by Rusty Young
That amount was the minimum wage. Not having joined for money, for me this was a bonus. However, many recruits grumbled. They’d been tricked by recruiters. Tango and Murgas were the most disappointed – they’d each been promised four hundred dollars a month – but said nothing aloud. At least, not then.
There were one hundred and four recruits – ninety-nine boys and five girls. They came from all over Colombia. Eyeing each other warily, most stuck near those from their home province as we queued for Beta to shave the boys’ heads and issue our kits – two uniforms, rubber boots, hat, belt, backpack, mess canteen and a hammock. Culebra set up a table of sandwiches and cans of Coke. Alfa 1 called us forward one by one and, during a brief interview, wrote down our personal details, including full name, address and our reason for joining, before assigning us an alias, which we could choose ourselves.
The aim was to give us new identities. We were not allowed to use our old names or discuss our previous lives so that, in the event of capture, no one could be identified.
Following each boy’s registration, Alfa 1 assigned him a pay number. He then yelled out the boy’s new alias so we could get to know each other’s names. Our group included Pirata, Armani, R6 and Escorpión. Some chose TV and movie characters they admired, such as Terminator or Rambo. The prettiest girl was dubbed Piolín, which meant Tweetie Bird. The boy who pushed in behind her in the queue called himself Silvestre. The slowest girl was called Tortuga, meaning ‘Turtle’. Tango and Murgas were allowed to keep their nicknames. Palillo kept his. El Psycho was already El Psycho. The trainers were Alfa 1, Beta and Culebra, but we were to call them comando – meaning commander – when addressing them.
Waiting in line, we got our first taste of military discipline. One of the boys must have been thirsty. He went back for a second soft drink and then a third, at which point Alfa 1 noticed.
‘You like Coca-Cola, do you?’ he boomed. ‘I said one drink per man. But since you’re so thirsty, you can drink the rest. Go on!’
A dozen cans were left. The boy’s punishment was to drink one, sprint up the hill then back down, do ten push-ups, ten sit-ups, drink another Coke and then run back up the hill. The boy vomited after nine and claimed he couldn’t go on. Alfa 1 increased the punishment, forcing him to wear a raincoat and carry a backpack containing four bricks.
It was a clever variation on the punishment known as El Volteo – The Knockdown. Normally, the recruit had to drink water, but making him drink Coca-Cola turned it into a group punishment. Fourteen other recruits missed out on a soft drink, which caused resentment against the boy and taught him that an individual’s actions always affect others. Finally, Alfa 1 gave him a permanent reminder of the experience. From then on, he was to be called Coca-Cola.
Eugene’s alias was also imposed on him. He wanted to be called El Machetero, as a reminder of his father. However, by the time he reached the front of the queue the name had already been claimed. He could have chosen something different, but stupidly admitted to hating his real name.
‘Why don’t you like Eugene?’ Alfa 1 asked, his pen poised above the registration book.
‘It makes me sound like a ñoño.’
Alfa 1 laughed. ‘Then that’s what we’ll call you. Nerd.’
I liked Alfa 1 already. He had a practical, no-nonsense wisdom and was extremely tough. But he also had a sense of humour. I felt sure that once I told him the story of my father, he’d take me under his wing.
When my turn came, I spoke clearly and confidently, calling him comando and standing tall. However, Alfa 1 barely looked up. I gave my father’s name as my own and, when he asked what alias I wanted, I gave my own name – Pedro. Papá had named me after Saint Peter. It was a sacred name and I wasn’t going to change it.
‘Pedro, your reason for joining?’
‘It happened a week ago, comando. I live on the outskirts of a small town called Llorona. Both the Guerrilla and the army sometimes pass across our property. My father, you see, he never refused water to anyone. He said—’
‘Everyone here has hard luck stories, Pedro,’ Alfa 1 cut in, already impatient. ‘Get to the point and don’t think you’re special.’
He dismissed me after summarising the most important events of my entire life in his notebook, using only three words: Guerrilla killed father.
To Alfa 1, neither my story nor my father’s was important. In fact, I was not important. I was just another recruit, one of a hundred he would train that season. I resolved to change that.
