by Rusty Young
‘Ever since you helped me in Villavicencio,’ I said, ‘I’ve wanted to make it up to you. And now I have.’ There was someone who’d be perfect for my squad, and whose selection would make Palillo happy. ‘My fourth pick is Piolín.’
‘Impossible!’ he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. ‘And they approved it?’
I shrugged. ‘None of the other commanders wanted her. They said girls are useless in combat. And pretty girls cause distractions and rivalries.’
Palillo gave me a high five then began singing lyrics from one of the only songs he knew in English: Nowhere to run to, baby. Nowhere to hide.
In the first week of April, we set off to patrol a remote region of the Meta province. After travelling by truck for several hours over bumpy, dusty roads, we set out on foot from a finca amiga – a friendly cattle station that required protection.
For the next seven days, we trekked through shoulder-high grass, stopping only to rest beneath trees or to scan the distance with binoculars and relay our location and observations back to La 50 via radio. Every day was the same as the last – long, hot and dry. We ate the same food for breakfast and dinner – beans, rice and chickpeas – and the same Maggi packet soup for lunch. At dusk, an army of mosquitoes descended, plundering our skin with an arsenal of invisible needles.
The region had been ‘cleansed’ of Guerrilla years ago, but locals were reluctant to explain how Trigeño had achieved this. Only one man – the seventy-year-old owner of a cebu finca – gave a straight answer.
‘A fuego y sangre,’ he told me. With fire and blood.
Farmers greeted us with friendly waves. Children rushed out to meet us, wanting to hold our rifles. Wives and daughters offered us food. Some were pretty, but the rules for dealing with civilians were very strict – we were to be polite, but never too friendly.
Maintaining discipline within my squad in the remote savannah wasn’t as easy as I’d expected. Petty arguments erupted simply because everyone had excess energy and limited ways to expend it. As commander, I became the bullseye for my squad members’ darts of frustration.
Veneno – whose alias meant ‘Poison’ – was the most troublesome. At twenty, he was the second oldest after MacGyver. He was half a head taller than me, and there was barely concealed bitterness in his every look, in his surly tone of voice and in the way he carried out my orders with deliberate slowness, as though daring me to reprimand him.
One evening, as we were lifting the packs from our shoulders, I asked Veneno to fetch firewood for cooking.
‘But I did it yesterday,’ he protested.
He was right – normally I rotated each duty, but this time I’d forgotten. However, now that I’d given the order, I couldn’t back down.
‘It doesn’t matter. Do it again.’
Veneno strolled towards me, still wearing his pack, and stood centimetres away, breathing heavily into my face with his hands on his hips.
‘Why should I obey a teenager who’s barely taken off his training wheels?’
Before I could answer, MacGyver grabbed Veneno by the throat, lifting him onto his toes.
‘Because he’s your commander. End of story.’ MacGyver let go, shoving him backwards, and Veneno fell onto his pack with a thud. ‘If you’ve got a problem with Pedro, take it up with Alfa 1 and see where it gets you.’
The argument occurred on the last day of our first patrol, and I hoped they’d both cool down after some time apart. During our rest leave between patrols, I continued my advanced training course on La 50, but my squad was given the option of paying to stay at La María, a nearby finca owned by Trigeño that boasted a swimming pool, ping-pong table and kiosk. Those who preferred not to spend their meagre wages could stay on La 50, where they received free food and accommodation but had to wear uniform and do three guard shifts per day.
Either way, our respite didn’t last long. After only two days of rest we were collected by truck and transported to a new ‘friendly farm’ to start another assignment.
In mid-April, the wet season commenced. Rain came down in sheets that swept across the landscape. With no dry campsites, everything got wet and stayed wet. Damp socks caused our toes to go soggy then blister. But despite these privations, being out in open space made me calmer. My mind was occupied with leading my squad. I began to think of its members as my men. They were soldiers, but after a few weeks they were also like brothers, even Veneno. A brother you dislike is still a brother. Alfa 1 had been right – being responsible for other men’s lives removed a lot of selfish, self-indulgent shit from my head.
