enrique - Las expediciones militares en los orígenes de Bahía Blanca. Ediciones Círculo Militar, Buenos Aires, Argentina 1962

* Walther, Juan Carlos, La conquista del Desierto Ediciones Círculo Militar, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1964.

Mount Longdon: Corporal Second Class Colemil and His Conscripts

Corporal Second Class Colemil and His Conscripts

The Marines of the 12.7 mm Machine Gun Company, attached to the 7th Infantry Regiment (RI-7) on Mount Longdon, prepared the defence of their position as they were accustomed to: deep works with shelters, crawl trenches, ammunition depots, and so on—always working to perfect them. It was the best way to pass the time before going into combat, for they were convinced they would have to fight, and constant work was the best way to endure the wait, according to Marine Corps tradition. When the British assault came, they saw the wisdom of that attitude. Those who had not done so suffered needless casualties and could not fight effectively. 



Two days before the attack, Corporal Second Class Colemil went to the Marine Corps Combat Support Service, where Lieutenant Scotto told him: “Vizcacha” (another of Colemil’s nicknames), “here you have the night sights that have just arrived—take these for the rifles and for the machine guns.” Colemil took three rifle sights, giving one to his commanding officer, Lieutenant Dachary, another to Chief Corporal Lamas, and keeping the third for himself. He also carried six Litton sights for the machine guns and five or six head-mounted night vision devices, which turned out to be of little use. The following day, the Marines spent time training with the night sights. 



The Night of 11 June 1982

Carlos Rafael Colemil, in charge of a 12.7 mm machine gun (the westernmost on Mount Longdon), had escorted conscript Leiva—who was feeling unwell—to the aid post. Once checked and treated, Leiva was authorised to return to his position. On the way back, they passed Corporal Lamas’s machine gun, where Lamas warned Colemil: “Stay very alert. Don’t let your guard down; they could attack tonight.”

They carried on walking. When they reached the rest shelter, Colemil woke the relief shift, and with the two conscripts who had already completed their watch on the 12.7, began his nightly patrol. They paused briefly at the Army’s Racit radar (an infantry radar used to detect the enemy) and exchanged a few words with the sergeant operating it.

“Get into the dugout; they’re going to start firing,” the sergeant warned.

The radar—capable of detecting enemy infantry movements—was switched off at 8 p.m., as British ships had detected it and subjected it to naval gunfire from the south, an action that facilitated the infiltration of British paratroopers. About a company’s worth of these paratroopers made their way through the minefields without triggering any devices. Silently, they infiltrated the sector occupied by 2nd Lieutenant Juan D. Baldini’s section of the Bravo Company, RI-7, whose frontage faced west on Mount Longdon.

Colemil and the two conscripts continued moving among the rocks until he stopped and looked west through his FAL rifle’s night sight. To his surprise, he saw a diffuse shape moving not far away. Uncertain, he aimed the FAL at the spot and fired a shot. In response, he heard the unmistakable chatter of a Sterling submachine gun. There was no mistake—it was the enemy, and they were close. At that moment, a paratrooper stepped on a mine; the scream and the explosion alerted all of Mount Longdon.

Once he had located the enemy, Colemil ran to the rest shelter and phoned Lieutenant Dachary’s command post.
—“Cobra, this is Araucano. Cobra, this is Araucano.”
—“Go ahead, Araucano.”
—“Attention, guns— we’re under attack, we’re under attack.”
—“Received.”

(The machine guns were connected to Lieutenant Dachary’s command post and also interlinked with each other.)

While Colemil was alerting his commander, the fighting spread. Thanks to the advantage of surprise, the British managed to gain a foothold at the western end of the mount, advancing with machine guns, rifles, and 66 mm and 84 mm rockets. The atmosphere was hellish. Colemil marked targets with tracer rounds from his rifle, aided by the night sight.

Suddenly—air raid alarm. The Argentine infantrymen dived into their foxholes, and as soon as the artillery fire ceased, they emerged to continue firing. Then more rounds came crashing in.

