by Rusty Young
I thanked the residencia manager then drove around the block several times, searching for public parking lots and the quietest route back to the highway. I filled in additional details on my city map – the location of traffic lights and road works – and I identified two contingency escape routes. Afterwards, I purchased a shovel.
On the drive back to La 50, I turned left into a disused side track immediately after the GUERRILLA, NOT A PEEP! sign in Monterrey. After a kilometre of bumpy driving, I crossed a rise and spotted a giant saman tree two hundred metres from the track. No dwellings were visible. The location was perfect. I hid the shovel in a bough of the tree then returned to the highway. This time, I smiled at GUERRILLA, NOT A PEEP! It would be the last sign Ratón ever read.
Suddenly, a new song by Juanes came on the radio and I felt ecstatic. I honked madly at the storks huddled together in shallow ponds and swerved playfully towards the metre-long iguanas as they dashed from the road’s shoulder. It was a wonderful afternoon – I was speeding towards clear blue skies with warm, fresh air whipping across my face and uplifting music filling my ears.
In a single day, I’d gone from sketchy speculations and vague hopes to having a concrete plan. Ratón was finally in my sights. And once I had him at my mercy, I was certain that he would lead me to the rest of my father’s killers.
Thirteen weeks of training were now over. There were only three to go. All I needed to do now was regularly check my phone for messages and continue doing exactly what I’d been doing.
In the first week of March, Daisy went missing. For ten days, Ñoño was inconsolable. Despite her barking, we’d all grown fond of her too. We searched for her during lunch breaks, calling and whistling. Maybe wild pigs had got her, maybe she’d fallen into La Quebrada, or maybe she’d simply run away. But to Ñoño, our explanations made no sense.
‘She’d never leave me,’ he said.
He didn’t give up searching until Rambo grabbed his collar during kitchen duty and yelled at him to stop complaining about a stupid dog. Beta overheard and sentenced both to another week’s kitchen duty.
‘That’s not fair,’ muttered Rambo.
Instantly regretting what he’d said, he fell to apologising. But Beta raised his pistol to Rambo’s eye and fired. This time, I didn’t flinch. Rambo’s crime: being tired and saying three words without thinking. It was unfair and cruel and unnecessary. Rambo had been friendly to everyone. Beta killed him simply because he could. And afterwards he smirked because there was nothing we could do about it.
When there was just one week left in the course, I persuaded Culebra that the Blazer needed a new alternator. It could be installed in a single day but the part would take two weeks to arrive. I offered to drive the truck to our mechanic in Villavicencio at the beginning of leave and pick it up on my return. But in reality, I’d ordered the part a week earlier and booked its installation for the first day of my leave, which would give me two weeks using the Blazer.
Now, all I had to do was keep my mouth shut and pass the final obstacle course. But then, with one stupid, split-second decision, I ruined everything.
39
MARCH 11 WAS to be our final training day. I guessed Alfa 1 was planning something big because ten additional commanders had arrived at La 50 the day before to assist with modifications to the obstacle course.
All afternoon, they cleared the long, dry grass with machetes, dug canals and hosed the ground until it turned to mud. They stacked five large piles of wood between obstacles and divided the fireworks I’d purchased in Villavicencio into ten plastic bags.
After the obstacle course, Alfa 1 would announce promotions. I had no doubt I was on the short list to become a junior commander, but I aimed to cross the finish line in record time. I was the fittest I’d ever been in my life and wanted to prove that my discipline had paid off. My only concern was Ñoño.
‘What are they planning with all that barbed wire?’ he asked anxiously.
‘You’ll be fine,’ I reassured him. ‘You’ve done the course a hundred times. Tomorrow will be no different.’
The next day at 7 am we returned from bathing in La Quebrada to find Beta and the ten extra commanders standing in a line with their arms folded, blocking the entrance to the mess hall. In place of breakfast, Beta announced, we would do a four-hour endurance pack run, jogging continuous laps around the camp’s perimeter. Although March was the hottest time of the year in the flood plains, we received no rest breaks and no food, only water. Since it wasn’t a race, I jogged in the middle of the pack with Palillo and Ñoño to conserve energy.
