Hunting Che

by Mitch Weiss

  After the last ambush, Major Sanchez had brought out of the jungle a note from the guerrillas, meant for release to the press. The major instead turned it over to military officials in Cochabamba for analysis. But someone leaked the letter to a local newspaper, which published it on May 1.

  The Bolivian Liberation Army said it wanted to reveal the truth behind the first ambush—that the guerrillas had dealt a crushing blow to government troops.

  We regret the innocent blood shed by fallen soldiers, but peaceful roads are not made with mortars and machine guns, as the puppets with decorated uniforms assert. There has not been nor will there be a single campesino who can complain about the way we have treated him or about our way of obtaining supplies, except for those who, betraying their class, volunteer to serve as guides or informers.

  Hostilities are under way. In future communiqués we will expound our revolutionary position clearly; today we issue a call to workers, campesinos, intellectuals, all those who feel that the time has come to meet violence with violence and to rescue a country sold piecemeal to Yankee monopolies and to raise the standard of living of our people who grow hungrier every day.

  Barrientos ordered the editor arrested, but it was too late. The damage was done.

  Ovando knew the letter would appeal to the miners and trade unions. The mines in the northwest part of the country were the lifeblood of the Bolivian economy. They provided good incomes for workers, but the miners had always made trouble for the Bolivian government, even after the 1952 revolution. The mining unions were powerful and lobbied hard to improve working and living conditions for miners. Tension increased enormously after the military coup in 1964. In May 1965, the government jailed and exiled many leftist union chiefs and killed at least one. Troops occupied the mines, unleashing a bloody confrontation that raged for several days at the mines and on the outskirts of La Paz. By the time a truce was reached, 48 miners were dead, and 284 were wounded.

  Ovando and Barrientos were worried that fighting could flare up again, and that the guerrillas would capitalize on the discontent. It didn’t help that international news organizations were writing negative articles about them. A Washington Post headline blared: ISOLATED GUERRILLAS POST GROWING PERIL TO BOLIVIA. The story warned that the guerrillas threatened Bolivia’s stability: “The significance of the guerrilla force lies in the potential as a catalyst amid the highly volatile elements of the Bolivian political structure. By simply remaining at large, the guerrillas could touch off explosive reaction in a country unrivaled in South America for the bloodiness and instability of its political history.”

  The harshest comments were reserved for the military: “Underscoring the possibility has been the armed forces reaction to the threat as though they were following the script for a Keystone Kops two-reeler. Lurching from tight-lipped news blackouts to statements that are contradictory and preposterous, the military has managed to confuse just about everyone regarding the threat and the campaign against it.”

  The article concluded by calling the armed forces “small, ill-equipped and, for the most part, poorly trained.”

  Ovando knew there was some truth to that. He had been trying for years to rebuild the military, which had been stripped of power after the 1952 revolution. The anti-military government was why he and Barrientos risked all in their 1964 coup. That’s why American Green Berets were in Bolivia, training his soldiers.

  Now, nearly two months after the first ambush, Ovando wanted to know when those soldiers would be ready—not only to hunt guerrillas, but to put down an uprising in the mines. It was time to visit La Esperanza.

  * * *

  By the middle of May, the streets and fields in La Esperanza were teeming with uniformed men. But with all the commotion, there was no confusion over who was in charge.

  Major Shelton was everywhere, bounding from one meeting to the next with his clipboard in hand. He was in the fields, keeping tabs on construction as Special Forces soldiers used hand tools to build a full-scale Ranger training camp. They erected an obstacle course, confidence course, quick-reaction course—where jungle footpaths were rigged with pop-up cutouts of enemy figures—a river course, a target range.

  He inspected the work. He even helped with the construction, working alongside his men and the Bolivian soldiers in the tropical heat.

  Shelton enjoyed every minute of it. Wherever he walked, he flashed that wide, friendly smile as he chatted with soldiers, officers, and villagers. He listened and offered solutions. Shelton was often exhausted at the day’s end, but so what? He took great pride in solving problems and getting the most out of his men. His cool demeanor rubbed off. They worked hard and relaxed afterward at Kiosko Hugo.