 

Outnumbered but Still Fighting

The paratroopers took advantage of the moments when their enemies were in the foxholes to advance, overrunning Colemil’s position, leaving him cut off and unable to contact Lieutenant Dachary’s men. Far from discouraged, Colemil kept firing the 12.7 mm, but before long the weapon jammed and was put out of action.

From then on, it was a long night for “the Araucano” Colemil—a brilliant corporal who, through determination and courage, caused the British many headaches and inflicted numerous casualties.

“Well, we’ve got rifles and plenty of ammunition,” he told conscripts Ferrandiz and Leiva, who had stayed with him. “Let’s blast them.”

“Corporal, there are hundreds of them,” said Ferrandiz.
“All right—we’ll let them pass and then hit them from behind.”

Suddenly, Colemil saw some British troops trying to set up a mortar. “These ones aren’t getting away,” he thought aloud and began firing at them, wounding one and forcing the rest to withdraw.

“Behind you, corporal!” shouted Leiva as three paratroopers charged towards them. Colemil spun round and fired a burst of about fifteen rounds. One Briton fell, and the other two, wounded, withdrew, shouting.

Lying prone, the corporal searched for enemies through the rifle sight. Whenever one came into view, he put him out of action. Alone, he caused havoc among those trying to take the Argentine positions in that sector of Longdon, while his conscripts supported him with their rifles. 



At one point, he saw the enemy attempting to recover a recoilless rifle that was near his position. He opened fire, saw one Briton fall, and then came under heavy retaliatory fire. “If I don’t fight, I’m dead,” he thought. He began crawling from position to position, opening fire whenever he spotted an enemy. He saw a Briton standing on a parapet with a bipod-fitted rifle, shot him down instantly, and then fired at his comrades trying to approach—likely to recover the weapon.

In an attempt to peer out for more targets, Colemil was hit— the bullet struck the front of his helmet, pierced it, entered his scalp, and stopped at the nape of his neck. A paratrooper, barely twenty metres away, had thrown a grenade which exploded nearby, but a rock had stopped the shrapnel. As Colemil rose to seek him through the sight, the same man fired at him, the projectile grazing his head.

(Because the wound ran from his forehead to the nape, Colemil earned the nickname “Piggy Bank.”)

He immediately felt something hot running down his face. Dazed, he tried to stand, but managed to recover the rifle in time. As soon as his attacker appeared from behind a rock, he aimed at his chest and fired. The Briton let out a cry of pain and fell heavily on his back, arms spread.

“Corporal, let’s bandage your head,” said Ferrandiz.
“Yes, but quickly—we can’t stop firing.”
“We’re cut off. We can’t hold out much longer.”

By 3 a.m., they were also under friendly artillery fire, their own side believing the position had been taken by the British.

“Corporal, why don’t we surrender?” both conscripts said at once.
“No way. I won’t be taken prisoner. I’ve no wish to have my throat cut.”
“But, corporal—”
“I’d rather shoot myself than be taken prisoner.”
“Then let’s withdraw,” insisted the conscripts.

“All right, let’s go. We’ll link up with Corporal Lamas.”
“I’ll get you a helmet, corporal.”
“No, forget the helmet. Let’s move.”

Crouching low, they tried to leave the position, covering a few metres before being forced back by rifle fire. Colemil had put up a fierce resistance; it was clear they had his position pinpointed.

At around 03:00 hours, Corporal Colemil decided to fall back to the Bravo Company, RI-7 command post, seizing a momentary lull. The three men took the opportunity to move out, but again came under fire. The two conscripts escaped, but Colemil was shot in the leg. He tried to crawl away, but after a few metres, he lost consciousness.

When the British advanced, they left him where he was, assuming him dead. Corporal Second Class Colemil was taken prisoner and only regained consciousness aboard the British hospital ship Uganda, where surgeons fitted a platinum plate to his skull.

That night of 11 June 1982, he expended all five FAL rifle magazines and reloaded twice. British publications mention a “sniper” who caused them many casualties—very likely Corporal Carlos Rafael Colemil himself.

In 1982, he was awarded the “Honour to Valour in Combat” decoration.