Of us all, Palillo was the happiest – Piolín couldn’t evade his attentions. After four months training outdoors, her muscles were lithe and she had a golden tan. Yucca, Giraldo, Veneno and Coca-Cola all watched her longingly. I even caught myself staring at her without meaning to.
At first, we found Palillo’s overtures towards her entertaining. No one took him seriously, least of all Piolín. But during our third rotation in north-eastern Casanare, the two began to lag behind, deep in conversation and dragging their feet. When I read out the guard roster, I’d catch them winking or smiling at some private joke.
One lunchtime, when they sat together on a log away from the group, Veneno finally voiced what the others must have been thinking: ‘I thought she had a boyfriend in Barranquilla.’
MacGyver approached me one evening as we were setting up camp. He’d seen Palillo and Piolín holding hands, and Palillo trying to steal a kiss, which she’d turned away from.
‘Remember what I told you,’ he said. ‘I like Palillo – he’s funny – but do you really think the prettiest girl in the history of the Autodefensas can go to a nobody negro from Llorona?’
‘I don’t see the problem,’ I said. ‘The commanders already have their girls.’
‘That’s not the point. If those two get together, the commanders will take it as an insult. And the others in our squad are getting jealous. You need to inform Alfa 1.’
‘I can’t. Palillo is my best friend.’
In fact, I’d never seen Palillo so dedicated to pursuing one girl. I was glad to see him happy. At the same time, I was beginning to think I’d done all three of us a disservice by including Piolín in the squad.
I warned Palillo privately. ‘What you’re doing is dangerous. If MacGyver knows, others might guess too.’
‘So what if they do? She can be with whoever she likes. Love isn’t against the rules.’
I was amazed to hear Palillo mention love. The word just slipped from his mouth. This was more serious than I’d thought.
Seeing Palillo and Piolín so happy made me envious of the simple things they took for granted. They’d known each other barely six months and yet they could talk every day. They could wake up next to each other. And although they couldn’t kiss openly, they could at least look into each other’s eyes. Camila and I could only talk by phone. I called her whenever I could, but in remote regions there was usually no signal, and we only returned from patrolling every eight days at best. Sometimes we went directly from one patrol to the next.
In May, I went more than three weeks without hearing Camila’s voice. But when we finally did speak, she told me something that fanned the flames of my vengeful thoughts to white-hot fury.
64
WE HAD RETURNED to La 50 after three back-to-back rotations. At night, as soon as my duties ended, I called Camila.
She was overjoyed to hear from me; however, once the initial burst of excitement subsided, her voice turned serious.
‘Pedro, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. But I don’t want you getting angry. Do you promise?’
A hundred possibilities raced through my mind: she’d kissed someone else; she wanted to break up with me; her father had discovered I was an Autodefensa. But I held my voice steady.
‘That depends on what it is.’
Camila hesitated. ‘After you told me what you did at the finca, I snuck up there and took down your fa
ther’s cross. I’ve hidden it under our house. Please don’t be mad!’
‘You what?’ I exclaimed. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because he would have known it was you.’
‘Who would have known?’
‘Zorrillo.’
There was a long silence before I trusted myself to speak.
‘Why? What do you know about Zorrillo?’
‘My father made me swear I wouldn’t tell you …’
‘Too late now. You have to!’
Camila finally told me everything she knew about the events following Papá’s murder.
Two weeks after I’d buried Papá and left Llorona, Camila’s father had collected our cattle from Old Man Domino’s property and herded them to the Sunday markets in Puerto Galán. The Guerrilla presided over the markets and usually extracted a ten per cent commission from both buyers and sellers – they’d done this for decades and everyone accepted it as part of business. However, that day, Zorrillo himself had been present. When he recognised the brand on the cattle as Papá’s, he raised the vacuna to fifty per cent as punishment for my burying Papá, adding, ‘Tell that muchacho next time he crosses us, it won’t just be graffiti.’