  One of the first things Shelton did was set up a “pipeline” to bring much-needed supplies to La Esperanza. Usually Special Forces teams went into the field with footlockers, and they would be resupplied once or twice a month by a C-46 long-range commando transport plane. But with this mission, they had a C-130 at their disposal. Shelton used it.

  Days after arriving, he had a refrigerator brought in on the cargo plane, a special request from a local bush pilot assigned to the team. When the icebox arrived, the pilot hauled it away. After that, there was nothing the pilot wouldn’t do for the team. He flew all over the region, picking up men and supplies.

  Once Shelton had primed the pipeline, he used it for critical supplies. Early on, he noticed the Rangers seemed hesitant to pull the trigger during live fire exercises, and they didn’t seem to carry many bullets. He questioned Bolivian captain Julio Cruz.

  “How many rounds per rifleman for the course?” he asked Cruz. “How many live rounds does your army issue for each man’s training?”

  “Ten bullets are authorized for each recruit.”

  “Ten rounds?” Shelton was shocked. “How can you teach them anything?”

  Captain Cruz explained the Bolivian method of training soldiers: “First we tell them. Then we kick them.”

  Shelton had heard enough. If these farm-boys ever were going to learn to shoot, they had to practice. He requested enough ammunition to allocate each rifleman five thousand live rounds.

  Shelton noticed that the Bolivian soldiers had only one uniform each, and no canteens, ponchos, or packaged field rations. That had to change. And their rations were shit: coffee and some bread for breakfast and lunch. Dinner was no better. Bolivian army cooks—throwbacks to the Chaco War—started dinner preparations by filling fifty-five-gallon drums with water. They dumped in rice, potatoes, and a few scraps of meat—sometimes a chopped anaconda, when they could catch one. They lit a fire under the drums and an hour or so later ladled the soupy concoction into bowls. It was classic slop.

  The men weren’t getting enough calories to keep up with the rigorous training. They didn’t have stamina or upper body strength enough to complete some of the exercises, especially rope climbing.

  Shelton stared at the to-do list on his clipboard. Getting additional funds to buy quality food was high on the docket.

  He found himself opening up more to Prado, who came into his office at the end of each day. They reviewed training and schedules, the feedback that Prado would hear from the soldiers.

  “You’re my eyes and ears out there, Gary,” Shelton told him after one meeting. “If this mission is going to be successful, I’m going to need your help. You’re as important as any man on this mission.”

  Prado beamed. Decades later, he still remembered those words of praise.

  Shelton convinced Harry Singh, an American with the U.S. Agency for International Development, that helping the Green Berets build a training area and a school would improve relations with the villagers. So Singh, who was assigned to an AID-funded road-building project near La Esperanza, used his bulldozers to carve out a road to connect the camp to the larger road Singh was already building. Suddenly La Esperanza had direct access to the Santa Cruz highwa
y.

  Shelton told Singh that civic projects like his were part of the American counterinsurgency strategy. Singh agreed to help Shelton and his Green Berets rebuild the school in La Esperanza by the end of the year. The Americans were scheduled to leave in December, and the school would be their legacy to the village.

  Shelton’s populist streak served him well. He had a sense of social justice—a belief that Americans were obligated to improve the lives of others. And knowing this was his last mission was liberating. He didn’t have to be cautious about tapping other agencies for help. He no longer had to worry about pleasing superior officers who could hold up a promotion.

  Shelton was finished playing bullshit games. He was doing the right thing, his mission was high-priority, so the bureaucrats in upper echelons pretty much left him alone. It helped that he had the respect of SOUTHCOM’s high command. They knew his work. He had their trust, and every day he used one of the team’s powerful radios to update them on his progress. The musical evenings continued at Kiosko Hugo. Villagers joined in with their instruments most nights. Local cowboys loved it and often stopped to drink beer and bullshit with the men. They told Shelton the gossip flowing around La Esperanza and the region.