Sinking the HMS Ardent: A Mission for the Brave

A Mission for the Brave – Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Marcelo “Parrot” Márquez

12 June. It was a cold autumn day at the “Almirante Quijada” Naval Air Station in Río Grande. It was raining, and the mechanics of the Third Naval Fighter and Attack Squadron (EA33) already had the A-4Q Skyhawk aircraft ready for the first combat mission during the South Atlantic conflict.

One of them was A-4Q number 3-A-314, which carried on its ventral station four 500-pound (230 kg) MK-82 “Snake-eye” bombs. Its pilot, Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Marcelo “Parrot” Márquez, carried out a meticulous visual inspection, checking every detail of the old aircraft as if it were his legendary Ford A, to which he had a special attachment.

During the pre-flight briefing, they had defined the mission’s objective and the tactics to be used. The weather was unfavourable: medium and low clouds, showers, and reduced visibility. Under these conditions, they had to fly in tight formation and rely on the section leader, Corvette Captain Alberto “Mingo” Philippi.

The three aircraft started up and began their coordinated taxi to runway 25. The aircraft did not respond as usual due to being close to maximum take-off weight; it felt slow and heavy. Not all the aircraft had a VLF-Omega navigation system—although imprecise, it was better than relying solely on time, speed, and heading from visual references. They selected their armament without switching on the master arm.

At 14:10 on 21 May, after a long run along the 2,000-metre concrete runway, 3-A-314 began its climb to join the leader on the right wing. At 30,000 feet (10,000 m) and with a good tailwind, they headed towards the islands. At 100 miles from the target, they descended to avoid detection and preserve the element of surprise.

Under strict radio silence, communicating only with visual signals, the leader gave brief orders. They armed the master switch and began a low-level flight along the west side of East Falkland. The weather had worsened—cloud ceiling down to just 500 feet (150 m), showers, and visibility of only 1,000 metres. They maintained tight formation, searching for a valuable target.



The three aircraft turned left to cross the southern mouth of San Carlos Water. The water was dark in colour. Reaching the coast of East Falkland at 50 feet (15 m) altitude and 450 knots, with improved weather, they continued towards Port San Carlos. They sighted a ship to the north—the 2,750-tonne Type 21 frigate HMS Ardent—and manoeuvred gently to the right to attack westward from the port quarter. The aim was to surprise from different angles.

The wingmen switched positions and began the attack run. The leader attempted to fire his 20 mm cannons, but they jammed. Passing over the ship, he released his bombs—one struck the stern. The ship had begun firing its anti-aircraft guns and missiles in a desperate defence. The right wingman, Lieutenant José César “Cacha” Arca, flew through a curtain of shells and shrapnel from the leader’s bomb, made his release, and flew through a cloud of black smoke. Another bomb hit the stern. Finally, 3-A-314, focused on the target, released its bombs and then escaped that hell.

The three aircraft fled at wave-top height. Seconds later, the voice of “Parrot” came over the radio, tense and urgent: “Harrier to the left!” Immediately, they jettisoned their external tanks and began evasive manoeuvres, heading for the south of the strait and the cover of cloud.

At that moment, a Sea Harrier fired its 30 mm cannons twice at 3-A-314, and the engine exploded into pieces. In a fraction of a second, we lost Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Marcelo “Parrot” Márquez—and gained a hero. Simply, a HERO.

Lieutenant (Posthumous) Marcelo Gustavo “Parrot” Márquez was a man always distinguished by his composure, professionalism, and humility. A sailor respected by superiors and admired by subordinates. An exceptional human being, with a rebellious and passionate spirit, an excellent professional, cheerful, witty, humble, and generous.

Goose Green: A Harrowing Account

Jones: A Harrowing Account

Particularly for the British, owing to the devastating loss of Lieutenant Colonel H. Jones and almost his entire team within mere minutes of combat.

“The first land battle in the Malvinas was initiated at Colonel Jones’s request. At first, everything seemed likely to proceed smoothly, but the fighting proved ferocious. The 2 PARA, exhausted after nearly a full day’s march, was forced to attack across open ground, in broad daylight, and with inadequate fire support. They lost their commander, his aides-de-camp, and almost the entire staff — and with them, very nearly the action itself...”

