The sun had not yet appeared over the hazy horizon, but the highest mountain peaks were crowned with fire, while a fresh breeze swept away the tufts of fog floating above the river toward the valley. The dirty, unkempt soldiers descended in silence, their weapons hanging by the rifle straps on their shoulders. Without their greatcoats, the men shivered in the cold morning air.
Miguel bounded down the rocky slope, happy to stretch his legs after four days of immobility. Although he had no idea where they were heading, he was confident that it had to be a better place than where they had been.
When they reached the plains and started to cross them, the captain ordered them to stop. “Company, fall in!” When the three sections were lined up one behind the other, and with the regulation distance between them, he commanded sternly, “Combat formation! March!”
The first section advanced straight ahead, fanning out into a crescent of marksmen while the others remained at the rear, following the movement of the first. Then the captain commanded, “Hit the dirt!” And everyone fell to the ground.
Straight ahead, from the distant top of Cerro de Cueva hill, a shot sounded and a bullet whistled above their heads. Only then did they understood what was happening.
The captain was standing with his head held high, and his left hand on the barrel of his rifle. He pointed his right index finger at the looming shadow of Cerro de Cueva hill and said, “We’re going to take that hill, then each and every last one of them will see how the Ninth fights. We’ll get up there any way we can. Don’t let me catch anybody turning around, because I’ll kill anyone who turns back. Listen very carefully, my good sirs. I’m authorizing you to kill anyone who does an about-turn. Even if it’s me! Attention, weapons!”
The sharp sound of steel on steel was heard as bayonets were clipped onto rifle barrels, and then stillness. As more bullets whistled by, the captain adjusted the rim of his kepi and yelled, “First section. Hold firm. Straight ahead, on the double. Forward!”
Aligned in formation, the marksmen lunged forward at top speed, their weapons poised, their eyes glued to the summit of the hill. Within moments it was crowned with smoke from a tremendous volley of fire. The other sections followed the first “at a trot.” You had to see it to believe it. They were evenly lined up as they charged, coming under fire from a terrific hail of lead from the front and from the right. At the moment, within sight of the Tomochic tower, they were conserving their ammunition. Breathing hard but not slackening their pace, the aggressors advanced into the middle of the plain across a plowed field, which tired them, but not a single soldier lagged behind. They were in perfect harmony, a single soul full of courage, inspired by the captain’s words and his miraculous will. Then a soldier on the left flank fell backward, his chest pierced. Another was shot in the leg but managed to keep going, hopping on one leg and howling in pain.
Miguel looked straight ahead and saw nothing in the extraordinary white cloud that blinded him. What’s more, a terrible thunder deafened him though he could discern quite clearly the penetrating sound of the bullets, which whistled perilously close to him. But they no longer produced that icy terror, that pain deep in his gut. Now what he heard and felt egged him on, intoxicated him with rage, hatred, and a ferocious pride as he listened to the strident cries of his captain.
“Onward, boys! Long live the 9th Battalion!”
The furious turmoil continued—the running, the leaping, the jumping in and out of unexpected ditches, impeded by dried clods of earth and sharp yellow stalks. Before them loomed Cerro de Cueva hill, its dark summit studded with white clouds. His legs grew weak, and an oppressive weight on his chest took his breath away. He was going to faint, to die. Just one moment’s rest, but no. Then he heard the voice of the captain yelling, “Onward, onward! Whoever falls behind dies.” He went relentlessly on, as though carried forward by some supernatural power. Then he heard a cry of agony at his side and a soldier lying on the ground blocked his passage. He jumped clear over the soldier’s sprawling form without seeing it and continued his dizzying run.
Soon enough the tower disappeared behind the first few summits of Cerro de Cueva hill, and at last they were beyond the tower’s line of fire. Then Miguel heard the loud command: “Drop to the ground!”
The time had come. Finally, to be able to rest. He would sink into a dark death and feel himself ripped open. Miguel flung himself down. There was one moment in which he heard nothing, saw, felt, thought nothing. Then he flung his rifle aside and breathed in with all the force left in his lungs. After a few moments, the captain commanded, “On your feet! Load weapons!”
