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

by Heriberto Frías

  “Of course I do … Gregorio Moncada, the bugler of my company who died at Cueva screaming out vivas to General Díaz. He was a seasoned and brave soldier.”

  “My girlfriend Pánfila is arranging for three masses to be said for him in town. What can we do? It’s all for the love of God … going off with the boys from the Eleventh, we won’t be offending the Ninth, right?”

  Miguel’s face registered his dark thoughts. How could the soldiers’ consorts calmly take up with others the day after their men died? They were so calm, so devoted as they commended the souls of the dead to God. Then, unashamed and unrepentant, they abruptly found new masters to serve.

  “What a bunch of sluts,” Castorena exclaimed crudely.

  “Whoa, hold on a minute, lieutenant, sir … just tell me. What are we supposed to do all alone? We belong to the troops; we go wherever they go. When it’s our turn to go we’ll die on the road somewhere, laid out like dogs, not like good Christians. God help us.”

  Touched to the quick, Miguel felt a profound pity for these miserable women who belonged to the troops, the sad flesh of the barracks.

  CHAPTER 31

  The Dogs of Tomochic

  It was one of those cold dusks that fall suddenly in the mountains. Soon the immense valley was shrouded in a melancholy shadow that seemed to glitter in the bitter cold. The crests of the mountaintops were visible against the sky’s tenuous, golden hues—as though to create a majestic amphitheater—until only a deep, dark blue remained, spattered with tremulous drops of light above a sea of black ink.

  Sometimes gritty, biting gusts of wind blew in from the forest depths, howling mercilessly, desolately. And as they passed over the sunken depths of the valley, the gusts carried vague, lonely sounds, the breath of the wilds. The ancient trees creaking in the night cold sounded like a painful sigh expelled by the savage mountains.

  As the shadows deepened, the icy sigh of the winds intensified. Finally, when there was nothing but darkness and more darkness all around, a symphony of brash nocturnal sounds reverberated throughout the valley. At the farthest reaches of the abyss, Cerro de Medrano hill rose like an enormous sleeping dromedary, the river lapping at its right side. Straight ahead was the valley of Tomochic; farther away, Cerro de Cueva hill rose steeply into the sky, aggressive and sullen, gazing jealously down like a tiger poised on its hindquarters.

  On the summit, a parapet dominating the deep valley protected the main lookout where the great steel snout of the Hotchkiss advanced ominously into the emptiness. It peeked out between the rocks and bush, stalking its prey in the dim light, aiming toward death.

  At night in the camp those on guard duty obeyed the order to maintain strict silence, and the happy sounds emanating from the troops’ revelries ceased. Along the attenuated Z that zigzagged across the mountain peaks, where only moments before the joyous din of the soldiers’ good humor prevailed, now the winds carried only a vague rumor of hushed voices, a far-away laugh here, a cough there. Occasionally there would be a single strident voice, a command given in ironic irritation, or maybe the sharp sound of rifles hitting stone or a sad Mexican song intoned with savage inflections. Whistles crossed from one end of the valley to the other. Then there was utter silence. It all disappeared, all that variegated, quivering richness of sound. It just disappeared. The order of silence was definitive.

  Sometimes winds from the distant forests were saturated with fragrance as they passed through the treetops with their melancholy sighs, the mountains’ exhalations. From the dark eternal pines a chorus rang in epic grandeur, a hymn to the American cyclops. From the depths of Tomochic other sounds were detected … different, tragic.

  From the highest point of Cerro de Medrano hill, Tomochic valley, like a wide deep gash through the night, was terrible to contemplate. Standing behind the natural parapet that protected their positions, Miguel stared for a moment at that black sea. Red dots or scarlet stains wavering like ghostly phantasms emerged from the blackness, and engorged drops of luminous blood appeared to spread out on a vast expanse of dark velvet, like islands of fire.

  Islands, dots, drops, stains of light and blood. They disappeared, then appeared again in the inky black, grew pale, only to be eclipsed again. Strange, tragic disappearances.

