Half a world, and half a lifetime away.
Discussion
wildcat45 said:
This is an extract of a book I wrote, but never got round to publishing....
ON May 2nd, 1982, the Argentine cruiser ARA GENERAL BELGRANO was being tracked in the South Atlantic by the Royal Navy hunter-killer submarine HMS CONQUEROR.
Belgrano, which as the American warship USS PHOENIX had survived Pearl Harbour 41 years previously, was attacked by Conqueror. Two Mk8 British torpedoes (Ironically weapons of a World War 2 vintage) struck Belgrano’s hull. They caused massive damage and General Belgrano – the much adored pride of the Armada Argentina – sank. 323 of her crew died. It was a brutal, but necessary action. To date, Belgrano is the only ship ever to have been sunk by a nuclear submarine.
Podrá dormir plácidamente Belgrano. Cuide a sus niños, protegerlos y mantenerlos a salvo. Dios los bendiga a todos.
IT is strange how things change, I suppose you call it growing up, but 30 years ago on that May Day in 1982 as a boy of 11, I thought the sinking of Belgrano was the best thing ever.
I was warship mad, and the Falklands war had come just at the right time for me. We had recently moved back to our native North East, and lived in a house which overlooked Long Sands beach in Tynemouth. One early morning, my Dad had the dog out for a walk. A short time later, he was banging on the door, ringing the bell, telling me to get up and look out of the window. There was, he said, an aircraft carrier off the coast. I had only seen one aircraft carrier before, and she had been a sad sight. Forlorn, unloved, being ripped to pieces at a jetty on the banks of Loch Ryan in Scotland, HMS Eagle had made a big impression on me - despite the sad circumstances of our meeting. Her sheer size, her great grey bulk, only served to make me love warships and the navy more. I felt so sorry that this wonderful ship was being destroyed. At the time, as a small boy, I had no idea about the politics that lay behind Eagle’s demise.
Back to the early morning in Tynemouth. I went to the window, binoculars in hand. It was a bright, clear morning in October 1981. There she was. This aircraft carrier my Dad had seen was now running at high speed northwards. I recognised her instantly as an Invincible Class carrier – the Royal Navy’s latest warship. Even at 11, I noticed there was something different about her. The deck crane was positioned slightly further aft, there were other small differences that told this junior ship spotter that this was not HMS INVINCIBLE the lead ship of the class, but her new sister, Illustrious. HMS ILLUSTRIOUS was fitting-out at the Swan Hunter shipyard on the River Tyne where they had spent the previous five years building her. I was witnessing her first trip to sea, as this new warship found her feet in the waters off “her“ river, she performed what I now know to be “standard manoeuvres” violently turning herself this way and that, running as fast as she could between measured markers on the shore. All the time, clouds of brown smoke streaming out of her two elegant funnels as the shipyard team tested her in a process known as contractor’s sea trials.
I was in heaven.
In less than a year, Illustrious was to play a bigger part in my life. Indeed all three Invincible Class warships went on to be part of me for the next 30 years.
Returning to 1982 and Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands. A group of rocks 8,500 miles from the UK with 1,800 British nationals on them. Britain sent a task force of 101 ships - warships, auxiliaries and commercial vessels - to retake the territory. I like most of the country at the time, followed the Falklands Crisis as it was then called, with great interest.
As a ship-mad kid, I knew some of the British warships involved. I used to visit them when they came to ports near us, and badgered my father to use his influence to get me special tours of the ships. I got so see more than the general public and had climbed over engine rooms, weapons magazines, helicopters and operations rooms of dozens of vessels. I had a secret list of “my” ships that went to the Falklands. Ships I particularly liked. Glamorgan, Argonaut, Plymouth, Sheffield were three I supported. My bedroom walls were covered in posters of warships, I knew their identification numbers, their capabilities and through visiting them, I knew their crews.
There were the sailors in HMS Plymouth who delighted in showing a little lad round. They had their picture taken with me which ended up being published in a local paper. A cute little toddler wearing one of their hats. But at age 4, that cute little kid could have told you Sea Cat was a surface to air missile, and that Plymouth carried two 4.5 inch guns.
On the morning of May 3rd, the news came through on the radio that a British submarine had attacked and sunk an Argentine cruiser, ARA GENERAL BELGRANO. On hearing the news I ran around the house, shouting and whooping performing a silly victory dance.
My Dad sat quietly. He wasn’t celebrating. Why? He asked me to sit down and tell him why I was so happy. I told him. We’d sunk and Argie warship. That was great; we’d taught them a lesson. They would now know who the boss was and would leave the islands.
During world War Two, as a little boy himself, my Dad had been evacuated to Canada to avoid the German bombs which fell in the UK during the Blitz. He never arrived at his destination. The ship he was in was torpedoed 300 miles off Ireland. He and his little brother were forced to abandon the liner as she rolled over. They took to a lifeboat and drifted in the dark night. The injured ship’s siren wailed out a distress call which echoed across the sea. A British destroyer thundered past them. It didn’t stop but directed my father and the other children to a nearby oil tanker which at great risk had put its lights on to act as a beacon for the drifting survivors. Dad climbed up the side of the tanker on a rope ladder. He was helped aboard by a kindly British sailor, who told him everything would be OK. Dad knew how lucky he had been. Dad knew exactly what had happened to Belgrano.
He asked me to imagine a ship I knew and loved. Plymouth, Argonaut, Glamorgan, maybe Sheffield. Then close my eyes, remember the noises and smells, the thrum of the engines, the voices of the lads, nice lads who had given me sweets, and soft drinks on my trips round ships. The smiling engineers who showed me round engine rooms deep inside warship hulls. The chefs who gave my sticky buns, the helicopter crews who let me sit in their aircraft and press buttons and who showed me where their secret supplies of chocolate were hidden. Then, Dad told me to imagine that ship I loved lurching over on her side, the lights going out, explosions, fire, and icy water pouring in. Imagine the nice men I knew deep down in the engine room, trapped, cold scared, drowning in seawater and their own ship’s oil. I was told to think about those cheery ship’s cooks, making buns, frying chips. Kind, good men. Many of them Dads of little boys like me. Many of them not much older than me. He asked me to imagine leaving a great ship as she rolled over, with nothing but a flimsy life raft for protection. To imagine great big black waves, the fear you may be dragged under, the screams for help, grasping hands, the metallic groaning of the ship as she sank.
I imagined that, but dismissed it as some sort of movie scene. After all, that would never happen to a ship I knew. Not a Royal Navy warship. Never.
A matter of hours later, my opinion was to be changed.
I can highly recommend the book "Secrets of the Conqueror" - fascinating stuff, not just about the Falklands campaign but some of the stuff it got up to in the Cold War was pretty hair raising.ON May 2nd, 1982, the Argentine cruiser ARA GENERAL BELGRANO was being tracked in the South Atlantic by the Royal Navy hunter-killer submarine HMS CONQUEROR.
Belgrano, which as the American warship USS PHOENIX had survived Pearl Harbour 41 years previously, was attacked by Conqueror. Two Mk8 British torpedoes (Ironically weapons of a World War 2 vintage) struck Belgrano’s hull. They caused massive damage and General Belgrano – the much adored pride of the Armada Argentina – sank. 323 of her crew died. It was a brutal, but necessary action. To date, Belgrano is the only ship ever to have been sunk by a nuclear submarine.
Podrá dormir plácidamente Belgrano. Cuide a sus niños, protegerlos y mantenerlos a salvo. Dios los bendiga a todos.
IT is strange how things change, I suppose you call it growing up, but 30 years ago on that May Day in 1982 as a boy of 11, I thought the sinking of Belgrano was the best thing ever.
I was warship mad, and the Falklands war had come just at the right time for me. We had recently moved back to our native North East, and lived in a house which overlooked Long Sands beach in Tynemouth. One early morning, my Dad had the dog out for a walk. A short time later, he was banging on the door, ringing the bell, telling me to get up and look out of the window. There was, he said, an aircraft carrier off the coast. I had only seen one aircraft carrier before, and she had been a sad sight. Forlorn, unloved, being ripped to pieces at a jetty on the banks of Loch Ryan in Scotland, HMS Eagle had made a big impression on me - despite the sad circumstances of our meeting. Her sheer size, her great grey bulk, only served to make me love warships and the navy more. I felt so sorry that this wonderful ship was being destroyed. At the time, as a small boy, I had no idea about the politics that lay behind Eagle’s demise.
