by Rusty Young
I jumped. My heart began pounding. I heard the sound of a body hitting the ground but kept my eyes to the front. Nobody turned. We stood immobilised, like frightened rabbits cornered by a fox. I glanced towards Alfa 1, Culebra and Beta, but their expressions were stern. None of them intervened.
The silence was absolute except for the crunch of Trigeño’s boots on dried grass.
‘We expect hard work,’ he boomed. His footsteps stopped. Crack! went his revolver a second time. Again, I heard the soft thud of a body striking the ground.
‘And we expect you to obey orders.’ Crack!
A third body fell.
I held my breath and continued to stare straight ahead, but it was easy to guess the identity of Trigeño’s victims: Jirafa, Pele and Armani, three of the five deserters. Tango and Murgas were standing side by side at the end of the row in front of mine. I couldn’t see their faces, but Tango’s legs were trembling and Murgas was gripping his wooden rifle hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
Trigeño continued speaking, and his voice didn’t alter in pace or tone. It was entirely lacking in emotion, as though killing three boys had merely been a fitting way to punctuate his speech. But the sound of his voice was moving closer. He was returning to the front.
‘There are many valuable lessons you will learn with us. You will learn self-discipline, self-respect and respect for others, which are fundamental for rebuilding this great nation of ours.’
He appeared at the edge of my field of vision and paused to glare at Tango and Murgas. I tensed, waiting for him to raise his revolver, but he didn’t.
‘You two. Out the front.’
Tango and Murgas emerged nervously from the ranks, their faces ashen. They must have been caught between fear and a faint trace of hope from still being alive.
‘You!’ Trigeño said to Tango, handing him the revolver. ‘Have you fired a weapon before?’
‘Yes, comando.’ His voice was steady. I marvelled at his composure.
Trigeño drew his other weapon, the Colt .45, and pointed with it towards the stump with the bottles.
‘Do you see those bottles over there?’
‘Yes, comando.’
‘I want you to shoot the left bottle. Can you shoot that bottle?’
‘Yes, comando.’
‘Then do it!’
Tango took careful aim and fired. The glass exploded.
‘Good!’ yelled Trigeño. Taking the revolver from him, he handed it to Murgas. ‘Now it’s your turn. I want you to shoot the other bottle.’
Murgas fired and missed. He looked at Trigeño, wondering whether to try again.
‘Missed. Not so good.’ Trigeño’s tone was deliberately comical this time and we laughed, more from a release of tension than genuine amusement. Surely this meant there would be no more killing.
Taking the revolver, Trigeño handed it back to Tango, put an arm around his shoulder and walked him five paces further away from the tree stump before swivelling him around.
‘Do you see that boy over there?’ He pointed to Murgas.
‘Yes, comando.’ Tango looked as though he was going to be sick.
‘I want you to shoot that boy. Can you shoot that boy?’
There was a soft sound among the ranks, a collective intake of breath at Trigeño’s cruelty. This was much worse than the three executions he had just committed.
Tango looked at Murgas. He was trembling but he didn’t raise the revolver.
He looked away. ‘I can’t, comando. He’s my brother.’
‘Then you just missed. Not so good.’ He grabbed the revolver and forced it into Murgas’s hand. ‘Let’s see if you can do any better. Shoot him!’
When Murgas hesitated, Trigeño pressed the muzzle of the Colt .45 against his temple. Hands shaking, Murgas pointed the revolver at Tango and screwed up his eyes.
‘I can’t either, comando.’
‘We’re going to wait here all afternoon until one of you pulls the trigger. I’m in no hurry.’ He turned to the assembled recruits. ‘Are any of you in a hurry?’
We were too stunned to answer, so he repeated the question louder and this time the chorus came back, ‘No, comando.’
On his next turn, Tango once more refused to shoot his brother. Now angry, Trigeño fired a shot next to his ear. Tango jumped. Trigeño then dug the Colt .45 tip into his cheek.
‘It’s him or you. Who’s it going to be?’
Tango began crying. He raised the revolver and pointed it at Murgas’s chest. His hand was shaking.
