by Lou Cameron
Captain Gringo pistol-whipped him gently, and asked, “Would you like to try your form of military address again, Lieutenant?”
“I meant my general, I assure you. I was confused by having a gun shoved in my face and I am not a lieutenant, by the way.”
Captain Gringo said, “You are now, and if I don’t start liking you a whole lot better in the very near future you won’t even be able to count on buck-ass private, Lieutenant! I don’t know what rank a dead man holds in your old army, Parez, but he don’t rate anything but a tombstone in mine and, as of now, this is my army we’re talking about. Do you still want to argue that point?”
“Before God, I did not know we were arguing at all, my general!”
“Bueno. Just shit me no shit and we’ll get along just line. Try to back-bite me and you’ll wind up dead. It’s as simple as that. You might spread the word among your fellow junior officers, Lieutenant. It might save us some of this bickering.”
He put his gun away to add, “Now show me the way to the garrison and let’s find out who else needs to be straightened out.”
Parez did, and they could see the modest army of Segovia, while well-equipped and comfortably quartered indeed, needed work.
They were using an old Spanish ‘presidio’ for their garrison. The Spanish colonial army had been bigger, had plenty of unpaid native labor, and thought big. The second-story quarters set aside for Captain Gringo and his staff alone was grand enough, albeit Spartan and Spanish in severity, to house a whole company. The officers’ club downstairs was big enough to hold grand balls and probably did. There was way more booze on hand than the tiny staff required and Captain Gringo felt sure the attractive barmaids on duty even at this hour served more than liquor.
But the enlisted men had nothing to gripe about when he inspected their quarters. They were clean, spacious, and almost empty as the three officers walked through them unexpectedly. Captain Gringo turned to Parez and said, “It sure is lonely in here. So where in the hell is this army they just put me in charge of, dammit?”
Parez gulped and said, “It is, as I said before, almost siesta time. So most of the men have gone home for the afternoon.”
“The whole fucking army lives off post?”
Parez smiled despite himself and admitted, “No, but they like to fuck during La Siesta and we try to keep up appearances in the presidio itself. So—”
“Gotcha. New standing orders, Major. From now on at least one third of the garrison remains on duty at all times. Passes to town will depend on good behavior and anyone who doesn’t want to soldier can just jerk off no matter how much his adelita misses him. Got that?”
“Si, my general, but may I ask for why you just called a major? I thought you just broke me to lieutenant!”
“I’m starting to like you better and the T.O. calls for a major between Colonel Verrier, here, and the company commanders. But I’m sure I can find some smart privates if the original officers and noncoms don’t want to soldier my way.”
He consulted his watch and said, “Bueno. La Siesta will be over around three. I expect you to have the whole army lined up for full inspection at four p.m. sharp. Meanwhile Colonel Verrier and I had better do something about our own appearances. If you think I’m chickenshit now, wait ’til you see me chew a fuck-off out in full uniform!”
It wasn’t that simple. The tailor shop near the presidio that specialized in officer’s kit thought it was closing for La Siesta when Captain Gringo knocked on the door and when that didn’t work started kicking it hard, until the outraged proprietor cracked it open and shouted, “Are you drunk? Can you not read the sign in my window, you idiot?”
Captain Gringo said, “I’m not an idiot. I’m the commanding officer at the presidio and if you don’t want this establishment placed off limits to all military personnel you’re going to fit me and my second in command here with nice new uniforms, poco tiempo!”
That worked. But as the suddenly fawning tailor led them into his fitting room. Gaston, who’d been unusually quiet for Gaston up to now, murmured in English, “Sacre Bleu, what has gotten into you today, Dick? Where is the sweet little child I used to love and cherish? I’ve never seen you push the people on our side around this way!”
Captain Gringo smiled thinly and said, “We used to call it hazing, at the Point. I didn’t like it, either, but it’s the quickest way to shape up a bunch of lazy slobs and I don’t know how much time the other side is giving us. El Viejo del Montaña must be running a sloppy ship, too, or he’d have taken advantage of this situation by now. He has to know the headless army here in the capital has been literally fucking off. Let’s talk about that mystery later. We’ve got work to do.”