Back to the early morning in Tynemouth. I went to the window, binoculars in hand. It was a bright, clear morning in October 1981. There she was. This aircraft carrier my Dad had seen was now running at high speed northwards. I recognised her instantly as an Invincible Class carrier – the Royal Navy’s latest warship. Even at 11, I noticed there was something different about her. The deck crane was positioned slightly further aft, there were other small differences that told this junior ship spotter that this was not HMS INVINCIBLE the lead ship of the class, but her new sister, Illustrious. HMS ILLUSTRIOUS was fitting-out at the Swan Hunter shipyard on the River Tyne where they had spent the previous five years building her. I was witnessing her first trip to sea, as this new warship found her feet in the waters off “her“ river, she performed what I now know to be “standard manoeuvres” violently turning herself this way and that, running as fast as she could between measured markers on the shore. All the time, clouds of brown smoke streaming out of her two elegant funnels as the shipyard team tested her in a process known as contractor’s sea trials.
I was in heaven.
In less than a year, Illustrious was to play a bigger part in my life. Indeed all three Invincible Class warships went on to be part of me for the next 30 years.
Returning to 1982 and Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands. A group of rocks 8,500 miles from the UK with 1,800 British nationals on them. Britain sent a task force of 101 ships - warships, auxiliaries and commercial vessels - to retake the territory. I like most of the country at the time, followed the Falklands Crisis as it was then called, with great interest.
As a ship-mad kid, I knew some of the British warships involved. I used to visit them when they came to ports near us, and badgered my father to use his influence to get me special tours of the ships. I got so see more than the general public and had climbed over engine rooms, weapons magazines, helicopters and operations rooms of dozens of vessels. I had a secret list of “my” ships that went to the Falklands. Ships I particularly liked. Glamorgan, Argonaut, Plymouth, Sheffield were three I supported. My bedroom walls were covered in posters of warships, I knew their identification numbers, their capabilities and through visiting them, I knew their crews.
There were the sailors in HMS Plymouth who delighted in showing a little lad round. They had their picture taken with me which ended up being published in a local paper. A cute little toddler wearing one of their hats. But at age 4, that cute little kid could have told you Sea Cat was a surface to air missile, and that Plymouth carried two 4.5 inch guns.
On the morning of May 3rd, the news came through on the radio that a British submarine had attacked and sunk an Argentine cruiser, ARA GENERAL BELGRANO. On hearing the news I ran around the house, shouting and whooping performing a silly victory dance.
My Dad sat quietly. He wasn’t celebrating. Why? He asked me to sit down and tell him why I was so happy. I told him. We’d sunk and Argie warship. That was great; we’d taught them a lesson. They would now know who the boss was and would leave the islands.
During world War Two, as a little boy himself, my Dad had been evacuated to Canada to avoid the German bombs which fell in the UK during the Blitz. He never arrived at his destination. The ship he was in was torpedoed 300 miles off Ireland. He and his little brother were forced to abandon the liner as she rolled over. They took to a lifeboat and drifted in the dark night. The injured ship’s siren wailed out a distress call which echoed across the sea. A British destroyer thundered past them. It didn’t stop but directed my father and the other children to a nearby oil tanker which at great risk had put its lights on to act as a beacon for the drifting survivors. Dad climbed up the side of the tanker on a rope ladder. He was helped aboard by a kindly British sailor, who told him everything would be OK. Dad knew how lucky he had been. Dad knew exactly what had happened to Belgrano.
He asked me to imagine a ship I knew and loved. Plymouth, Argonaut, Glamorgan, maybe Sheffield. Then close my eyes, remember the noises and smells, the thrum of the engines, the voices of the lads, nice lads who had given me sweets, and soft drinks on my trips round ships. The smiling engineers who showed me round engine rooms deep inside warship hulls. The chefs who gave my sticky buns, the helicopter crews who let me sit in their aircraft and press buttons and who showed me where their secret supplies of chocolate were hidden. Then, Dad told me to imagine that ship I loved lurching over on her side, the lights going out, explosions, fire, and icy water pouring in. Imagine the nice men I knew deep down in the engine room, trapped, cold scared, drowning in seawater and their own ship’s oil. I was told to think about those cheery ship’s cooks, making buns, frying chips. Kind, good men. Many of them Dads of little boys like me. Many of them not much older than me. He asked me to imagine leaving a great ship as she rolled over, with nothing but a flimsy life raft for protection. To imagine great big black waves, the fear you may be dragged under, the screams for help, grasping hands, the metallic groaning of the ship as she sank.
I imagined that, but dismissed it as some sort of movie scene. After all, that would never happen to a ship I knew. Not a Royal Navy warship. Never.
A matter of hours later, my opinion was to be changed.
Europa1 said:
I can highly recommend the book "Secrets of the Conqueror" - fascinating stuff, not just about the Falklands campaign but some of the stuff it got up to in the Cold War was pretty hair raising.
It is a good book. Amazing to think events of May 2 was just one of the things her and her crew did that year.2nd May
UN and Peru both try to initiate peace talks.
Pym meets UN Secretary General Perez de Cuellar in New York.
Peruvian President Belaunde Terry presents a peace proposal to Galtieri who gives preliminary acceptance with some modifications;
Argentine Fleet Commander Contralmirante JJ Lombardo sets his countermeasures in motion. He creates four task groups to deliver a succession of blows from separate directions.
Carrier Battle Group rejoined by the Glamorgan group, HMS Brilliant[i] and [i]Yarmouth.
HMS Conqueror tracks the movements of the Argentine cruiser General Belgrano.
The three Type 42s were stationed thirty miles up-threat as a picket line.
HMS Glamorgan, Yarmouth, Alacrity and Arrow formed an anti-aircraft and anti-submarine screen protecting the main body of the two carriers and the RFAs Olmeda and Resource, with the Type 22s goalkeeping for the carriers.
CAP sections were flown before dawn.
HMS Plymouth recalled to screen the Carrier Battle Group.
RFA Fort Austin approached the TEZ, HMS Yarmouth was despatched to shepherd her.
By mid-afternoon the Argentine navy's plan had been thwarted by a lack of wind, the Argentine Skyhawks needed at least 25knots of natural wind to allow take off.
Argentine cruiser General Belgrano sunk by torpedoes fired from HMS Conqueror.
BAS Survey team and two photographers left in HMS Antrim and RFA Tidespring for Ascension.
Russian spy trawler sighted off Ascension.
SD.
UN and Peru both try to initiate peace talks.
Pym meets UN Secretary General Perez de Cuellar in New York.
Peruvian President Belaunde Terry presents a peace proposal to Galtieri who gives preliminary acceptance with some modifications;
Argentine Fleet Commander Contralmirante JJ Lombardo sets his countermeasures in motion. He creates four task groups to deliver a succession of blows from separate directions.
Carrier Battle Group rejoined by the Glamorgan group, HMS Brilliant[i] and [i]Yarmouth.
HMS Conqueror tracks the movements of the Argentine cruiser General Belgrano.
The three Type 42s were stationed thirty miles up-threat as a picket line.
HMS Glamorgan, Yarmouth, Alacrity and Arrow formed an anti-aircraft and anti-submarine screen protecting the main body of the two carriers and the RFAs Olmeda and Resource, with the Type 22s goalkeeping for the carriers.
CAP sections were flown before dawn.
HMS Plymouth recalled to screen the Carrier Battle Group.
RFA Fort Austin approached the TEZ, HMS Yarmouth was despatched to shepherd her.
By mid-afternoon the Argentine navy's plan had been thwarted by a lack of wind, the Argentine Skyhawks needed at least 25knots of natural wind to allow take off.
Argentine cruiser General Belgrano sunk by torpedoes fired from HMS Conqueror.
BAS Survey team and two photographers left in HMS Antrim and RFA Tidespring for Ascension.
Russian spy trawler sighted off Ascension.
SD.
shed driver said:
By mid-afternoon the Argentine navy's plan had been thwarted by a lack of wind.
