by Ciro Bustos
Moisés returned at dawn with no news from the front. There was no sign of the fugitives at the finca so all we could do was wait for the return of León from Camiri. Antonio mobilized our scarce manpower to keep lookouts on the river and to devise an emergency plan in case of invasion. He started to worry about the ‘visitors’, as they began to call us – Debray, Chino the Peruvian, Tania and myself – and wanted us out of any potential harm’s way until Che came back. A team lead by Ñato went exploring and found a place for a rearguard camp by following the trail Che and the absent guerrillas had taken upstream to the north. Depending on León’s news, we would either stay at Base Camp or evacuate it and move further up into the mountains.
León appeared with Coco a couple of days later and we learned that the deserters were already in the hands, first of the police and then the army, so Coco had decided to fall back to Base Camp with León. I learned the full details of this episode many months later from León while he was sharing one of the brand new cells in Camiri jail with Régis and me. However, given its crucial importance, I’ll describe it now, modifying my aim of writing only about what I have seen myself.
What happened was that when Antonio sent León after the deserters, he told him to follow their trail (León was from the Beni, the cattle-ranching region in the north, and was a good tracker) and to kill them if he found them. He gave him a .38 calibre revolver which was easy to carry. The order could be considered a normal military action in time of war for agents trained in the art, but not all the requisites were present in these particular circumstances. The war had not started and the recruits were still peasants or miners, who had taken up arms for a political ideal of justice and fraternity. León, who had hardly slept for the past few days and had twice done the journey upriver to Base Camp, managed nevertheless to catch up with the two men. He left the finca, passed surreptitiously by the treacherous neighbour without seeing anything amiss, and carried on to Lagunillas, a small village halfway to Camiri. Figuring that the fugitives would be as exhausted as he was, he went to the hostel, a big old house where a Colla family rented out space on the floor to travellers, who might arrive in the middle of the night and then settle up the next morning. He found the two men sleeping in the interior patio, huddled up together on the straw.
León was not prepared for a mission of this kind, I don’t think anyone is: these were not proven criminals or torturers, after all. He shone his lantern on them but they did not move, so he lay on the floor between them and the door, gun in hand, and waited for daylight.
When the cocks crowed in the dawn, he talked to the frozen deserters, who attempted to trivialize the situation: ‘We couldn’t bear all that menial work and guard duty; there was barely any food and no money. We were hired for more important work so we could send wages to our families, but all they did was boss us about all the time.’ León tried to convince them to go back and demand that promises be kept; those responsible would surely keep them. No way. They wanted to go home. They did not even have the bus fare to Oruro, however, and were going to sell the rifle. León proposed giving them money for the journey in Camiri, because selling the rifle would cause problems. He appealed to the miners’ traditional solidarity in the struggle against exploitative bosses and asked them not to do any more damage because it would rebound on them afterwards.
They agreed a rendezvous in Camiri, and León left to get there as fast as he could. A lorry driver may have given him a lift part of the way. Luckily he found Coco quickly in Camiri. But Coco had no money either. Che had ordered all the money to be kept by the guerrillas since the police had already searched the finca. Coco borrowed money from the woman who was his cover in the town but the deserters did not turn up at the rendezvous. The police had already arrested them when they tried to sell the rifle to someone, who then denounced them. Coco asked around and found out that the army had claimed the prisoners were under their jurisdiction. At this point, he and León decided to return to the camp.
Clearly it would only be a matter of time before the army advanced on the Base Camp, the whereabouts of which would have been described by the prisoners. Antonio carried out his plan of retreat for us, and Tania, Debray, Chino and I left the Base Camp accompanied by Julio, and someone else I can’t remember. The route was easy along the bed of the stream which provided the Base Camp with water and ran through the jungle without obstacles. Then, about halfway along, where there was a waterfall called ‘the elevator’, the stream disappeared into the sand in places, only to re-emerge, filtered. Its source was at the head of the ravine about three hours trek away, in mountains that lose their jungle cover as they go northwards. There, to the left of the nascent trickle of water, in a discreet hollow in the hillside, plagued by insects and thorn bushes, we set up our refugee camp, at a spot we called ‘El Oso’ after a bear that Debray had killed during the days of waiting and hunting. It was duly stewed with maize and eaten despite its strong wild taste.
26
The Prophet in Tatters
Antonio decided that our presence in the rearguard should be of some real use. Our role would be to maintain an advanced post that Che’s vanguard group would come across before it descended the ravine to the Base Camp. What we had to tell them might influence their decisions and save them the trouble of going down and perhaps coming back up the steep slope. So, early the next morning, Debray and I took on this task. On the right side of the stream, emerging at the foot of the hills, was a path that may originally have been an animal track but which was now used by men in boots who left their imprints in the mud. The climb was diabolically difficult, aggravated by the mass of bald tree roots which made the slope very slippery, as the vegetation struggled to get a hold on the almost vertical wall and extended its roots underneath the trunks.