  Mournful complaints: far-off whinnying and howling, which seemed to make the shadows shiver, burst forth from that dark cavity, constellated by tragic sparks of fire and blood. In the darkness, Tomochic slowly burned. Spread out from one end to the other, the remaining deserted dwellings—a few huddled in the center close to the church— had been set on fire and sputtered away in the shadows. The desolate town burned. These were its last few moments, its dying breath.

  In the depths of his poetic, lyrical soul, Miguel meditated. The home to that fanatical tribe blazed in spectacular flames. How arrogant they had been in their boundless, savage ignorance. The rabid sons of the mountains faced extinction. The barbaric pride and capricious obstinacy of the colossal eagles high in their impregnable nests! They had challenged death with epic disdain. Their tragic smiles became heroic and sublime in the last few moments before annihilation. O Tomochic! O barbaric, superhuman Tomochic. O annihilated town once inhabited by mountain hawks, solitary young eagles protected by a fortress fashioned of the highest peaks of the mountains … the incomparable vigor of your delirious, childlike dream. In your immense empire of forest and mountain you treasured above all your absurd, savage liberty and faith in the arrogant high chief, Cruz of Tomochic. This is your blood that flows, and the generous blood of your brothers, the blood that will flow until the last one of you dies. This marks you as something infinitely rare, exquisite, sad!

  “The day went well, wouldn’t you say?” Mercado asked of a sergeant who had just returned to his post after reviewing the sentinels.

  “This time, yes, it was good, sir!” replied the old Oaxacan soldier, a man whose pedigree made him a candidate for long, hard sacrifice, tempered in unceasing toil. He had a round, bronzed face, an obstinate forehead, prominent cheekbones, and a sparse white beard. His neck was tense, while his body was short, stocky, and agile. Hale, hearty, and full of goodwill, he faced the second lieutenant. Poor sergeant! Who could say if he would ever see his beloved southern lands again?

  Below them the luminous islands of blood spread out on a dark sea. The beasts of the valley raised their pitiable chorus, howling desperately. Then the sergeant, who had spent the day incinerating the latest victims of the combat, began to recount the day’s events to Second Lieutenant Mercado. The poor devil burst forth with a torrent of words that Second Lieutenant Mercado would never forget.

  “Sir, sir! The dogs … the dogs of Tomochic! I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life. How terrible, how brave they were, what good, sweet dogs. They were wonderful, beautiful. I’ll confess to you. I cried … They’re still barking … Don’t you hear them? They’re barking but they’re crying … they’re crying near their fallen masters … They watch over their bodies. They cry. They don’t leave their sides for a moment. Those dogs are better than any Christian. They watch over their loved ones. Hear that, lieutenant, sir? They’re not barking out of anger, make no mistake, they’re crying, wailing. I’m not lying to you. When we were piling up the dead bodies, the animals rushed at us, baring their teeth, their fangs … We had to kill many, hitting them with our rifle butts … and some of the really big ones, we had to go at them with our bayonets … and, I’m not lying to you, when they were still alive … I swear by the Holy Virgin, they lay down by their fallen masters again and again, or they followed them up to the piles of bodies we were burning. They would lick the blood from their beloved dead with their parched tongues … Oh, those poor animals. So you see, sir, why we love our dogs … The troops, the common soldiers, are not comfortable without their dogs … We had to kill them … they were bothering us, biting us. We killed them, then we threw them onto the pile. They got mixed in with the Tomochic fighters, and with our own dead. They all went
in together. We had to throw in plenty of kindling and dry grass, just so they would burn up good. From over the plain, other howling, sad dogs came running. It made my hair stand on end like when you’re really, really cold. And my stomach hurt. Poor devils. It’s just that they were looking for their masters … They went uphill and down, returned to the river, threw themselves into the water, came out shaking themselves off, and took off running, running between huts and stubble and ruins, jumping over the corpses of our dead or over the Tomochic dead, oblivious, running and running, barking and barking because they couldn’t find their own … and they continued like this, driving themselves crazy, running around and around … And do you know what else happened near the houses by the river? Can you see over there, that red smoke? Where they burned the barns, or who knows what. Well over there I was on work detail with my section. Pheew! The pigs had made it as far as that … what pigs, I swear to God! I piled up … It was almost a pleasure to see them there, so fat … but those pigs were hungry … the nasty swine wanted to eat the dead bodies of Tomochic. I think … I think … they smelled all that blood, and they went wild. Full of mud, the pigs rushed the pile of corpses … and then I saw them fight!”