I know it was down to the aircraft rather than the ships themselves, but I wonder if there had been any other naval action anywhere in the world thwarted by a lack of wind in the previous 120 years?The sinking of ARA General Belgrano
She was built as USS Phoenix (CL-46), the sixth of the Brooklyn-class light cruisers, in New Jersey by the New York Shipbuilding Corporation starting in 1935, and launched in March 1938. She survived the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, and was decommissioned from the US Navy (USN) in July 1946. USS Phoenix was sold, with another of her class (USS Boise renamed ARA [/i]Nueve de Julio[/i]), to Argentina in October 1951, for $7.8 million. She was renamed 17 de Octubre after an important date for the political party of the then president Juan Perón. Perón was overthrown in 1955, and in 1956 the vessel was renamed General Belgrano (C-4) after General Manuel Belgrano, who had fought for Argentine independence in 1816.
In the early phase of the 1982 Falklands War, much of the Argentine navy had avoided any conflict.
The General Belgrano had left Ushuaia in Tierra del Fuego on April 26, 1982, with two destroyers, the ARA Piedra Buena (D-29) and the Bouchard (D-26) (both also ex-USN vessels), as Task Group 79.3.
On the 29th they were patrolling the Burdwood Bank, south of the islands. On the 30th she was detected by the nuclear-powered hunter-killer submarine HMS Conqueror. The submarine approached over the following day. Although outside the British-declared Total Exclusion Zone of 370 km (200 nautical miles) radius from the islands, the British decided that the group was a threat.
After consultation at Cabinet level, the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, agreed that Commander Chris Wreford-Brown should attack the group. According to the Argentine government , Belgrano’s position was 55 24 S, 61 32 W.
At 15:57 on May 2, Conqueror fired three conventional Mk 8 mod 4 torpedoes, each with an 800 lb (363 kg) Torpex warhead, two of which hit the General Belgrano. The Conqueror was also equipped with the newer Mark 24 Tigerfish homing torpedo, but there were doubts about its reliability. The Mk 8 dated back to the 1920s and was not a homing design. One of the torpedoes struck between 10 and 15 metres back from the bow, outside the area protected by either the ship's side armour or the internal anti-torpedo bulge. The effect of this was to blow off the bow of the ship but the internal bulkheads held and the forward powder magazine for the 40 mm gun did not detonate. There was nobody in that part of the ship at the time of the explosion. The second torpedo struck about three-quarters of the way along the ship, just outside the rear limit of the side armour plating. The torpedo punched through the side of the ship before exploding in the after machine room. The explosion tore upward through two messes and a relaxation area called "the Soda Fountain" and finally ripped a twenty metre long hole in the main deck.
Later reports put the number of deaths in the area around the explosion at 275 men. There was no fire after the explosion but the ship rapidly filled with smoke. The explosion also damaged the Belgrano's electrical power system, preventing her from putting out a radio distress call. Though the forward bulkheads held, water was rushing in through the hole created by the torpedo and could not be pumped out because of the electrical power failure. The ship began to list to port and to sink towards the bow.
Twenty minutes after the attack at 16:24 Captain Bonzo ordered the crew to abandon ship. Inflatable life rafts were deployed and the evacuation began without panic.
The two escort ships were unaware of what was happening to the Belgrano as they were out of touch with her in the gloom and had not seen the distress rockets or lamp signals. Adding to the confusion, the crew of the ARA Bouchard felt an impact that was possibly the third torpedo striking at the end of its run (an examination of the ship later showed an impact mark consistent with a torpedo). The two ships continued on their course westward and began dropping depth charges. By the time the ships realised that something had happened to the Belgrano it was already dark and the weather had worsened, scattering the life rafts. Argentine and Chilean ships rescued 770 men in all from May 3 to May 5. In total 323 were killed in the attack, 321 members of the crew and two civilians who were on board at the time.
View the Board of Enquiry report on the sinking of the ARA General Belgrano.
Read an extract from Margaret Thatcher's memoirs regarding this incident.
The early reports gave us one of the most famous newspaper headlines - "Gotcha!" This was swiftly changed to "Did 1200 Argies Drown?" - the first editions were already out.
SD.
She was built as USS Phoenix (CL-46), the sixth of the Brooklyn-class light cruisers, in New Jersey by the New York Shipbuilding Corporation starting in 1935, and launched in March 1938. She survived the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, and was decommissioned from the US Navy (USN) in July 1946. USS Phoenix was sold, with another of her class (USS Boise renamed ARA [/i]Nueve de Julio[/i]), to Argentina in October 1951, for $7.8 million. She was renamed 17 de Octubre after an important date for the political party of the then president Juan Perón. Perón was overthrown in 1955, and in 1956 the vessel was renamed General Belgrano (C-4) after General Manuel Belgrano, who had fought for Argentine independence in 1816.
In the early phase of the 1982 Falklands War, much of the Argentine navy had avoided any conflict.
The General Belgrano had left Ushuaia in Tierra del Fuego on April 26, 1982, with two destroyers, the ARA Piedra Buena (D-29) and the Bouchard (D-26) (both also ex-USN vessels), as Task Group 79.3.
On the 29th they were patrolling the Burdwood Bank, south of the islands. On the 30th she was detected by the nuclear-powered hunter-killer submarine HMS Conqueror. The submarine approached over the following day. Although outside the British-declared Total Exclusion Zone of 370 km (200 nautical miles) radius from the islands, the British decided that the group was a threat.
After consultation at Cabinet level, the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, agreed that Commander Chris Wreford-Brown should attack the group. According to the Argentine government , Belgrano’s position was 55 24 S, 61 32 W.
At 15:57 on May 2, Conqueror fired three conventional Mk 8 mod 4 torpedoes, each with an 800 lb (363 kg) Torpex warhead, two of which hit the General Belgrano. The Conqueror was also equipped with the newer Mark 24 Tigerfish homing torpedo, but there were doubts about its reliability. The Mk 8 dated back to the 1920s and was not a homing design. One of the torpedoes struck between 10 and 15 metres back from the bow, outside the area protected by either the ship's side armour or the internal anti-torpedo bulge. The effect of this was to blow off the bow of the ship but the internal bulkheads held and the forward powder magazine for the 40 mm gun did not detonate. There was nobody in that part of the ship at the time of the explosion. The second torpedo struck about three-quarters of the way along the ship, just outside the rear limit of the side armour plating. The torpedo punched through the side of the ship before exploding in the after machine room. The explosion tore upward through two messes and a relaxation area called "the Soda Fountain" and finally ripped a twenty metre long hole in the main deck.
Later reports put the number of deaths in the area around the explosion at 275 men. There was no fire after the explosion but the ship rapidly filled with smoke. The explosion also damaged the Belgrano's electrical power system, preventing her from putting out a radio distress call. Though the forward bulkheads held, water was rushing in through the hole created by the torpedo and could not be pumped out because of the electrical power failure. The ship began to list to port and to sink towards the bow.
Twenty minutes after the attack at 16:24 Captain Bonzo ordered the crew to abandon ship. Inflatable life rafts were deployed and the evacuation began without panic.
The two escort ships were unaware of what was happening to the Belgrano as they were out of touch with her in the gloom and had not seen the distress rockets or lamp signals. Adding to the confusion, the crew of the ARA Bouchard felt an impact that was possibly the third torpedo striking at the end of its run (an examination of the ship later showed an impact mark consistent with a torpedo). The two ships continued on their course westward and began dropping depth charges. By the time the ships realised that something had happened to the Belgrano it was already dark and the weather had worsened, scattering the life rafts. Argentine and Chilean ships rescued 770 men in all from May 3 to May 5. In total 323 were killed in the attack, 321 members of the crew and two civilians who were on board at the time.
View the Board of Enquiry report on the sinking of the ARA General Belgrano.
Read an extract from Margaret Thatcher's memoirs regarding this incident.
The early reports gave us one of the most famous newspaper headlines - "Gotcha!" This was swiftly changed to "Did 1200 Argies Drown?" - the first editions were already out.
SD.
Here is the recollections of a Belgrano survivor.
A Survivor's Story.
My name is Marcelo Pozzo. I was a Class ’62 conscript. My initial task after instruction was as “chafa”, just general seamanship. In February 1982 I was sent to Machinery Division, Damage Control Station, acting as quartermaster’s assistant in peaceful times. While we were heading south I was on watch at the main alarm switchboard control station, but when clearing for action my duties were as stretcher-bearer/fireman in a damage control party.