Just when we thought our lungs would burst, the jungle began to thin out, and we set up our observation post. We saw the path continue upwards until it disappeared from sight and we thought we were near the summit. It was a dry but very hot day, and it seemed as if the only water around was that dripping from our own bodies. A cloud of mosquitoes, or rather, of countless species of mosquitoes, enveloped us all day. We tied handkerchiefs round everything, smoked, and furiously waved branches, but all to no avail.
We went back down in the late afternoon and found all hell had broken loose. Apparently, the advance guard of Che’s column had followed the course of the river and had gone straight to the finca. When the group leader, a Cuban comandante called Marcos, came up to the Base Camp, he ordered it to be evacuated. He also told three men, including El Negro, the Peruvian doctor, to take food and emergency supplies, and to go to meet Che’s column. The weather had been appalling and the column had suffered a series of catastrophes, including deaths. Heavy rains had made the river crossings dangerous: rafts with equipment on board had sunk; a third of the column had lost their boots, and even their clothes; and the effort had sapped their energy. The men’s health had been affected by lack of food. They were suffering the physical effects of malnutrition which meant that their legs and feet were so swollen some of them could barely walk. At dusk, a solitary guerrilla called Rolando came by. He had managed to swim the river and he too had orders to send food urgently. Fortunately, someone, perhaps Tania, knew him. Rolando confirmed the bad news. We were all worried about the state of our compañeros’ health.
The slope now seemed even steeper, tougher and interminable than before. On the second day, we had reached a higher lookout point than on the first, but now we needed to climb to a plateau even further up, double the distance, to get the clearest possible view of the route the guerrilla column would be returning by. We wanted to see them the minute they appeared in the distance and perhaps receive some signal. After over an hour of very hard climbing, leaving the tropical vegetation behind, we reached the crest of the hill, to be faced with a most unusual spectacle. A sea of hillocks, like dunes in the desert, as far as the eye could see, floating in a kind of watercress salad – the
jungle – which seemed to waft towards the summits or flee from them chased by the wind. The whole panorama spread out before us, although it was not clear if this gave us an optical advantage or just made the experience surreal.
The hours drifted by slowly and peacefully, like the clouds. The only things that seemed to have any life in them were the sun’s shadows which moved over the hills and ravines, defining the topography of the landscape. In the late afternoon, we saw two little figures, like cartoon ants, walking on two legs and carrying a backpack with the other two. Silhouetted in black, they appeared and disappeared between the dunes, far away, at the very back of the picture. The Frenchman and I ran down, took up our positions and lay in wait. When they were a few metres away I cried ‘Halt!’ I had no doubt they were compañeros. But we did not know how they would react, since the first thing they saw of me was the weapon pointing at them. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, they said they had been ‘sent on ahead by Ramón’, to prepare food, and asked after Rolando. I let them pass, telling them they would find more people down below, and maybe Rolando in the stream. They carried on, saying the main body of the column would not be long in coming.
The column was gradually taking shape and, despite the distance, we could see how it was organized, and we noted the rapid energy of a small advance guard which from time to time disappeared off to the sides, returned to the path, and then stopped and went back, yet always advancing. At the same time, an Indian file of men followed slowly without stopping. Members of a phantasmagorical platoon approached us, as if from another world. We had got to our feet, and were standing motionless, leaning on our rifles, with no thought of any absurd ritual of passwords or greetings. And the feeling was mutual. The first men passed us as if we were statues and went to sit on the largest stones behind us.
One man walked straight up to me. He had a rifle on his shoulder, a 1930s anarchist’s cap on his head, thin beard and pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. It was Che. His clothes were torn to shreds, a trouser leg was missing, the right sleeve of his khaki shirt hung in tatters but was perfectly buttoned at the wrist. It was not just any old combat uniform. He was wearing the clothes of universal misery, threadbare and filthy. Pockets bulging with papers and pencils, map holder crosswise, and rucksack full to bursting.
Behind him, the only person emitting annoying noises, incongruent and rather vulgar, was Papi, who as soon as he thought I could hear, that is, at about thirty metres, walked along proffering abuse: ‘Pelao, you’re fat … ! Prrr, Prrr … You’ll soon lose that flab here … and Prrr Prrr …’, with irreverent raspberries and snorts.
Che came up to where I was standing paralyzed. I hate formal expressions of affection, and my usual reaction is to say nothing. He took off his rucksack, leaving it on the ground, his M2 leaning against it, and (I didn’t know what to do with my rifle) we fell into a prolonged silent embrace. Neither of us said anything, nor did the spectators; I thought I heard the beating of at least one heart. Head on my shoulder, his mouth next to my ear, he said, breaking the silence: ‘That must be the Frenchman.’ Debray was behind me, still standing among the rocks. As I took a step back, I managed an unnecessary gesture of introduction. Che greeted him cordially, then walked on a little and sat down on a stone to rest. He seemed to gather strength, or rage.
A series of deliberations with his men demonstrated what we would be seeing from now on: a mechanism of command that worked with a minimum of discussion. Uppermost in his mind was to reach the camp at the bottom of the slope and eat. I heard orders given to someone going to the Base Camp: ‘Send enough provisions to cook all night …’. After a few playful hugs, Papi presented me ‘to society’, introducing me to the rest of the troops. It was amazing the expectations that our presence raised, not as individuals, but for what we represented in Che’s subsequent plans.