Trigeño fired next to his ear again, closer this time, and then screamed, ‘Who’s it going to be?’
Tango squeezed the trigger and a shot rang out. Murgas’s face was distorted for an instant, and then he crumpled to the ground. I heard him groan.
Tango dropped the revolver and stood there quivering with his head bowed and tears running down his nose. He began to sob, breathing in great gulps that racked his body.
‘Good!’ Trigeño picked up the revolver and wiped it on his trousers. ‘You’re no longer schoolboys. You need to learn. This is war, men. In war, we have rules. The first rule is that you must obey orders. If you don’t obey orders …’ He fired two rounds into Murgas’s prostrate body, ending his groans. ‘You will be killed. The second rule is that if you can’t kill the other man, he’ll kill you.’
He spun on his heel and walked back to Tango, who was still sobbing.
‘And the third rule is …’ He placed a consolatory arm across Tango’s shoulders and leaned into his ear as though about to give him some fatherly advice. ‘No deserting!’
He fired a round into Tango’s ear and Tango dropped.
‘Lunch is at twelve,’ said Trigeño, walking off. He turned and pointed at the bodies. ‘Nobody eats until this mess is cleaned up. You, you, you and you,’ he said, pointing to Silvestre, Pollo, Ñoño and El Psycho in the front row. ‘Chop ’em and pack ’em, boys. Fifty by fifty.’
30
THE TROOP FELL out and wandered silently towards the sleeping sheds, still in shock. Most of them probably felt like I did. The knot in my stomach was not caused solely by the loss of Tango, Murgas and the others, or even by witnessing Trigeño’s brutality. Having not intervened or said anything, I felt complicit in their deaths. I’d even laughed at Trigeño’s showmanship and answered his question about not being in a hurry.
The four boys selected stood by the bodies under Beta’s supervision to carry out Trigeño’s order.
Picar y Empacar – Chopping and Packing – was the usual method by which the Autodefensas disposed of bodies. It was an expression I was to hear many times over the coming years, but that afternoon few of the recruits knew its meaning.
Beta handed Ñoño a machete and a shovel and pushed him towards Tango’s body. Ñoño froze at the sight of blood. I’d lingered nearby, hoping for the opportunity to volunteer. Now I stepped forward.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said, taking the shovel, although I still didn’t see the purpose of the machete.
I’d buried two bodies in two months – Humberto Díaz’s and Papá’s. I was no priest and La 50 was not consecrated ground, but I knew the prayer that needed to be recited. Besides, I wanted Beta to know I could dig a grave.
He watched curiously for five minutes then stopped me. ‘Hole’s big enough. Get on with it!’
My prayer lasted ten seconds before Beta interrupted. He believed in black magic, not God, and claimed a spirit called the Big Red Boy protected him.
‘You can pray later,’ he said, stabbing the machete into the ground next to my foot. ‘Chop him first.’
‘What?’
‘Chop!’
Finally, I understood. He wanted me to hack the body into pieces so it fitted in the hole.
‘Honestly, I don’t mind digging,’ I offered, careful not to show my horror.
Beta picked up the machete and swung the blade downwards, embedding it in Tango’s shoulder.
‘He’s dead alr
eady,’ he said. When I still hesitated he aimed his Galil rifle at me and took it off safety. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’
I studied his eyes. They were two marbles in concrete. He had four combats and thirteen dead guerrilleros to his name. There was no doubt he’d pull the trigger.
As a boy, I used to help my father butcher animals. The principles were the same. Detach. Think about something else. Or someone else. This wasn’t Tango, I told myself – it was Ratón. I imagined his weasel face and pointy ears, his bored tone as he relayed the order to execute Papá. I took hold of the machete and pulled it out of the flesh.
The other boys took their lead from me. Silvestre picked up the second machete. El Psycho took the third.
Following Beta’s instructions, we stripped the clothes from Tango’s body and rolled him onto his back. Beta told us that the intestines and internal organs would expand in the days after death, so we’d have to remove them. I grimaced as I cut into Tango’s belly, and was careful not to look at his face.