I listened, cold with shock.
‘My father refused to sell at half price,’ continued Camila, ‘but Zorrillo drew his pistol and forced him to. Zorrillo bought the cattle himself, throwing the cash on the ground. He said his men would enjoy a fine meal, care of a dead man. Afterwards, Papá felt responsible for not transporting the cattle to a different market. He wanted to cover the loss. But your mother wouldn’t accept his money. She said that we should never tell you or let you see what Zorrillo had done to your finca.’
So it had been Zorrillo who trashed the furniture inside our house. Zorrillo who sprayed graffiti on our walls. Zorrillo who pissed on our rugs. And Zorrillo who shot up Papá’s cross. My blood boiled. For that alone I could have killed him.
Hadn’t they punished my family enough for me talking to the Autodefensa recruiters? Wasn’t it sufficient that they’d killed my father and driven us off our land? Did Zorrillo have to keep tormenting us?
I now understood why Mamá had so little money. She’d explained it by claiming she’d had to repay the bank, but the sale of our cattle should have more than covered our small debts, leaving plenty over for her to start a new life.
Trigeño’s warning now rang in my ears. A man of war’s greatest weakness is his family. Zorrillo had exploited that weakness: to get back at me, he’d struck devastatingly at my mother.
I should have thanked Camila for taking down Papá’s cross – she’d run a huge risk to protect me. And she’d also broken a promise to her father by telling me the truth. But I was angry.
‘You shouldn’t have gone to the finca. I don’t want you involved.’
‘I’m already involved. And I did it for your mother too. She has nightmares about bumping into Ratón in the streets. She’s suffering, Pedro.’
‘You think I don’t know that? But since we’re being honest, there’s something I haven’t told you either. Ratón is dead.’
‘What? How do you know?’
‘Because I killed him.’
There was a long silence. A very long silence.
‘Killed him how?’
I told her about Villavicencio. Camila went quiet while she processed everything. It took only seconds for her to guess my intentions.
‘Don’t even think about going after Zorrillo! My father says he’s surrounded by bodyguards. You won’t get within ten metres of him.’
But I wouldn’t need to get within ten metres. The Galil’s effective range was 400 metres.
‘I love you, Camila,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’ Then I hung up.
I now knew for certain that Zorrillo hadn’t left the area. In fact, I knew exactly where to find him: at the Sunday cattle markets in Puerto Galán.
65
UNFORTUNATELY, KNOWING WHERE to find Zorrillo and being able to do something about it were two very different things. Camila’s revelations only increased my frustration because until my next leave I’d be stuck patrolling or on La 50. I considered inventing a family emergency and asking Alfa 1 for a few days’ special leave.
But almost immediately, developments at La 50 rendered that hope futile. The next day, Alfa 1 was teaching our advanced group how to use a 40mm grenade launcher when we were interrupted by Culebra.
‘There’s something on the news that you need to see,’ he said to Alfa 1 urgently. ‘In fact, you should all come into the office. This affects everyone.’
On the small television attached to the wall, the President was announcing that the government had officially entered into peace talks with the Guerrilla’s high command.
The President’s face was clean-shaven and unlined, but his expression was weary.
‘The Colombian people are tired of war,’ he said, ‘and I am confident that a ceasefire and eventual disarmament will lead to lasting peace for our great nation.’
The government’s proposal required the Guerrilla to release thousands of hostages currently held in their camps. A one-for-one humanitarian exchange was under consideration – releasing captured guerrilleros held in prisons – but only provided all military hostilities ceased.
