First Lieutenant Carlos Federico Domínguez Lacreu was head of a company in the 25th Infantry Regiment in the Falklands. He is 35 years old. His face became famous when he was included in a British documentary about the war, making a quite eloquent gesture to those who had taken him prisoner.
He is from Cordoba, the son of a drawing teacher. He is married and has two daughters, ages 8 and 6. He now serves at the Campo de Mayo Infantry School.
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"I was the head of Company A of Regiment 25 that occupied the entire length of the airport runway. We do not fight, we suffer the wear and tear of the naval gunship, the continuous bombardments. I don't know which is better. Because we were even subjected to the psychological pressure exerted by the bombs that fired in time. That is, the plane passed, dropped two or three charges, one exploded and the others were anywhere to explode after three hours. The danger was always latent, because these projectiles buried themselves and were practically impossible to discover. The only thing we did was hold on and continue preparing ourselves. Because, until the landing in San Carlos took place, the massive English attack was supposed to be in the airport area, which is the only one with wide beaches. The head of the regiment prepared us psychically to respond to this eventual landing. But it never happened.
I had not imagined the Falklands war like this. Absolutely. I thought I was going to be up front. Like regiments 7, 4, 3, that they were able to fight. I didn't even think that I was going to have to be with what would later become the rear guard.
It was a very hard day. However, there were even moments for humor. However, there were even moments for humor. Unfortunately, I could hardly enjoy those breaks. The responsibility of leading a company almost excludes good humor. I had the responsibility of managing 148 men and above me, in that place, nobody. It is true that the head of the regiment controlled and toured every day. But he was at his command post.
He felt what in military parlance is called "the loneliness of command." The only one who can't afford to joke around and fool around is the company boss. Anyway, I could see the good humor in my subordinates.
I will never forget that May 1st. At 4 in the afternoon they started bombarding us with all the frigates. But our "Mirage" appeared and they went on top of them. They all came out of the pits to celebrate the attack. It seemed that they were in a soccer game, scare, and joy began.
A company boss feels towards his soldiers, as does a father as the person in charge of his home, that others depend as much on his successes as on the mistakes he may make. And he trembles, as if he were a head of the family, at the possibility of a son dying. Thank God, none died, I only had injuries.
We worked to dig our positions until our hands bled. Everyone from our boss, who had no problem grabbing the pick and shovel, to the last soldier. Each one made his well. Lieutenant Colonel controlled this very closely. Every day I went by and saw how the fortification was going. Because, when everyone thought that the English were not going to come, he knew that there would be a fight, and he prepared us to receive them.
We worked to dig our positions until our hands bled. Everyone from our boss, who had no problem grabbing the pick and shovel, to the last soldier. Each one made his well. Lieutenant Colonel controlled this very closely. Every day I went by and saw how the fortification was going. Because, when everyone thought that the English were not going to come, he knew that there would be a fight, and he prepared us to receive them.
My soldiers were very good. I remember a very eloquent episode. There is a bomb specially prepared to destroy airstrips. It is one that does not have the fuze in the front but rather in the back. When thrown, it penetrates the ground about six meters and only then does it explode at that depth. Opening a 6-meter diameter crater in the rock, in the cement.
At 5 in the morning on May 4, in all the positions sector of my company, a trail of those bombs fell. A "Vulcan" flying at high altitude seemed ready to leave us once and for all without an airport. We were scattered at a distance of 40 meters, along the entire track. But that pilot missed the cement and his bombs fell exactly on our positions. When everything started to calm down, I asked my section managers for news and these, in turn, their groups. They informed me with the reassuring "without news". But no. In the second section there were two disappeared.
So, let's go. If the bomb had destroyed them, we had to find the pieces, if not more; gather them, put them in a blanket and load them in a truck so that the rest of their comrades would not be demoralized. They looked for them, but they were not there. I ordered them to go ahead and bring me the result before dawn. I didn't want to risk having people find a piece of leg next to their position in the morning. They called me after a while to say:
"My first lieutenant, we hear screams below the ground."
"Underground screams?" That could only have an explanation.
"Dig and find what you find, get it out." If they are injured, take them out as well to take them to the hospital and treat them.
We all bet they were going to find them broken. But a miracle had happened. The lip of the crater, which is formed by the muck that the explosion throws, covered the position of the two little soldiers, who were in a double pit. The tremendous blast wave slammed them against the edge of the foxhole.
When we took them out they were deaf, stunned, pissed and shit, poor things. But alive. Of course, they had bruises everywhere, even in the soul. The regime doctor came, checked that they had no cutting wounds and took them to the hospital, to make them take good care of them.