  When Captain Harvey Wallender arrived from Panama to take over the team’s intelligence section in the fall, he found that his work in La Esperanza was already done. Shelton’s men had built up a friendly rapport between the village and the Rangers. Wallender marveled at how the Bolivians followed Shelton around, laughing at his jokes. It looked like they worshiped him, he said.

  And that helped when Shelton ran up against a sanitation problem.

  The Bolivians knew nothing about field sanitation. There were no indoor toilets at the training camp, and many of the men had never seen toilet paper. In La Esperanza, when they felt the urge, they pissed and shat just outside their warehouse barracks. The stink was eye-watering, and the filth posed a health hazard. So Shelton’s team taught the Bolivians how to dig—and use—a slit trench latrine, the simplest type of pit toilet. Still, the Bolivians were reluctant to use it. Sergeant Dan Chapa finally broke it down for them—shit and piss do not belong anywhere within twenty yards of inhabited buildings, and hands should be washed with soap and water afterward. Those found doing otherwise would personally dig the next trench.

  It was basic, but Shelton could see progress.

  Ovando swept into the camp unannounced on May 10. Shelton was glad things were in good order. Once inside Shelton’s office, Ovando questioned him closely about his progress.

  Shelton was honest. It was only May 10, they had really just started training, but everything was going well. They’d spent the last two weeks getting settled in and building the training facilities. Ovando furrowed his brow. He’d hoped for much more.

  “Show me the place,” he said. As they walked to the training field, Shelton described the four-phase program, how they had just started the first: six weeks of basic training.

  One group of soldiers was learning to assemble, disassemble, and clean their M-1 Garands. It wasn’t unusual to see the soldiers struggle at first with basic exercises. After all, the average Ranger recruit had a fifth-grade education. The general tapped his feet and appeared tense. “I must return to La Paz,” he said, turning toward his motorcade. “How much longer?”

  “Sir, our training calls for 179 days. That’s how long it will take. But when they’re finished, they’ll be ready to tackle any mission,” Shelton said.

  The general’s shoulders sagged. “That long?”

  Shelton was firm: “Yes, sir.” He struggled to keep his composure. He looked Ovando in the eyes. “We can do this right or we can do this wrong. When I do something, I do it right.”

  “Bolivia needs those men in the field now,” the commander said. “There’s no time to lose.”

  “Sir,” Shelton said. “They just started training. They’re not ready.”

  Ovando could tell Shelton was giving him an honest assessment. He agreed: It was too risky, sending more untrained men into the jungle.

  “Very good, Major,” Ovando said. “Keep up the good work.”

  Shelton watched as the convoy headed back to Santa Cruz. He said nothing.

  * * *

  Valderomas stood under a dark sky lit up with stars, feeling good. He’d spent the evening at Kiosko Hugo, drinking beer and singing with his friends and the happy, guitar-playing American. The soldiers seemed to bring an excitement with them, and the villagers’ initial trepidation had faded. A man at the camp had paid him well above the average price for a barrow-load of fruit and had asked him to bring some onions next time—it was much like the sugar mill workers used to do. A military crew was seen over at the derelict school, measuring the walls and windows—the mayor said they would fix up the place.

  Valderomas was happy about that. But still, he didn’t entirely like it. Too many people had converged here at once, too many strangers. Something bad was bound to happen.

  Valderomas still forbade his family any contact with the soldiers—especially the Americans. He minded his own business.

  Not all families felt that way. Cooks and maids, local girls, were over there every day, serving the American soldiers. He could see the way some of the soldiers looked at the women. The Roca family, a respectable tribe, was a bit concerned about their daughter Dorys. She obviously had a flirtation going with that tall American with the mustache. Valderomas wasn’t blind. She was young and pretty. Heading for trouble, that one.

  And there was too much noise. Gunfire, bulldozers, trucks, shouting—nonstop, night and day. Good as they might be for everyone else, Valderomas hoped the soldiers would leave soon, so he could sleep again.