Captain David Wood, a close friend of H. Jones, was known for his humour and knack for lifting the men’s spirits at just the right moment. According to the plans and training carried out in Kenya in 1981, Wood was not meant to accompany Jones during reconnaissance, as his role was to remain at the command post. But swept up in Jones’s enthusiasm, Wood moved to the front line. During the assault on the Argentine trench, he shouted to his comrades: “Remember Arnhem!” — a reference to the largest airborne operation ever undertaken by the Parachute Regiment, and their greatest loss at the hands of the Germans, depicted in the film A Bridge Too Far.

David Wood ran forward, but an Argentine bullet killed him instantly, along with two other soldiers. Jones witnessed the scene, unaware that his fallen friend was among the dead. At his side, Captain Chris Dent was ordered by Jones to recover the radio equipment used by the fallen men. Dent prepared to move, but another soldier warned him of the danger of venturing into the open under Argentine fire. Dent went anyway and was shot dead on the spot.

Jones was shaken; he could see almost his entire team being cut down by enemy fire. He decided to take the nearest trench, hurling a grenade, when from a slightly offset position an Argentine machine-gun, about fifty metres away, opened fire. The first burst hit him. Another officer nearby, Farrar-Hockley, tried to help him, as Jones was bleeding heavily and making faint movements, but the intense Argentine fire made it impossible. Corporal Michael Melia of the Royal Engineers attempted to reach Jones’s body, only to be killed by several shots. Another burst struck Jones again, and this time he no longer moved.

Jones was mortally wounded. A young soldier named Tuffen tried to rescue him but was shot in the head. Another paratrooper, Worrell, was badly wounded in the same action. Corporal Stephen Prior attempted to reach the bodies but was killed by Argentine fire; his comrade Albols lay prone and motionless, unable to act. Tuffen was thought dead, but several hours later medics found him in the field, covered with a sheet of metal, still alive.

Corporal Hardman, who had been watching the events unfold, tried to reach them at a run but was killed by multiple Argentine shots, one of which completely destroyed his head. His comrades, lying prone, used Hardman’s body as cover.

Only Corporal Todd remained. Seeing that his entire team and commanding officers were gone, he requested permission to withdraw to the starting point.

The posthumous decoration awarded to H. Jones was heavily questioned within the British Armed Forces, notably by 2 PARA officer and military theorist Spencer Fitz-Gibbon, who wrote in 1995 that, despite his undoubted bravery, Herbert Jones did more to hinder his unit’s victory than to secure it. According to his analysis, Jones lost sight of the broader picture of the battle and prevented his sub-unit commanders from exercising mission command, in favour of attempting his “own feat of heroism.”

 

Malvinas: The Odyssey of the 4th Section (3/5)

The Heroes of Nacar's 4th Section

(Part 3 of 5)



“Sir! They’re coming again!” shouted one of the sentries from a nearby foxhole. Vázquez, half his body exposed, immediately began directing fire, pointing out targets, asking for ammunition status, and giving firing orders.

Combat resumed once more, intense and all-encompassing — everyone firing at anyone who got close. The inferno of infantry battle returned: the staccato of machine guns, explosions of grenades, rockets, projectiles of all calibres, rifle shots, and the screams of the wounded all merged in a single, deafening chaos.

By 2:30 a.m., the group led by Sergeant Julio Castillo, positioned at the far right of the Section, was trying to hold off the enemy onslaught. With Castillo were Second Corporal Amílcar Tejada — who had travelled to the Falklands with Lieutenant Vázquez — and Dragoon José Luis Galarza, a young man who had stood out and whom Castillo affectionately referred to as “my lad.”

The firefight raged on. Sergeant Castillo kept firing and shouting “Long live the homeland!” But as the minutes ticked by, the situation grew increasingly dire. The British were almost upon them. Castillo shouted, “Fire, you bastards! Don’t act stupid — fight back!” referring to those in the centre sector (where Vázquez and the reconnaissance group were positioned). The Scots were throwing everything at them. Tejada fired the MAG, taking turns with a conscript. Castillo, a quintessential “trooper’s sergeant” in Marine Infantry terms, commanded the right flank.

