The Battle of Tomochic_The Battle of Tomochic Memoirs of a Second Lieutenant

by Heriberto Frías

  They were scheduled to attack the town of Tomochic at seven o’clock in the morning on October 20. They would descend by way of the Pinos Altos road.

  But the most alarming news of all was that St. Joseph had been captured and perhaps executed. After Pablo had debriefed Cruz, the latter told him to keep the information under wraps.

  Cruz already knew some of the details. What he didn’t know was that Torres was planning to attack that very day. Understanding now that the assault would come from many fronts at once, Cruz changed strategy. Girding himself with his cartridge belt, rifle in hand—and Calderón at his heels—he followed the serpentine path toward the cemetery at the other end of town with the wary steps of a wolf. As they traversed the town, the dogs woke and began to bark. In the silence of the night, the barking echoed with an unbearable sadness through the rocky hollows of the distant Sierras.

  Cruz ordered his brother Manuel and Jesus Medrano, with their respective guerrilla columns, to guard the enclave of houses next to the river—which at this time of year was shallow and narrow—that passed west of Tomochic. When his orders were carried out, one guerrilla column remained at the bottom of Cordon de Lino hill.

  On the other bank of the river were another two columns that would prevent Torres and his forces, coming in from the west, from crossing it. At the first hint of dawn the two guerrilla columns, both out of sight in the dry cornfields, occupied the entire length of the riverbank facing the northern and northeastern hills. Cruz and the first guerrilla column brought up the rear as reserve units. He would decide all further actions depending on how the fighting went.

  The men positioned in the cemetery deployed themselves along the base of Cordon de Lino Hill, while Pedro Chaparro’s men fanned out right and left along the base of Cerro de Cueva hill, ready to confront General Rangel on the right and Colonel Torres on the left.

  Meanwhile, at six o’clock in the morning a few men from the Pinos Altos columns could be distinguished occupying the western hills. There they would wait until receiving the signal to the Guerrero columns marching in from the east. Because the signal had not yet arrived, Colonel Torres commanded his bugler to play the same passwords repeatedly. From the other end of the valley the same mocking drill echoed over and over again.

  Intuitively Cruz understood the advantage he would have were the battle to begin immediately. Thus he reviewed his long line of men spread along the riverbank in the cornfields and hiding behind a large hill. He ordered them to advance, and when they reached a height of two thousand feet, they were to fire deliberately on the hills occupied by the enemy, forcing them down the slopes, where they could be wiped out on the ragged terrain of fields and stubble or, alternately, when they attempted to cross the river.

  A desultory exchange of fire was initiated, and a half hour later the Sonoran columns, having almost reached the foothills, answered the Tomochic fire. In the front lines, on the foothills of Cerro de la Cruz hill, stood the mad Pimas of Sonora, armed with Remingtons. They could barely contain themselves when they heard the Tomochic fighters hooting and yelling as they challenged them with a lazy round of fire.

  The Sonoran Indians had a well-earned reputation for brutality. Tall and bold, they were accustomed to mountain life, hunting, and endless raids through the rocky Sierras. Dressed in blue shirts and pants and heavy yellow shoes, they screamed ferociously and fired from behind the rocks and the trees. The Tomochic fighters, understanding that the Pimas were their most fearsome enemies, invited these worthy adversaries to confront them down on the plain. They yelled out, “Send the Pimas down! Send those brave Sonorans down here! We’re waiting for you. Long live the power of God! Death to the government! Death to Lucifer!”

  Cruz had ordered his men not to draw the enemy into an attack on the town until the Chihuahuan forces responded. To the despair of Colonel Torres, who had been on time, those forces still hadn’t arrived.

  Now the detachment from the 11th Battalion, commanded by Captain Castro, initiated combat on the left, ferociously attacking the mountain fighters at point-blank range. In this group was Sergeant Zavala, the same officer, who, along with the captain, had defeated the then irresolute and weak mountain fighters the year before. The federal troops answered those screams of defiance with fire and their own inspirational cries: “Long live the federal government! Long live the 11th Battalion!”