We took turns with the machetes. While the rest of us stood back to avoid getting blood on our uniforms, El Psycho kneeled beside the body with a look of fascination. The work was disgusting and smelly. But while we turned away, groaning or holding our breath, El Psycho stared without blinking and his nostrils flared as he inhaled the stench.
‘Hurry up!’ I told him.
We all wanted to finish quickly, but he made small incisions, peeled back skin and perforated tissue. At first I assumed he’d frozen up like Ñoño, but when I offered to take his place, he shoved me back and growled like a wolf protecting a carcass.
I shrugged and exchanged glances with Beta, who shrugged back. There was something very wrong with El Psycho.
Working mechanically, we hacked through the spinal cord and disconnected the head. Then we quartered the body and chopped the arms and legs into smaller pieces. The most difficult parts were the knees and elbows. If the machete wasn’t heavy enough to split the joints, we had to dig around in the sockets with a knife, cutting the tendons and then pulling the bones apart with our hands.
In fifteen minutes, Tango, a healthy boy, was reduced to an un recognisable pile of bloodied limbs that we scooped into a black garbage bag and dumped into a hole not much bigger than fifty centimetres by fifty centimetres. We buried the internal organs separately.
When we’d finished with Tango, I crossed myself, finished my prayer for his soul and commended him to God.
‘You lot are dismissed,’ declared Beta. ‘Pedro, bring me four more workers. You choose.’
I nodded, glad he’d recognised my efforts. I decided that I’d also help with the next body. Then maybe Beta would recommend me to Alfa 1.
‘Thanks,’ whispered Ñoño as we walked towards the water trough to wash our hands. ‘You saved me.’
A short time later, I helped the second group of boys chop and pack Murgas. Three of the four vomited. Two cried.
‘The first time is always the worst,’ Beta comforted. ‘Just get on with it.’
Coca-Cola refused to continue until Beta cocked his rifle as a reminder of the second rule of the Paramilitaries: he who cannot kill will be killed himself.
31
AFTER BURYING FIVE bodies, I felt sure I would be on Beta’s promotion list.
‘Do you want us to make crosses?’ I asked. ‘To mark the graves.’
‘Are you stupid?’ Beta’s hands shot to his hips. ‘That’s exactly what we don’t want. Now empty their lockers!’
But I wasn’t stupid. Papá and I had risked our lives to give Farmer Díaz a dignified Catholic burial. Doing the same for Papá was part of the reason I’d had to join the Autodefensas. But Beta had no respect for God or religion. I felt an impulsive anger towards him. Like an overstretched rubber band, my self-control finally snapped. When Beta turned his back, I pointed my wooden rifle at him. In my fury I forgot why I was there and all my carefully laid plans.
It was MacGyver who slapped it down and glared at me.
‘They like you,’ he hissed. ‘Don’t ruin it.’
I was unsure why MacGyver had taken such an interest in me. He certainly didn’t care about the deserters. Together, we untied their hammocks and burned their clothes. Since stealing from a dead man was bad luck, we even burned their money. But I disobeyed Beta’s instruction to throw their crucifixes in the river. When no one was looking I put them in my pocket and later transferred them to Papá’s shrine.
As we returned to the mess hall, MacGyver offered me a further warning: ‘Don’t ever mention those boys again. They no longer exist.’ To MacGyver, dismembering and burying the deserters had been an unpleasant chore, like cleaning toilets – you simply screwed up your nose, turned your head away and got on with it.
In the mess hall, Piolín wore make-up for the first time and the other girls’ eyes were swollen from crying. Twenty-one of us had participated, and the others regarded us with a combination of sympathy for what we had been through and guilt that they had been spared.
Of course, the full impact of what we’d done would take weeks to absorb, but for the moment we sat staring at our uneaten meals in shock. The boys were not just dead; they’d been completely effaced from the earth. Between them being shot and buried, little more than an hour had passed. We had no time to adjust to the fact that they were no longer with us; they went straight into the ground.
