Thing to Love (19 page)

“Always let them run for the frontier if they want to, Miro. It saves a lot of trouble in the end.”

Vidal, alone in the empty Cabinet Room, seemed nothing but beard and eyes. The last twelve hours had turned him from a Velázquez into an El Greco. He looked desperately tired, but not in the least likely to run. Paco Salinas underrated him.

“Well, my dear Miro, it is now you who will give me my orders. But let us be clear on one point. I will not resign. Whether it is you or Avellana, I shall be found in the Chamber when you come to fetch me.”

More rhetoric! Yet it would be in his character to make some such gesture provided there was a quick way out by the back door.

“In my opinion, Don Gregorio, you need not resign.”

“With the whole Army and Air Force against me? Miro, I cannot ask your Division to commit suicide.”

“Possibly you are not aware that the Air Force has only its training ammunition?”

“You mean — you mean all that confusion this morning was deliberate? You disobeyed?”

“If you put it like that — yes.”

“You knew what Ledesma intended?”

“No, not certainly. An insurance policy.”

Vidal stared at his master, or perhaps still servant? What he had intended had happened, though he had never envisaged it happening this way. The Citadel, Fifth Division and its commander — all had been created for what the military called limited objectives: to steady the police and the civil governors on course, to discourage foreign aggression and irresponsible political adventures. And here it was, a monstrous mass of steel out of its sheath, as unpredictable a symbol as — the image of a hilt compelled the comparison — as the Cross. The Chamber which he was about to address was no longer the State. Nor was he. Nor was Gil Avellana. Fifth Division was the State, and the streets of San Vicente knew it and cheered.

“Even so, Miro, without the Air Force the odds are ten to one against you.”

“Four to one if I move quickly. Our base is secure. San Vicente is with you, and Morote does not look like taking a hand.”

“Then I am not beaten?”

“That is for you to tell me, Don Gregorio. You are commander in chief. I await your orders. Am I to obey Jesús-María?”

“No! No, Miro! But what can you do?”

“I'll tell you first what I cannot do. I cannot occupy Siete Dolores. I cannot even defend San Vicente, without appalling bloodshed. But I can attack.”

“With any chance of success?”

“Of military success, a very good chance.”

“Wouldn't it be safer to let Jesús-María and Ledesma break themselves against the Citadel?” the President asked. “You have assured me again and again that it is impregnable.”

“Against foreign attack it is. But in civil war the defense is politically impossible. The siege of the Citadel must be based on San Vicente. How long will the civil population support you when my barrage comes down on the suburbs and I counterattack in the ruins?”

“We do not want that kind of war,
amigo.”

“There is only one kind of war. And it is most merciful when it is most swift.”

“You are too logical, Miro,” said Vidal with a delicately patronizing gesture of two white fingers. “You see the world as blocks of men with neat edges to them. In politics one is not limited by fuel dumps and roads and railways. My conscience is clear. A cacique — well, perhaps I am that, for it is essential to good government. One cannot have long-term plans upset by irresponsibility. There has to be some discipline in the elections. But I have the love of the people. No one can say I am a dictator.”

Miro hoped that his impatience did not show. The little man had to be allowed to chatter after spending hours trying to put some guts into his ministers.

“But I have the right to make a gesture,” Vidal went on. “It need not come to heavy fighting. You must avoid it. You must sit still and let them attack.”

“In that case the numbers of the enemy must be decisive, and I can only surrender.”

But Vidal was too busy avoiding the issue to accept so uncompromising a statement.

“Not the enemy, Miro. I beg you not to call them the enemy. The Army must be brought quietly to see that revolution is out of date, that it is a department of State like any other.”

“In Guayanas? The Army of Guayanas?” Miro exclaimed.

“And what the devil is exceptional about it?” asked Don Gregorio, frantically changing his ground. “Except for the United States and the Northern democracies I cannot think of a single country where the Army does not enter politics. No doubt there are, but we should need to send for the librarian. At least we Latin Americans do not pretend to be shocked. We have a sense of reality. What I intended was to create an example. An example for all. In revolution a first victory is enough. But you tell me I cannot have it.”

“I told you nothing of the sort. It is all I can offer you. The effective strength of the — of the Captain General is three divisions, plus the two cavalry divisions. In spite of the odds, I propose to take the offensive with Fifth Division, less the skeleton of a garrison which I must leave in the Citadel. The fighting will be of — shall I say? — modern intensity. Because of that, I believe I can win. If I do, are you sure it will end the revolution?”

“Quite sure, Miro.”

“Then may I have your authority for the immediate move of the Division to Cumana?”