Five minutes later, however, my first effort ended in failure.
23
‘ARE THERE ANY questions?’ asked Alfa 1 once we were kitted out in camouflage uniforms and lined up in parade formation. Keen to show my enthusiasm, I raised my hand. ‘When will we be issued rifles, comando?’
‘When I say so,’ he barked. ‘Name?’
He’d forgotten me already.
‘Pedro, comando.’
‘Pedro, give me fifty push-ups.’
My arms gave way after twenty-seven. Alfa 1 added another ten push-ups and told the whole group they’d wait until I finished. It was a lesson I wouldn’t forget: when a commander asks for questions, he doesn’t really mean it. We were there to obey orders.
‘You like weapons, do you?’ asked Alfa 1 when I couldn’t complete the sixty.
Moments before I’d seen Coca-Cola fall into a similar trap, but I had to answer.
‘I’m not sure, comando.’
‘Then I’ll help you find out.’
Alfa 1 assigned me to the armoury – a forty-foot shipping container where provisions and weapons were stored. It was considered the worst job on La 50. Having no windows, the container heated up like an oven. I was the first to start work and the last to finish. Since the inventory system took time to learn, the position wasn’t rotated. My punishment would last until training was completed.
I cursed my own stupidity. Rather than coming to Alfa 1’s attention for outstanding conduct, I’d started terribly. From then on, I resolved to keep my mouth shut unless spoken to. If I had to ask anything, I would obey the chain of command, first speaking to Culebra, who’d then go to Beta, who in turn would go to Alfa 1.
During our first week in the Autodefensas, we said little and did exactly what we were told. We eyed each other suspiciously, trying to distinguish ally from enemy. Friendliness was weakness. To speak out of turn was to risk sounding stupid. Choosing the wrong group could prove disastrous.
The hierarchy became obvious at our first mealtime. The three trainers sauntered to the front of the queue, followed by the four gate guards who were permanently stationed at La 50. The twenty-four perimeter guards huddled together at two tables. They were here to do an advanced training course after being promoted. But Alfa 1 had timed their course to coincide with ours so that they could act as perimeter security until we were trained to use rifles and could do it ourselves. Being more experienced, they weren’t going to socialise with raw recruits. In fact, they resented us. Babysitting us meant that their three-week course would take six weeks.
The rest of us jostled for our places in the hierarchy. At the top were those with prior military or police training. Then it descended according to age and size. MacGyver, at age twenty-one, had already passed Autodefensa training, but he’d been sent back for ‘retraining’, making him the unwilling senior of our intake. Although he could easily have asserted himself using his size and experience, something must have shaken him. He sat quietly at the corner of an empty table. I sat down next to him. Palillo plonked down opposite me, with Tango and Murgas at the other end. Meanwhile, those who hadn’t established a group tried different tables before the gaps filled and the glue dried on our seating arrangements.
Ñoño, as the youngest and smallest, was at the bottom of the hierarchy. He had yet to reach puberty or understand the social dynamics of a group.
‘Mind if I sit here?’ he asked at the trainers’ table.
‘Reserved,’ Culebra
stated coolly. But the seat remained empty until the trainers had finished eating.
Arriving at our table, Ñoño looked at me hopefully. In the registration queue, he’d heard my story. I’d heard his story too, and he must have assumed this was a bond between us.
‘Reserved,’ I said, barring the chair beside me with a straight arm. I didn’t want the obligation that a friendship with a small, weak boy would bring. But Ñoño was as stubborn as a mule. He placed his plate on the table, obliging me to shove it aside.
Palillo glared at me. With two siblings and three half-siblings, he was used to looking after children. He tapped the adjacent seat. ‘This side isn’t.’
Palillo’s kindness earned him instant admirers. The five girls – Piolín, Tortuga, Mahecha, Paisa and Mona – descended on our table, nodding to Palillo. Piolín sat next to Palillo, diagonally opposite me. Although she was the prettiest of the five, I kept my eyes down and slurped my soup loudly. I didn’t need any reminders of Camila. Palillo, however, relished having a female audience. He directed his first question to the table.
