Che Wants to See You

by Ciro Bustos

  The kitchen, or centre of operations, was a constant hub of agitation. But there was little comfort to be found, and the line of guilty parties waiting to see Che was long: Tania, who had arrived and stayed without permission; Antonio, who was in charge of the acephalous camp; Arturo, the radio operator without a working radio; and various furtive food thieves, some moaners, and some real complainers. The expedition now had more losses than gains: two fatal accidents, weapons and equipment sunk, and half the men in bad physical shape, with serious symptoms of malnutrition, swollen legs and feet, intestines full of parasites and constant diarrhoea.

  None of this was insuperable for the Cuban veterans, or for anyone with time to get used to the physical and mental demands of this kind of life. But it coincided with chaos in the camp, and only a rigid exercise of power could put the project back on course. From now on, what was needed was not distance from the camp, but a return to it. Not fleeing from the enemy but facing it.

  When we arrived back at sunset, the camp was almost empty, although another hammock was hanging where mine had been. I looked around for a new place, one with two good trees spaced far enough apart. I was considering the advantages of a new spot between two big trunks, albeit covered in thorny undergrowth, when a Cuban, who had arrived with the expedition the previous day laden like a mule, came up to where I was assessing the spot and nodded his approval. There was room for two hammocks, so he took out a machete from his rucksack and attacked the undergrowth with the efficiency of a true gardener, turning the inhospitable place into a first class suite with his well-aimed blows. He talked incessantly: ‘Coño, chico? So you’re Pelao? Let me tell you … the big man was really happy … knowing you were here … now we can start work, he said … you know … I don’t want anything to happen to him, he said …’. Urbano, aka Captain Leonardo Tamayo Nuñez, was one of Che’s bodyguard-cum-assistants. He had been with him since the Sierra Maestra, where he was known as the Comandante’s ‘wing-footed messenger’. He was one of the survivors. His enthusiastic confidences showed me the way the wind was blowing.

  28

  Back at the Camp on the Ñancahuazú

  From the moment Che returned to the Base Camp, it lost its former peaceful and bucolic air, as if the chief electrician had suddenly illuminated the stage. The actors entered and exited on cue, without changing the dramatic tension centred on the figure of the furious commander. Some were dispatched on exploratory missions and others were summoned urgently. When Marcos and Antonio arrived, the mood of exacerbation reached unusual levels of violence.

  I had often tried to imagine the strength of character that a legendary figure must have in order to maintain, in moments like this, a degree of influence over tough men with strong characters. Not only prestige, which in Che’s case was perfectly clear because of his own ethical behaviour, but also uncompromising rigour, regardless of hierarchy or rank. I had thought of the thrall in which Alexander the Great held hundreds of thousands of starving men, prostrate before him before he was even twenty years old. Or the young Napoleon. I’d always assumed that there is a mixture of intelligence, example and justice to which men react unconditionally. And this was the case here.

  They knew him, first and foremost, as a just leader, who never demanded anything he was not prepared to do himself. They knew he was impartial when it came to applying rules and meting out punishment, even when he himself might be affected. They had seen him accept the most difficult challenges and had grown accustomed to seeing that, in the end, he would be right. At this late hour, in his ragged clothes, moving around a circle formed by his motionless, dejected fighters, he seemed totally alone. Facing an irreversible fait accompli, not caused by incompetence, as might have been expected, but by carelessness and pride, was more than he could tolerate. He was there because of a grand ideal for which he would fight to the bitter end, to end injustice at the cost of his own life. If those who wanted to join him could not leave aside their personal ambitions, he would prefer to be alone.

  But just because certain behaviour is normal – even common among campaign commanders – it does not mean that expressing anger openly, even crudely, causes any less bitterness. Che’s former subordinates, those closest to him during his Cuban exploits, some of whom came to Argentina and some who could not come because they were black, and even comandantes of other columns in the Sierra Maestra, all wilted spiritually at his outbursts. Yet all followed his orders devotedly and were ready to give their lives for the privilege of fighting with him. It is hard to remember the past without falsifying the moment. It is not legitimate. I try to stick to the emotion I sensed, the tension I felt as a spectator, what I remember vibrating in the air like a harsh reproach. No one tried to escape the rage being unleashed, instead they tried to make their presence felt somehow, and guess where the needle of the barometer was pointing. Some felt tears of life streaming down their cheeks, disappearing into their parched beards, as if their souls were watering the relentless drought. Others looked in solidarity at the victims. Then they closed ranks around their leader, bruised but happy.

  The crucial thing, then, was to regain the initiative, and this needed some good field work, to find out exactly what was happening, what the army’s movements were, and to what extent these had affected the guerrillas’ control of their positions. Che devoted what was left of the day to planning meetings with his commanders, who immediately went to see that tasks were carried out, while the night fell upon the camp as military preparations intensified: some cooked, some mended clothes or cleaned their guns, or made inventories of the ammunition and equipment coming in and going out. It was back to work.