“Yes. Yes, if you think it best. I give you full powers, Miro,” Vidal exclaimed with growing enthusiasm. “The Chamber shall vote them tonight. What else do you want at once?”

“Very little except the orders which I shall submit to you for signature. The Division is up to War Establishment. The expense will come afterwards.”

“We are defending democracy. We shall get all the financial help we ask from the United States.”

“Again I hope so. But that is your business, Don Gregorio. By the way, are the railwaymen Avellanistas?”

“No servant of the State is Avellanista, Miro,” the President replied superbly. “I demand efficiency and I pay well for it.”

“If I required a railway accident in the Quebradas Pass could you guarantee it?”

“Twelfth Cavalry Division is holding the Pass.”

“That is why. Sabotage by my own men would be very difficult, and I must be sure.”

“Naturally I have my agents in Siete Dolores.”

“Don Gregorio, a situation might arise when Twelfth Division is tempted to leave its position at the top of the Pass and advance on Cumana. If I then wanted the Quebradas Pass blocked, so that they could not send any considerable force back into Siete Dolores for at least a day, could you do it?”

“An accident, you said, Miro? An empty train might be allowed to run downhill. With luck it could even be derailed to block the road as well. At a price, and with an escape route open for the careless railwaymen, of course. Communication is the difficulty. If I know you, you will want this at a precise moment, not before or after.”

“You will be in continuous communication with my Headquarters, wherever it is. Your order to your agent in Quebradas — Well, it is my impression that station staff are invariably listening to San Vicente radio. Perhaps a tune, perhaps a prearranged sentence?”

“I will consult my own security police, Miro. It is extraordinary how useful they become when the normal processes of law cannot be followed.”

The President spoke almost with surprise. Miro had never before realized how deep was his dislike of any brutality in government. By the creation of Fifth Division he was caught in a paradox. Efficiency, honesty, discipline — bring those to birth and you had such power in your hands that you could do without all the nastiness of a police state. But if that power were challenged, there could be more bloodshed in five minutes than in five years of jails and firing squads.

CHAPTER X

[
December 5
]

T
HE
C
ITADEL WAS DARK
. The parade ground, which normally was cheerful as a town plaza — surrounded by the lighted windows of the messes and liberally decorated by colored bulbs wherever there was a party or some little exhibition to which the commander desired to draw attention — had become a desert, shapeless except for a dim range of low hillocks on the south side where the last of the Air Force trucks were still coming in. The blackout was an exercise and a stern reminder. Divisional Headquarters did not consider there was any risk of Ledesma wasting his small store of bombs in order to scar the concrete of the Citadel. On the other hand, one could never be quite sure in Guayanas what sublime act of folly might not be committed in a moment of pride and anger.

Miro Kucera left his office, followed by Captain Irala with a bundle of rolled maps, and walked to the football pavilion along the western avenue where the palms, very young and bare under the melancholy swaying of the lights in the breeze from the Pacific, seemed suddenly to have grown up and to be providing cover. The pavilion was an isolated building where absolute security could be assured. He had announced only a quarter of an hour earlier that it was there the conference would be held. Since then the
Provost Company had furnished it, blacked-out the windows, disconnected the telephone and posted a close ring of sentries out of earshot of the building.

The general entered, and the small group of some twenty officers — heads of services, brigade commanders and his senior staff — stood up in respect, at the same time greeting him as informally and affectionately as if he had come into the anteroom of the Headquarters mess. It was far too small a group for his taste and methods of command, but for the moment security had to be paramount.

He mounted the improvised dais at the end of the room, observing that the Provost Company had somewhat dramatically covered his desk with the flag of Guayanas. Well, under the circumstances it was perhaps appropriate.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “and my very good friends: The first news I have for you is that Don Jesús-María de Hoyos y Alarcón has been relieved of his command by President Vidal. I address you as Captain General of the Republic. The title is empty, and for the time being we will forget it. Just as usual, I am commanding the magnificent Division with which you have presented me.

“Before we go any further I must apologize to you. For a few hours I had to destroy your faith in our efficiency. The difficulty was to absolve all my officers from blame if there should ever be a Court of Inquiry into the monumental, the gorgeous and unparalleled mess we made of the Air Force convoy. Captain Irala is well used to being shot at by the lot of you, but Major Ferrer is not. I thank them both for their trust and courage. I don't know whether it has yet occurred to you all that the Air Force has joined the rebellion with very little ammunition.

“I am going to order you to defend the Constitution of Guayanas. Leaving out Twentieth Cavalry Division on the Northern Frontier, which cannot enter the campaign in time, we have to engage Second, Third and Sixth Divisions plus Twelfth Cavalry Division, an effective strength of nearly 42,000 ill-equipped but gallant men. With such odds against us, it is a gamble which we may lose. . . .”