WE WERE TORPEDOED
I’ll tell you about my experience. It was May 2, 1982. At 1600 I left my watch at the Damage Control Station in the heart of the ship. I had to be again on duty at 0000, so I decided to lie down and take a nap until dinnertime. In the very moment that I closed my eyes an unseen hammer-blow knocked me against the upper bunk. When I fell down a heat wave engulfed me, it felt as if the door of a huge blazing oven had suddenly opened. I know I yelled. In a matter of seconds my whole life run before my eyes, like in a movie. The moment passed, I stood up and heard cries and a very particular kind of silence. I realized then that the ship was silent, one gets so used to the humming of the machinery during navigation, it seems as if the boat is alive. Now it wasn’t.
I emerged from a hatchway and saw that there were people coming up from the lower decks, almost calmly. I didn’t understand why everybody was encouraging me to go out, giving me way. So I went on deck. I thought I was going to see everything in shambles but it wasn’t so, things seemed practically in order. When I turned I saw a friend of mine coming out from the same hatchway I had just passed through. He looked bruised and burnt. I asked him what had happened and he blurted out, “We were torpedoed, you asshole!” I looked at the floor and noticed that there was a pool of blood at my feet. “Gee, somebody got hurt”, I said to myself. Then I looked better: I was the one hurt. I had walked on my bare feet over broken glass. There was no trace of the socks I was wearing when I was laying on my bunk, what remained was just a torn piece of elastic. The skin in my legs was thoroughly lacerated from the knees down. My right fore-arm was covered with burns up to the hand and I had an ugly looking blister from the wrist to the little finger. I didn’t feel any pain, though – partly because of the stinging cold, partly (they told me later) because of the shock damp.
You know, it was odd. The controlled way everybody behaved, I mean. The officers voiced their commands, since power had failed and the speakers were useless. The men obeyed. Damage Control parties were assessing the wreckage, shoring up bulkheads and doing their best to bring the vessel under control. The medics took care of casualties, and there were people entering and taking out on deck the wounded that had remained trapped inside, notwithstanding the heavy clouds of smoke coming from several burning fires. Everybody was coldly doing his chores with unbelievable self control. When they called for Damage Control hands I recalled my duties and went to my station, but an officer saw me and packed me off to Sick Bay.
There are many things that I have learned since. I know now that every individual reacts differently in front of the same situation, but it is of the essence to keep a clear mind, to avoid getting flustered and to assign the right priorities. On the other hand, drills are important. Nobody thinks that his ship can sink, but has to know what to do if it happens. You’ve got to be prepared, exercising your brain in your moments of leisure about how would you behave if – or at least, bearing in mind and even memorizing where is every survival element on board, commenting it with the rest of your companions. I know, I know, it seems so silly, but it can happen to you. As my grandpa used to say, “Never say never...”
ABANDON SHIP!
Where was I? Yes, going to Sick Bay. While making my way I saw the medics carrying people out (there were two that had just undergone appendectomy) towards the next abandon ship station. They told me to do the same if I could walk by myself. I could indeed, my only fear (for I was barefoot) was to hurt my feet further with some splinters from the deck timber. So I proceeded to my assigned life raft muster station, which was starboard. My raft, # 63, was “hanging” from # 5 gun-turret astern. I was then halfway the vessel, so I started to walk laboriously astern. Going along I saw my mates of Damage Control trying to bring to life some portable drainage pumps. I came across a conscript loaded with a mountain of poncho-like covers, used by men on open deck watch as protection from the intense cold. He offered me one that I gratefully accepted. How commendable: the ship was sinking, and a guy had the sensible idea of distributing protective clothing among those who were unprepared to face the climate – as I was. You get to really know people only at moments like this.
Well, I put on my poncho and kept on walking astern. The General Belgrano was 182 meters long, so everything was far away. When I reached my station I found out that the life raft # 63 was no longer in its berth, it had probably gone overboard when the ship was hit. Other crew members assigned to the lost raft were as worried as I was, so we asked permission from the Officer in Charge to board the neighboring raft which had just been launched. In that moment we heard the repeated command of “Abandon Ship!” It was a frightful order.
The list to port was rather pronounced, it wasn’t easy to stand straight on deck. I looked around and saw several images that still remain in my memory: 1) there were several rafts already launched on the sea, 2) the portboard was touching the water, and crew members reached the rafts by doing just a short jump, 3) there were people badly burned, they looked black, a dreadful sight, 4) some tactical divers were setting up a motor-driven rubber dinghy, 5) the Second Commanding Officer was standing on the bridge and shouting the order to abandon ship using his hands horn-like, 6) actions were performed in an orderly fashion.
The Petty Officer in charge of the newly found raft shook me out of my contemplative surrealistic environment bringing me back to reality, and told me that since I was injured I was going into the raft first. The matter was far from easy. The ship listed to port and we were starboard. Somebody secured a rope and I started to descend, barefoot, hanging Batman-like until I could step on a bull’s-eye. The other guys coming down after me were urging me to jump. The raft was rearing and plunging upon 15 m high waves, so I calculated the trajectory, committed my life to God and jumped. I was lucky, I fell upon the raft’s roof and sprang immediately inside; then I huddled myself up and heard my mates falling down one by one into the raft. Some of them failed the target however, and fell screaming into the icy sea. We were able to pick up just two of them, the other three died after a few minutes of being suddenly plunged into the glacially cold water, we could see them afloat in their lifebelts – lifebelts, what an irony, their life was gone. The oil in the water made quite difficult to grasp anything, everything was so slippery. In addition the raft was almost round, so managing her to get near the men was terribly difficult.
When nobody else seemed to be on deck we decided to cut the anchor rope. The vessel was by then almost totally leaning to one side, her port rails dipping under the surface of the sea. We could perfectly see the hull bottom, the axis of one of the propeller screws, the chalky incrustations. Since the port to access the raft was rather small I slipped inside and left the others to man the oars to pull us away. When we were just five meters away from the hull everybody started to yell, “She’s sinking!” There followed a deep silence. We were all thinking the same: now the rushing vortex of water is going to suck us down. A corporal beside me embraced me in tears, I was also crying when I returned the embrace. Once again I saw in rapid sequence sundry images of my life, and I felt a strange sensation, as when you are observing a scene from above. Perhaps I thought that I was going to die. I reacted when I heard my mates shouts, “long live our country!”, “long live the Belgrano!”
We started to pray, all of us. God heard us, because suddenly the tactical divers were among the rafts using their motorized rubber dinghy to separate one from the other, thus allowing more freedom of movement. (Another commendable behavior, wasn’t it?). They succeeded in removing us to a certain distance, but all the same we remained very near the place where our ship had sunk. From the bottom of the sea came several muffled explosions. That was the end. The ARA General Belgrano would never come back.
SURVIVAL ABOARD THE RAFT
The Belgrano sank on Sunday, May 2, 1982 at about 1700. At that latitude it’s already dark at 1800, and the skies are usually clouded over. Dusk was falling and we prepared ourselves to spend the night. We didn’t imagine then what was expecting us.
We were under leaden, lowering clouds, and after a while a storm struck with appalling savagery. Some of the waves towering over us were 10 m high, topped with frothing caps of white. For minutes on end, the screaming wind held steady at 100 km/h, dropping the temperature well below zero. We were dancing to the tune of the ocean, a wild and malevolent dance that made our raft climb the wave until the crest kicked our backs sending us flying to the other end of the raft. Then we crashed down endlessly, with a roller-coaster-like sensation that made us sick. The effort was double when we had to go back hastily to our position to keep the balance of the raft. Besides, the ports didn’t close well. When waves broke their tops in the roof, water seeped inside so the raft kept a constant 3 cm water level in the bilge. We did our best to drain the bilgewater to no avail, there was always new water entering.
I felt rather ill. The dehydration of the injured tissues was noticeable now. Shuddering, I curled up under the poncho and was able to sleep for a while. Nevertheless it was not possible for me to sleep much, the breaking waves and the nausea prevented it. When I was seasick the corporal beside me pulled the navy cap out of my head and put it on my face. When I finished the cap was passed by hand until it reached the guy at the port. He washed it and then it was returned back to me.
When somebody had to urinate the situation became something out of a Kafka book. Let me tell you about it. When the need arrived, we had to sit onto the raft sidepipe. By making an effort and taking very good aim, we did pee into the only available vessel: the Bengal lights packing tube, similar to the one containing tennis balls. Then the tube was passed by hand until it reached the man at the port, who gave it the same treatment received by my navy cap. Mind you, it wasn’t an easy manoeuvre. To sit on the sidepipe we had to stand up, support the wave blows right onto our shoulders, open the fly with numb fingers, find Dickie (who had a strong tendence to disappear inside) and make a laborious effort to aim the spout – all this while the massive mountains of water, broken and confused, shook the raft this way or that. Everybody had to submit to this. At the start those who were near the port tried to urinate out just like that, but after a couple of times they gave up because it was so frightfully cold outside that Dickie risked frostbite – and that was no joke.