Actually the tailor and his assistants did most of the work for the next half hour or so. Both Captain Gringo and the wiry Gaston had regular, if different proportions, and so they were easy to fit with uniforms already run up, save for the lengths of pants and sleeves. As the soldiers of fortune stood side by side in front of the mirrors while the tailors chalk-marked the few needed alterations they both became more aware how much they needed shaves and haircuts. The uniforms were khaki pongee, a material that held smooth creases well even in tropic heat and it wasn’t all that hot and sticky here in the savannah country anyway. Naturally, while patterned as quasi-British officer’s kit, neither uniform came off the racks with rank insignia. So the proprietor showed them some ornate gold braid epaulettes and said they were what the last general and his second in command had worn.
Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “If I want a sniper to recognize me at far range I’ll carry a sign. Just embroider a star on each shoulder for me and an eagle or ... Hmm, tell you what, make mine a star silver and give the colonel here a gold star.”
“But General, that is not the usual insignia our army uses!”
“It is now. I’ll send the other officers in later to have their rank badges taken care of, once I work them out and figure out who’s still an officer.”
The head tailor shrugged and said, “As you wish, General. You will naturally want your breast loops in the same metal threads as your stars?”
“Whatever for? Why in the hell would I want silver ropes all over me? I’ve got enough to worry about around here.”
“But, General, the old general ordered all members of his staff to show they were staff officers that way.”
“Yeah? Well, we know how well he made out, don’t we? I just want a plain old uniform, fancy enough to keep people from mistaking me for a buck private, but not fancy enough to draw more fire than I really deserve, see?”
The tailor didn’t. He said, “Surely the commanding officer is not expected to go out in the field himself?”
“Where would you have a commanding officer hang out, in bed? Never mind. Don’t answer that. We all know how the last general died at the head of his troops the other night. Are you guys about through with that blue chalk?” They said they were. So he stripped off the spiffy duds to put his old travel-worn civilian clothes on as he warned them he’d be back before three and that if they didn’t answer the door he’d kick it off its hinges. From the way they assured him they’d have both uniforms ready for him he assumed he’d gotten his point across.
Outside he told Gaston, “There has to be a barber close to a military garrison or, if there isn’t, there soon will be. Let’s try down this way.”
Gaston fell in at his left, but said, “Wait. Are we sure we want to trust our throats to strangers in a public place, now that you’ve worked so hard to make yourself so popular, Dick?”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “I’ll cover you while the barber works you over and then you can cover me. We could do it fancy, check into a hotel, and have a barber sent up to us. But the guy who used to run this army was lured into an ambush by a lady dealing in intimate private services. Our best bet is to keep moving and keep as few appointments made in advance as possible. It’s tough to set up an ambush in a barbershop nobody’
s expecting you to visit, see?”
“Oui, but I like the idea about a hotel instead of those severe quarters at the presidio. It is true the last general was murdered in a private home. On the other hand the second and third in command died in that corner room the major just showed us, hein?”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “We can worry about that closer to bedtime. First things first and, yeah, there’s a barber pole, down by the corner.”
The barber shop they’d found was not only empty, it was closed for La Siesta. Kicking on the glass door didn’t help. The barber had not only knocked off for at least three hours but obviously lived somewhere else. Gaston said, “Don’t break the door, Dick. Allow me.”
Captain Gringo did, but as he watched Gaston pick the lock he asked, “What good is that going to do dammit? Do you give shaves and haircuts?”
Gaston chuckled and replied, “I give anything but my asshole, and that could probably be arranged, if the price was right. We both know how to shave ourselves and you need a haircut worse than I, you hairy brute. Let me see if I can only get this cheap but très rusty lock to co-operate and ... Voila, welcome to Gaston’s! A bit plain, perhaps, but at this moment the only barbershop open in Ciudad Segovia!”