  I was part of the protective ambush set up at the entrance to the Base Camp, between the rocks and branches at the bend in the river. There was so much work to be done simultaneously that it was all hands to the pump, guerrillas and visitors alike, all except the very ill. It was not the ideal place to digest the heavy stew we had just eaten. Legs soaked from the knees down, boots like compressed ice, and horseflies and mosquitoes acting like a fifth column, it was torture to remain in a crouching position. To cap it all, as soon as the sun goes down, it is freezing in the jungle. I was shivering. Was it just the cold?

  29

  Che Reiterates His Strategic Objective: Argentina

  Sleeping curled up in a hammock under the nylon sheeting an inch from the face, held by a taut rope down the middle creating a sloping roof with the four points attached to the nearest undergrowth, was a very gratifying experience. When it rains, the rhythm of the raindrops lulls you to sleep, and your dreams soften the implacable harshness of reality. The pleasure does not last: a shift of guard duty breaks it in two. Sleep is reduced almost to nothing, the voice of the sentry saying ‘Reveille … !’, with a more or less amiable shove, wakes us from our warm reverie.

  The first around the fire would stress their voluntarism and accept tasks immediately. But the order of the day would be transmitted by Pombo (one of Che’s bodyguards) or someone else, after Che had met with each of his commanders. A group charged with exploring the Casa de Calamina, now in army hands, was to leave immediately, together with those relieving the advanced ambush. There were other tasks too, but the four visitors were at Che’s disposal, and he wanted to begin a round of discussions that same day.

  The first to be summoned was Chino from Peru, with whom Che had already started talking when he arrived at the previous camp at ‘El Oso’, but the conversation had not been finished. An hour later, Debray replaced Chino. After midday, Che came to get me, the conférence with Debray being over.

  He said: ‘Let’s find a place over there in the shade.’ We walked towards the stream and found a clearing to sit in, like a picnic lunch. Tiny midges were standing in for the mosquitoes. They are perhaps even worse, although mosquitoes seem to be like the Republican presidents of the United States, the last one is always the worst. Without more ado, he asked me, already in work mode: ‘I want you to tell me what Tania told yo
u when she met you in Córdoba.’ ‘That you wanted to see me’, I replied. ‘No, no. I want you to tell me how she said it to you. In her own words.’ ‘Ah, well. She said: ‘Che wants to see you.’

  His reaction was devastating. He jumped up shouting: ‘Tania, Tania’, and went back towards the camp. ‘Tell Tania to come here, right now.’ As if to show he intended to compare the versions, he walked back to where I was, although he remained standing, while I asked myself if I might have changed the wording. But no. I was sure, also because I remember being surprised that some meticulous codes created for our contacts and communiqués had been passed over just like that. Tania arrived a couple of minutes later, crashing through the undergrowth with gusto as she smiled happily, doubtless thinking she had been invited to the conclave. Her face changed from enthusiasm to consternation when Che started to question her angrily: ‘What did I tell you to say to Pelado when you met him in Córdoba?’ ‘That you wanted to see him’, said Tania. ‘No, no. Repeat what I told you to say. In the same words.’ Tania tried to recall, unsuccessfully, a moment that, in all probability, had escaped her among the thousands of messages, recommendations, security norms, passwords and phone calls that she had to remember when she left on one of those missions. ‘What was it you had to say … ?’ he insisted. ‘Who wanted to see him?’ ‘Well …’ remembered Tania. ‘Your former boss wants to see you.’ Recalling the words literally only made things worse for Tania. ‘And why the fuck didn’t you do it? What the fuck do I tell you things for? It’s the same old indiscipline, not listening to my orders …’

  And he went on with a tirade of insults against such practices. Tania had begun to snivel apologetically, explaining that she thought it was alright to talk to me frankly because she had never been checked out so thoroughly as she had been in Córdoba, when he started off again, more harshly: ‘Just like now, you’ve come here, where you shouldn’t be. Overriding my orders. We’re going to have to have a serious talk …’. And he sent her off angrily, implacable, despite the fact that Tania was going, dragging not only her wings, but her soul.

  There was a pause for him to fill his pipe and savour the strong Santa Cruz tobacco, and for me to devote myself to the tribulations of an exploring ant, which served as environmental relaxation. We sat down again, and renewed the conversation. ‘And what would you have thought?’ ‘That Masetti had risen from the grave somehow, or that it was you’, I replied. ‘And what would you have done?’ ‘Come, of course’, I replied.

  Such a surreal scene deserves some explanation. Readers may be surprised by the excessive importance given to semantics. The key is the ambiguity surrounding the sender of the message. If I thought that Masetti, rather than Che, had been resurrected and had rushed to see him – as I would have done – imagining him to be in a state of utter helplessness, with no documents, in hiding, or planning to return to the armed struggle, it would mean, in fact, that the project in itself and my participation in it was important, despite the defeat of the Salta guerrillas and my disagreement with some of Masetti’s mistakes. If, on the contrary, I understood that Che had sent the message, and I came – as I had done – it meant explicitly that the project and the leader were indivisible, independently of what had happened in the past. It is not difficult to see that he had hoped to see in my reaction a response of much greater scope. My arrival, after that cryptic summons, would have been an implicit and explicit response to that expectation of his. Che began: ‘Strategic objective. Seizing power in Argentina. Do you agree?’ ‘Of course’, I replied. ‘I want to enter Argentina through the area you were exploring, with two columns of about a hundred men, Argentines, in the space of no more than two years. Your work from now on will be to send them to me; I want you to coordinate what needs to be done to get the people here, the logistics of it. Try to maintain your cover as long as you can, before you are forced to join us as well. Do you agree?’ ‘Of course’, I repeated.