Then he added, “Onward! Long live the 9th Battalion! Upward and onward!” The soldiers took cartridges from their combat pouches and loaded their rifles, ready to fire, anxious to charge up the hill, to fling themselves into the fray.
Now the combat entered a new phase. From behind the shrubs and boulders that dotted the mountainside came a heavy fire that decimated the first group of soldiers to arrive, momentarily paralyzing the line of marksmen.
It was evident now that the troops would have to proceed with the utmost caution. The enemy had come down from the heights to fight them in the foothills. In fact, they maintained a vast advantage, and from that moment on the battalion’s advance was necessarily much slower going. The front guard had to take cover, moving stealthily from tree to tree and boulder to boulder. Now the officers and the brave captain had to transfer their energy to the troops, whose first surge of energy was dying away. The men began to waver, fearing that the invisible enemy would annihilate them in one fell swoop.
“Keep going, forward march! Onward, upward! Let’s get them,” yelled the hoarse officers while Captain Molina marshaled his inner forces to instill the troops with resolve and carry forward the attack.
“Long live the 9th Battalion! The 11th is watching us! Onward, boys!” Captain Molina ordered the bugle to sound the attack. Its clear, resonant notes vibrated amid the heavier din of the detonations. Drunk with enthusiasm now that he had managed to lift the men’s spirits, the captain yelled over and over again: “One more push and we’ll be on them with our bayonets! Upward, boys!”
Holding his rifle splendidly aloft, Molina flung himself into the fray, setting an example to those who followed in his footsteps. Now there was no fatigue, no vacillation. The flush of bravery that had accompanied them in the beginning returned.
Finally they began to glimpse the fearful Tomochic fighters, firing from behind the trees as they fled in the direction of the summit. At last they were witnessing the retreat of the invincible sons of Tomochic.
Then, once again, they heard the strange and ferocious war cries: “May the great power of God endure! Long live Holy Mary! Death to Lucifer,” they screeched from behind the trees. Their shirts and cartridge belts were barely distinguishable in the smoke of the gunpowder, which wrapped the high caps of the pine trees and the craggy mountain peaks in white clouds.
“Onward, men! Upward!” The officers called out, their cheeks aflame and eyes blazing. Some soldiers fell, spattering the rocks with their blood, leaving behind a kepi here and a rifle there. Their comrades did not aid them; in fact, they didn’t notice them at all. What’s more, they had lost their formation; the sections bringing up the rear had blended in with the first sections. So they marched upward in a single undulating line, following the mounds and hollows of the terrain.
Marching on the left flank, Miguel managed to recover his breath and was firing his rifle at a man whose red serape made a good target in the distance. But his attention was drawn to a thin, childlike voice screaming out through the dense fog: “Long live Holy Mary! Death to the sons of Lucifer.”
The enemy fire diminished as the Ninth continued clambering up the slope.
The defenders of the hill were riddled with bullets as soon as they came into view on that rugged, perilous terrain. Then the enemy fire ceased altogether. On the left flank, however, Miguel heard several shots that came even
closer but once again that tender child’s voice calling, “The great power of God is within us. Long live the Holy Mother!”
Then, pointing toward a craggy peak, a soldier called out, “There he is. Everyone aim and shoot.” The soldier aimed, but before he could fire, the rifle fell from his hand. A bullet tore through both his hands and ripped open his jacket as well. He howled with pain. A few comrades nearby fired. Then another man fell down dead. From behind the rocks came the screeching victorious voice of the indomitable adversary, whose rifle was peeking out from between the crevices of the far-off rocks. “All power to God! Death to the soldiers!”
“Fire on them! Run them through. Let’s get up there!” yelled Castorena.
Breathlessly, Miguel arrived on the scene, his rifle cocked. Four or five soldiers had stopped to examine a cadaver that lay with its mouth open, its head and chest covered in blood, eyes open and fists clenched. It was the corpse of a young teenage boy, a red cross and a serape lying by his side.
