The Battle of Tomochic_The Battle of Tomochic Memoirs of a Second Lieutenant

by Heriberto Frías

  Miguel looked down on the blackened, scored, pocked tower, next to the sturdy main house that must have served as convent and granary. Every once in a while a hail of lead flew toward Medrano and Cueva hills as though to prove that the tower had not seen its last Tomochic fighter.

  The second lieutenant lay back, so exhausted and downcast that he inspired pity in one of the nationals, who offered him a few flour tortillas and a piece of cheese.

  “Go ahead, chief. It’s Tomochic cheese, made with lion’s milk. A little hard, but nothing a little sotol won’t soften up. Take it,” the soldier said to him.

  After Miguel had devoured the cheese and guzzled the sotol like water, without taking a single breath, he felt fully revitalized. “Thank you, my friend, thank you. You’ll never know the good this has done me.”

  Never had Miguel spoken a truer word, even though he was by nature both ingenuous and effusive. When he spoke from his heart, he knew how to communicate the restless nobility of his sensitive, childlike soul—despite his vices, despite the emotional pain that was his eternal element. Having come back to life, his stomach sated, now he could think again. He had the energy to go on suffering.

  The last scenes of the fight for Cerro de Cueva hill put everything that had happened previously into perspective. Of all the terror, of all the many corpses and heroic deeds that he had seen that morning, one event towered above all others, one body, one deed: it was Captain Molina falling backward in front of the hidden enemy he had sought to save.

  How could it be that the miserable devourer of young flesh, that infamous bandit who had spirited the poor Julia away to his lair … that it was he who was the assassin of Captain Molina!

  CHAPTER 29

  The Tomochic Sun

  Ascream interrupted Miguel’s thoughts as a tragic event unfolded before his eyes.

  This is what happened. Sitting against a pine tree protected by a natural parapet, a corporal and a soldier lit a fire, creating a thick plume of smoke, and were about to broil their rations of meat. The corporal was on his feet cutting dry pine branches and the soldier was on the verge of standing up to reach for the meat, when a well-aimed bullet fired from the tower pierced the chest of the first and lodged in the skull of the second. Then a double scream trilled in the air, and two corpses rolled onto the rocks of the crest.

  At one o’clock in the afternoon, the company that had taken the enemy’s position abandoned it. At the rear a work crew lifted the wounded onto improvised stretchers. To avoid becoming targets for the gunmen holed up in the tower, they decided not to take the same route they had followed during the offensive. Instead they went the long way around, zigzagging around the foothills of the mountains that circumscribed the Tomochic valley.

  When the company arrived at the summit of Cerro de Medrano hill at three o’clock in the afternoon, the men were beyond exhaustion. They had not eaten all day. Their comrades from the other corps lavished wild praise on them for their triumph.

  Miguel discovered that the general, standing at the highest point in the camp, was unable to contain his enthusiasm. Witnessing the marks-men advancing rapidly over open ground, attacked by two converging lines of fire, with their heroic captain on the right flank, he had thrown his cap down, yelling: “Bravo! The 9th Battalion has vindicated itself. Now October 20 can be forgotten.”

  When the makeshift stretcher arrived carrying the hero of the day, the general ordered that the serape draping his face be removed. There lay the rigid body of the captain, a gaping wound in his neck, his face bruised, his eyes obstinately open. The bullet had passed through his neck and shattered his spine. When that veteran of such tragic, repellant events—who had witnessed so many wasted acts of heroism in his long military career—saw this, he was so shaken that he nervously ordered the corpse covered again. “Cover him, cover him! Take him away, and name a sentinel to watch over him.”

  A second sergeant spontaneously asked to be included in the guard. Meanwhile, a single sentinel stood guard at the foot of the corpse, which had been laid out in a crevice in the rocky escarpment on the left side of the hill. In addition, a few disheveled soldaderas approached the site and, arranging themselves in a pious group, settled down to pray for the hero’s soul.

  With Cerro de Cueva hill under army control, now the enemy had only the church and Cruz’s house. Because these two strongholds housed the women—mostly widows and orphans by now—it was understandable if their morale was broken and their bodies more so. The looting, sacking, and burning of the town continued mercilessly. Only its center was still intact.