The protests echoed in the bare pavilion as if it held its usual
crowd of young footballers instead of colonels and majors whom age and training had taught to control their native tendency to enthusiasm.

“Well, I too will give you my reasons for thinking we shall not. But first I wish to ask you if any officer wishes to resign his commission before it is too late?

“Very well. Then we will go on to consider the most interesting exercise I have ever proposed to you. I have no air cover and not enough troops to follow up the certain victory of the armor. I cannot therefore destroy the enemy. I can only punish and demoralize him, and hope that it will be enough.

“We do not yet know the intentions of our late and sympathetic friend, Don Jesús-María, and I very much doubt if he has any. Up to this evening Avellana must have been expecting the flight of President Vidal. Only now will he have learned that the Chamber has voted for resistance. He probably hopes that Fifth Division will defend the Citadel and San Vicente while handing over the rest of the country to him.

“So we may safely assume that Don Jesús-María's divisions are loosely concentrated in and about their peacetime stations and that their movements will be entirely dictated by our own. I may add that I have ordered all commanders to report to me instantly at the Citadel. In their indignation they will reply, if I know them, by public telegram from public telegraph offices, surrounded by their enthusiastic civil and military supporters. Bouquets, vivas and pretty girls shouting
Death to General Kucera!
These replies will be of value to us in establishing what changes, if any, there have been in their order of battle.”

There was a ripple of laughter. The Division had learned to appreciate the dry humor of their commander. It was a family secret. They knew very well that he was most careful how he employed it outside the closed world of the Citadel.

“Now, you are aware, gentlemen, that the Republic has only two landing grounds fit for jet aircraft. San Vicente we hold, but as yet we have only machines under repair in the hangars and no pilots. Lérida is out of our reach and impossible to take. I want you to keep that in your minds:
Lérida is impossible to take
.
You are sure of it. Avellana and Jesús-María will be sure of it. There must never be a doubt of it, never a whisper that we are thinking of it — until, that is, I order you to take it.”

Captain Irala took advantage of the pause to unroll a map of southern Guayanas and hang it up.

“I am delighted to see, brothers,” Miro went on, “that you are all trying to suppress a collective expression of horror. You have thought out the result of a march on Lérida with speed and accuracy. It would take us a week to fight our way through the Quebradas Pass against the machine guns and demolitions of Twelfth Cavalry. Meanwhile Third, Fourth and Sixth Divisions would have come up on our rear.

“No. The axis of our advance will be the main road from Cumana to Los Milagros. It will give the enemy a reasonable picture of a contemptuous, head-on attack in which I am trusting to the strength of my spearhead and underestimating their power of maneuver. My former colleagues suspect that I despise the Army of Guayanas. You know that I do not, that I think we have the most savage and relentless fighting men in the world when properly led and trained. But we will take advantage of their opinion of me.

“When I have crossed the Jaquiri and am racing southeast, Don Jesús-María is far too good a soldier not to see that I am doomed. He will at once order Twelfth Cavalry Division to cut my line of communications by taking Cumana and the Jaquiri Bridge. It will not occur to him that I need no communications. The Division, as you know, is self-sufficient for a period the length of which has given us a good many heated arguments. For this short campaign four or five days will be enough.”

The Captain General turned to the map behind him and with the speed and decision of a cartoonist sketched the opening moves of battle.

“Here is the position on the evening of what I shall describe — to be in fashion — as D-day. Twelfth Cavalry have seized their opportunity and are sweeping down the left bank of the Rio Jaquiri. This is the only way I can open a road to Lérida. Or at any rate
open it wide enough for you to fight your way through with the Saracens, Calixto.”

Lieutenant Colonel Calixto Irigoyen sat up in his chair with the unexpected suddenness of a hiccup. An amiable grin spread over his broad, slightly pock-marked face.

“It will make a change from racing tramcars in San Vicente,” he said.

“It will indeed. I propose that you should start at nightfall by the Escala de los Ingleses. We agreed that it was practicable for tracked vehicles. But in the dark, without lights? Are you satisfied?”

Fifth Division's Armored Brigade was a luxury of dubious value. The geography of Guayanas severely limited its power of maneuver. Unwilling that the armor should be a mere advertisement for Vidalismo, Miro and his officers had studied in person the full possibilities of tracks, passes and contour lines which, from the map alone, looked so unpromising that any other army would have left them to be reported on, at need, by the untrained eye of an infantry captain.