Speaking about the cold, it was indeed intense. A “port watch” was established to keep ports manually closed as much as possible, but it was sheer torture: hands froze to the very marrow of the bones. Even donning two sets of gloves, the flying spray and the chilled winds made impossible to stand more than ten minutes on watch.
Let’s go back to my wounds: when I had entered the raft by instinct I had protected my burnt hand and forearm against my chest. The wounds were suppurating so after a while they stuck to my undershirt. In one of the many shakes and jolts of the raft the whole lot became unstuck and I started to bleed. I asked for ‘Pancutan’ or something alike from the first-aid box, covered the burns with the paste and then somebody dressed my arm and hand with a bandage.
As I said before, there was always bilgewater in the raft floor. The water was quite cold and the deadly chill crept upwards from feet to calves. My toes were numbed so I was continuously moving them to avoid the well known “trench foot”. I was lucky, I didn’t get any frostbite.
You know, we were in silence almost all the time, although the officer in charge tried to keep us awake by singing or praying. In general we were serene and hopeful, so much that the few comments that were made from time to time were about when will our raft be seen, or how we were going to be rescued.
RESCUE
The dawn brought with it better climate. Above, patches of blue sky and some sun rays could be seen at fleeting intervals and our hopes for a prompt rescue grew. Nothing happened during the morning. Alas, about 1300 a Neptune airplane passed wavehopping and saluting with the wings in the best Hollywood style. We were desperate to be seen so we tried to signal our position with the Bengal lights (the instructions were written in English!) but we failed to do so with the type to be fired. At last, we succeeded with the manual lights.
Actually, we thought we were the only survivors because we hadn’t seen other rafts. Later on we realized that we had another raft quite near, less than 100 meters from us, and a couple more farther away. The fact is that we were all the time in a sea of massive mountain-like waves which plunged our raft, and the others, into the depths between the crests so we couldn’t see each other easily.
After the first sighting we felt more animated and willing to chat. After a while another airplane appeared, an A.R.A. F28 I think, and once again we started to yell, howl, shouting long live to our country and all those things that actually are more directed inside than outside. The rescue was near. I was thinking then that I was surrounded by guys I had never met before, there were some of them that I had never even seen on board. However, the fact of being together in a situation of life and death created such a feeling of closeness and affection that we knew that we were going to be “friends for life”.
The darkness closed on our Monday at sea. Nobody said anything, but all of us were afraid of another stormy night. More often than not new volunteers went to keep watch at port, not so much to comply with the specific task but to be on the lookout for any rescuers. Only after midnight we started to see the flaring lights of the salvage ships which were gradually getting near. Finally, on Tuesday at 0400 a flare light focused on our raft and accompanied the manoeuver until we brought ourselves alongside our rescuing ship, the Aviso Gurruchaga. Their skilled actions were complicated by the still agitated sea. We learned afterwards that there was a further storm expected that night, providentially delayed.
We were instructed to cut the raft roof with our navy clasp-knives to facilitate the boarding. When my mates were doing it I thought, “what a pity, how are we going to use it if we break it up so?” Probably I was losing my marbles by then, I didn’t recognize the difference between my raft and my ship. Then the instructions were for casualties going first. It seemed I was the only one on board, so I stood up and grasped the Gurruchaga port gangway ladder which was hanging down. I was able to climb just a couple of steps, then I looked up and cried, “take me up ‘cause I can’t do it!” They raised the ladder and finally I was on board. In the precise moment that two sailors took my arms my body literally became disconnected from my brain. I was conscious, I could see the deck when they dragged me along but I wasn’t able to move one muscle, I couldn’t even raise my head. I was taken inside, undressed, cleansed, cured and covered with a blanket. Now, when we meet, my friends still pull my leg recalling that as soon as I recovered my strength, I went on deck naked and greeting happily everybody – even the Captain, who embraced me when he saw me alive and kicking.
IN LAND AGAIN
When we reached Ushuaia I was taken to the Naval Hospital, where my wounds and burns were duly treated. We were looked upon with the greatest regard. Doctors, nurses, even standard citizens who came to the hospital to chat with us, everybody did their best to help us recover. I met there several crew members that were also burned, or that suffered sundry ailments caused by the cold. We heard about dead bodies found where there were no more than five people manning the raft, and about a couple of capsized drafts, one empty, the other with two bodies inside. We heard about some cases of trench-foot due to cold bilgewater, but fortunately none of them suffered any amputation.
From Ushuaia we were flown in a hospital plane to Puerto Belgrano. Our Commander, an old marine, was with us. He gave us courage with phrases like “be strong, my boys” or “come on, marine!”. He was an inspiring presence. Unfortunately, in the bunk upper to mine was a first corporal who died during the trip. We all prayed for his soul.
When we reached the Puerto Belgrano Naval Hospital I was taken to an intensive care room. A Surgeon-Captain entered the room carrying a basin and a bristle-brush of the type used to wash clothes. He asked me, “What do you like best, chlorinated water or lemon juice?” I didn’t understand much, but I remembered well that when I was a kid lemon juice hurt a lot when it fell on any bruise, so just in case I chose chlorinated water. The Captain filled the basin with liquid, took firmly the brush in his right hand and said matter-of-factly, “yell as much as you want, but if you touch me I’ll knock you out”, and started to clean up my wounded legs. I’m sure my cries were heard in the Antarctics. Once he was finished with the legs he continued with my arm and hand. When the brushing up was over I passed out. Later on he explained to me that it was the most effective method he knew to avoid infections. He was right. Burning wounds are very painful indeed, not only during treatment but because of the long recovery period required. I was burned in a 25% of my body with first, second and third degree burns. This notwithstanding, no grafting was ever needed.
After a couple of days, on Thursday, I saw my parents looking at me from the other side of my room window. As mothers come, my ma started to cry and it was not possible to make her stop. And my dad tried to tell jokes (they were awful, by the way) to avoid crying himself. They had not received my news since the sinking of the Belgrano, they were desperate and had been tracing me for days. Mother surreptitiously entered a corridor and was able to see me face to face just when I was being taken to intensive care to be treated. I realized then that I was probably looking very bad, her face said it clearly, but her eyes gave me also strength.
I get melancholic when I remember this, so I’ll cut it out. I spent 30 days in the hospital, then I was sent to Buenos Aires – to finish my conscription! I was lucky to be destinated to the Northern Dock Naval Station. It was light work, in the remaining 4-5 months spent there I just did one night watch at the barracks and another at the dock-yard. Of course: I was the quartermaster who prepared the duty lists so everybody was friendly to me. In October 1982 I left the service.
All of us who came out alive after the South Atlantic Seas experience have a common message: there is only one problem that offers no solution, and it’s death. Anything else can either be solved or it’s temporary. It’s like if you’d need to pass through such a dreadful ordeal to be able to establish a realistic range of values. With a few exceptions, almost all of us – commanding officers, petty officers, conscripts – have made our way in life, studying, working, raising a family and growing up as human beings. We have never lost – no, I’d prefer to say that we have purposely maintained the spirit-de-corps we found so many years ago. We still meet, there are always stories to be told about those days. The main feeling, however, is to renew the honor and the pride of being the cruiser ARA General Belgrano last crew. And we feel as our mission to pay homage to our 323 mates, heroes who were left behind in the South and who gave their lives for the best of reasons, our country.
A Survivor's Story.
My name is Marcelo Pozzo. I was a Class ’62 conscript. My initial task after instruction was as “chafa”, just general seamanship. In February 1982 I was sent to Machinery Division, Damage Control Station, acting as quartermaster’s assistant in peaceful times. While we were heading south I was on watch at the main alarm switchboard control station, but when clearing for action my duties were as stretcher-bearer/fireman in a damage control party.