  Throughout the day large black clouds could be seen rising from the bottom of the valley, spiraling slowly upward until they finally dissipated, staining the bright blue sky a dirty shade of gray. Every hour a cannon shell broke the solemn silence of Tomochic, which now sheltered more corpses than people. At the highest point of the hill, the marksmen were poised to cut down any Tomochic fighter who emerged from the church or the Cruz house.

  At five o’clock in the afternoon, the bugler from general headquarters sounded the call to duty. Major Bligh, chief of the general staff, read out the orders and named the officers responsible for nighttime rounds. And as the rules of active duty dictate, he set the time for relief at six o’clock in the evening.

  At night the houses burned brighter than in daylight. The flames tinted the dark sky with yellow bursts of light that shone brilliantly, died down, then flared again into a bright red color against the inky black horizon like stains of pale, luminous blood. Below, in the solitude of those raging fires, the only sounds to be heard were the monotonous barking of the dogs, their doleful howls, and occasionally a plaintive faraway voice.

  At dawn on October 26, the Ninth’s remaining men accompanied their captain’s body to burial in the town cemetery. After the previous night’s fighting, it was important that it lay outside the enemy’s range of fire.

  The rectangular cemetery was enclosed by a low wall of stones and contained only humble graves, the majority of which were unmarked, while the town’s more illustrious citizens were interred in the church courtyard.

  The cortege stopped at the entrance to the cemetery, and only the officers, a second sergeant, and six soldiers carrying the stretcher with the body went inside. The rest of the company—which now resembled a section—remained outside in open order, their rifles held at a diagonal over their shoulders. The body was solemnly placed on the ground next to a shallow grave, which had been dug with several pickaxes found lying nearby.

  Afterward, when Captain Tagle gave the sign, the sergeant loaded his rifle and shot three rounds into the air. Then the corpse, with a great-coat serving as shroud and a serape as coffin, was placed into the earth. A handful of dirt was thrown on the corpse, and then a few stones.

  And nothing more.

  Once the funeral ceremony was over, the company members returned to camp. Thus ended the funeral of the hero of Cerro de Cueva hill.

  The officers marched silently, shivering with cold, on either side of the column. The sun still hadn’t risen. Miguel felt sadder than ever as he jumped over the rocks and ditches of the crudely plowed fields, a terrain that closely resembled the site where the assault occurred.

  “Poor Captain Molina,” thought Miguel. He had been full of integrity, an enthusiastic, lyrical, ingenuous spirit. Not only could he hold forth passionately about Napoleonic battles, he had also explained the “sun of Austerlitz”1 and Mexico’s patriotic military buildup … to die like that, unsung, ingloriously, in some remote corner deep in the mountains, his heroism invisibly and anonymously celebrated.

  To spill blood for the good of the country … to idealistically sacrifice oneself … to immolate oneself for liberty and honor. Surely that was enough for immortality, for lowly death to be converted into eternal life. But to be brave, good, to always prevail in a country’s unhappy campaign, waging war against absolute fanatics! He was young, recently married. In Guerrero City he had just received wor
d of his child’s birth. He was soon to be promoted to major … then to die in obscurity, in that unhappy war waged against heroic Mexicans. They were all good, faithful men. Finally to fall beneath the perverse, wicked bullet of a dying bandit!

  He watched his captain being lowered into a shallow grave in a forgotten cemetery at the foot of the Sierras. When the miserable Tomochic was destroyed once and for all, the wild animals would come to feed on the remains of their hero. Not even his bones would remain. Would they even be able to recognize the place where he had lain —maybe for a single day or an entire night. Poor captain! That poor, brave man.

  Only those few simple words to encompass all of Miguel’s feelings of pity and regret.

  It was seven o’clock. Toward the east, from behind the Cordon de Lino hill, an enormous red sun emerged in an explosion of pale gold light illuminating the summit, turning the lilac sky white and sweeping away the wisps of fog. The steel of the rifle barrels sparkled.