By 11 am, when we stumbled across the finish line in front of the mess hall, our pack straps were sweat-welded to our shoulders and we were pale with strain and fatigue. Legs trembling, we collapsed backwards onto our packs and lay on them like overturned turtles, opening our eyes only when we smelled roasting meat.
Outside the mess hall, we saw a calf spit-roasting over hot coals. We lined up with plastic plates to receive a white-bread sandwich with a single sliver of meat drowned in spicy ají sauce. Although the beef tasted strange, fresh bread and meat were rarities at La 50 and we were ravenous. A second, much larger portion followed – this one tasting like proper, succulent beef – accompanied by potatoes and Postobón soft drink. After lunch, we lay on the grass, massaging our twitching thigh muscles and digesting the food.
‘Don’t eat any more,’ I warned Ñoño when Culebra offered a third helping.
We hadn’t done the obstacle course yet, and I guessed from the trainers’ continuing preparations that our ordeal would be tougher than expected. By then, they’d wrapped barbed wire around every obstacle. The smell of diesel drifted through the air.
‘On your feet, soldiers!’ yelled Beta.
We lined up for the start. It was now midday and the sun was at its fiercest. Usually, we would set off in groups of fifteen at one-minute intervals in order to avoid congestion. Since the fifteen-man groups hadn’t changed in four months, we’d become complacent, establishing an unofficial order of who went first, second and third, up to fifteenth. This made tackling the obstacles easier and more efficient for everyone; rather than pushing and fighting, we politely waited and gave way before competing in the final stretch.
This time, however, all ninety-seven soldiers were to start together. Nevertheless, we had to finish the course within the same time.
‘Go hard at the beginning,’ I advised Ñoño. I knew the starting sprint would be brutal – getting caught behind others at the first obstacle would cost valuable seconds.
Ñoño nodded. We both understood what was at stake. Failing to complete every obstacle in the allocated time meant not graduating. Although the exact consequences of not graduating were never stated, we’d seen the trainers’ barbarity.
‘On your marks,’ Culebra shouted. He fired his Galil into the air. Ninety-seven pairs of boots pounded the earth. Ninety-seven sets of shoulders barged against each other as we elbowed, pushed and sprinted our way towards the first obstacle, the rope-net climb.
Immediately, I understood the purpose of the additional trainers. With this final course, Alfa 1 aimed to test our limits by simulating gruelling, war-like conditions. As we climbed the net, the trainers stuck our backs, calves and feet with wooden rods. One blow landed on my leg and I swallowed a yelp of pain. From the top of the net we dropped down and crawled along the ground. The trainers fired live rounds, the bullets striking the ground only centimetres from us, kicking up the earth. They tossed fireworks among us – spinning pinwheels shooting sprays of searing, white-hot sparks. Flares tumbled and rolled, pouring out coloured smoke. We coughed and choked, blindly bumping into each other.
As I dragged myself through the first concrete pipe, tear gas flooded my lungs and burned my eyes. I emerged from the pipe disoriented, only to find thick black smoke from the five diesel-soaked woodpiles billowing across the remaining obstacles.
The gunfire, explosions and swirling smoke infected the
race with life-or-death urgency. Adrenalin-charged, panicked and short of breath, we became hunted pack animals in a race for survival. When Coca-Cola tripped at the foot of the brick-wall climb, rather than helping him up, several boys stomped over him.
I was in the leading group. As we balanced along the wobbling-log, Beta lobbed flash-bang grenades beneath it – each one exploded with a deafening roar and a blinding flash of light. During the rope-net mud crawl, Alfa 1 fired bullets so low that I could hear them zinging over my ears.
‘Heads down!’ he screamed. ‘Lift them and lose them.’
I was now in the lead. As I elbow-crawled my way through the square concrete pipe – the third-last obstacle – I heard the hum of flies buzzing ahead. At the tunnel’s midpoint, a single shaft of light penetrated the pipe and I found myself looking directly into the eyes of the dead calf I’d just seen roasting on the spit. I recoiled in shock. Then I noticed a strong smell of faeces. Shit had been smeared over the pipe on either side and I had to place my hands in it to climb over the severed head. The concrete pipe led upwards at a thirty-degree angle. I hoisted myself out and sprinted towards the second-last obstacle – a belly-crawl through mud beneath a roof of criss-crossing barbed wire.