Suddenly, Castillo saw a Scot assault and kill Dragoon Galarza. Enraged, he shot at the attacker with his FAL — but was immediately struck by three rounds. Castillo collapsed, a gaping 20-centimetre wound torn through his back. A nearby soldier rushed to him, hoping he was only wounded, but Castillo had died instantly.

Castillo, Tejada, Galarza and the mobile group conscripts had withstood the enemy’s advance with stoic bravery. Their position, at the far right of the 4th Section, bore the brunt of the British assault. The Scots, advancing from the west towards the centre and left of Nacar’s line, had to pass through the right flank first — where they were filtered and held off by this group.

With Castillo’s death, Tejada became the only leader left to Vázquez on the right flank — the only one left to give orders and keep morale alive.

Meanwhile, Second Lieutenant Silva was trying to defend himself as best he could. The battle was fierce — the enemy appeared from behind rocks as close as three to twenty metres away. Two conscripts near him were wounded by machine-gun fire. Without hesitation, Silva left his cover and dragged one of the injured towards the shelter of a nearby rock, some 30 metres away. He knew the man would likely die within minutes, with no time or means to treat him.

“Stay here,” he told him, trying to offer comfort. “You’ll be fine. I’ll come back for you as soon as I can. Please don’t move.”
The conscript clutched his bleeding abdomen with both hands and looked silently at his officer — perhaps a final farewell.
“Hang in there, I’ll be back,” Silva repeated.

Crawling back under heavy fire, he reached a foxhole where a FAP machine gun had been abandoned — its operator dead. Silva began firing until it jammed.
“Pass me something I can fire with!” he shouted to a nearby conscript, who handed him a rifle.
“Thanks — it’s something at least,” Silva said, trying to smile through his soot-covered face.

Gradually, the British — advancing in perfect formation — grew stronger. Casualties among Nacar’s men mounted. More and more British soldiers were infiltrating the section’s foxholes.

Why had the Argentines suffered so few casualties in the initial assault, despite the intensity of the combat?
The answer lay in mutual support: the 4th Section had been intact. Each foxhole was covered by the adjacent ones — no one was left unprotected. Thus, the British had to fight not one position, but two or three at once.

But in the second assault, the British changed tactics — with devastating effect. Groups of three or four men, crouching 10 to 20 metres away, would rise and charge the nearest foxhole. They might be shot at — maybe one or two would fall — but the others reached their target and killed whoever was inside.
Over time, the disparity in numbers became obvious.

Vázquez grew increasingly anxious. He couldn’t shake off the enemy or stop them occupying positions. He asked Fochesatto to connect him with Lieutenant Villarraza.

—“Green, this is Green 4.”
—“Green here.”
—“What’s happening with reinforcements?”
—“Hold out — they’re about to set off.”
—“Understood.”

Around 3:00 a.m., a soldier from the Army — Private Do Santos from RI-4 — crawled to Vázquez’s position and shouted:
“Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Sub-lieutenant Silva’s been hit!”
“What happened?”
“He was shot in the chest and arm. Blood’s coming from his mouth.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right — drag him carefully into a foxhole and try to give him some aid.”

“What can I do? What can I say?” thought Vázquez.
At that moment, wounded Marine Infantry soldier Félix Aguirre came to Silva’s aid, despite his own injury. Bravely, he dragged Silva to what he thought was a safe spot.
Returning to his position, Félix Aguirre was killed by enemy fire.

Five minutes after reporting to Vázquez, the same Army soldier returned.
“Lieutenant, Sub-lieutenant Silva is dead.”

Vázquez had lost a vital officer — one who constantly motivated the men, issued orders, and covered areas where Vázquez’s voice could not reach.

What had driven the soldier to return under fire to announce Silva’s death?
Why take such a risk?
Because for a soldier, there is no worse fate than losing his commander. It destroys his hope.
The commander is the one who knows the most, the one who protects them.
If the commander dies, what hope remains for the less trained conscript?
Who will take care of him? Who will tell him, “Move — you’ll be killed there,” or “Take cover,” or “Aim that way”? Who will lead the retreat?