The “English Ladder” was nothing but a dotted line, no longer continuous, in a tangle of steep foothills. There was no history of English raiders using it, or Spanish either for that matter. Even its name was only a local possession and derived from local trade. In the eighteenth century the open roadstead of Viera, conveniently cut off by the Rio Jaquiri from the center of government at San Vicente, was a peaceful market for illegal imports. The cargoes of the ships, mostly English, had come up through the coastal forest on the heads and backs of Indians, and reached the wealthy citizens of Lérida, Vergara and the North by pack train of mules and llamas through the unpoliced, remote Escala de los Ingleses.

It started over the pebbles of a dry watercourse, turned back on itself and climbed a ridge; dropped into a wide valley, sparsely inhabited, where it became a drove road; scrambled out of it with the aid of a sloping causeway engineered by Indians before the Conquest; wandered along the escarpment of a great hogback until at last the snow caps of the Cordillera came into sight across the
trees and irrigated farmlands of Siete Dolores; then lost its identity among the earth lanes connecting the villages with each other and with Lérida.

Calixto Irigoyen closed his heavy-lidded eyes. His forefinger described unsteady arabesques in the air as it rose from the level of his belt, was extended nearly to the full length of his arm and stabbed at an imaginary plateau.

“Yes, if we don't go beyond the first ridge in the dark. After that — well, we can make the gradients up from the fords. Along the slopes we may have to dig out or build up. And fallen scree will be troublesome even if the villagers have tried to level it. It will mean losses, Chief — heavy losses, unless the fighters have used up all their cannon shell on your staff car.”

“They'll have used it on us at Cumana Junction. Drive for Lérida, Calixto! Stop for nothing! On the morning of D plus I, when your movement is spotted from the air, it will be too late for Twelfth Cavalry to get back through the Quebradas Pass in enough strength to hold you up. No recovery of vehicles, and sacrifice what you must to get through! When you reach Lérida, destroy all aircraft on the ground, crater the runways, scatter vehicles over the airfield and wreck them! I cannot foresee what your orders will be then. That depends how we go. The price I must pay for depriving the enemy of air reconnaissance is dangerously high.

“As soon as Calixto has entered the Escala, our screen will push on until it is engaged by the enemy. Its orders — which it won't like — will be to fall back at once. The picture I wish Jesús-María to form is that we are alarmed at the strength of the opposition. So we should be. He is a thoroughly sound tactician of the old school. He will see that my only hope is to be Napoleonic and defeat him piecemeal. Therefore his three division will be nicely balanced, with one always threatening my flank if I try any tricks with the others.

“When I retreat he will assume that I have seen the danger. I am, as I told you, doomed. It will thus seem perfectly natural to him that I should fall back on Cruzada.”

“You can't, Chief!” Colonel Chaves exclaimed in horror. “You're trapped!”

“I know I am, Rosalindo. It's as certain as anything can be in this world that you will have Third and Sixth Divisions on your front and left, and Fourth Division coming up on your right to close the ring — which is where I want it. I say ‘you' because you will be commanding the defensive box at Cruzada with your back against the forest. This is a killing match. I am sorry for the first waves which try to break in. It will be a disappointment to meet the concentrated fire power of the Division after dealing so easily with our advance guards. You will have all the Divisional artillery, but not the armor. How long can you hold the box, Rosalindo?”

“Till the ammunition runs out. Or are you going to supply us through Viera and the narrow gauge?”

“If the worst came to the worst I could try. And Jesús-María will think I intend to try. But there are only two locomotives and the jetty is so rotten that they have gone back to using surfboats. The coffee and cocoa go north from Cruzada by road now. I shall land petrol and rations at Viera, but I doubt if we shall ever see much of them at Cruzada.

“Well, gentlemen, while you contemplate our Sedan, I will tell you a story. Some three years ago President Vidal asked me to report on the strategic value of the Viera Railway. The London Company was offering it for sale. Like the rest of our system it was originally built and owned by the British. But when the shareholders of the Southern Guayanas were bought out by the State in 1947 nobody bothered with the Viera.

“I went down to Cruzada with the consul general, Don Enrique Penruddock, who was very properly endeavoring — in the service of his country — to get something for nothing. When I told him that the strategic value of his line was even less than the commercial, he called for another bottle — I recommend the Fonda Perez if you have time to visit it, Rosalindo — and said ‘What about the Breakfast Tram?'

“The Breakfast Tram is the planters' name for the line which
carries coffee and cocoa from the outlying
fincas
to Purua Junction nine kilometers west of Cruzada. North of Purua it is still used. South of Purua, where disease has wiped out the cocoa, and the coffee on the edge of the plateau is going wild — at any rate it is no longer of export quality — the line is derelict. When I inspected it, the only traffic I saw was one Negro and four sacks on a homemade hand trolley.