  “The sun of Tomochic! Poor captain!” Miguel said to his comrades. They didn’t understand him, and he continued his funeral oratory in silence. A few soldiers began to sing energetically. Light, perhaps warmth! The sun was coming up, the sun of Tomochic.

  Poor captain!

  CHAPTER 30

  Sotol and Kerosene

  While the Ninth was burying a captain in the valley, a lavish event was under way in the camp hidden in the rolling hills.

  A convoy stock full of provisions arrived from Guerrero City. An entire squadron of men from the 5th Regiment escorted a drove of strong mules into camp weighed down with sacks of flour, cans of gasoline, and barrels of sotol.

  In addition, the head of the escort guard brought sealed orders from General Márquez addressed to General Rangel. The latter was remaining in Guerrero to see how events unfolded.

  Taking advantage of the convoy, others sent several mules packed with barrels of sotol, cigarettes, bread, cheese, sausage, salt, sugar, and coffee. Since leaving Guerrero the troops had continued to receive their pay and, as there was nothing to spend it on, they were fat with cash. It wasn’t strange, then, that the camp was pervaded by a sense of jubilation, a pulsing explosion of noise, with everyone bustling about in the fresh, clear atmosphere of morning.

  After the captain’s funeral, the Ninth arrived at camp and established its corner. Meanwhile, an officer ordered the arms stockpiles to be stacked.

  Then the flour and meat rations were divided and wages were passed out by roll call—a wad of dirty bank notes issued on the banks in Chihuahua.

  A few men were placed on guard duty, but the majority were given permission to break ranks. Soldiers and officers alike gave a hearty hurrah, and off they went.

  As the sotol began to circulate, the men’s faces went from somber and exhausted to radiant. The screaming and shouting became fiercer as well. Soldiers from all battalions, their women, locals, and Sonora and Chihuahua irregulars in blue, gray, or white pants, and sporting the characteristic hats tied with red ribbons, came and went, gesturing wildly.

  In a clearing between the three stunted pine trees next to the general’s tent (the only one in camp), the goods that had arrived in the morning were put up for sale. With a couple of old planks and tree trunks the men improvised a broad countertop behind which the adventurers— poor devils who accompanied the troops like a retinue of the general’s servants—tried to keep up with the tightly packed mass of soldiers as they advanced on the barrels of delicious sotol.

  Indeed, the soldiers elbowed and pushed their way to the front, uttering the crudest of imprecations. The strongest and the quickest managed to get to the front where they carried off the booty: bottles, canteens, demijohns, and jugs. After a week of abstinence, they were eager for a drink.

  Meanwhile, the barrels of sotol emptied as though the bottoms had been pierced through. While scores of filthy fingers handed over the blue and green bills in a virtual rain of money, the piles of cigarettes as well as the bags of ground coffee disappeared, and the sausage links were unceremoniously torn apart.

  Everything was being sold at outrageously high prices. A single pack of cigarettes cost a real, as did each sausage, and for seven reales you could buy a half liter of sotol. Still, in the flurry to buy up all the goods, the soldiers felt incredibly rich. Never before had they possessed so much money at one time. They had suffered so much and then found themselves suddenly able to forget, to enjoy, to live! Viva el sotol!

  “Hey, let me through, goddammit!” yelled Castorena, delivering kicks left and right as he pushed through the troops. “Hey, Mercado, my good lieutenant, straight ahead, push!”

  Castorena, Mercado, and Lieutenant Torrea reached the makeshift counter where a group of soldiers politely let them pass. The poet was carrying a large jug. The three officers had agreed they would be lunching today on a chicken they had bought from a soldadera, and meat with potatoes, beans, chili, thick flour tortillas, and coffee with sotol.

  “A true banquet,” commented Castorena.

  Pointing to the barrels of sotol, Miguel retorted, “That says it all, as a modern philosopher would put it.”

  As they filled their decanters with aguardiente (pure, undistilled alcohol) they saw a picturesque group of Pimas returning from looting Tomochic dwellings and then setting them on fire. They were carrying effigies and sculptures of saints, pantaloons, petticoats, accordions, saddles, hides, and kitchenware—with a few donkeys and horses in tow as well. With all the shouting and excitement the animals were getting edgy and breaking into a trot. “The Tomochic prisoners,” exclaimed one joker. “The only ones who’ve let themselves be taken alive.”

