The complex of houses installed in the upper area of ​​Puerto Stanley fell on August 7, 1982 to the Argentine Navy Forces and the leadership of Brigadier Sota-Moyano.

The snow soaked their knees and bones as the Kelpers were arranged one by one beneath the windows of their own homes, while the soldiers searched their belongings for any evidence that would consign them to a fate far more painful than immediate death.They had little attachment to children, because, as William Logan and the rest of his family would later note, the low-ranking Argentine soldiers were nothing more than teenagers dressed in camouflage brandishing weapons in the name of a nation that had abandoned them a long time ago.

 His wife, Margoth, did not shed a tear when the barrel of one of the soldier's hand-held pistols forced her to lean further against the ground with her hands up. She left her children unprotected in the movement, and everyone could see the bewildered faces of Byron and Kingsley, just a pair of children who had seen nothing but war and human misery.

 Logan had never before stopped to observe in such detail the house in which they had been guests for more than five years.

 The rotted wood of the entrance, creaking with every step and sometimes threatening to give way under his boots and his weight; the fence that divided the backyard from the front of the house, painted a dark red that served as a reminder each year at Easter to stain his driveway with lamb's blood; the outer glass of the attic skylight, now a reminder of a lazy task he would never have the opportunity to perform again.

 The noise inside his home caught his attention. A shout in Spanish brought other members of the unit to rummage through his belongings.

Praying would serve no purpose now. The cannon stuck in his neck was the only god he could obey now. He took a deep breath at the Brigadier's command and closed his eyes, clinging to his last thought: regret. Instead of watching his life flash before his eyes, 37-year-old William Logan could only think of all the things he would have chosen to do if he had known his life would end so suddenly one random night in the midst of an Argentine siege of his home.

He thought of his unfinished book of butterflies. Of his unfinished Hebrew Bible, because he never finished learning the language. Of the petals of a rose that he had kept with suspicion for years for fear that they would spoil and the scent of his true love would escape from him forever. He wished he had had more time to read and write. He wished he had not taken refuge in the farthest point of the Empire, believing that he could thus escape an inevitable war. But what he regretted most was never having dared to experience the sins that so many men regretted on their deathbeds.

The officer behind him advanced further and when William Logan thought he would finally pull the trigger, the distant sound of another shook him and made him nauseous with well-founded fear.

 Faced with the vulnerability of the end, a man was nothing more than a pig squealing for mercy around Easter time.

 He cried and whimpered like a loser, like a man who didn't deserve to be one, when the soft voice of a child forced him to open his eyes and pay attention to the piece of cloth he held in his hands, fluttering in the wind.

 The dim light of the winter southern night made it difficult for Logan to understand what he was looking at. But as if his brain predicted a final exit to his final destination, he spoke:

 "Chan e sassennach a th' annam."

 The boy soldier lifted his chin harder, the spent assault shotgun in his hands trembling, making it more dangerous. Logan didn't know if the tremor was due to the imminent fear of taking a life, or the cold and hunger they were experiencing.

 He said something in Spanish, which Logan still didn't understand, and bellowed louder, the Scotch sliding under his tongue in the same thick intonation as always.

  "Not sassennach. Not English."

 One of the men approached them in the face of the frustrated assault of having them on their knees, still awaiting the firing squad. Only then, the attention of the unit's Brigadier was drawn to where they remained. Logan and Margoth did not risk looking to the side when another bullet hit their neighbors' body. Kingsley's lips were purple and he was shaking and coughing scrupulously. As if he did not want to draw attention to his condition.

 The Brigadier took a gaslight and both he and Logan could look at the cloth hanging from the boy's hands. White and blue cloth, with stripes crossed in the shape of a cross.

 "Not. English."

 Logan repeated, and never before in his life had he felt such overwhelming peace as the one that engulfed him the moment Brigadier Sota-Moyano made his men and child soldiers lower their weapons, and smiled at him with a warmth alien to the context.

 Logan repeated and never before in his life had he felt such overwhelming peace, like the one that engulfed him the moment Brigadier Sota-Moyano made his men and boy soldiers lower their weapons, and smiled at him with a warmth foreign to the context.

 Logan later discovered that there was no greater ally than the one with whom you shared an enemy. There was no greater object of disgust for an Argentine than an Englishman. And luckily for the Logan family, what little English they had was erased and buried in order to stay alive. Because it didn't matter where you grew up for most of your life, if a unit of soldiers set out to kill you and then changed their mind, you kept your mouth shut, nodded and swore loyalty to their flag, which like yours, flew blue and white.