I felt disgusted with myself. Never in my life could I have imagined mutilating a dead body. If threatened, I thought I’d refuse. But when it came down to saving my own life, perhaps I was capable of anything.
They’re killers, Papá had told me in the dinghy.
I’d known that when I joined. In fact, I’d wanted to learn how to do it. I just hadn’t thought we’d be killing people from our own side.
During my nightly prayers, I added an ‘Our Father’ for the five boys. Throughout the night I heard others sobbing. In the morning, a puddle of urine lay below Silvestre’s hammock.
‘Careful!’ I warned Palillo the next day when I saw his eyes wandering towards the burial spot. The earth was packed down so tight you couldn’t tell five bodies were below.
‘I just can’t believe …’ said Palillo, shaking his head.
‘Keep it to yourself.’
MacGyver had advised us never to mention either the boys’ fate or deserting. Attempting it, planning it, suggesting it, discussing it or even joking about desertion was punishable by death. Silence shrouded our approach to their execution place. Our primary feeling once the initial shock abated was undoubtedly the same: fear that it would happen to us. Scanning the ground, I saw 50 by 50 graves everywhere. My eyes played tricks on me. Every raised mound of earth covered a dead boy beneath. How many more were buried on La 50?
From that day on, there were no more thoughts of mutiny. No thoughts of escape. No answering back. Each time I passed the graves, I thought of Papá. At least he was resting under his favourite oak tree with a view over a town he loved rather than out in a baking field far from home. At least he had a cross marking his grave. And at least Mamá and I knew where he was. The deserters’ families might never hear of them again. As time passed and grass grew over the graves, who would remember where they were?
Two days after the executions, I left breakfast early and, when no one was looking, I pushed a 200-peso coin half-a-finger deep into each patch. It wasn’t much, but maybe one day someone would find those coins and keep digging.
‘Lost something?’
I turned. Culebra was there, holding two empty bottles and his Smith & Wesson Sigma. He’d crept up on me, stealthy as a jaguar. I flushed, certain he’d seen the coins.
‘No, comando.’
‘Come with me!’ Placing the bottles on a stump, he held up the pistol.
An image flashed through my mind: Trigeño placing two bottles on the stump and handing Tango his revolver. My gut twisted with fear.
‘You still want to learn how to fire one of these?’
; I thought Culebra was toying with me and that I was about to be punished. I looked around, but we were alone.
It took me several minutes to relax completely and accept that Culebra hadn’t seen the coins. He was simply making good on his promise to teach me how to shoot.
32
THE SIGMA SW9F felt comfortable in my hands. Ammunition was contained within a seventeen-shot magazine. Before bringing me to the firing range, Culebra had used two of those shots to show his skill by shooting the bottles on the stump from twenty metres, but that still left fifteen rounds for me. I doubted he’d give me more since black market bullets were expensive.
We stood eight metres from the target – a human-shaped plywood cut-out. I focused my mind, trying to memorise Culebra’s instructions. I might not get another pistol-shooting lesson and I needed to absorb every piece of knowledge.
‘Feet shoulders’ width apart, arms straight but elbows not locked, right hand on the pistol grip, left hand supporting the right wrist. Breathe normally. A single, steady squeeze. No jerking or sudden movements.’
I closed my left eye and took aim, aligning the top and rear sights. The target was a solid black bullseye surrounded by concentric circles in the centre of the human cut-out. Following Culebra’s advice, I dropped the front sight slightly, just below the desired point of impact. I could see the sharply focused front sight touching the bottom of the blurry bullseye. I took a deep breath and began to exhale. Then I squeezed the trigger.
The silhouette target flexed with the bullet’s impact.
‘Not bad for a first try. How does it feel?’
‘Good.’
It felt better than good. I could finally see my goal within reach. A pistol would allow me to get close to Ratón before exacting justice. He would hear the speech I’d been composing in my mind for weeks.
‘Now step back and take your next shot.’
I backed up, took aim and fired again. I liked the pistol’s kick and the weight of it in my hands. The bullet hit the target closer to the bullseye.