B004QGYWDA EBOK (20 page)

The battalion halted at Progreso Avenue, where there was a steady stream of cars and buses. At a signal from Gamboa, the noncoms Morte and Pezoa stood in the middle of the avenue, stopping the flow of traffic while the battalion crossed. Some of the drivers were annoyed and honked their horns, and the cadets insulted them. Gamboa, at the head of the battalion, raised his hand and signaled that instead of going in the direction of the port they were to turn off into the level fields, skirting a field of newly-sprouted cotton. When the whole battalion was out on the weed-covered ground, Gamboa called to the noncoms.

“See that hill?” He pointed his finger at a dim mound on the far side of the cotton field.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Morte and Pezoa said.

“That’s the objective. Pezoa, go on ahead with half a dozen cadets. Inspect it thoroughly, and if there’s anyone out there, tell them to go away. Don’t let anybody stay on the hill or even near it. Is that clear?”

Pezoa nodded and went over to the first section. “I want six volunteers,” he said.

No one stepped forward: the cadets looked everywhere except straight ahead. Gamboa walked up beside Pezoa. “The first six, fall out,” he said. “Go with the noncom.”

Pezoa began running across the cotton field, raising and lowering his right arm, with his fist clenched, to signal that the cadets should follow him on the double. Gamboa walked back a few steps to join the other lieutenants.

“I’ve sent Pezoa ahead to clear the terrain.”

“Good,” Calzada said. “I don’t think we’ll have any problems. My outfit stays on this side.”

“I have to attack from the north,” Huarina said. “I’m always the one that gets screwed, I’ve still got to walk two and a half miles.”

“An hour to get to the top isn’t any too much,” Gamboa said. “We’ll have to make them climb fast.”

“I hope the targets are okay,” Calzada said. “Last month the wind blew them away and we were aiming at the clouds.”

“Don’t worry,” Gamboa said. “They aren’t cardboard this time, they’re cloth, a yard in diameter. The soldiers put them up yesterday. Don’t start firing till you get within two hundred yards.”

“Very well, General,” Calzada said. “And what else are you going to teach us?”

“There’s no use wasting ammunition,” Gamboa said. “Anyway, your company won’t make a single hit.”

“Do you want to bet on that, General?” Calzada asked.

“Fifty soles.”

“I’ll hold the money,” Huarina said.

“Okay,” Calzada said. “Look out, here comes the Piranha.”

The captain came up to them. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“We’re all ready,” Calzada said. “We were waiting for you, Captain.”

“Do you know your positions?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And have you sent somebody to make sure the terrain is clear of civilians?”

“Yes, Captain. Pezoa and six cadets.”

“Good. Let’s synchronize our watches,” the captain said. “We start at nine. Begin firing at nine thirty. Stop firing as soon as the assault begins. Understand?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“They should all be at the summit by ten. There’s room for everybody. Take your companies to their positions on the double, to get them warmed up.”

The lieutenants moved off, but the captain remained where he was. He could hear the officers issuing their commands. Gamboa’s voice was the strongest, the most energetic. A little later, he was alone. The battalion had split up into three companies, which went out in different directions to surround the hill. The cadets were still chattering as they ran, but the captain could only make out a few stray phrases in the hubbub. The lieutenants were at the heads of their companies, the noncoms on the flanks. Capt. Garrido raised his field glasses to his eyes. The targets came into focus: they were located halfway up the hill, about five yards apart. They were perfect circles. He would have liked to fire at them too, but that was for the cadets now. For him, the field exercises were merely a bore, he had nothing to do except observe them. He opened a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out. He had to strike several matches before he got it lit, because of the strong wind. Then he walked quickly after the first company. It was interesting to watch Gamboa in action, since he took the exercises so seriously.