No one.

The death of a commander quickly leads to the death of his subordinates — disorientation, fear, and hesitation take over, especially in close combat, where only the quickest survive.

The conscript had risked himself twice: first to try and save Silva, and then to avoid the feeling of abandonment if his leader died.
A deeply human action. One of the many faces of war.

Vázquez had no time to grieve.

A machine gun opened fire on him from a stone wall nearby. The British had his position marked — whenever he raised his head to give orders, he was met with a barrage.
But he couldn’t stop commanding.
“I’ll blow you to bits,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

He grabbed an anti-tank grenade launcher and fired at the machine gun nest — then another. One hit the base of the stone, the other missed.
It was futile. He couldn’t silence it.

—“Gascó! Gascó! Fire at that machine gun!” he shouted to a conscript on his left, whom he’d promoted to Dragoon that very day — in the middle of battle. “War things,” he thought.
He’d trusted the lad, and now he desperately needed him.

—“Gascó! Gascó! Don’t be a bastard — don’t leave me alone now!”

He knew Gascó was alive.
Why wasn’t he responding?

Gascó was trying to unjam the machine gun.
“Thank God,” he muttered when it finally worked.
Without wasting time, he opened fire on Vázquez’s attackers, taking them out.

The situation was desperate.

Vázquez decided to descend into the foxhole and use the radio — normally Fochesatto’s task, but this message was too urgent.
He pressed the button — and at once the background hum of reception ceased.
Underground, all outside noise was crystal clear: explosions, screams, gunfire. The blasts shook the earth.

These men, though, no longer feared how they’d die. They knew full well they might not make it out alive — but they also knew the British wouldn’t have it easy.

Suddenly, someone spoke in English — right at the mouth of the foxhole.
Vázquez and Fochesatto froze.

“Shit! They’re going to chuck a grenade down here!” cried Fochesatto.

Vázquez had a habit of leaving two rifles outside: one with an anti-tank grenade aimed in one direction, the other pointed the opposite way.

In his desperation, he knocked over the radio but leapt out of the foxhole and grabbed the nearest rifle.
A few metres away, a British soldier lay prone, speaking into a radio. In the confusion, he hadn't noticed the foxhole.
Vázquez didn’t hesitate — he aimed and fired.

The anti-tank projectile exploded less than half a metre from the British soldier, tearing him apart.

At the same time, further right, another British soldier reached a foxhole occupied by an Army conscript. A nearby soldier, some 30 metres away, saw him — but hesitated, unsure if he was British or not, a natural reaction amidst the chaos.

“Yes, he’s British!” he shouted — and fired.
Too late.

A second before being hit in the back, the Brit had thrown an incendiary grenade into the foxhole.

The blast was instant. Flames shot from the hole.

A soldier emerged — ablaze.
Without hesitating, he tore off his poncho-style blanket, rolled on the ground and extinguished the flames. Vázquez couldn’t believe he wasn’t burned.

The man stood up like a spring, scanned the area for a weapon, found a rifle, and crawled into another foxhole to continue fighting.

Vázquez called Lieutenant Villarraza again:
“What’s happening with the reinforcements?”
“They’re on their way — already marching.”

Sub-lieutenant Lamadrid’s section from RI-6 and Marines under Lieutenant Miño had begun a counterattack, but they hadn’t yet reached Vázquez’s position.

Still, help wasn’t arriving fast enough. The situation worsened.
Casualties increased. Ammunition was running low.

At that moment, Vázquez made a drastic decision:
He would shell his own position with their 60mm mortar — all 54 rounds.

A desperate move. A last resort.
There was no other option but surrender — or die.

Since mortars fire on a high arc, the only way to hit nearby positions was to remove the bipod.

That’s what they did — they placed it upright on two ammo crates.

“Rotela,” Vázquez said to the Dragoon acting as gun chief, supported by conscript Güida and another nicknamed “Pankuka.”
“Is Güida wearing the glove?”
“Yes, sir. He’s ready.”