WE WERE TORPEDOED
I’ll tell you about my experience. It was May 2, 1982. At 1600 I left my watch at the Damage Control Station in the heart of the ship. I had to be again on duty at 0000, so I decided to lie down and take a nap until dinnertime. In the very moment that I closed my eyes an unseen hammer-blow knocked me against the upper bunk. When I fell down a heat wave engulfed me, it felt as if the door of a huge blazing oven had suddenly opened. I know I yelled. In a matter of seconds my whole life run before my eyes, like in a movie. The moment passed, I stood up and heard cries and a very particular kind of silence. I realized then that the ship was silent, one gets so used to the humming of the machinery during navigation, it seems as if the boat is alive. Now it wasn’t.
I emerged from a hatchway and saw that there were people coming up from the lower decks, almost calmly. I didn’t understand why everybody was encouraging me to go out, giving me way. So I went on deck. I thought I was going to see everything in shambles but it wasn’t so, things seemed practically in order. When I turned I saw a friend of mine coming out from the same hatchway I had just passed through. He looked bruised and burnt. I asked him what had happened and he blurted out, “We were torpedoed, you asshole!” I looked at the floor and noticed that there was a pool of blood at my feet. “Gee, somebody got hurt”, I said to myself. Then I looked better: I was the one hurt. I had walked on my bare feet over broken glass. There was no trace of the socks I was wearing when I was laying on my bunk, what remained was just a torn piece of elastic. The skin in my legs was thoroughly lacerated from the knees down. My right fore-arm was covered with burns up to the hand and I had an ugly looking blister from the wrist to the little finger. I didn’t feel any pain, though – partly because of the stinging cold, partly (they told me later) because of the shock damp.
You know, it was odd. The controlled way everybody behaved, I mean. The officers voiced their commands, since power had failed and the speakers were useless. The men obeyed. Damage Control parties were assessing the wreckage, shoring up bulkheads and doing their best to bring the vessel under control. The medics took care of casualties, and there were people entering and taking out on deck the wounded that had remained trapped inside, notwithstanding the heavy clouds of smoke coming from several burning fires. Everybody was coldly doing his chores with unbelievable self control. When they called for Damage Control hands I recalled my duties and went to my station, but an officer saw me and packed me off to Sick Bay.
There are many things that I have learned since. I know now that every individual reacts differently in front of the same situation, but it is of the essence to keep a clear mind, to avoid getting flustered and to assign the right priorities. On the other hand, drills are important. Nobody thinks that his ship can sink, but has to know what to do if it happens. You’ve got to be prepared, exercising your brain in your moments of leisure about how would you behave if – or at least, bearing in mind and even memorizing where is every survival element on board, commenting it with the rest of your companions. I know, I know, it seems so silly, but it can happen to you. As my grandpa used to say, “Never say never...”
ABANDON SHIP!
Where was I? Yes, going to Sick Bay. While making my way I saw the medics carrying people out (there were two that had just undergone appendectomy) towards the next abandon ship station. They told me to do the same if I could walk by myself. I could indeed, my only fear (for I was barefoot) was to hurt my feet further with some splinters from the deck timber. So I proceeded to my assigned life raft muster station, which was starboard. My raft, # 63, was “hanging” from # 5 gun-turret astern. I was then halfway the vessel, so I started to walk laboriously astern. Going along I saw my mates of Damage Control trying to bring to life some portable drainage pumps. I came across a conscript loaded with a mountain of poncho-like covers, used by men on open deck watch as protection from the intense cold. He offered me one that I gratefully accepted. How commendable: the ship was sinking, and a guy had the sensible idea of distributing protective clothing among those who were unprepared to face the climate – as I was. You get to really know people only at moments like this.
Well, I put on my poncho and kept on walking astern. The General Belgrano was 182 meters long, so everything was far away. When I reached my station I found out that the life raft # 63 was no longer in its berth, it had probably gone overboard when the ship was hit. Other crew members assigned to the lost raft were as worried as I was, so we asked permission from the Officer in Charge to board the neighboring raft which had just been launched. In that moment we heard the repeated command of “Abandon Ship!” It was a frightful order.
The list to port was rather pronounced, it wasn’t easy to stand straight on deck. I looked around and saw several images that still remain in my memory: 1) there were several rafts already launched on the sea, 2) the portboard was touching the water, and crew members reached the rafts by doing just a short jump, 3) there were people badly burned, they looked black, a dreadful sight, 4) some tactical divers were setting up a motor-driven rubber dinghy, 5) the Second Commanding Officer was standing on the bridge and shouting the order to abandon ship using his hands horn-like, 6) actions were performed in an orderly fashion.
The Petty Officer in charge of the newly found raft shook me out of my contemplative surrealistic environment bringing me back to reality, and told me that since I was injured I was going into the raft first. The matter was far from easy. The ship listed to port and we were starboard. Somebody secured a rope and I started to descend, barefoot, hanging Batman-like until I could step on a bull’s-eye. The other guys coming down after me were urging me to jump. The raft was rearing and plunging upon 15 m high waves, so I calculated the trajectory, committed my life to God and jumped. I was lucky, I fell upon the raft’s roof and sprang immediately inside; then I huddled myself up and heard my mates falling down one by one into the raft. Some of them failed the target however, and fell screaming into the icy sea. We were able to pick up just two of them, the other three died after a few minutes of being suddenly plunged into the glacially cold water, we could see them afloat in their lifebelts – lifebelts, what an irony, their life was gone. The oil in the water made quite difficult to grasp anything, everything was so slippery. In addition the raft was almost round, so managing her to get near the men was terribly difficult.
When nobody else seemed to be on deck we decided to cut the anchor rope. The vessel was by then almost totally leaning to one side, her port rails dipping under the surface of the sea. We could perfectly see the hull bottom, the axis of one of the propeller screws, the chalky incrustations. Since the port to access the raft was rather small I slipped inside and left the others to man the oars to pull us away. When we were just five meters away from the hull everybody started to yell, “She’s sinking!” There followed a deep silence. We were all thinking the same: now the rushing vortex of water is going to suck us down. A corporal beside me embraced me in tears, I was also crying when I returned the embrace. Once again I saw in rapid sequence sundry images of my life, and I felt a strange sensation, as when you are observing a scene from above. Perhaps I thought that I was going to die. I reacted when I heard my mates shouts, “long live our country!”, “long live the Belgrano!”
We started to pray, all of us. God heard us, because suddenly the tactical divers were among the rafts using their motorized rubber dinghy to separate one from the other, thus allowing more freedom of movement. (Another commendable behavior, wasn’t it?). They succeeded in removing us to a certain distance, but all the same we remained very near the place where our ship had sunk. From the bottom of the sea came several muffled explosions. That was the end. The ARA General Belgrano would never come back.
SURVIVAL ABOARD THE RAFT
The Belgrano sank on Sunday, May 2, 1982 at about 1700. At that latitude it’s already dark at 1800, and the skies are usually clouded over. Dusk was falling and we prepared ourselves to spend the night. We didn’t imagine then what was expecting us.
We were under leaden, lowering clouds, and after a while a storm struck with appalling savagery. Some of the waves towering over us were 10 m high, topped with frothing caps of white. For minutes on end, the screaming wind held steady at 100 km/h, dropping the temperature well below zero. We were dancing to the tune of the ocean, a wild and malevolent dance that made our raft climb the wave until the crest kicked our backs sending us flying to the other end of the raft. Then we crashed down endlessly, with a roller-coaster-like sensation that made us sick. The effort was double when we had to go back hastily to our position to keep the balance of the raft. Besides, the ports didn’t close well. When waves broke their tops in the roof, water seeped inside so the raft kept a constant 3 cm water level in the bilge. We did our best to drain the bilgewater to no avail, there was always new water entering.
I felt rather ill. The dehydration of the injured tissues was noticeable now. Shuddering, I curled up under the poncho and was able to sleep for a while. Nevertheless it was not possible for me to sleep much, the breaking waves and the nausea prevented it. When I was seasick the corporal beside me pulled the navy cap out of my head and put it on my face. When I finished the cap was passed by hand until it reached the guy at the port. He washed it and then it was returned back to me.
When somebody had to urinate the situation became something out of a Kafka book. Let me tell you about it. When the need arrived, we had to sit onto the raft sidepipe. By making an effort and taking very good aim, we did pee into the only available vessel: the Bengal lights packing tube, similar to the one containing tennis balls. Then the tube was passed by hand until it reached the man at the port, who gave it the same treatment received by my navy cap. Mind you, it wasn’t an easy manoeuvre. To sit on the sidepipe we had to stand up, support the wave blows right onto our shoulders, open the fly with numb fingers, find Dickie (who had a strong tendence to disappear inside) and make a laborious effort to aim the spout – all this while the massive mountains of water, broken and confused, shook the raft this way or that. Everybody had to submit to this. At the start those who were near the port tried to urinate out just like that, but after a couple of times they gave up because it was so frightfully cold outside that Dickie risked frostbite – and that was no joke.