When he reached the base of the hill, Gamboa realized that the cadets were genuinely tired. Some of them were running with open mouths and purple faces, and all of them had their eyes fixed on him. He could see the anguish with which they waited for the command to halt. But he did not give the command. He glanced up at the white circles of the targets, the bare ocher slopes that dropped down toward the cotton field, and higher up, above the targets, the wide, bulging crest of the hill. And he kept on running, first along the base of the hill, then through the open field, racing as fast as he could, struggling not to open his mouth although he felt that his heart and lungs were crying out for a great mouthful of air. The veins in his neck were swollen and his whole body was drenched with sweat. He gave a last look backward, to see if they had got to within a thousand yards of the objective. Then he closed his eyes and managed to run even faster, taking longer strides and flailing the air with his arms. He reached the scrub that grew on the barren land outside the cotton field, next to the irrigation ditch which the instructions indicated as the limits of the first company’s position. He stopped there, and only then allowed himself to open his mouth and breathe deeply. Before turning around, he wiped the sweat from his face so that the cadets would not realize that he too was exhausted. The first to reach the position were the noncoms and Arróspide. Then the rest of them came up, in complete disorder: the columns had disappeared, leaving only clusters, scattered bunches. A little later the three sections regrouped, forming a horseshoe around Gamboa. He could hear the brute panting of the hundred and twenty cadets, who had rested their rifles on the ground.

“Brigadiers, front and center!” Gamboa said. Arróspide and two other cadets stepped forward. “Company, at ease!”

The lieutenant walked a few steps away, followed by the noncoms and the three brigadiers. Then he squatted down and scratched lines and crosses on the ground as he explained the details of the various stages of the attack. “Do you understand the placement of the troops?” Gamboa asked, and his five subordinates nodded. “Good. The combat groups will begin fanning out as soon as the order to advance is given. And fanning out doesn’t mean ganging up like sheep, it means keeping apart but in a skirmish line. Understand? Good. Our company attacks the south front, the one we’re facing. See it?”

The noncoms and brigadiers looked up at the hill and nodded.

“What are the instructions for the advance, Sir?” Morte asked. The brigadiers turned to look at him and the noncom flushed.

“I’m coming to that,” Gamboa said. “Forward ten yards at a time. Periodic advance. The cadets will run ten yards as fast as they can, then hit the dirt…and if anybody digs his rifle in the dirt, I’ll kick his ass from here to the guardhouse. When everybody in the first line is down on the ground, I’ll blow the whistle again and the second line will fire. Just one round. Understand? As soon as they’ve fired, they’ll run forward ten yards and hit the dirt. The third line will fire and run forward. Then we’ll repeat it from the beginning. All the movements should be done at my commands. We’ll keep it up till we’re a hundred yards from the objective. Then the sections should close in a little so as to keep out of the terrain where the other companies are. The final attack will be made by the three sections at once. The hill should be almost clear by then, with only a few enemy positions left.”

“How long do we have to take the objective?” Morte asked.

“An hour,” Gamboa said. “But that’s my problem. You noncoms and brigadiers have to watch out that your men don’t spread out too much or get too close together. And don’t let anybody lag behind. Also, keep in contact with me, in case I need you.”

“Do we brigadiers go first or last?” Arróspide asked.

“Brigadiers in the first line, noncoms at the rear. Any more questions? Good. Go brief the squad leaders. We’ll be starting in fifteen minutes.”

The noncoms and brigadiers went off on the double. Gamboa saw Capt. Garrido coming and was about to stand up, but the Piranha motioned that he should remain squatting. Both of them watched the cadets, who had broken up into groups of twelve. They tightened their belts, knotted their bootlaces more securely, pulled down their caps, wiped the dust off their rifles, checked their slings.

“They like this,” the captain said. “The morons. Just look at them. You’d think they were going to a dance.”

“I know,” Gamboa said. “They believe in war.”

“If they ever had to fight a real battle,” the captain said, “they’d all be cowards or deserters. But lucky for them, the only shooting we ever do is on maneuvers. I don’t think Peru will ever have an honest-to-God war.”

“But Captain,” Gamboa said, “we’re surrounded by enemies. You know yourself that Ecuador and Colombia are just waiting for the right moment to take a piece of the jungle away from us. And we still haven’t got even with Chile for Arica and Tarapacá.”

“That’s just talk,” the captain said. “Nowadays everything gets settled by the big powers. I was in the campaign against Ecuador in ’41. We could’ve gone all the way to Quito, but no, the big powers had to butt in and find a diplomatic solution. The nerve of them! The civilians end up deciding everything. It doesn’t mean a damned thing to be a soldier in Peru any more.”

“It used to be different,” Gamboa said.