  CHAPTER 11

  “We’re not sure.”

  By early June, Ranger training was becoming grueling for Mario Salazar. He had thought he was in good condition when he arrived at La Esperanza, but field work hadn’t prepared him for the long days of full-speed running, climbing, and diving. At the end of the day every muscle ached and throbbed. Now they were starting night maneuvers, so there was less time to heal between onslaughts.

  He stood outside the makeshift barracks at dawn and watched the men heading to the training fields. Some stuffed folded-up bits of bread into their pockets, energy for later. Salazar stared at the sky, a riot of pastels—red, orange, and yellow. He was headed into another hot day on the obstacle course. Rope climbing.

  He struggled with rope climbing. Hell, most of them struggled with it. It was new to them, they couldn’t see the point of it, and many simply didn’t have the strength to pull themselves up.

  The rope dangled from a steel beam twenty-five feet above the sugar mill floor. Some were afraid of the height, but for Salazar, the burns on his hands were the problem.

  He’d finally got the concept on his last trip up the rope. He wrapped the bottom part of the rope around his right calf and pressed it with his left foot to hold him in place. But as he was climbing up, he slipped. He slid back down the rope, holding on for his life. He made it to the ground without breaking any bones, but the friction left deep burns on the palms of both his hands. He was too proud to go to a medic. He washed the burns carefully, but during the night the mosquitoes and biting bugs attacked the wounds. Now his hands were swollen. Pus oozed from the edges of the black scabs. Salazar closed his fists on the pain and headed to the field.

  Prado noticed and told him to get the wounds treated.

  “End of the day, sir,” he replied. “Don’t want to lose my rhythm.”

  Nothing was going to sidetrack him. He wanted to earn the officers’ respect. If he left for treatment, he might be sidelined for days.

  He found his spot in formation, and one of the Americans began chanting: “Lo mas duro! Lo mejor!” “The toughest! The best!” The soldiers joined in. It was the Special Forces way of boosting morale, building confidence.
If they shouted it long enough, they would actually believe it. It was like a pep talk before the big football game, and it was beginning to work.

  A few weeks before, the soldiers had hung their heads. They were hesitant to fire their weapons or even look the officers in the eye. Not anymore. Salazar realized he had just refused an order from an officer. He was gaining confidence.

  As they lined up, Salazar spotted Bolivian Army colonel Jose Gallardo, commander of the entire new regiment in La Esperanza. He was heading this way. Salazar felt even more pressure.

  The soldier in front of Salazar grabbed onto the rope and began pulling himself up, while the American instructor shouted words of encouragement. When the soldier reached the top, the American clapped his hands in approval. The man came down the rope like a monkey and handed the end to Salazar. His turn. He would show them he could do it, too. He wrapped the rope between his legs. He gripped the rope so tight his palms went numb, and from there he inched up. When he tired, he clamped his feet together to hold his place. The pain in his hands was excruciating—like a swarm of fire ants. He blocked out the pain. Somehow he summoned the strength until, out of breath, his skin raw, he made it to the top. When he looked around, he could see the entire training area—the firing ranges, the “slide for life” where soldiers would hang on to a pulley and glide into a pond. With the American clapping, he inched down slowly and made it to the bottom. The other soldiers slapped him on the back. Prado pulled him aside, said “well done,” and ordered him to the first-aid station. The medic there washed and salved his hands and bound them in gauze and tape. The relief was spectacular. By the time the medic had finished, Salazar’s unit had moved from the rope-climb to another obstacle—one even more daunting.

  The soldiers climbed to the top of a huge storage tank—about ten feet off the ground—and jumped off. After some of the Bolivians twisted their ankles, the Special Forces soldiers put mattresses at the bottom. It was another exercise to build confidence and toughness. Salazar watched his friends climbing and leaping, rolling and standing up again. His medical condition meant he was excused for the rest of the day, but climbing up the tank and jumping? He didn’t need his hands so much for that. He ran to the back of the line.