“I can take and hold San Vicente and the south,” Miro went on. “But I do not think that a people who have refused to be governed legally by President Vidal will accept the rule of General Kucera by force. I have no excuse and no orders. The Chamber is adjourned. The Cabinet is either over the frontier or still waiting for a chance to remove personal assets. My father-in-law has shown incredible cunning by ignoring national politics altogether, and having himself legally elected mayor by the municipal council. The police and the Presidential Guard apparently are obeying him with delight. The Ateneo and the banks are open. Morote and his committee refuse to unload any arms, but are keeping the peace. I can march in or I can order the Citadel to blow the town to pieces. But what is gained? I have no right to send men to death for my own opinions.”
“The volunteers in Lérida are willing to be sent to death by you, Captain General.”
“Thank you, Don Andrés. I believe it, and I shall always be proud when I remember it. But for the sake of adventure? For the sake of an ideal which I don’t wholly share? Now, you want me to go on fighting and are prepared to supply me. The only alternative to San Vicente is Lérida. I can turn my Division into a force of bandits based on Siete Dolores — a running sore in Guayanas, which might or might not make all government but Vidal’s impossible. But I am a patriot. This is the country which received and trusted me. I will not do it.”
“One or the other you must.”
“I have no duty to support the foreign policy of the United States. You may have noticed a curious omission in that famous poster. There was no mention in it of Avellana. It is quite clear to me that the U.S.S.R. had no interest whatever in his victory or defeat until we presented them with a chance to score a diplomatic success. I blame myself. Yet a commander in the field is bound to state what he needs. It is the business of the politicians to see the wisdom or unwisdom of giving it to him.
“Now you want your revenge. I hope with all my heart you get it. But not here, Don Andrés, not here! If you vast, unchallengeable powers wish to annoy each other, go and do it on the other side of the Pacific!
“Here I have only one duty left. That is to my command. As you have been good enough to say, it includes the air crews at Lérida and I shall therefore give you and them my orders now. All aircraft are to be immobilized without doing permanent damage. It occurs to me that landing wheels could be removed and carried away. But probably that is clumsy. There may be some essential and much smaller piece of landing gear which cannot be replaced. When not a plane is left for the Avellanistas to fly, I wish you to send transport to evacuate the air crews within forty-eight hours.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I do not think you understand. I cannot protect them. When the Division retreats, the Lérida garrison cannot be left out in the blue without support. I must therefore withdraw it. Your air crews can fly themselves out in the planes of Guayanas. That, however, will cause serious diplomatic difficulties for you, whereas if they simply vanish you can always say they were never there. Avellana no doubt will publish signed statements that they were, but a hundred signatures are not worth half a dozen prisoners as proof.”
“Where are you going to stand and fight?”
“In the Citadel. Whether I fight or not depends on what terms I can obtain for the Division.”
“I see. That is why you would not allow the Citadel troops into the town.”
“I gave no such order, and I think it was mistaken. The risk of losing the Citadel was not so great as it would appear to a civilian and it should have been accepted. I feel the decision was made on grounds that were political rather than military, or else some fool in the Ministry of Defense lost his nerve. But I am now very thankful that I have the Citadel.”
“Captain General, I still won’t believe that you can be defeated in the field.”
“I can’t be. You are quite right. But I cannot win. It’s a common enough position. Think of Hannibal in Italy, Napoleon in Moscow, yourselves and your allies in Korea, the French in Algeria. On a tiny scale that is where we are. Usually a commander sees it too late. But the poor devil has to draw a line somewhere between cowardice and foresight. When Vidal bolted after that trivial skirmish in Hermosillo, which was he showing?”
“He is not giving up the fight. And the United States is open to all Vidalistas.”
“They will adjust themselves very easily to your civilization,” said Miro courteously.
“And you, too, Captain General.”
“I doubt if I shall have the opportunity. Then, in forty-eight hours . . . ?”
“If my Agency consents.”
“I feel that it will be able to. As soldiers, Don Andrés, we cannot afford to have much respect for the votes of wives and mothers. All the same, they exist. And I am still being pestered by your newspapermen for a story.”
A sour leavetaking, but there it was. When MacKinlay had left, Miro hoped that they would be thinking of each other in much the same terms — criticizing the ally, but admitting that the man would be an admirable character to find commanding the next Division in line. He buried himself in the problems of the retreat.
As the Division withdrew to San Vicente, its left, east of the river, railway and road, was secure. There were no enemy forces in that direction and no organized body could cross the Ica undetected and undestroyed. On its right out in the llanos the enemy was in force. As soon as his own movements became clear to them, they could be expected to make a bold dash for the coast or to attack the rear guard. For the first they were not fast enough; for the second — well, it depended how soon and how cleanly his garrisons could disengage and withdraw.
Miro read over the orders again: Mario and the advance guard to leave at dawn the following day by the Hermosillo-San Vicente road, pass outside San Vicente and occupy the Citadel. Stores and ammunition to be checked and reported. Civilian labor, if there was any left, to be paid off and sent out. Prisoners of war to be held till his arrival. Particular courtesy to be shown to Don Jesús-María and his staff. An impression to be given that the Citadel was preparing for a siege of indefinite duration. Well, Mario’s thoroughness would ensure that he carried out all that precisely and accurately.