  In the first lull came the feeble sounds of the elusive password from the far side of the mountain. Rapidly covering ground, the 24th and 11th Battalion columns and the Pima Indians advanced, while the 12th ascended Cerro de Medrano hill, whose high summit, like that of Cerro de Cueva hill, dominated the entire valley.

  The Tomochic fighters, whose strategy was to creep along, spread far apart and low to the ground while maintaining intense fire, slowly retreated while keeping their aggressors at bay. Only the infamous Sonoran Indians went forward brashly, anxious to pit themselves against an enemy known for its ferocity. But the Pimas’ positioning worked against them. Unprotected at the top of the barren hills, they were cut down by gunmen aiming from the church tower, the cornfields, and the outlying houses at the outskirts of town.

  Once they had retreated inside the houses, the Tomochic fighters fired from the openings they had prepared and kept the aggressors contained. After crossing the river, the soldiers saw that there was greater danger in retreat than in throwing themselves headlong into the fray. Continuing their advance while kneeling down at times to take aim, breaking through the cornstalks, jumping over rocks, they were blown to bits by well-aimed shots coming from dwellings that had been transformed into virtual blockhouses.

  A first sergeant of the Eleventh received a bullet in the face and fell to the ground fatally wounded. He had been on his knees aiming at what appeared to be a head jutting out from behind a distant boulder. But the strangest thing was how he remained frozen in that same position, his weapon between both hands as though he were taking aim, his eye sockets empty, the barrel of his rifle spattered with brains.

  The fighting had spread down the line. Now it began to look like battle. The smoke from the gunpowder acted as further provocation, and everyone grew hoarse from yelling; their shouts rang out louder than the noise of gunfire itself. And it was then that the about-turn sounded from Colonel Torres’s general headquarters, and they had to retreat after the heroic attack.

  Second Captain Francisco Corona of the 12th Battalion, with the graying mustache of the longtime veteran, bellowed out encouragement to his troops as they neared the houses. “Farther in, my boys. Go on, boys! Way in. Whoever dies, so be it! We’re not the ones who die in childbirth, are we? Long live Colonel Torres! Long live the 12th Battalion!”

  “Long live the great power of God. Long live the Holy Trinity,” replied the mountain fighters from inside the adobe huts. Enemy bullets ricocheted off their stone-hard walls into showers of splinters.

  Followed by a crowd of men ready to carry out his commands, Cruz ran to and fro, bent low to the ground, yelling out orders to his men. He seemed to be everywhere at once, bolstering the flagging vigor of his men.

  At dawn, his explorers had warned Cruz that the Chihuahuan forces were on their way. His guerrilla columns were on standby at the foot of Cordon de Lino hill, waiting to attack as soon as the soldiers attempted their descent. Meanwhile, to the south, Pedro Chaparro blocked the valley at Cueva hill, ready to attack the enemy’s flank from the underbrush.

  The Tomochic fighters who had originally engaged the Sonoran forces retreated to the safety of their dwellings where they maintained steady fire, causing serious damage to enemy lines. Moreover, the men stationed at the top of the church tower didn’t miss a single shot. It was the worst of all possible triumphs. The Tomochic fighters serenely chose their victims from behind thick adobe walls.

  The section of the 12th Battalion that attempted to get as far as the church—Tomochic’s military fort—had scattered. Leaping like deer, the Pimas advanced more cautiously. They waged frightf
ul hand-to-hand battle with the Tomochic fighters they encountered, roaring savage war cries that mingled with the din of crackling gunfire that echoed from all sides of the western part of the valley.

  On the slopes of Cerro de Cueva hill, Colonel Torres stood observing the disastrous battle with his campaign telescope, trembling with rage at the prodigiously strong resistance from the Tomochic fighters. It was all over, and he ordered another about-turn to be sounded. The pathetic retreat was initiated, which ended up costing more lives than the battle itself.

  They left behind a trail of wounded men and corpses. Unable to grasp the sad reality, the Sonoran veterans just followed orders. First Captain Tellez fell down dead. A few moments later Captain Corona was wounded in the arm and within moments was hit in the foot as well. A second lieutenant was captured while a corporal who had been running to help him caught three bullets in the chest. Lieutenant Cota had vanished with an entire section of the front guard.