Speaking about the cold, it was indeed intense. A “port watch” was established to keep ports manually closed as much as possible, but it was sheer torture: hands froze to the very marrow of the bones. Even donning two sets of gloves, the flying spray and the chilled winds made impossible to stand more than ten minutes on watch.
Let’s go back to my wounds: when I had entered the raft by instinct I had protected my burnt hand and forearm against my chest. The wounds were suppurating so after a while they stuck to my undershirt. In one of the many shakes and jolts of the raft the whole lot became unstuck and I started to bleed. I asked for ‘Pancutan’ or something alike from the first-aid box, covered the burns with the paste and then somebody dressed my arm and hand with a bandage.
As I said before, there was always bilgewater in the raft floor. The water was quite cold and the deadly chill crept upwards from feet to calves. My toes were numbed so I was continuously moving them to avoid the well known “trench foot”. I was lucky, I didn’t get any frostbite.
You know, we were in silence almost all the time, although the officer in charge tried to keep us awake by singing or praying. In general we were serene and hopeful, so much that the few comments that were made from time to time were about when will our raft be seen, or how we were going to be rescued.
RESCUE
The dawn brought with it better climate. Above, patches of blue sky and some sun rays could be seen at fleeting intervals and our hopes for a prompt rescue grew. Nothing happened during the morning. Alas, about 1300 a Neptune airplane passed wavehopping and saluting with the wings in the best Hollywood style. We were desperate to be seen so we tried to signal our position with the Bengal lights (the instructions were written in English!) but we failed to do so with the type to be fired. At last, we succeeded with the manual lights.
Actually, we thought we were the only survivors because we hadn’t seen other rafts. Later on we realized that we had another raft quite near, less than 100 meters from us, and a couple more farther away. The fact is that we were all the time in a sea of massive mountain-like waves which plunged our raft, and the others, into the depths between the crests so we couldn’t see each other easily.
After the first sighting we felt more animated and willing to chat. After a while another airplane appeared, an A.R.A. F28 I think, and once again we started to yell, howl, shouting long live to our country and all those things that actually are more directed inside than outside. The rescue was near. I was thinking then that I was surrounded by guys I had never met before, there were some of them that I had never even seen on board. However, the fact of being together in a situation of life and death created such a feeling of closeness and affection that we knew that we were going to be “friends for life”.
The darkness closed on our Monday at sea. Nobody said anything, but all of us were afraid of another stormy night. More often than not new volunteers went to keep watch at port, not so much to comply with the specific task but to be on the lookout for any rescuers. Only after midnight we started to see the flaring lights of the salvage ships which were gradually getting near. Finally, on Tuesday at 0400 a flare light focused on our raft and accompanied the manoeuver until we brought ourselves alongside our rescuing ship, the Aviso Gurruchaga. Their skilled actions were complicated by the still agitated sea. We learned afterwards that there was a further storm expected that night, providentially delayed.
We were instructed to cut the raft roof with our navy clasp-knives to facilitate the boarding. When my mates were doing it I thought, “what a pity, how are we going to use it if we break it up so?” Probably I was losing my marbles by then, I didn’t recognize the difference between my raft and my ship. Then the instructions were for casualties going first. It seemed I was the only one on board, so I stood up and grasped the Gurruchaga port gangway ladder which was hanging down. I was able to climb just a couple of steps, then I looked up and cried, “take me up ‘cause I can’t do it!” They raised the ladder and finally I was on board. In the precise moment that two sailors took my arms my body literally became disconnected from my brain. I was conscious, I could see the deck when they dragged me along but I wasn’t able to move one muscle, I couldn’t even raise my head. I was taken inside, undressed, cleansed, cured and covered with a blanket. Now, when we meet, my friends still pull my leg recalling that as soon as I recovered my strength, I went on deck naked and greeting happily everybody – even the Captain, who embraced me when he saw me alive and kicking.
IN LAND AGAIN
When we reached Ushuaia I was taken to the Naval Hospital, where my wounds and burns were duly treated. We were looked upon with the greatest regard. Doctors, nurses, even standard citizens who came to the hospital to chat with us, everybody did their best to help us recover. I met there several crew members that were also burned, or that suffered sundry ailments caused by the cold. We heard about dead bodies found where there were no more than five people manning the raft, and about a couple of capsized drafts, one empty, the other with two bodies inside. We heard about some cases of trench-foot due to cold bilgewater, but fortunately none of them suffered any amputation.
From Ushuaia we were flown in a hospital plane to Puerto Belgrano. Our Commander, an old marine, was with us. He gave us courage with phrases like “be strong, my boys” or “come on, marine!”. He was an inspiring presence. Unfortunately, in the bunk upper to mine was a first corporal who died during the trip. We all prayed for his soul.
When we reached the Puerto Belgrano Naval Hospital I was taken to an intensive care room. A Surgeon-Captain entered the room carrying a basin and a bristle-brush of the type used to wash clothes. He asked me, “What do you like best, chlorinated water or lemon juice?” I didn’t understand much, but I remembered well that when I was a kid lemon juice hurt a lot when it fell on any bruise, so just in case I chose chlorinated water. The Captain filled the basin with liquid, took firmly the brush in his right hand and said matter-of-factly, “yell as much as you want, but if you touch me I’ll knock you out”, and started to clean up my wounded legs. I’m sure my cries were heard in the Antarctics. Once he was finished with the legs he continued with my arm and hand. When the brushing up was over I passed out. Later on he explained to me that it was the most effective method he knew to avoid infections. He was right. Burning wounds are very painful indeed, not only during treatment but because of the long recovery period required. I was burned in a 25% of my body with first, second and third degree burns. This notwithstanding, no grafting was ever needed.
After a couple of days, on Thursday, I saw my parents looking at me from the other side of my room window. As mothers come, my ma started to cry and it was not possible to make her stop. And my dad tried to tell jokes (they were awful, by the way) to avoid crying himself. They had not received my news since the sinking of the Belgrano, they were desperate and had been tracing me for days. Mother surreptitiously entered a corridor and was able to see me face to face just when I was being taken to intensive care to be treated. I realized then that I was probably looking very bad, her face said it clearly, but her eyes gave me also strength.
I get melancholic when I remember this, so I’ll cut it out. I spent 30 days in the hospital, then I was sent to Buenos Aires – to finish my conscription! I was lucky to be destinated to the Northern Dock Naval Station. It was light work, in the remaining 4-5 months spent there I just did one night watch at the barracks and another at the dock-yard. Of course: I was the quartermaster who prepared the duty lists so everybody was friendly to me. In October 1982 I left the service.
All of us who came out alive after the South Atlantic Seas experience have a common message: there is only one problem that offers no solution, and it’s death. Anything else can either be solved or it’s temporary. It’s like if you’d need to pass through such a dreadful ordeal to be able to establish a realistic range of values. With a few exceptions, almost all of us – commanding officers, petty officers, conscripts – have made our way in life, studying, working, raising a family and growing up as human beings. We have never lost – no, I’d prefer to say that we have purposely maintained the spirit-de-corps we found so many years ago. We still meet, there are always stories to be told about those days. The main feeling, however, is to renew the honor and the pride of being the cruiser ARA General Belgrano last crew. And we feel as our mission to pay homage to our 323 mates, heroes who were left behind in the South and who gave their lives for the best of reasons, our country.
3rd May
Fog descends over the Carrier Battle Group's operating area.
The Argentine warships pull back to operate in shallower water, where submarines could not follow.
03:15. A Sea King troop transport, just after dropping its load of SAS, sees a well-lit but unidentifiable surface contact. It closes to check it out, and is greeted with a burst of machinegun fire. Taking some umbrage at this act, it calls back and requests that the contact be taught some manners.
Lynxes from Coventry and Glasgow are ordered launched, but Glasgow's suffers a delay for technical fault. They are armed with the Sea Skua missile, still in development so technically this was live-fire-testing. A single missile was fired, and it impacted the armed tug ARA Comodoro Somellera (ex-USS Catawba), exploding and sinking her.