The crawl space was narrow, and the trainers had hung the calf’s intestines from the wires. I closed my eyes as slimy, bloody innards slid against my cheeks. I pressed on, but when I finally made it to the end of the mud-crawl, I found myself looking into the eyes of another severed head: Daisy’s.
My stomach lurched. Daisy had trained with us the entire course. She had been more than our mascot; she’d been one of us, and the trainers had killed her just to give us something to think about between the barbed-wire crawl and the monkey bars. Later, MacGyver explained their logic: battle was not merely physical but also psychological and emotional. So the trainers beheaded a different ‘Daisy’ every course, aiming to replicate what it felt like to suddenly see someone you knew killed in the midst of battle. The trainers may have had their logic, but at that moment I was revolted by their calculated cruelty.
Detach, Pedro. Detach! Daisy is not a person. This is war. This is what you wanted.
The monkey bars were slippery with Daisy’s blood, but I didn’t stop. I flew off the final bar and landed with bent knees, as behind me I heard soldier after soldier crying out at the sight of Daisy.
I was the first to launch myself from the wooden jetty into the cool, knee-deep water of La Quebrada. Panting, I washed off the mud, blood and shit. I lay floating on my stomach, allowing myself an underwater smile and a brief moment of self-congratulation while the next finishers splashed in beside me. I’d done it! Only then did I remember Ñoño. Daisy had been his dog more than anyone’s.
I scrambled onto the jetty to see Ñoño three-quarters of the way back in the pack, just beginning the mud crawl. At the sight of Daisy’s head he froze momentarily but then lifted himself out of the mud.
Having made it past Daisy, I assumed Ñoño would be fine. He simply had to swing across the monkey bars and then sprint to the finish line. When Culebra yelled, ‘Two minutes remaining!’ I was certain he’d make it easily.
However, when he reached the monkey bars, his foot went automatically for the three rusty nails and he slipped, landing facedown in the mud. He tried again, but the nails were gone. He tried twice more, but each time his foot slid against the pole, his fingers slipped on the blood-splattered bars and he fell.
Twenty soldiers backed up behind Ñoño, screaming for him to hurry. No one thought to calm him; they were too intent on not failing themselves.
‘Move forward!’ Alfa 1 bellowed, striding towards the group while firing into the ground repeatedly. ‘Forget him! We’re an attack force. Go around him!’
Everyone pushed past Ñoño except Silvestre and Palillo. They knew they weren’t allowed to assist him, but neither would they abandon him. Time was running out. As Culebra commenced the sixty-second countdown, Alfa 1 began firing at the monkey bars.
‘Go around him!’ When a bullet glanced off the wooden post, Silvestre obeyed. Palillo stayed, even as the bullets struck closer, until Alfa 1 fired between his feet. ‘Leave him! He’s already dead.’
Palillo swung along the monkey bars as Alfa 1 stomped towards Ñoño.
‘Come on, soldier! You’ve got no cover. Get yourself out of there! You’re a stationary target. Here comes the enemy.’
Mud splatter from the bullets got closer and closer until Ñoño must have felt the bullet thuds vibrating in his fingertips. He lifted himself to his elbows, readying himself for one last try, but then Beta dropped Daisy’s head in front of him, eyes open, tongue out.
‘You ate your own dog for lunch,’ Beta yelled at Ñoño. Then back at the rest of us. ‘All of you ate Daisy with ají in that sandwich.’
Hearing this, several people retched and vomited. Ñoño, however, placed his hands over his ears and his strength deserted him. Collapsing facedown in the mud again, he remained as still as a carcass.
‘Ñoño. Run!’ I yelled. ‘Ñoño!’
But he could no longer hear me above the rifle shots. Alfa 1 was only ten metres away.