Captain Gringo laughed and followed him inside, saying, “If I didn’t outrank every cop in town I’d tell you this was sure to get us in trouble with the cops. Are you sure you know how to cut hair, Gaston?”
“Merde alors, in a pinch I could cook a twelve-course meal or tattoo Custer’s Last Stand across your chest. When one is born to poor but dishonest parents on the Left Bank of Paris one learns to do everything! Sit down while I put some water on to heat. I shall cut your hair first in case we must run before we have hot water to shave with, hein?”
Captain Gringo laughed again, took his place in the hardwood but adjustable barber’s chair bolted to the cement slab floor, and watched in the cracked mirror with interest as Gaston found a comb and scissors and went to work.
From time to time they both glanced at the open door to their left. But the calle out front remained deserted as everyone else enjoyed La Siesta. As Gaston snipped at his somewhat tangled blond mop, Captain Gringo observed, “Jesus, they don’t even have a police patrol on duty during La Siesta and they say they’re worried about guerrillas?”
Gaston snipped thoughtfully and said, “Oui, the lock I just picked, while très ordinary, could have been stuck to the front of a bank. The garrison, as we saw, could be overrun by less than a hundred determined men. Do you suppose our amusing Old Man of the Mountain can’t get up a hundred men if he needs them?”
“His reputation could be overinflated. But it gets even dumber when you consider the locals seem to know they don’t have to worry about El Viejo del Montaña all that much! Unless the people who just hired us are awfully stupid, I’m missing something. Did you ever get the feeling you were being suckered, Gaston?”
“Oui, shortly after I reached the front during the Franco-Prussian disaster. In that case, however, the government I was working for was stupid, if not insane. They issued us maps of Germany in case we ever got there, but no maps of the north of France because, they said, our own road network was a military secret!”
He snipped another lock and added, “Eh bien, it was just as well we got lost more than once on the way to the battle, since we only discovered once we got there that half our artillery rounds were useless. I wonder what sort of artillery they have for me to worry about here. I saw no heavy ordnance at the presidio just now. Did you?”
“Easy on the sides. Let’s worry about field pieces after we find out how many of the jerk-offs have small arms. I hope those guys who went off post to shack up took their rifles with them. Because if they didn’t, we’re in big trouble!”
Gaston took a little more off the top, moved over to the table-top stove to see how the water kettle was doing, and came back to say, “We’d better quit while you’re ahead, unless you wish to look like a Prussian indeed, my ferocious blond beast. You’d better shave yourself. Dueling scars are not regarded as highly down here. Latins take the not unreasonable view that a man who knows how to fight should cut up the other son of a bitch.”
Captain Gringo got up, ran his fingers through his hair to make it itch less, and took the basin of hot water Gaston handed him. Neither had much to say as they lathered and shaved quickly, just in case some unlikely cop should show up to shout Boo as they had straight razors against their faces.
As they finished and dried off Gaston said, “Eh bien, it’s too early to pick up our uniforms and no cantina will be open during La Siesta. That still leaves sex, but we know no local girls and you are simply not my type. So what do we do now?”
“We find a newspaper office and go through their morgue. The local powers that be have to be awfully stupid or they’ve hired more help than they really need. I’d like to know which before we get in any deeper!”
The one good point about La Siesta, to knockaround guys who hadn’t been raised to think the custom was engraved on stone by an indulgent if not lazy God, was that it was the one time of day even a blond stranger with Anglo Saxon features could wander all over a Spanish-speaking town without some asshole asking him who he thought he was, where he thought he was going, and how come his mother sold her ass so cheap, ugly as she was. So they didn’t meet a soul as they explored until they found the office of La Prenza Popular.
There was nobody there, of course. But of course Gaston made short work of the front door lock. As he put his pick away Captain Gringo shoved the door in and called out, “Anybody here? This is General Walker and Colonel Verrier. We’ve come on important business!” Nobody answered. He nodded and said, “Let’s go. They have to keep back issues somewhere in the back, right?”