When we took them out they were deaf, stunned, pissed and shit, poor things. But alive. Of course, they had bruises everywhere, even in the soul. The regime doctor came, checked that they had no cutting wounds and took them to the hospital, to make them take good care of them.
I was very surprised when, after four days, the two of them showed up as proud as possible in the company and told me:
"We're fine, we're going back to the regiment."
They were soldiers with only two months of training.
During the entire war, we were practically not moved from the airport. We were not even transferred for a modification of the defensive organization. We also suffer the wear and tear of being inactive in positions. Just on the night of June 13 to 14, two sections of my company were mobilized to block the English advance west of Moody Brook, which at that point in the game was irrepressible. But when they arrived, they found that those they were going to support had already withdrawn.
On June 14 the order came to us: everything is over. You can't fight anymore. Lieutenant Colonel Seineldín had planned to cut off all communication with Puerto Argentino and there, at the airport, we were going to resist, we would not surrender. Our area was separated from the town by an isthmus.
What had failed us Argentines? Perhaps foresight, not being prepared for war as all the military should be. Because from the moment you choose this career, you have to be ready to go to war the next day. Just as the merchant is permanently concerned about the price of his items tomorrow, we must be ready for the combat that may ensue at any time.
If the merchant goes out of date, the higher costs blow him up. We are bursting with the training of the enemy and our stagnation.
If instead of giving up, should we continue fighting until the last man? He had two responses, that of the man Domínguez Lacreu and that of First Lieutenant Domínguez Lacreu.
I thought we should have resisted until there was only one man left, and that last soldier, with a flag in one hand and a bayonet saber in the other, died. To a man. But First Lieutenant Domínguez Lacreu added that if the people had been in combat aptitude with years of training as those who attacked us had, with a weapon they lied and a physical state according to that demand; with the material in good condition. But, anyway, on the 15th, Seineldín ordered us to deliver the weapons. Because they were going to retaliate with the people who had fallen prisoner ahead.
We empty the rifles, remove the slides, the piston and other parts. We threw them all into the sea.
One thing that really bothered me was how the delivery of the weapons had been carried out the day before. Some had gone as mutants, shattered, destroyed, as miserable. So, I had my company formed on the runway, I gathered the section chiefs and gave them the final order not to leave me as defeated towards the ramp where the weapons had to be left.
I harangued them saying that they would parade with their heads high, at a redoubled pace, as befits a soldier; that no matter how much we had been ordered to deliver the weapons, we should not consider ourselves surrendered because we had not been taken. I finished saying this to my people, I sent them to the chiefs to take over their sections and ordered to break ranks.
The airport had been transformed into a concentration camp. The English who looked after us had a very strong guard because they still did not know that our weapons were not in a position to fire. While I harangued my soldiers, the Englishmen who took care of us and a bunch of journalists from them had settled behind me. I didn't see them until I ordered them to break up. At that moment I turned and saw them. It gave me tremendous anger that they were listening to me! I walked out and the only thing that occurred to me to express my anger was to turn around, stand in front of all the photographers and cameras to say:
"I took shit, for you!"
I made the corte de manga. I never imagined that they were going to leave it in the film.
What came next is almost not to take into account. The English soldiers grabbed me and kicked me. But nothing else happened because my people reacted. The two or three closest soldiers stood up to fight them. And since they did not know if our weapons were in good condition, they stopped to avoid causing a battle.
I did not give more importance to the fact and kept walking. They were left with the anger. I never imagined that they would be so smart to put my manga cut in a movie of theirs. They put an Argentine who sends them to hell. I repeat that I did it with all the intention of shitting them, of shitting the roll, of ruining the film.
Later I found out what they had done. But I only saw that movie last year, when I came to do a course to take the War School. They showed it in the Military Circle. When my lady saw it, she told me it was boorish.
Anyone who had felt the frustration, anger and helplessness that we feel, would have done the same: bitch them somehow. But, even in inferior conditions, we were not fagots like them. They never fought directly, they always slashed when there were shots. They only dared to attack when they had destroyed us with their artillery and knew they were superior. For example, a command patrol of Major Castagnetó gave them the first buzz. The English released backpacks, weapons, radios, keys, everything and fled.
We do not feel defeated."
Translated extract:
Malvinas contrahistoria.
Héctor Rubén Simeoni Editorial Inédita, 1984. pp. 187-192
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The Day and Night of May 1.
Very early in the morning the fishermen left and this time it was Loguzzo and Chilavert who made the extensive passage. They had taken a precaution, the result of experience: after anchoring, they set up an awning in bright colors on the boat, which, in addition to protecting the person staying on board from the sun, allowed those returning to see the boat from afar. A fairly compact group waited on the beach for the return of those Argentines passionate about fishing, who offered the product of their expeditions at such a good price.