The others stood on the wooden jetty in horrified silence, hands pressed against their mouths, listening to Alfa 1’s successive gunshots. Paisa covered her eyes. Mahecha turned her back. We could all sense what was coming. It had been coming for four months: this was the final day of training; Alfa 1 was eliminating the last of the weak.
‘Thirty seconds,’ announced Culebra.
‘You have to do something,’ Piolín whispered to Palillo. ‘They’ll kill him.’
I looked at Palillo. His face was strained with anguish, but he clenched his jaw and shook his head.
‘If we interfere, they’ll kill us too.’
I wanted to turn away like Mahecha or cover my eyes like Paisa, but I couldn’t. A strange feeling welled up inside me, beginning in my stomach and surging into my throat. A similar feeling had surfaced briefly when Beta made us chop up the deserters’ bodies. And it had come again – although in smaller, shorter bursts – after every execution, every torture and every act of cruelty that I’d witnessed.
I realised that it came from the soft part of me that believed people sometimes needed protecting, and it was provoked by witnessing strong, powerful people abusing those who are weak. Of course, this softness had not died completely with Papá, although it had been savagely severed.
During my four months at La 50, I’d deliberately tried to kill off its remaining roots. In order to track down and kill Papá’s murderers, I told myself, I had to learn to bear all forms of suffering – not only my own, but also the suffering of others. I’d forced myself to observe others in pain, and I had done so without interfering.
But now, seeing Alfa 1’s bullets splashing closer to Ñoño, I was surprised to discover the emotion welling up inside me stronger than ever, threatening to spill out in mutiny against my will.
‘Twenty seconds,’ announced Culebra.
‘He’s just a kid,’ I said.
And then somehow I found myself sprinting towards Ñoño without remembering the first step I’d taken, or the exact moment I’d decided to help him. The calculating part of my brain had been overridden by something more deeply ingrained – something that resided in my gut and that told me what to do even when my rational mind and the world around me was arguing the exact opposite.
‘Stop, Pedro!’ Culebra yelled. I was aware of him chasing after me, although only vaguely. ‘Come back!’
But by then I’d sprinted the fifty metres from the jetty to the monkey bars, and although my heart was pounding and I was struggling for breath, I couldn’t stop no matter how much the trainers screamed at me or how many bullets they fired.
I pushed Alfa 1’s rifle away and threw myself into the mud next to Ñoño. When Alfa 1 kept firing, I covered Ñoño with my body. I wouldn’t let him kill Ñoño. He’d have to kill me first.
Alfa 1 stopped firing
.
‘What the fuck are you doing, Pedro?’
We stared at each other. Alfa 1 seemed as surprised as I was. There was silence for a moment.
Then Ñoño came alive. Struggling beneath me, he dug his elbow into my ribs. ‘Leave me alone!’
‘It’s me! Pedro!’ I slapped him hard and ripped him to his feet by the collar. ‘Now run!’
In the final straight, Culebra’s countdown was deliberately slow. Ninety-five soldiers chanted with him, slowing the count further. Even then, we crossed the line two seconds late. However, as we splashed into the water, the others gave an almighty cheer.
Only then, with the sudden rush of cold and enveloping wetness bringing me to my senses, did I properly realise what I’d just done. As I clambered onto the wooden jetty, I knew rescuing Ñoño was a decision I would shortly regret. In fact, seeing the trainers’ furious faces, I regretted it already.
I wished I had stuck to my plan. I wished I had maintained my self-control. I wished I had calculated the risks and the consequences. And I wished that I had never laid eyes on Ñoño.
40
AS SOON AS Ñoño was on the jetty, he rushed towards me.
‘I knew you were my friend. I knew it!’ He hugged me tightly and said quietly in my ear, ‘I owe you my life.’
But Palillo prised Ñoño’s hands apart and shoved him hard in the chest so he almost fell backwards into the water.
‘Pedro, the trainers are pissed at you,’ he said anxiously, leading me away from the small group that was gathering to congratulate me. ‘You need to keep a low profile. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. And you!’ He pointed back at Ñoño, who had regained his balance and was already trotting after us. ‘Shut the fuck up, stop being so happy, and disappear!’
As we passed the girls, Piolín whispered, ‘That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.’