Güida, his gloved right hand protecting him from the hot tube, held a round in the other. Eyes fixed on the mortar, he awaited the order.

“Fire!” Vázquez commanded.

They started at the right flank, moved through the centre, and reached the left.
Each shot caused tremors, smoke, and dirt clods — but accuracy was poor.
Despite heavy casualties, the British did not retreat.

They were many — and well dug in.

“This is going to hell,” Vázquez muttered. “We can’t last much longer. Let me try to reach command.”

He grabbed the radio and began calling Captain Robacio.

Conquest of the Desert: Arbolito, the Ranquel Who Killed Rauch

The Story of the Ranquel “Arbolito”, the Native Who Beheaded Colonel Rauch

Saturday, 28 March 1829 dawned cloudy and cold on the Buenos Aires plains. The weak rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds were not enough to warm the men making camp at Las Vizcacheras, a spot a few kilometres south of the Salado River, near what is today the town of Gorchs, Buenos Aires Province.

They had marched all night from Laguna de las Perdices. Hungry and exhausted, they knew the enemy was close and could not afford to lower their guard. Commander Juan Aguilera ordered that, once the tents were up, everyone was to remain at their posts and on alert. There were about six hundred men, well armed with firearms, lassos and bolas, mostly Buenos Aires federal militiamen, organised into four squadrons and reinforced by a group of Ranquel warriors under Colonel Ventura Miñana.

By mid-morning, as the autumn sun began to take the chill out of the air, a courier arrived with news: the Unitarian forces under Colonel Federico Rauch, also around six hundred strong, were less than a league away and ready to attack.

The political climate was tense. Just two months earlier, the federal governor Manuel Dorrego had been overthrown and executed by the Unitarian Juan Lavalle, triggering a bitter civil conflict. Rauch, a European-born officer in Unitarian service, had been sent to hunt down and imprison federal fighters loyal to rancher Juan Manuel de Rosas.

The battle began before noon. Rauch advanced in three columns: the central column broke through the federal lines, inflicting heavy casualties, but on the flanks Aguilera’s men managed to prevail. Rauch did not realise the flanks had collapsed until he found himself surrounded. He tried to escape at full gallop, but Corporal Manuel Andrada brought down his horse with a boleadora. Once on the ground, a Ranquel named Nicasio Maciel — nicknamed Arbolito (“Little Tree”) for his height — finished him off by cutting off his head.

Rauch’s death caused an immediate stir. For Lavalle’s Unitarians, it was a heavy blow: they had lost an experienced officer who had played an important role in various campaigns. For the Federals, it was cause for celebration: they had removed a formidable adversary. But among the indigenous peoples who had suffered his harsh military campaigns, the news was felt as both relief and justice.

For the Ranquel, Catrielero and other frontier communities, Arbolito became a hero — the man who avenged years of abuses and violence, and whose act ended the life of one of the most feared military figures among the native peoples.

Fragment of the book “Mitos, leyendas y verdades de la Argentina indígenas”, by Andrés Bonatti

La Voz del Chubut

Malvinas: The Odyssey of the 4th Section (2/5)

Combat at Pony's Pass 

(Part 2 of 5)

 The fight of Second Corporal, Marine Infantryman Agüero

  


What had happened to Corporal Agüero? As soon as communication with his commander was lost, he decided to fall back with the three men still with him.
—“There’s a group up ahead,” said conscript Barrera. “Let’s hit them and get out.”
They threw four hand grenades, and as the last one exploded, they leapt from the trench.

Agüero could feel the wound on his forehead burning, and the rubbing of his helmet made the pain worse.
“To hell with the helmet!” he exclaimed, throwing it to the ground.
He was exhausted and could barely hold his rifle. The blood loss had sapped his strength, making movement difficult. He was also worried about the fate of the other conscripts in his group — he knew nothing of what had happened to them.