  The sergeant was silent a moment, overwhelmed by his dreadful memories, then he continued: “When the dogs saw the pigs running toward them, they flung themselves at the pigs … and that turned out to be another battle waged on the piles of dead. The swine grunted with hunger, the ever faithful dogs barked furiously … and all of them wrapped together in utter turmoil, the pigs and the dogs, frightful pig grunts and the howling of the dogs, half dead with hunger, still guarding their masters … That made my skin crawl; I turned all cold, but what I really wanted to do was cry … the poor things … Listen to them, listen to them, sir. Right now the pigs must be fighting over the bodies, and the dogs are still defending their masters … Do you hear?”

  The sergeant’s hoarse voice went silent as though disappearing in a whimper of pity and terror. Miguel shuddered, and when he tuned his ears to the dark depths of the valley, he detected terrifying howls in the darkness. The mountains returned the desolate, muffled echoes.

  The northeast winds sometimes made the tragic sounds of that animal scuffle more vivid: the sounds of dogs and pigs fighting over a human body in the eerie gray solitude of Tomochic.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Burning of the Church

  The next day, a boisterous racket again filled the camp on the hill. Then suddenly word spread that the 11th Battalion was preparing to launch an attack on the church. The news stopped every off-duty soldier and officer in his tracks.

  General Rangel already commanded Cerro de Cueva hill, and thus access to the Tomochic church had been secured. In addition, Sonoran troops at the bottom of the hill were already directing a steady stream of fire at the church tower.

  Armed with knowledge of the enemy’s untenable situation, the general ordered a company from the 11th Battalion to assault the church that morning. First, they were to occupy the dwellings immediately in front of the church. Then they were to organize work details and secure plenty of combustibles, cans of fuel, kindling of dry branches and straw. Finally they were to proceed rapidly to the courtyard gates, covered by federal fire from both hills and from the dwellings, and scatter their materiel at the church door. The church was constructed principally of wood, and the fire would ignite immediately, obliging the Tomochic fighters inside to flee. As they tried to escape the engulfing flames, federal troops would open fire as soon as the enemy was visible.

  Captain Francisco Manzano led the forty-man unit that aimed to take positions in several dwellings until the cannon opened the way for them with its mighty blast. Describing a full circle, crossing cornfields and treacherous ground, the troops of the Eleventh were forced to cross the river one by one. If the Ninth’s bravery and precision in taking Cerro de Cueva hill had inspired troops and officers of other divisions, the Eleventh was no less heroic.

  Walking single file, rifles held high, carrying bundles of kindling or cans of gasoline on their backs, their pants hitched up to midthigh, the soldiers of the Eleventh waded into the river. And as soon as they entered the Tomochic line of fire from the tower, however, they fell one by one, wounded or dead.

  But they didn’t retreat. Their officers, the rims of their kepis jammed down onto their heads, their pistols cocked to fire at anyone who tried to retreat, yelled loudly, “Long live the 11th Battalion, long live General Díaz! Don’t fall behind!”

  The critical situation lasted only a few moments. Meanwhile, the survivors reached the other side of the river. Once hidden in the outcroppings and hollows of that treacherous terrain, the advance could continue safely. Still in single file, they proceeded rapidly through the brush toward dwellings near the church. Though they had been abandoned earlier, these dwellings were oddly untouched by looting or fire.

  With the dwellings now occupied, the national troops on Cerro de Cueva hill were preparing to assault the tower. At eleven o’clock in the morning the general’s bugler played “fire.” The cannon thundered. Simultaneously, thick gusts of gunpowder smothered the dwelling entrances and the summit of Cerro de Cueva hill in smoke. The bundles of flaming materiel, rolls of smoking hay, and sacks of straw began to rain down in dense, incandescent clouds. Occasionally cans of fuel, serving as hand grenades, were thrown from Cerro de Cueva hill into the church atrium.