To increase his popularity, Loguzzo roasted enough fish on the shore that he and his companions ate, inviting those present with appetizing bites. After lunch, when the city was performing the southern rite of siesta, the three went to the support group's accommodation.
At 4:40 on May 12, the first bomb exploded in Puerto Argentino. Another fifteen would follow, in quick succession. Immediately, the bellow of the turbines of an RAF bomber was lost overnight. The second round of the battle for the Falklands began.
The mission entrusted to the 1st. Lieutenant Martin Withers, in command of that bomber — a B-2 Vulcan, registration XM-607 — was once the longest-range bombing mission ever carried out by an airplane. The operation, called Black Buck, involved thirteen aircraft with seventeen air refuelings, and caused several incidents linked to the encounter and coupling with the Victor tanker planes. The results of this remarkable undertaking, however, did not justify undertaking it.
Of the twenty-one bombs dropped by the Vulcan, only one would bite the southern edge of the Puerto Argentino runway, without affecting its operability, as it remained perfectly usable throughout the conflict, despite having been the main objective of the British attacks.
The Argentines, as a result of the attack, imagined a ruse that the English would be slow to notice: they drew several gaps on the track that, had they been real, would have knocked her out of service.
Excluding that impact, the bombs dropped by Pilot Withers were lost in the mob. Two exploded with delay, since they had fuzes that allowed their explosion to be postponed, and four never did.
As a result of that first air raid by the enemy, First Lieutenant Domínguez Lacreu stopped smoking.
The B-2 had already moved away when, on the field phone, they informed the officer that two of his men were not showing up.
"Look for them," ordered the military man. We have an obligation to their families to at least return the bodies.
Moments later the field phone rang again.
"We heard groans underground, my lieutenant first," he was told.
I 'm coming.
While walking towards the place in the dark of the morning, Domínguez Lacreu promised the Virgin that she would stop smoking if those two soldiers appeared safe and sound.
The explosion of one of the bombs dropped by the Vulcan - pumps regulated to fragment concrete surfaces - had left a hole approximately sixteen meters in diameter by eight in depth. Beneath the lip that the dislodged earth formed on the rim of the crater, muffled complaints were indeed heard.
They busily dug and at last drew both boys out of the stirred peat. They were bruised but whole. The short wing of the helmet and the balaclavas up to the eyes came to form small air chambers that allowed them to breathe until they were rescued, already close to suffocation.
First Lieutenant Domínguez Lacreu kept his promise.
Translated Extract
Operación Algeciras. Juan Luis Gallardo
Emecé Editores, 1989. pp.197-99.
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Lt. First Carlos Federico Dominguez Lacreu, company head of the 25th Infantry Regiment, made a sleeve cut to the BBC camera that recorded the march of Argentine troops who were withdrawing after the surrender of June 14, 1982. The protagonist explained in the postwar period that his The objective was "to spoil the filming" and "show them my anger", attributing this gesture to "being a young and temperamental first lieutenant".
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En 1982, el Teniente Primero Carlos Dominguez Lacreu estaba destinado en la Escuela de Infantería “Teniente General Pedro Eugenio Aramburu”, en Campo de Mayo. Luego de la Operación Rosario desplegó en Malvinas como personal agregado a la Compañía “A” del Regimiento de Infantería 25. En ésta entrevista, lograda el 29 de diciembre de 2021, el Teniente Coronel (R) Dominguez Lacreu nos cuenta su historia.
In 1982, First Lieutenant Carlos Dominguez Lacreu was stationed at the “Teniente General Pedro Eugenio Aramburu” Infantry School, in Campo de Mayo. After Operation Rosario, he deployed in Malvinas as personnel attached to Company “A” of the 25th Infantry Regiment. In this interview, achieved on December 29, 2021, Lieutenant Colonel (R) Dominguez Lacreu tells us his story.
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Poema a Carlos Federico Dominguez Lacreu (Malvinas)
CELEBRACION Y ELOGIO
PARA UN CORTE DE MANGA
Te ví en una película llegada de inglaterra
con la versión británica respecto a nuetra guerra.
No importa la película pués haré referencia
de su extención tan sólo a una breve secuencia.
El gral. menéndez, la historia ha de juzgarlo,
ya resignó su sable sin llegar a empuñarlo,
bajo cielo plomizo bajo custodia armada
avanza una columna para ser embarcada.
Marchan nuestros soldados arrastrando las botas,
envueltos en sus mantas y masticando derrotas,
y marchabas con ellos en el extremo izquierdo,
de una fila marchabas según lo que recuerdo.