“If you say so. But if this is the opposition paper they can make more trouble for us than any barber, Dick.”
“We don’t have trouble already? We’ve been hired to lead an army that’s not ready to fight, against a guerrilla army that doesn’t seem to give a shit, either? Someone’s forgotten to tell us something, Gaston. When you can’t find the fine print in the contract you may find it in the newspapers. Cover the door if you’re nervous. I’ll see what I can dig up that Maureen might have left out.”
Gaston said, “Mais non. I’d better just shut this adorable door and stick with you. The people who don’t want you in command up here have been trying to kill me, too, you know!”
“Yeah, I know, and that makes even less sense. Robert E. Lee in the flesh couldn’t do a hell of a lot with the half-ass forces we were recruited to lead, and I’m not as old as Robert E. Lee. So why should anyone care who’s in command of the local army?”
As they moved back into the gloom and around a silent press Gaston observed, “Perhaps you take it all too personally, Dick. They killed the original high command before they could have known who’d take over. Perhaps they don’t want anyone in charge. Mais who could we be talking about? The last general’s assassination was an internal problem involving feuding army factions, they say.”
“Let’s see what the old clippings say,” Captain Gringo said as he opened a frosted glass door, switched on the overhead Edison bulbs, and added, “Eureka. Look at all those file drawers!”
“I am, and merde alors, there are so many of them, and sooner or later La Siesta must end!”
But it wasn’t really that tough a job, once they found the back issues had been filed in numerical order. La Prenza Popular used block-print heading over each individual article, so it was easy enough to skim over domestic tragedies and the wedding announcements that could very well lead up to them in the future. Gaston’s Spanish was better than his English, but he didn’t have Captain Gringo’s attention span and soon began to explore desk drawers for booze or at least tobacco while he let his younger comrade sift through scattered stories of blood and slaughter for a pattern that made sense.
El Viejo del Montaña made the front pages of La Pre
nza Popular a lot, it seemed. There were even fuzzy pictures of him when he’d been up to something really awful. He seemed to be a short stocky guy of around forty to seventy. It was tough to tell when a guy had a flat round Indian face, a big white moustache, and wore a big straw sombrero. He was staring sort of stupidly at the camera and his raids, while messy, didn’t seem to follow a very bright pattern, either. The army seemed to have sought him here, there, and everywhere, as El Viejo del Montaña struck here, there, and everywhere like a spinning top. He liked horses a lot, it seemed. He was always running off with livestock from an outlying hacienda. Despite the cracks they kept making about his age he must have liked women a lot as well. So far, he and his band had abducted at least two dozen women, all young, good looking, but from families too poor to ransom them.
He’d commented a couple of times on the guerrilla leader’s fat round face by the time Gaston found a drawer filled with glossy file photos instead of the secret treasures he was after. Gaston flipped a photo over to Captain Gringo, asking if that was who they were talking about. Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Yeah. A lot clearer than it shows up in newsprint, but not any prettier.”
He started to toss it back. Then he put it in his jacket pocket. If the government didn’t have any reward posters out on the old shit it was about time they did. He closed the last file drawer and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
They got back to the tailor shop a little early. But their uniforms were ready and, better yet, fit. The high collars hid their shirts. They’d chosen loose-fitting tunics to carry their shoulder rigs under. So all they had to take off were their pants, civilian jackets, and straw hats. After transferring the contents of their old outfits to their spiffier khaki duds, they told the tailor to wrap the leftovers and make out the bill to the Segovian Army. Then they picked out some nice new peaked caps and left to see if the garrison would be on the ball early. But they’d no sooner gotten out front, packages under their arms, when a horseless carriage sputtered around the corner and braked to a stop in front of them. The rather grand young grandee reclining in the back seat told them, “We were told you’d be here. El Presidente sends his compliments and wishes for you to know a social event in your honor will take place at the presidential palace this evening at six.”