  A second sergeant, weeping with rage, crazed and furious, held his rifle by the barrel between both hands and bawled like a baby. No one even paid attention to him; the few gray hairs in his beard trembled as he called out, “Long live the 12th Battalion. Viva Colonel Torres and General Rocha! Those of us in the Bufa don’t run. Long live the federal government!” A bullet pierced his leg and the second sergeant fell to his knees next to the corpse of a bugler who had been shot four times in the chest and stomach. Running to catch up with the others crossing the river under a rain of lead, two brave soldiers tried to take him with them. But the second sergeant, intoxicated with fury, slammed the butt of his rifle into the head of one of them and screamed out hoarsely, “Cowards! Those of us in the Bufa don’t run. Long live General Ro …”

  Before he could finish, he fell onto his back, his head pierced through with a bullet, which must have originated in the church tower.

  Meanwhile, after announcing the retreat, Colonel Torres’s bugler continued to sound the alert. Finally from the eastern mountain range came the response. General Rangel was arriving just as the decimated Sonoran forces were on the retreat.

  Then from far away, over the Cordon de Lino hill, came the sound of the furious detonations of the Hotchkiss cannon aimed at Tomochic. Off toward the mountains in the east could be heard a vigorous exchange of fire, which became progressively louder.

  They were beginning to fight on the other side of the valley, while on this side everything was coming to a close. Combat ended with the sounds of the sad retreat: a sonata of defeat, withdrawal, blackest night. This requiem to the delirious enthusiasm of war, both touching and tragic, echoed like a sob through the souls of the brave fighters. About-turn! The sad retreat.

  CHAPTER 23

  An Extraordinary Surprise

  The group of brave fighters headed by Captain Molina, including Miguel, picked up more men as they moved—those who had earlier dropped from exhaustion beneath a tree, faces flushed and breathing labored.

  Walking in two rows, the stunned men mutely exchanged desultory glances, as though they were shipwrecked sailors knocking haphazardly against each other. They had been swept away in a sea of misfortune, and as survivors of the same catastrophe could at least console one another.

  Great effort and perseverance went into training a good battalion. And for what? One wrong command could result in a half hour of futile bravery where blood was liberally spilled, quantities of gunpowder consumed. All that remained of the well-disciplined battalion was a shapeless, bloody tatter.

  So this was war? Idiotic, blind, and savage, shameless, and rife with banal evil, an atrocious, almost inconceivable tragedy. Who should be blamed? Who was responsible for this crushing defeat? A few ignorant sons of Chihuahua’s stony terrain had blown one of the army’s finest brigades to bits.

  These were Miguel’s thoughts as he mechanically marched along the rocky paths that skirted the hills east of Tomochic heading toward general headquarters, which had been established above the main road to Guerrero. Situated in a large clearing on a high mesa, the new headquarters was a comfortable camp.

  Meanwhile, the muted cannon stood by and a field hospital was erected.

  Surrounded by national troops, General Rangel anxiously surveyed the scene, his telescope held up to his right eye. He watched silently as groups of beaten, speechless soldiers arrived in no discernible order and flung themselves on the ground next to their comrades.

  Now a brave hero from the Twelfth arrived with twenty men. He and his unit, their retreat cut off by the enemy, had nearly been forced to cross the town. By some miracle the brave Lieutenant Cota lived to tell the story. Of the original twenty-five men in his section, only seven remained. The others had been cut down.

  While the wounded officers had arrived earlier, several irregulars left camp to bring in the moaning, bleeding soldiers who had managed to get close enough to the camp to advertise their presence. The major, who was also a surgeon in charge of the expeditionary corps, stepped gingerly among the shipwreck survivors in that far-off port of call. When he yelled out his orders, the wounded groaned. The atmosphere radiated deepest gloom.

  Overwhelmed, Miguel threw himself to the ground. He lay with his perspiring head on a tree trunk. He had not awaited orders to do so and he could have fallen fast asleep. However, he was obsessed with one thing—a single, even filthy, drop of water, yes, just one sip! A delirium of flames lashed him; his tongue was dry and his face purple. Oh, how he was suffering. He had a high fever and a mute rage overtook him as he clenched his fists. He remained like this for an interminable hour of anguish. He saw nothing, thought nothing. Finally he slept. He had barely closed his eyes when he felt them shaking him.