Caminabas a largas zancadas desparejas
y llevabas el casco metido hasta las cejas;
los dientes apretados el ceño de tormenta,
tu bigote era hoguera despeinada y violenta.
Bigotes colorados de bárbaro insepulto;
bigotasos propicios al alcohol y al insulto.
Caminabas con largas zancadas insolentes;
las cámaras siguieron tus pasos con sus lentes.
Caminabas ajeno a tales circunstancias,
la mirada sombría perdida en las distancias.
Al frente la mirada y en los tímpanos ecos
de cien mil estampidos repetidos y secos.
Sin embargo, de pronto, después de haber pasado
delante de las cámaras feroz ensimismado,
reparaste en el rol, el rol involuntario
que protagonizabas para el bando adversario.
Desandaste lo andado y altivo, compadrón
te plantaste delante de la televisión.
Registró el celuloide tu estampa socarrona,
con los brazos en jarras, la sonrisa burlona.
Tus bigotes de lacre a la sombra del casco,
dibujan un visaje de humor, de bronca, de asco.
Entonces, lentamente, cincelaste en un gesto
la actitud inequívoca de quién conserva resto.
Fue el tuyo un admirable corte de manga clásico,
planetario, doméstico, académico y básico.
Fue un gran corte de manga, armonioso directo,
superlativo homérico, delicioso, perfecto,
sublime, cosmogónico, excelso, escatológico,
musical, metafísico, ejemplar, pedagógico.
Te agradezco soldado tu arrebato atrevido,
aunque ignore tu nombre e ignore tu apellido.
Ni siquiera llevabas distintivo ninguno,
anónimo guerrero del sarcasmo oportuno.
Agradezco tu gesto repentino y audaz;
agradezco tu gesto patriótico y procaz.
Simbólico exabrupto, dirigido tal vez
no solo al enemigo, al vencedor inglés,
sino a la cobardía de aquel jefe prudente
que jamás ocupó su lugar en el frente;
al superior cobarde y al gobernante inepto;
al cálculo fallido y al errado concepto;
al cauto periodista que retaceó su aliento
al especulador que aprovechó el momento;
Al político dúplice, al literarto críptico,
Al abogado cómplice, al ideólogo elíptico,
Al funcionario escéptico, al mendaz catedrático
Al ámbito soviético y al mundo democrático.
Al este y al oeste, al imperio británico,
Las Naciones Unidas y su Estatuto Orgánico,
A la Comunidad mercantil europea,
A cada voto adverso emitido en la OEA,
Al modo como actuaron los norteamericanos,
A las Ligas que agitan los derechos humanos,
Celebro , combatiente, tu gesto simple y gráfico,
Tu rotundo ademán docente y pornográfico.
Tu gesto dirigido hacia todos los vientos,
Que involucra no obstante opuestos sentimientos,
Pues implica un arranque de gratitud primaria,
que puede establecerse por deducción contraria.
Tu repudio, en efecto, tambien es expreción
de apoyo para quienes te dieron su adhesión.
Expresión paradójica de afecto transitivo
Abrazo recato, tangencial, primitivo.
Escueta acción de gracia al pueblo solidario
Y al generoso impulso de cada voluntario,
y a cada escarapela que adornó una solapa,
y a cada plaza llena que animó nuestro mapa.
Al aporte entregado en la colecta pública,
A la emoción patriótica de toda la República,
A los tantos rosarios desgranados en coro,
Pidiendo la victoria o una paz con decoro,
A la voz espontánea, diferente y genérica,
de apoyo que elevaron las naciones de América,
al piloto esforzado y al marino cabal,
al conscripto, al gendarme, al cabo, al oficial,
que suplieron cumplir con su deber de soldados
en aquellos lejanos parajes desolados,
al jovial camarada que segó la metralla,
a la sangre fraterna derramada en batalla.
Por éstas y otras cosas que tu gesto delata,
lo celebro guerrero del bigote escarlata.
Celebro tu ademán, celebro tu talante,
celebro el alegato inscripto en tu desplante.
Y propongo que el bronce conserve en alegórico
monumento tu gesto canyengue y metafórico.
Tu brazo proyectado en trunca trayectoria
nos estará indicando el rumbo de la Historia.
Con su órbita inconclusa, tu antebrazo ascendente
dirá de la existencia de un asunto pendiente.
Plástico y elocuente tu ademán detenido
gritará que la guerra no es asunto concluído.
Pués allí, circundadas por espuma revuelta,
LAS MALVINAS esperan, esperan nuestra vuelta.
Y tu corte de manga nos señalará el camino
Que nos lleve otra vez hasta PUERTO ARGENTINO.
FIN.
Autor: Juan Luis Gallardo
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