Rosalindo and the slower main body would withdraw across country, evacuate the garrison at Rubayo, and approach the Citadel from the north. If enemy patrols were encountered south of the Ica they were to be pursued and annihilated. The triangle Hermosillo-Rubayo-San Vicente must be secured. And that was just the job for a despondent Rosalindo. He wouldn’t find much to occupy him beyond routine, but neither resistance nor dispersal would save what he did find.
He himself intended to remain to the last with a small, powerful rear guard. If he was compelled to fight it seemed likely that he would be heavily outnumbered, but by troops which were no match for his own. Rosalindo, allowing his emotions to complicate a sound and prosaic military operation, accused him of self-sacrifice, of wanting to commit suicide. A crazy form of useless heroics that would be! He proposed to stand west of the river Ica until the last convoy had left Hermosillo, then to cross the bridge, blow it behind him and retire in absolute security down the main road. He would pick up the troops from the Siete Dolores garrisons below Cumana and march straight through San Vicente to the Citadel.
That last move, he admitted, was indeed heroics. He was going to give a final example of power and discipline to the Capital. And it could be delivered cheaply, since the only possible opposition was that of the Presidential Guard, which had never been known to fire an unnecessary shot and seldom a necessary one. Twenty-four hours beforehand he would formally and respectfully announce his route to the mayor and town council. It was the sort of stroke which, he knew, would leave Juan chuckling — if he had a chuckle left in him — with admiration, though it would be as well to let him know in a private message that if he didn’t keep the Presidential Guard and Morote’s thugs off the route they would be blasted off it.
Timing was the re
al trouble, for his commanders were inclined to make difficulties. The freedom to speak out, which he had always given them and which had been sparingly used when the whole Divisional front was flickering with action, seemed in retreat to be employed — probably unconsciously — to slow him down. The medical services were particularly insubordinate. The Field Hospital, peaceful and healthy in its requisitioned estancia sixty kilometers east of Hermosillo, had been ordered to leave for the Citadel with the Armored Brigade. They weren’t ready and they didn’t look like attempting to be ready.
He determined to attach Captain Irala to the Hospital with orders to bully them into speed and to report hourly how preparations for the move were going. There was nobody else, and he wasn’t going to need an A.D.C. until Cumana. Besides that — well, a small reward for Irala’s untiring service was due. It might be a very long time — one couldn’t know — before he saw his charming pathologist again.
He explained his decision to Salvador, coldly emphasizing that no wounded were to be left behind as possible hostages, and that if half a dozen of the critical cases died on the journey they must be considered just as deaths in action, as sacrificed for the rest.
“Those damned doctors want to stay where they are,” he said.
“Avellana will respect the Red Cross, my General.”
“Avellana is somewhere in Los Venados. Hermosillo district will be occupied by crazy llaneros — men who might respect the Cross in its familiar shape but are not likely to pay much attention to a plus sign. I want you to explain that and to see that the Field Hospital is on the road at least six hours ahead of the rear guard. You will remain with the convoy, exercising my authority with your usual tact. It will be in no danger whatever. But when Basilio Ferrer has blown the bridge and I am on my way to Cumana I require the road to be clear.”
“I can return from the estancia tonight and go back again early if you need me.”
“Salvador, I do not need you. And since we started this campaign I have only been able to give you thirty-six hours leave. I noticed that then you visited the wounded. I admire your taste. I hear she has done invaluable work.”
“I would not like you to think . . .” Salvador began in some embarrassment.
“I don’t. I mention your private affairs not to encourage you to obey me, which you will do anyway, but so that you will be really eloquent when you explain to the doctors that they must evacuate the wounded, themselves, their staff, especially their female staff, and get out of there.”
“My General, between your authority and my imagination they shall be frightened out of their skins. But it wasn’t that. Since you are a father to me . . .”
“Other way round mostly,” said Miro.
“Then I should not like my most distinguished son to think that his father —” Salvador could not keep up his pretense of lightheartedness. “My General, her position at Don Juan de Fonsagrada’s house was open to misunderstanding.”
“That is one’s usual position in his house, Salvador. Are you trying to tell me that this romance will last?”
“Forever, my General.”
“Well, if you with your far too extensive experience have a high opinion of her character, I am sure that Juan has too. So what would he do? Possibly arrange for her to be given away in the Cathedral by the Chilean Ambassador! And a Guard of Honor from the Medical Corps. After that, let them talk, my very dear Captain Irala!”
He noticed that Salvador’s eyes were brilliant with unshed tears of affection, and to hide his embarrassment bent over the letter on his table. He signed, blotted it and handed it to his A.D.C.
“Here you are, then! My compliments to Doña Agueda!”
Already by the evening he knew that he should never have let Salvador go. It had not occurred to him before that the commander must look after the morale of the commander more subtly than by seeing that he was well fed and physically fit. For himself he needed a shadow, unobtrusive, disrespectful, with the power of clear analysis which only lack of responsibility could give.