‘So if we were in combat and had exactly five minutes to live, what’s the last thing you’d do before dying?’
‘Eat chocolate!’ exclaimed Tortuga.
‘No candy stores in the jungle,’ replied Palillo.
‘Get drunk,’ said Mona.
‘In five minutes?’
Of course the girls knew where Palillo was headed, but they seemed to enjoy watching him get there.
When all eyes were on him, he said, ‘I’d make love.’ He leaned closer to Piolín. ‘To the nearest beautiful woman.’
‘Me too,’ she declared, blushing defiantly at her friends’ laughter. ‘But with my boyfriend.’
Placing his hands on the table, Palillo half-stood, craned his neck and looked around. ‘I’m not seeing him anywhere.’
She folded her arms. ‘Well then, I wouldn’t.’
‘Then you’d be missing out. You know what they say about long-distance love.’
‘What?’
‘In long-distance love, all four are happy.’
This time Piolín joined in the laughter until MacGyver stood suddenly, drained his bowl and departed, creating an awkward silence. I also stood, tipped back my soup and followed him.
‘You did right,’ he said as we crossed to the dormitory. ‘Don’t get involved with those girls. They’re princesas intocables.’
I had no intention of getting involved. But neither did I think they behaved like untouchable princesses.
‘They seem friendly enough.’
‘You’re not understanding me,’ he said seriously. ‘They’re for the commanders. Tell your black friend if you want. Although it didn’t come from me.’
Theoretically, the girls weren’t owned. They were free to choose whom they wanted to be with. However, they were earmarked, like calves that had shown early potential but weren’t yet ready for market. Eventually, the commanders would make their interest known, and in the meantime they were off limits to the rest of us.
I did warn Palillo. ‘Even if one of the girls chooses you, what makes you think the trainers will allow it?’
‘Mathematics, Pedro. Simple mathematics.’ He placed his palms against each other and paired off three fingers of his left hand against three on the right, folding down his right thumb and forefinger. Then he wiggled the two spare fingers. ‘Five girls minus three commanders leaves two for Toothpick.’
Since Piolín had a boyfriend, Alfa 1 trained his sights on Paisa, the second prettiest girl, which forced Beta and Culebra to choose the third and fourth prettiest respectively.
To Palillo, this meant that Piolín was not a danger. She was a challenge.
Since the trainers banned us from discussing our past lives, it took a long time to get to know anyone. The first boys we learned about were those who never wanted to go home, or who had no home to go back to, such as El Psycho and Ñoño. But gradually I heard the others’ reasons for joining. Some were escaping violent homes. Others had joined for the same reason I had: their happy home lives had been destroyed by the Guerrilla. A few were homeless kids who’d been collected off the street by recruiters. However, the overwhelming majority were ordinary boys who had two simple reasons for joining: poverty and unemployment. The money they earned went straight to their families.
Quickly, we settled into our daily routine. After rising at 5 am, we did an hour’s physical training, including sit-ups, push-ups, star jumps and a six-kilometre jog. We bathed in the river before breakfast started at 7 am. After washing our mess tins and cutlery, we formed up on the parade ground and were assigned camp duties, such as sweeping the barracks and scrubbing kitchen pots. Mid-morning we did classes in military tactics – attacking in L-formation, attacking in V-formation, constructing an ambush and detecting an ambush. Lunch was at midday. More military classes followed – orientation, map reading, camp hygiene and survival skills. Each of us was given a length of plywood sawn into the shape of a rifle. These pretend rifles would be our personal weapons until we were taught to use real ones. We had to carry them everywhere and keep them within arm’s reach, even when sleeping.
Towards sunset, we ran the obstacle course. We climbed a rope net, dropped to the ground and crawled on our bellies through twenty metres of mud and a seven-metre-long concrete pipe. We squeezed through five tyres, climbed a brick wall, balanced along a thin, wobbly log and crawled through a square concrete pipe. After wriggling beneath a canopy of barbed wire, we swung along monkey bars and sprinted to the jetty, from which we launched ourselves into the creek – known as La Quebrada – to cool off. Daisy, who ran up and down barking while we did the obstacle course, splashed into the water with us.