Papi gave me a rundown of what had happened on the march: some events were tragic, like the men who drowned and the sinking rafts; others were pitiful, like guerrillas reduced to their underwear and walking barefoot, their feet wrecked. But Papi was an inveterate optimist and, for him, catastrophes were mere contingencies of the struggle. A significant change was palpable now. The atmosphere was electric and orders were given and executed as if we were on a boat in the middle of a storm.
The guerrillas headed off down the path leading to the carpet of jungle below, but we had to wait to be relieved of our duties, since the rearguard with the men in worst physical shape was yet to arrive. When our guard duty finished, before night fell, we slid down that damned slope and, guided by the light of the campfire, arrived in time to witness a terrible scene.
Che was not mincing his words. He was haranguing his group of silent men, men who had moved heaven and earth to get back to camp only to discover that, in their absence, things had kicked off, that now the war would be won by fighting, that the maximum sacrifice would be required, that they had not been chosen to come on a picnic, that no one was to retreat without fighting the enemy, and that anyone not in agreement should say so now and be expelled immediately, because from now on, anyone leaving would be shot.
He told Ñato: ‘Go and tell everybody I forbid them to come up here, I want everyone back at the Base Camp, or even further back.’ I had guard duty at two in the morning, so after eating my ration of stew, I took refuge under my nylon sheeting, in the concave space reserved for my private universe: my hammock. Come what may, I needed to sleep.
27
A War Is Won by Fighting
The outlook was gloomy. There was no longer any room for doubt: this was an immediate and operative guerrilla army, not a long-term project. And the man who had unleashed revolutionary passions throughout the continent, like a gust of wind whisking up dry leaves, was back in charge.
It was incredible to see those around me acting with such carelessness, and excessive confidence. Battle was about to begin prematurely and, although it could be argued that this was not only inevitable, but also this army’s raison d’être, there is no doubt that the actual decision to enter the fray, to fight, was the strategic prerogative of the commander, in order to keep the initiative and march on to victory.
At the stage of preliminary exercises and accumulation of forces, prior to establishing long-term emergency plans and becoming independent of its urban support network by consolidating different contact and supply routes, a guerrilla force is inward-looking and stuck in a dilemma. Contact with the outside world is the guerrilla’s Gordian knot. It has to exist but is always the weakest link in the chain. In this case, all the intermediaries between the guerrillas and the outside world were now up in the mountains, incorporated into the guerrilla nucleus. That is, they no longer existed as external operatives. Tania, the strategic contact who should have been fulfilling her most important role during the prolonged buildup to military action – staying buried in enemy territory – was also in the mountains. There was absolutely no way of communicating since the radio was not working. The panorama was depressing.
The Cuban combatants, however, were enthusiastic and optimistic. They were fresh from a remembered victory in the Sierra Maestra, and although some of them had also been involved in the failed operation in the Congo, they had come out alive and more determined than ever. Nevertheless, they did not hide the differences they observed, especially since they now had experience of the huge distances involved, and the other overwhelming geographic factors. But the Cuban victory and its subsequent success had filled them with a fatal sense of omnipotence that would not brook pessimistic assessments, or even realistic ones. I heard more than once that the struggle would be intense, but that victory was certain, in no more than three or four years, against Yankee imperialism and the armies of its neighbours. This tendency to hugely underestimate the task was not of Che’s doing. He never tired of saying that in all probability none of us would live to see the victory.
The reason for Che’s rage was the decision taken by Marcos, commander of the van
guard column, to move the lines of defence away from the Base Camp, thus abandoning it to its fate. Marcos had previously ignored Che’s orders by allowing a group of oil workers to see his column deep in the jungle by the river, and then disobeying express orders by continuing on openly to the Casa de Calamina, which had already been raided by the police.
Che had originally hoped to establish the foco in the region clandestinely, but with local people reporting the presence of bearded men drying clothes, banknotes, weapons, and military style footwear, it was not surprising that within a week news had reached – by various routes – the Fourth Army Division headquarters in Camiri. Such reports gave additional credibility to the version told them by the deserters, taken prisoner only a few days after Marcos’ piece of theatre by the river.
Che could not know this for sure, but he guessed it pretty accurately. The army had put two and two together and started investigating these reports and other connected rumours. Within a couple of months, despite some initial setbacks, the army had taken control of the military situation.
The strategic initiative of the guerrilla foco could not be implemented. Che was on the defensive before he had even finished drawing up his plans. If security norms are ignored and you are put on a premature war footing, if you don’t want to retreat in disarray, and hand over a strategic position, then you have to fight. That is the reason Che was so livid. It meant his basic plan to continue on to Argentina had been put in jeopardy. It was not a cold fury, chewed over alone. No, the outburst was reiterated to any emissary arriving from outside. ‘I forbid you to come here! A war is won fighting …’. His fury made his voice hoarse.