  For just four reales, Castorena purchased a magnificent accordion. With their jug of sotol and their musical instrument, the three comrades went in the direction of their chicken simmering in a gigantic black pot, thanks to a certain corporal.

  It was ten o’clock in the morning. Throughout the camp the mood was tumultuous, noisy, and gay beneath a clear sky and an already hot sun. The commotion here was more intense and animated than in the Guerrero camps. Cash, jewelry, dice, assorted Tomochic baubles, alcohol, nearly fresh meat, and women all circulated freely.

  The soldaderas were not as numerous as they once were and they enjoyed an elevated status. Being fewer, richer, and in heavy demand for their fried goods and physical intimacies, they reigned as sovereigns over many a chaotic coterie. Ridiculously coquettish, many traipsed about in clean clothes, rare petticoats made of the finest cloth, and woolen shawls draped over their shoulders. These were real woolen shawls—not musty old rebozos—with patterns of red and black squares. Presumably they escaped the fires down below.

  The air vibrated, as though the camp had been transformed into a tumultuous county fair, dense with men of different ranks, sporting distinct uniforms. There were infantry soldiers, cavalry soldiers, even members of the artillery, or the cannon guard, public security forces, Tarahumara Indians and Pimas. Also present were the Chihuahua irregulars and gaudily decked out locals, and the common soldiers who had arrived that same morning from Guerrero trailing an acrid odor of burning—but not fear— and the glory of having been in Tomochic behind them.

  Those who hadn’t eaten yet took to drinking and playing dice in small groups. The rest of the men played cards under the benign shade of a boulder or shrub.

  Here and there columns of blue smoke—this was not the thick black smoke emanating from the fires below—rose as fires were stoked for the midday meal. A cerulean cloud hovered over the camp, with the circle of bayonets, tied together in stockpiles and lying on their ends, sparkling resplendently in the sunlight like a great bouquet of exotic steel lilies.

  Add to this potent mix the strident yelling and high-pitched voices of the women, the peals of laughter, wild bragging, commanding voices, whistling, joking, songs, strumming guitars, and accordion laments. Replenished with food and drink, the troops felt refreshed, calm, and rested while down below Tomochic burned slowly to the ground.
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  Bands of voracious soldiers surrounded the soldaderas’ stalls. The women fried pork in large casseroles; it crackled in a boiling sea of grease and saturated the air with an appetizing aroma. Waiting for their food, the men spat impatiently and soothed themselves with long quaffs of sotol.

  It was a magnificent spectacle. At that moment each and every man felt like a hero. All were happily eating, drinking, singing or conversing. Gallivanting merrily, they were prepared for anything.

  In the abandonment of the moment, no one remembered those left behind in the hills. By now they were surely corpses. Black and terrible to behold, they would languish for all eternity isolated in the mountains—if they were not devoured by wild animals. No, at that moment of furious, intense jubilation, of unbridled frenzy, nobody remembered the victims of Duty.

  After the bountiful meal the three officers consumed in the shade of the bushes, even Miguel felt a measure of contentment. They sat crossed-legged on their greatcoats and leaned back languidly as if enjoying a day in the country. The bottle of sotol passed from hand to hand, and they chatted about happy things, taking the sadness in their stride, joking it away. As the women offered casseroles of refried beans, the men enjoyed the female banter. Out of the blue, Torres asked a woman named Mazzantini, “Look here. Wasn’t Corporal Trujano your man?”

  “Yes … yes indeed, lieutenant, sir. May God pardon him and take him home.” Mazzantini gingerly crossed herself.

  “What about now?”

  “I’ve gone over to the Eleventh, out of respect for my man. He died in battle. So as not to go with somebody else in the Ninth. It’s a good idea don’t you think, chief? Now I’m with Sergeant Guadalupe Riva of the Eleventh. My girlfriend Pánfila did the same thing. She used to be with Gregorio Moncada. Do you remember him, Lieutenant Mercado, sir?”