As Hermosillo and Advanced HQ emptied he had a melancholy feeling of isolation which had no military or emotional justification. Salvador would have spotted it and peopled Headquarters with vivid and libelous character sketches of the absent. That could not be done on the telephone where, as Miro knew well, his own style compelled curtness and precision.
But there it was. In forty-eight hours Mario Nicuesa, his Armored Brigade on the road at the very minute Miro had ordered, had entered the Citadel. Trust him for that! His attention to detail would be invaluable to the future reorganization of the Army, so long as he never held high command. Rosalindo Chaves had thrown forward a Combat Group into Rubayo, cleared the northern half of the triangle, and crossed the Ica with assault boats to chase the enemy’s scattered and ineffectual patrols far back into the llanos. The Siete Dolores troops were in the Quebradas Pass on rail and road. On Lérida Airfield, the aircraft of Guayanas were beautifully lined up ready to take off — those North American air crews certainly had a wicked sense of humor — and were guaranteed to collapse onto their bellies the moment they started to roll forwards.
It was the very success of his disengagement which increased his sense of loneliness. Instinct told him that the enemy, too, would be hypnotized by his apparent isolation; reconnaissance confirmed that they were excited. There was every sign that it was going to be difficult to get away without a last useless battle. Well, if Valdés felt it necessary to attack, heaven help him! His Intelligence was always inclined to judge the strength of Fifth Division not by its fire power and mobility but by the area it actually occupied.
It might, he thought, be the state of the Hermosillo-San Vicente road which was tempting Valdés. Vastly exaggerated by the triumphant reports of his spies in Hermosillo, the civilian traffic could sound like a chaos of refugees escaping from Germans. But there was nothing much wrong with it beyond the individual enterprise which had taken control of an orderly start — blaring of horns, frantic attempts to pass, impatient opening of new tracks parallel to the road and equally impatient attempts to get back on to it. Where the devil they thought they were all going was their own business; but the police, the civil administration, the prominent Vidalistas and their families were probably wise to be out of Hermosillo for the first few days. Valdés’s restraint of his angry, hungry horsemen would be uncertain and might be deliberately halfhearted. Communism always found it easiest to begin with a desert.
As contact with the enemy developed, Miro saw that he had guessed their intentions correctly; his rear guard was going to be pinned in its bridgehead. On the narrow causeway through the marshes would be a solid line of vehicles prevented from escaping by the jam on the San Vicente road; the cavalry, then at last on terms of equality with wheels, would fight or swim their way into the mess, with luck capture the bridge and in any case complete their work of destruction on both banks of the river. It was a beautiful, conventional picture. They would be allowed to achieve it, up to a point.
He spoke to Salvador, who reported that the hospital convoy had started across country, avoiding Hermosillo, and that all was well. It would enter the main road at the staging point some seven kilometers south of the turning to the bridge. The medical staff would like to rest and refuel there, and be on their way again to San Vicente at first light.
Miro agreed. The ambulances would have the advantage of even, comfortable speed down an empty road. His own force, having crossed and blown the bridge, would be traveling some four hours behind them. He was a little ashamed of the certainty in his voice and touched wood, for the enemy had already overrun his forward positions. It was what he intended; and by this time the combat groups understood his tactics, the men grinning at each other as one section supported the skillful retreat of the next. But it was always an anxious moment.
The enemy still played the old game. They still thought that cavalry was faster than infantry. Well, if all those little strips and patches of green left on the bake
d plain had been impassable to vehicles, he would indeed have been forced into an old-fashioned battle for the bridgehead. But there was nothing at all which a half-track could not cross at the expense of one stagger and a slide.
Never before had he been able to see for himself the whole of a battle. It was like a return to the days of Napoleon, or rather to days before there were any effective firearms — for even Napoleon and his marshals had to wait for the smoke to clear before they could see with any clarity the effect of their fire or what success their final assault had had. From the highest of the low ridges which ran parallel to the river he could follow the action as precisely — except for short-lived eddies of dust — as if the troops were toy soldiers. But it was not a healthy spot; and his staff seemed inattentive. He wished Salvador had been there to share his enthusiasm at the unique experience.
The enemy had brought up Sixth Division infantry on such wheels as were available and were boldly pushing home a frontal attack. Far out over the plain were futile hordes of horsemen protecting the flanks, some of them llaneros, some — to judge by their slower and more effective movements — squadrons of Twentieth Cavalry. As his center retired, they began to close in for the kill.
He was astonished at the inefficiency of the arm in a set attack. A third of them were far back holding horses while the rest operated as infantry. And the horse-holders were by no means out of range. The bunches seemed satisfactory targets for the troop of Bofors guns which he had kept with him as an insurance against air attack. He was not yet revealing the full strength of his regiment of howitzers.
From the enemy’s point of view, as the defenders’ bridgehead contracted, the battle was developing like a lecture in a cavalry school. It was surprising that they did not suspect anything fishy in the halfhearted resistance and the lack of any determined counterattacks. They probably reckoned that in the absence of Rosalindo Chaves something scientific, without glory, and comparatively bloodless would be attempted by General Kucera. Well, they were quite right, though how far it was bloodless depended on how quickly they surrendered.
Thing to Love Page 33