His smooth dark face betrayed a calm, almost ecstatic look. Red spittle flowed between two rows of brilliant white teeth, and he almost seemed to be laughing. In his right hand he clutched a rosary, and in the left his black rifle.
Combat had ended. They had reached the summit of the hill.
CHAPTER 28
The Death of a Hero
From the tower, errant bullets shot directly to the right of federal troops. Most of the soldiers had flung themselves to the ground, tired as dogs, while others examined corpses and retrieved their weapons. Then, from the direction of the Medrano camp, a distant bugle faintly intoned the general’s order: “Cease fire.”
The soldier Captain Molina commanded to play the bugle was the one who had been wounded and abandoned at the foot of the mountain along with his instrument. The bellicose notes of the reveille resounded amid the dry cracks of the last gunshots. The weary soldiers, their breathing labored in the thick, sulfurous air, shouted out long and hard, full of enthusiasm. “This reveille means something!” an officer called out.
The red flag, which could be seen waving at the top of a gigantic pine in the Medrano camp, was an affront and had to come down. Crouching low, several soldiers rapidly advanced. Then came the sound of a sharp report close to the ground, and a rifle barrel peeked through the smoke. “There’s another one! Get him! Kill him!” a corporal yelled.
A sergeant opened violent fire on the head, which emerged behind the weapon. Then came a cry of pain. A few men rushed over, their bayonets ready. But when more screams, even more horrible than the last, emerged from the foxhole, Captain Molina came forward: “Watch out … He’s wounded … Leave him alone!
Then the huge, hairy head emerged again. The rifle followed, another bang, then the captain raised his arms and fell onto his back … dead.
Those who understood what had happened stopped in their tracks, stunned senseless. Then in a collective impulse, they threw themselves at the foxhole and, as though they were digging a hole with their bayonets, they cut the enemy corpse to pieces.
Miguel witnessed all of it. He was about to deliver a communiqué to the captain: A soldier from the 11th Battalion was on his way with an order from General Rangel. Astounded, Miguel saw the captain throw his arms up and collapse onto his back without uttering a single cry. Overcome by the strength of his emotions and rigid with horror, he stood staring at the scene of the troops’ revenge as they hacked the body of the captain’s killer to pieces.
The dreadful news spread in all directions. “Captain Molina is dead! They’ve killed the captain,” said the stunned soldiers in grief-stricken surprise.
Finally the young officer approached the corpse, leaned over, and kneeled on the ground. Miguel, who was not a believer and had not prayed in a long time, prayed now. He prayed under his breath, but with the faith of a woman and the tears of a child.
The diminutive body of the captain was wrapped in his blue great-coat with his cartridge belt cinched around his waist. His brown face was contracted into a horrible grimace, and his small black eyes seemed to gaze one last time at the sky. His arms were stretched out on either side, and from his neck flowed a gutter of blood that formed a great red puddle on the slick rock. Yet his left hand kept a firm grip on his rifle.
The air was still thick with gunpowder and in the distance a few shots could be heard as the general’s orders were issued on the bugle, though they were indistinct and seemed to come from far away. Arriving on the scene, Castorena grabbed a sergeant’s serape and covered the corpse’s face.
Captain Tagle, the only survivor among the four 9th Battalion captains, ordered the remaining forces to gather; his bugler played “fall in” and the officers and sergeants of the Ninth began to convene their men. Of the Tomochic fighters, only corpses were left. The disorder was extreme. Soldiers were scattered through the hills, laid out in attitudes of mortal fatigue among the pine trees. A few of the abandoned wounded cried openly.
“Fall in!” the sergeants yelled at the soldiers, prodding them with the butts of their rifles. The unhappy victors lifted themselves up painfully. Some rose with excruciating slowness; others limped along supporting themselves on their rifles.