  Meanwhile, all the general’s buglers, as well as those in the dwellings near the church, sounded the attack. Assault columns were priming to move in on the crumbling church that had become the last stronghold of a bunch of dying outlaws.

  Twisting columns of smoke rose from a dwelling with thick mud walls adjacent to the church. Apparently several cans of fuel that had fallen and burst on its patio exploded. Now even the winds turned against what remained of Tomochic: burning wicks of dry grasses, cyclones of splinters, ruby red rags of flaming smoke went flying in the direction of the burning tower.

  “Long live the Blessed Virgin of Tomochic. Long live Santa Teresa of Cabora … long live Santa María of Tomochic,” yelled the besieged from behind their chinks in the walls. Then, in an avalanche of armed men, the entire 11th Battalion flung itself forward toward the courtyard, leaving a trail of blood.

  It was over before it began. The soldiers, drunk on enthusiasm and sotol, flung their load of fuel and explosives at the churchyard gates. The powder ignited instantly, and flames shot up as the attackers retreated behind the graves in the courtyard, hiding their long twisted torches dipped in black tar.

  “Long live Father Cruz … long live Our Lord. Death to the sons of hell!” the voices from above howled.

  “Long live the government. Long live a united nation,” screamed the officers furiously, crazed with fervor, as they sought to break down the church door and enter its inner sanctum, their pistols cocked.

  Despite the gravity of their situation, the Tomochic fighters were conserving ammunition. They took precise aim to avoid wasting a single bullet. Sometimes their fire ceased altogether.

  The flames surrounding the church door rose higher. Soon the entire church was hidden in a thick, black cloud of smoke, which revealed the yellow lightning shooting from the Tomochic rifles. At the very top of the tower thunderous voices competed with the piercing sound of gunfire.

  “Long live the power of God. Long live the Holy Mary. Long live Santa Cabora!”

  “Long live the federal government. Long live the 11th Battalion,” came the reply from below. To avoid the hail of bullets, the soldiers regrouped close to the church wall.

  Suddenly the burning church door flew open, and a few soot-blackened, almost naked men emerged, rifles in hand, bounding with extraordinary agility through the raging fire. The soldiers retreated in fright. Without taking aim, the men fired their weapons at the stunned soldiers and then took furiously to their heels and were swallowed up by the cornfields.

  With other specters emerging, a terrifying s
ound was heard as the ancient door hinges gave way. Falling at an angle across the entrance, like a burning wall, the door panel cut off all possibility of escape. Neither entry nor exit was possible. Waiting for the inevitable, the aggressors remained rooted to the spot. Now it was only a question of time. Then the forces waiting in the Medrano camp descended into the valley and entered the town, occupying the dwellings next to the Cruz Chávez house, which had a lovely tricolor flag waving from the roof.

  The 7th Company, general headquarters, and the cannon were relocated inside the Medrano house on the main road next to the foot of the mountain. There had once been a shop in that ancient house, the largest in the area. The day before, fire had left a number of rooms and a section of the inner doorway intact. Now the soldiers cut openings in the back wall, which gave onto the center of town, so they could keep watch over the “little barracks” (Cruz’s house) and the church that was now burning out of control.

  Miguel observed the spectacle from an opening in the wall. The flames had to have reached the church’s interior because smoke was escaping through the windows and tower arches. The worst news of all was that most Tomochic women had taken refuge in the church.

  Then Miguel witnessed a tragic event. At the top of the tower, an old woman appeared behind the handrail, gave herself a mighty push, and flung herself toward the abyss. The spectacle was too much to endure. Feeling both pity and horror, the general ordered his bugler to sound the cease-fire. But it was too late. Great red plumes of smoke rose above the church, and soon the whole structure collapsed. There was a tremendous shuddering and then a dull, prolonged roar, as the roof caved in. Successive creakings could be heard, and the major part of the tower came tumbling down in a shower of sparks and soaring flames.

  Everything was over. Only Cruz’s house, with its three rows of openings cut into the wall and its arrogant tricolor pavilion waving on high, defied the triumphant forces. In the opinion of the general, taking the house was risky and required strict defensive measures.