Pezoa and the six cadets came running back. The captain called to him. “Have you covered the whole hill?”

“Yes, Captain. It’s completely clear.”

“It’s almost nine, Captain,” Gamboa said. “I’m going to begin.”

“Go ahead,” the captain said. And he added, with a sudden gust of peevishness, “Give those lazy bastards a good workout.”

Gamboa returned to the company. He looked them over, from one end to the other, as if he were estimating their hidden possibilities, the limits of their endurance, the extent of their courage. His head was tilted back a little. The wind fluttered his combat shirt and the wisps of black hair that stuck out from under his cap.

“Goddamn it, spread out!” he shouted. “Do you want to get yourselves butchered? There should be at least five yards between each man. Do you think you’re going to Mass?”

The squad leaders left their places and shouted to the cadets to separate. The three lines grew longer and sparser.

“It’s going to be a zigzag advance,” Gamboa said. He spoke in a loud voice so that they could hear him at both ends of the lines. “You were taught about that in the Third. So make sure you don’t advance one behind the other. This isn’t a parade. And if anybody doesn’t hit the dirt when I give the command, or gets ahead or behind against my orders, he’s a corpse. And the corpses won’t get a pass on Saturday or Sunday. Is that clear?”

He turned toward Capt. Garrido, but the captain seemed distracted: he was gazing off at the horizon with wandering eyes. Gamboa raised the whistle to his lips. There was a brief stirring in the lines.

“First attack line, ready for action! Brigadiers in the lead, noncoms in the rear.”

He looked at his watch again. It was exactly nine o’clock. He gave a long blast on his whistle. The sharp sound startled the captain and hurt his ears. He realized that for a few moments he had forgotten all about the exercises, and he felt rather guilty. He walked over into the scrub behind the company to follow the action.

Before the sound of the whistle died, Capt. Garrido could see the first attack line surge forward in three groups. The cadets ran at top speed, fanning out like the tail of a peacock. They ran bent over, following the brigadiers, carrying their rifles upright in their right hands, the muzzle pointing at the sky, the butt a few inches from the ground. Then there was a second blast on the whistle, shorter than the first but sharper and further off—Gamboa had run off to one side to control the movements—and suddenly the line vanished among the weeds as if felled by a whirlwind. The captain was reminded of the tin soldiers in a shooting gallery when the BB’s knocked them over. Then he could hear Gamboa roaring: “Why did that group get ahead? Rospigliosi, you horse’s ass, do you want to get shot? Keep your rifles out of the dirt!” The whistle blew again, and the line sprang up out of the weeds and advanced on the run. A moment later, at another blast from the whistle, it vanished again, and Gamboa’s voice was lost in the distance. The captain could hear loud curses and unfamiliar names, could see the first line advancing, then his attention was distracted by the other two lines. The cadets had forgotten that the captain was nearby: they were shouting to each other, making fun of those who had gone ahead with Gamboa. “That Negro Vallano flops like a frog, he must have rubber bones. And that shitty Slave, he’s afraid he’ll scratch his face.”

Suddenly Gamboa appeared before the captain, shouting: “Second attack line, ready for action!” The squad leaders raised their right hands, the thirty-six cadets stood tense and motionless. Capt. Garrido looked at Gamboa. His face was calm but he was clenching his fists and his eyes were bright and restless: they jumped everywhere, glittering, glowering, smiling. The second line rushed forward, the cadets grew smaller, the lieutenant ran beside them with his whistle in his hand.

Now the captain could see two lines spread out in the field, alternately dropping down and leaping up. They gave a semblance of life to that inanimate landscape. But he could not see whether the cadets hit the ground in the prescribed manner: left knee, left hip, left elbow, with the rifle against their ribs instead of in the dirt. Nor whether the combat groups were keeping together. Nor whether the brigadiers were still out in front, like spearheads, but without losing contact with the lieutenant. And then Gamboa reappeared, his face as calm as before but with fire in his eyes. He blew his whistle and the last line ran toward the hill, followed by the noncoms. There were three lines advancing now, further and further away, and the captain was left alone in the spiny scrub. He stayed there for several minutes, thinking how slow, how sluggish the cadets were, compared to the soldiers or the graduates of the Military School.