Mercado and Castorena stood as honor guards by the dead captain’s side. The officers finally left him in the care of a wounded corporal and started up the hill to the designated meeting place. All of a sudden Castorena shook Miguel violently by the arm: “Look at that, will you!” A few steps away from them was a stinking black pile of arms, legs, rags, and hair sunk in blood, shit, and bits of human guts.
Miguel’s hair stood on end. He shivered with cold and felt sick to his stomach. He was about to turn away but his friend clenched his fist and shook him again, saying: “Don’t look away, man! That’s the man … the captain was going to spare him and he shot him down. Bastard! Look at him!
When Miguel took another look at the corpse, his mouth fell open. All of a sudden his mind cleared and his rifle dropped from his hands and rebounded against the rocks. Among the bloody body parts, those tatters of flesh and bone, he recognized the wild beard and repulsive nose of Don Bernardo, the old rogue.
“Lieutenant, sir, the captain wants to speak to you,” a soldier addressed the officer. Miguel was alone now, since Castorena, thinking his comrade had taken leave of his senses, had abandoned him there in his stupor before the pile of muck.
The sleepwalker returned to reality. With his brain functioning again, he managed to pick up his weapon. As he proceeded to the meeting place, he repeated to himself over and over again, “Bernardo! The ogre in the house by the river, that bandit, Julia’s rapist, dead, cut into pieces!”
It was he who had murdered Captain Molina!
The officers and a first sergeant called roll to the troops divided into two rows on the summit. Off to one side, another sergeant counted the guns, rifles, cartridge holders, and ammunition belts collected from the enemy camp while others carried the wounded.
Farther away lay the red flag, spreading out like a bloody stain on the rocks, the one that had waved in the air at the top of a pine tree. In his trench, Bernardo had defended his flag and in so doing had killed Captain Molina.
All of a sudden a faraway commotion could be heard and fierce cries of “Long live General Rangel! Long live the federal government. Death to the Tomochic fighters! Death to the bandits.” The epithets were hurled by a noisy bunch of irregulars, rowdy farmers who had been recruited from Guerrero. They managed to expose the front line soldiers of the Ninth in their blind advance on the Cerro de Lino hill on October 20. These were the famous nationals who advanced easily on the hill, when the Ninth had already fought hard to sweep the area of enemy forces.
The brave soldiers on the front lines witnessed how the wild horde of “nationals,” enriched by the loot they had sacked from the dwellings on the outskirts of Tomochic, climbed the hill triumphantly. Perhaps they believed themselves to hold the keys to the town as sole victors of the position atop those lofty heigh
ts!
“Long live the government of Chihuahua! Death to the Tomochic fighters!” Reaching the summit first, a soldier passionately grabbed the red flag, which had been the standard of the defeated Ninth on the slopes of Cordon de Lino hill, and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Death to the Tomochic fighters!” He repeated himself in tremolo.
“Okay, brother, that’s enough yelling from you. The poor devils are already dead, and we’re the ones who killed them!” shouted Castorena, furious that the riffraff should take the glory of the day for themselves.
Later, one of the general’s adjutants communicated several orders to the single surviving captain. Mercado was instructed to occupy an edge of the summit, on a precipice as sheer as a razor’s edge.
The officer led ten men to the top of the steep crest and ordered them to take their places as marksmen at every crevice. It seemed to Miguel that the high peak where he was stationed lay atop the highest tower in a medieval fortress.
From the heights of that pinnacle the entire valley could be taken in, as it overlooked the nucleus of scattered dwellings of that miserable, deserted town. Through this terrain the curving river flowed, sometimes black and sometimes glimmering in the sunlight. The surrounding fields crept in abrupt, uneven steps, zigzagging up the distant hillsides. There lay the immense amphitheater, the extinct volcanic crater, where one distant night the wild eagles of the mountain decided to nest and brood their mad pride and fanaticism.
Beyond, on the other side of the scattered town, lay Cerro de Cueva hill, mirroring the mighty Cerro de Medrano hill that sat on its hind legs like a gigantic dromedary, on whose great humps bivouacked the sentinels.
The Battle of Tomochic Page 18