Avoiding enemy fire, the four of them moved toward the quarry — the designated fallback point according to the Company’s retreat plan. Protected by the night’s darkness, only broken by the occasional illuminating flare, they took extreme caution in case British troops had infiltrated behind the Company’s former positions at Pony’s Pass.

Then, suddenly, they heard a voice shout “Halt!” in Spanish.
As if triggered by a spring, they all hit the snowy ground. At that moment, Agüero realised he had forgotten the password. Hearing his own language was no guarantee — it could easily be an enemy trick. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
“I have no choice,” he thought.
“We’re from the Obra! From Obra Company!” he shouted as loudly as he could.

On the other side, Staff Sergeant Eugenio Orozco, manning a MAG with several men — including a medic — verified their identity. Once convinced, he allowed them to approach. The medic administered morphine to Corporal Agüero and accompanied the group during their retreat, while Orozco stayed behind to scout the area and leave a few booby traps.

They pressed on, and a few metres ahead they were joined by Principal Corporal Valdez and some conscripts from his 60mm mortar team. The ten men moved cautiously along a trail under British tracer fire. Agüero felt like he was drugged — he kept stumbling and leaning on the nearest soldier for support.

When they reached the quarry, three illumination flares began to fall. Everyone hit the ground, staying completely still until darkness returned. There, Agüero found two of his conscripts:
Iñíguez, bleeding heavily from a neck wound, was begging for water, and
Leguizamón, who had carried him despite being in a state of severe nervous exhaustion.

Agüero, utterly drained, collapsed.
Both he and Iñíguez were placed on stretchers in an attempt to move them, but the slippery terrain made it too risky — they had no choice but to continue on foot.

They finally reached Mount William, barely able to walk. There, they made contact with Second Corporal Humberto Chasampi’s group from Nácar’s 1st Section, who placed them in a sheltered spot. They couldn’t be moved to the Battalion’s First Aid Post (PUSO), as the Casa Amarilla area was under intense bombardment.

“Agüero, can you go on? We need to keep moving,” asked the medic.
“No, I can’t. And I don’t think Iñíguez can either.”
“I’ll stay and look after them,” said conscript Yovino, who had a shrapnel-induced injury to his right knee and could have used the opportunity to retreat from the front line.
“No, go on, Yovino.”
“No, I’m staying.”
“Alright,” said the medic. “In a couple of hours, someone will come for you.”

They settled in to rest. They covered Iñíguez with a blanket — he wouldn’t stop bleeding and kept asking for water, groaning constantly. Agüero and Yovino, both utterly exhausted, fell asleep.

When they woke up, around 11 a.m., the first thing they did was look over at Iñíguez. He lay motionless, eyes and mouth open. Agüero sat up, pressed his ear to the conscript’s chest, hoping for a heartbeat.
There was none.
He was dead.

Agüero closed his eyes and covered him.
“Poor lad,” he murmured, his voice breaking.
“Yes,” said Yovino. “Let’s find something to eat and some warmth.” He was trying to move past the death of his comrade. “I’m freezing.”
They found some milk and a few rations.
“Can you manage, Corporal?”
“I’ll try.”

“Look!” Yovino suddenly exclaimed, pointing at heavy helicopter and troop movement on Mount Harriet.
“They’re in the positions we used to hold,” said Agüero bitterly.
“Shall we go, Corporal? It’s clear no one’s coming for us.”

They descended from their position and followed a path. After only about 200 metres, they heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter’s rotor blades.
They quickly climbed back up the slope, desperately searching for cover among the rocks and grass. Crouching down, they watched as two Sea King helicopters passed overhead and landed near Sapper Hill, disembarking troops who began firing with machine guns and automatic weapons.

They waited, hoping the helicopters would return the same way.
“Let’s go,” said Agüero. “Let’s try to reach the Battalion command post once and for all.”

They came down the hill again, marching with the hope of avoiding enemy contact — a hope that lasted only minutes. Suddenly, they heard a voice in English:
—“Stop! Don’t move. Hands up.”

Agüero and Yovino obeyed without hesitation.
Three Royal Marines in green berets emerged slowly from behind rocks, aiming their FAL rifles at them.

It was 2 p.m. on the 14th of June.