0500:Glasgow's Lynx eventually gets airborne, and detects ARA Alferez Sobral, another armed Sotoyomo class tug, and also a WWII US Navy veteran, formerly USS Salish. Upon also receiving machinegun fire, it launches two Sea Skuas. The ship is badly damaged, the Captain and seven crewmen killed. The damaged bridge is now on display in a museum, the vessel still remains in Argentine navy service.
The fallout from the Sun’s headline caused a diplomatic tidal wave.
Reaching for the 'End-of-the-world' type, and the largest font ever seen in a British Newspaper, the Sun's headline was the most famous of the war. However, when the news that Belgrano had actually sunk made its way to the UK, later editions had the headline changed to "Did 1,200 Argies drown?"
This turns out to be something of a PR disaster, those nasty bullying British Imperialists picking on the weak Latin Americans. In what really wasn't Ireland's proudest moment on the international scene, it calls for a security council meeting, declares the UK to be aggressors, and lifts its sanctions on Argentina. Italy does likewise, and Germany calls for a cease-fire.
The Argentines, of course, milk it for all their worth on the international scene, after all, everybody admitted the ship was sunk outside the declared exclusion zone, and heading West, towards Argentina. The British argue that direction and speed are irrelevant, as both can change instantly. What is important is capability and threat. Not made public was the fact that on 23rd April, the British had quietly handed the Argentinians a note saying that any ship, even if outside the TEZ, would be attacked if it was felt to pose a threat to the Task Force.
Interestingly, even the Argentine Navy believed it was a fair cop. Interviewed after the war, CPT Hector Bonzo, commanding Belgrano, stated that he did not blame the British for sinking his ship, it's the sort of thing that happens in a war, and he'd have done the same thing.
Of course, after this incident, the national pride would not allow Argentina to back down.
Fog descends over the Carrier Battle Group's operating area.
The Argentine warships pull back to operate in shallower water, where submarines could not follow.
03:15. A Sea King troop transport, just after dropping its load of SAS, sees a well-lit but unidentifiable surface contact. It closes to check it out, and is greeted with a burst of machinegun fire. Taking some umbrage at this act, it calls back and requests that the contact be taught some manners.
Lynxes from Coventry and Glasgow are ordered launched, but Glasgow's suffers a delay for technical fault. They are armed with the Sea Skua missile, still in development so technically this was live-fire-testing. A single missile was fired, and it impacted the armed tug ARA Comodoro Somellera (ex-USS Catawba), exploding and sinking her.
0500:Glasgow's Lynx eventually gets airborne, and detects ARA Alferez Sobral, another armed Sotoyomo class tug, and also a WWII US Navy veteran, formerly USS Salish. Upon also receiving machinegun fire, it launches two Sea Skuas. The ship is badly damaged, the Captain and seven crewmen killed. The damaged bridge is now on display in a museum, the vessel still remains in Argentine navy service.
The fallout from the Sun’s headline caused a diplomatic tidal wave.
Reaching for the 'End-of-the-world' type, and the largest font ever seen in a British Newspaper, the Sun's headline was the most famous of the war. However, when the news that Belgrano had actually sunk made its way to the UK, later editions had the headline changed to "Did 1,200 Argies drown?"
This turns out to be something of a PR disaster, those nasty bullying British Imperialists picking on the weak Latin Americans. In what really wasn't Ireland's proudest moment on the international scene, it calls for a security council meeting, declares the UK to be aggressors, and lifts its sanctions on Argentina. Italy does likewise, and Germany calls for a cease-fire.
The Argentines, of course, milk it for all their worth on the international scene, after all, everybody admitted the ship was sunk outside the declared exclusion zone, and heading West, towards Argentina. The British argue that direction and speed are irrelevant, as both can change instantly. What is important is capability and threat. Not made public was the fact that on 23rd April, the British had quietly handed the Argentinians a note saying that any ship, even if outside the TEZ, would be attacked if it was felt to pose a threat to the Task Force.
Interestingly, even the Argentine Navy believed it was a fair cop. Interviewed after the war, CPT Hector Bonzo, commanding Belgrano, stated that he did not blame the British for sinking his ship, it's the sort of thing that happens in a war, and he'd have done the same thing.
Of course, after this incident, the national pride would not allow Argentina to back down.
Kermit power said:
SD, when you say the Alferez Sobral is still in service now, does that mean at some point in the past when you first wrote this, or does the Argentinian Navy really still have 70+ year old vessels in service?
Still in service, although I will try to check when it last went to sea.Guess how old the Royal Navy's oldest warship is?
SD.
Vaud said:
Zetec-S said:
About 250 years old? 
HMS Victory is the "flagship of the First Sea Lord since October 2012 and is the world's oldest naval ship still in commission" (wiki)Just for info HMS Victory was laid down in 1759 and launched in 1765 and so was already over 40 years old at the Battle of Trafalgar.
Vaud said:
Zetec-S said:
About 250 years old?
HMS Victory is the "flagship of the First Sea Lord since October 2012 and is the world's oldest naval ship still in commission" (wiki)
The thing that surprised me was that the oldest vessel still in commission under her own propulsion - launched 35 yrs ago - is actually one of the nuclear subs, HMS Torbay.
Kermit power said:
SD, when you say the Alferez Sobral is still in service now, does that mean at some point in the past when you first wrote this, or does the Argentinian Navy really still have 70+ year old vessels in service?
Seems so... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ARA_Alferez_Sobral_(... ...nearly 72½ years after being commissioned into the US Navy, the vessel appears to remain in service. Hardly a 'soft target' either, given that it had a 40mm Bofors and two 20mm Oerlikon cannon with which to fire back.Sad to read that the tugs were apparently employed at the time of their engagement on SAR duties, looking for the crew of the Canberra that had been lost to Sea Harriers a day or so earlier. Still, it was them what engaged the Sea King in the first instance, which made 'em fair game I suppose.
The damaged bridge section, on display at a museum in Argentina...
...a little macabre, given it's the spot where the captain and seven men of the duty watch breathed their last.
shed driver said:
3rd May
Fog descends over the Carrier Battle Group's operating area.
The Argentine warships pull back to operate in shallower water, where submarines could not follow.
03:15. A Sea King troop transport, just after dropping its load of SAS, sees a well-lit but unidentifiable surface contact. It closes to check it out, and is greeted with a burst of machinegun fire. Taking some umbrage at this act, it calls back and requests that the contact be taught some manners.
Lynxes from Coventry and Glasgow are ordered launched, but Glasgow's suffers a delay for technical fault. They are armed with the Sea Skua missile, still in development so technically this was live-fire-testing. A single missile was fired, and it impacted the armed tug ARA Comodoro Somellera (ex-USS Catawba), exploding and sinking her.
The fallout from the Sun’s headline caused a diplomatic tidal wave.
Reaching for the 'End-of-the-world' type, and the largest font ever seen in a British Newspaper, the Sun's headline was the most famous of the war. However, when the news that Belgrano had actually sunk made its way to the UK, later editions had the headline changed to "Did 1,200 Argies drown?"
ARA Comodoro Somellera was thought to be sunk at the time (hence the "sink gunboat" part of the infamous Sun headline) but in fact she survived the attack. She remained in service with the Argentine Navy until she sunk following a collision in port during a storm in 1998. Although she was raised, it was deemed uneconomical to repair her and she was struck off.Fog descends over the Carrier Battle Group's operating area.
The Argentine warships pull back to operate in shallower water, where submarines could not follow.
03:15. A Sea King troop transport, just after dropping its load of SAS, sees a well-lit but unidentifiable surface contact. It closes to check it out, and is greeted with a burst of machinegun fire. Taking some umbrage at this act, it calls back and requests that the contact be taught some manners.
Lynxes from Coventry and Glasgow are ordered launched, but Glasgow's suffers a delay for technical fault. They are armed with the Sea Skua missile, still in development so technically this was live-fire-testing. A single missile was fired, and it impacted the armed tug ARA Comodoro Somellera (ex-USS Catawba), exploding and sinking her.
The fallout from the Sun’s headline caused a diplomatic tidal wave.
Reaching for the 'End-of-the-world' type, and the largest font ever seen in a British Newspaper, the Sun's headline was the most famous of the war. However, when the news that Belgrano had actually sunk made its way to the UK, later editions had the headline changed to "Did 1,200 Argies drown?"
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ARA_Comodoro_Somelle...
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