The RCN news report crossed to a secret jungle location where a tall Guerrilla spokesman with grey sideburns, dressed in camouflage and wearing a red beret, outlined their expectations for the proposed talks. Unlike the guerrilleros in Llorona, whose speech was peppered with campesino slang, he was articulate and intelligent, and he gesticulated passionately as he spoke. Within a minute, I was so drawn in by his arguments about equality, social justice and government corruption that I almost forgot he was the enemy.
Then his name appeared in white text at the bottom of the screen:
SIMÓN SANTIAGO.
I froze in shock. I was looking at the man who’d ordered Papá’s execution.
It was the first time I’d seen Santiago’s face or heard his voice.
I kicked a metal wastepaper bin hard. It hurtled through the air, knocking a gaping hole in the plaster wall and spilling trash everywhere.
‘Pedro!’ yelled Alfa 1. ‘What the hell? That comes out of your salary!’
‘That’s him!’ I pointed at the screen. ‘The man who—’
‘I don’t care. You need to control yourself—’
He was interrupted by the shrill ringing of his phone. He glanced at the caller ID and held up his hand for silence.
‘Yes, of course I’m watching the news,’ he responded tersely to the caller. Suddenly, he gestured for Culebra to turn down the volume.
‘Don’t joke with me! That’s not funny.’ Alfa 1’s face went pale and he turned his back to us, swearing then whispering something before stepping slowly from the office and clicking the door quietly behind him.
I straightened out the dinted wastepaper bin and placed it back beside the desk, although my attention remained locked on the news piece.
Not only was Santiago refusing to disarm the Guerrilla, he was making ridiculous demands of the government, including a massive demilitarised zone – an entire municipality of Colombia that was to be cleared of all police and government soldiers, since the Guerrilla commanders feared assassination. Santiago also demanded that the government disband the Paramilitaries, which he called ‘the army’s secret right-wing death squads who murder peasant farmers, teachers and union leaders with complete impunity in a dirty war against the nation’s poor’.
‘That’s pure mierda!’ Beta yelled at the television. The others also began yelling until Alfa 1 re-entered the office. We immediately fell silent. The RCN anchorman was summing up the official response to these demands:
‘The President has indicated that the government will investigate these serious allegations and, if they are true, take action against the people responsible.’
‘Fucking politicians!’ Alfa 1 shouted, bootin
g the metal wastepaper bin. His kick was so powerful that it blasted the bin right through the wall, leaving a hole twice the size of mine. ‘They’re all cowards!’
I was reminded of Papá’s midnight pronouncement on the Díaz brothers – they were cowards for not doing their job as men, thereby forcing us to do it for them. Alfa 1 continued destroying the office – hurling phones and even snapping the screen of a laptop over his knee. Beta, who was normally the short-tempered one, had to restrain him in a headlock.
‘What? What is it?’
Alfa 1 broke free.
‘That was Trigeño who phoned. The government might be issuing an arrest warrant.’
‘For Trigeño?’
‘No, for me.’
66
ALFA 1 CLAIMED he was a scapegoat in the government’s campaign of public appearances – designed to appease the Guerrilla and prevent negotiations stalling. Of course, the Autodefensas still had considerable power to protect Alfa 1. The investigation against him could be sidetracked. Evidence could be made to disappear. Judges could be bribed and witnesses coerced.
However, his potential arrest warrant changed the atmosphere at La 50 as well as our operational focus. New orders came from Trigeño. We were to assume every radio exchange was recorded; we were never to mention our location or the commanders by name, especially not Alfa 1, who’d be confined to base. The training course for new recruits, which was due to commence in June, was postponed indefinitely. Worse still, the junior commanders’ phones were confiscated. Not only could I not call Camila or Mamá, I couldn’t even phone to tell them why.
My squad’s next assignment in north-west Casanare was cancelled – instead, we were ordered to patrol the countryside surrounding La 50 in a clockwise direction at a radius of five kilometres. Six other squads were also recalled, two to circle at ten kilometres and another four at a radius of twenty kilometres. The Autodefensas were no longer defending the outer regions of Los Llanos; we were defending ourselves.