  “Hey, Mercado, wake up. We’re going to take roll call. Up!” He woke with a start, returning to the pathetic reality all around him. Fewer than half his company remained: two disorderly rows of tattered soldiers with emaciated faces, their sunken eyes staring vacantly at the ground. Shame, exhaustion, ravenous hunger! And yet every single one of them had fulfilled his duty.

  Miguel took in the enormity of this disaster. Supporting himself on his rifle, which he hadn’t abandoned for a moment, Miguel took notes as the first sergeant called roll. He noted all the missing but couldn’t be certain whether the missing men were dead, wounded, lost, or if they had deserted. There could be no search until the enemy deserted the field.

  Armed escorts with stretchers had been able to rescue only a few of the wounded, those found close to general headquarters. When they tried to approach the battlefield, the brave men were stopped by intense gunfire. Out of pride, they answered fired with fire but were forced to withdraw.

  Only two of those rescued were from the enemy camp. One, who had been shot through the stomach, refused to utter a single word. The other man died on the road.

  Meanwhile, the soldaderas had been allowed into the camp. The women rushed flour tortillas, broiled meat, and canteens of water to their men. A clamor rose. Cries of happiness and pain, whimpering, swearing, and quarreling … and all for a sip of water!

  Water! Water! At his first glimpse of the precious liquid, Miguel made a beeline for the unkempt woman trying to hold back a group of soldiers begging her for one drop, just a single drop. Some begged while others threatened.

  What happiness! She had a full canteen! Flinging himself into their midst, Miguel cried out impulsively, “Make way, make way. What’s all the fuss about? I’m offering one peso for the canteen! Look, here it is,” and he showed her his four bills of one peseta each.

  “Oh, lieutenant, sir, it’s for my man, he’s really bad! Leave this one for me, I’ll bring you some later.” Miguel didn’t pay the least attention and snatched it away, tossing bills at her. Then he released his rifle from his grasp, and with the barrel against his legs and the butt against a rock, he grabbed the canteen with trembling hands, threw his head back, and guzzled. And he would have drunk it all except that an imperious hand snatched the canteen out of his hands.

  “
Hey, Mercado, leave me some, will you! It’s not good for you to drink so much all at once!” It could only be Castorena. His thirst sated, Miguel felt ecstatic. He handed over the water, which Castorena downed in an enormous gulp. By this time the woman had disappeared, and they were being called to attention. Miguel threw the canteen and it ricocheted noisily among the rocks.

  The remaining men of the Ninth received instructions to set up an advance observation post on the main road to Tomochic. A lookout was set up, and pairs of soldiers were assigned to surround the camp, protecting it from possible night surprises. The off-duty soldiers were given one-hour watches at the nighttime rounds beginning at six o’clock in the evening. A number of soldiers were stationed to guard the Hotchkiss while several stood sentry outside the compound.

  Meanwhile, the national troops slaughtered a cow and distributed flour. It was about time, too. Twenty-four hours had passed since their last meal.

  Miguel, who was to be second in charge on the advance along the road, ordered that a large piece of meat be grilled. While he waited, he visited the wounded officers who were gathered in a large tent at the center of camp. Laid out on serapes, the men moaned with pain.

  Miguel tearfully saluted Lieutenant Colonel Villedas, whose head wound alone could have cost him his life. His hands were mangled and bloody from his subsequent fall onto the rocks. Then he spoke with Lieutenant Pablo Yépez and Second Lieutenant Pedro Delgadillo about the two captains who had gone side by side to their deaths. Abruptly the wounded men stopped talking and fell into a semiconscious state between exhaustion and terror.

  He observed them for a while and then turned to leave. Then he noticed the general angrily interrogating several soldiers from the Chihuahua public security forces who had recently arrived at camp. What had happened was this: an officer belonging to the second column of the corps had commanded his forces to do an about-turn, away from the theater of combat, where they eventually abandoned the terrain. What he had done constituted an act of desertion during combat and in the face of the enemy. This is nothing but poor military preparation, lack of discipline, and inadequate training, the young second lieutenant reflected to himself.