The course had to be completed within a set time. To add pressure, the trainers yelled in our ears and struck us with wooden sticks. The stragglers quickly picked up their pace. Each day, Culebra shaved three seconds off the time permitted. Anyone who didn’t make it received extra duties. Ñoño was by far the slowest and regularly incurred fines and punishments, which only made him more tired and nervous the next day.
‘I can’t help it if my arms are too short to reach the monkey bars,’ Ñoño complained to Culebra, the most sympathetic of the trainers.
‘Tell that to enemy bullets. You think they’ll listen?’
‘War is war,’ declared Alfa 1. ‘The enemy doesn’t make allowances for age or size. Neither do we.’
El Filtro had weeded out the sick. The trainers were now filtering out the weak. It didn’t matter that Ñoño had begged to join. He’d been warned: weak was weak, in all its forms. The second time we did the obstacle course, Palillo lifted him to reach the bars, but he was reprimanded. Ñoño was running out of options.
Beta made it worse for him. He had a cruel streak and enjoyed tormenting Ñoño. Crossing the mess hall one night towards the end of the first week, Beta stopped at our table, leaned down beside Piolín and said discreetly, ‘Let me know if any of you need women’s stuff. We have a box in the container.’
‘Thank you.’
‘That goes for you too, Ñoño.’
Ñoño flushed. In the awkward silence that followed Beta’s departure, he turned to me. ‘They’ll send me home. I can’t go back. Can you teach me to jump like you?’
‘Sure.’ I pointed towards the river. ‘The pier’s that way.’
MacGyver snorted with amusement. Piolín winced.
I felt bad, but I couldn’t let myself start caring for Ñoño. He would come to depend on me, and in the end I wouldn’t be able to protect him. Besides, helping him would bring me into direct conflict with the trainers.
Publicly, Palillo said nothing. Privately, he was disappointed.
‘That’s not like you,’ he said as we brushed our teeth before bed.
I shrugged. ‘Not like the old me.’
Like an autumn tree stripping itself to grow strong again, I had to let the leaves of kindness and compassion fall.
&n
bsp; 24
FOR FREE TIME after dinner, the common room boasted satellite television, a VHS, board games and playing cards, although most recruits went straight to their hammocks. I was unable to join them, owing to my punishment. While others relaxed, I worked alone in the shipping container, listening to the slow thump of the diesel generator, organising shelves and making supply lists.
What Alfa 1 had intended as a punishment, I was determined to convert into positive learning. I enjoyed being on my own. I learned about weapons and improved my logistical skills. More importantly, it kept my mind occupied.
Working logistics in the armoury was similar to ordering and inventorying supplies for Papá’s storage shed, although on a grander scale. Both entailed predicting needs and planning for contingencies. The camp required building materials, diesel for generators, medical supplies and various hardware products. We also needed food for a hundred and thirty-five people, including pallets of rice and gallons of cooking oil that were delivered to the gate every week.
One of the ways the government tried to prevent supplies reaching the Guerrilla was restricting the purchase and sale of certain items. Guns, bullets, camouflage fabric for uniforms, green fabric for police uniforms, VHF and UHF radios with more than two kilometres range, and even armoured civilian cars were all considered ‘war matériel’ and required a licence from the Defence Ministry. Legitimate importers and distributors would be taking a risk selling on the black market. But for the right price, people will do anything.
The container also had a desk and two tall, grey metal filing cabinets. Culebra was in charge of the armoury, and I was glad to be working with him rather than Beta. I soon noticed his weakness, which was laziness. He appreciated my diligence since it meant less work for him.
‘If you trust me to lock up,’ I said, ‘I’ll finish the count. You sleep.’
I fell easily into the role, organising my own system, placing orders for spare parts and writing shopping lists for Culebra’s supply runs into Puerto Bontón. We had our trusted black market suppliers for restricted items, and phoning them to place orders became my responsibility. I kept a petty cash float, a ledger of purchases and, eventually, Culebra even told me the safe combination. The only unpleasant thing about working in the armoury was the heat. One sweltering day, when Culebra complained about it, I tentatively said, ‘Why not cut a small window above the desk to let hot air escape?’