  Actually, I didn’t know what else to say. The decisions taken by the EGP leadership in Argentina before I left for Bolivia were clear, but confusing. My mandate stressed the fact that, after the Salta disaster, we were not in a position to send inexperienced youngsters to a region without a political or military infrastructure to guarantee a minimally functioning guerrilla force. The area was immense and riddled with border police, lords of the frontier passes, and of course the terrified minds of the few inhabitants. To start in that area would be to immediately confront the best-trained combat force in the country’s repressive apparatus with one that had only moderately good training and firepower. It would be repeating what had already happened: being isolated, without military capability, supply infrastructure, and, even worse now, without a rearguard. Our national leadership in Argentina rejected the idea of a foco. They were not, however, thinking of a plan like this, under Che’s direct leadership. This is what, for me, complicated the mandate I was charged with. Moreover, I was bound by the personal commitment I had made in Havana.

  Was finance available for putting into action a project of such importance? Che was reluctant to go into this. He said he did not want his plans to depend on money from the Cuban Revolution, but understood that it was inevitable at this stage, which was why we had to look after every cent. There must on no account be a repetition of the money squandered in Venezuela, which had cost Cuba millions of dollars. The main task was to reinforce and sustain the base here in Bolivia, where he thought columns from different countries could receive their baptism of fire, then, when the moment came, go home and continue the struggle. The idea would acquire mythical proportions.

  Truth to tell, however, we were at an impasse. Tania came under fire again when I told him that she had wanted me to come either immediately in that week in January, or at the end of February, beginning of March. Now they could not get me out until they saw how the situation with the police or army was unfolding. But there would be no contact with La Paz unless someone went there personally, so I would have to do it. But Papi and I needed to ‘tie up all the ends’ to do with Argentina, and I had to work with Pombo on supplies.

  Tying up the loose ends was not a problem. It was a question of creativity, ingenuity: passwords, drop boxes, variable methods of contacts, what to do in emergencies, checking and security systems, indirect communication, appropriate symbolism, classified ads instead of telephone numbers. Papi and I agreed on a basic system that we would try out and keep polishing. It was a great help that he had been in Argentina with us and knew our urban network.

  Harry Villegas, or Pombo, the nickname he was given in the Congo, was another veteran of Che’s column in Cuba. He would also be one of the survivors. In the camp, he was chief of logistics, and called all the shots by being in charge of supplies. The work conversation I had with him was like being in a surrealist play, and we let it go after a while. On the one hand, the guerrillas’ indispensable priorities: food, footwear, uniforms and medicine. On the other, the ideal amount of goods to be stored, in batches. For example: ten sacks of flour, ten of lentils, ten of beans, ten of sugar, tins of coffee, fat, oil, 100 pairs of large size boots (Bolivian soldiers generally wear small boots), 100 rucksacks, well … Two or three tons at least, with a military cordon around us and no fixed abode. My question was: ‘What tree do I leave it under?’ We stopped there, because we were already into realms of fantasy. What with contacts with La Paz and the rest of the world cut off indefinitely, and nobody knowing where the guerrilla would be next week.

  When we finished our chat, Che had told me to go after Tania, because he thought he had been hard on her. ‘Comfort her and help her … I’m in no mood for niceties’, he said.

  There was a different, more animated, mood in the air, a sense of fair weather in the offing, calm and enjoyable; the feeling you get, without knowing why, when spring is on its way. Che gave orders that we be supplied with our own weapons, not borrow them for guard duty or hunting as we had done previously. I got an M2 automatic rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition,
which I had to carry in a sock, and the rest of the visitors, including Tania, got an M1. We walked round the camp checking out the infrastructure. When we passed the amphitheatre, Che announced that classes would be starting. He told Tania to take some photos. Anecdotes and comments about his presumed disappearance from the Cuban scene, and the surprise that his reappearance in Ñancahuazú would be, took the place of champagne bubbles.

  30

  The First Battle: 23 March 1967

  I was on guard duty until midnight and Che kept me company, reiterating quietly what we had talked about that morning. We gradually turned to more personal matters, however, as if this kind of family stuff could not be dealt with during working hours.

  He said that, obviously, he could not give me letters to take, but I could perhaps visit his father, if I could find a way that was 100 per cent discreet. His mother had died while he was in the Congo and he had been unable to make a single visible gesture of grief for her. The same thing could happen in reverse. I could also contact his sister Ana María and tell her ‘everything she wanted to know’. He suggested I visit Ana María Oliver, a prestigious Argentine writer whom he had met in Havana and admired very much. She could, he thought, represent him with dignity among Argentine intellectuals in order to promote the revolutionary struggle and its aims. The conversation was very nostalgic, and unusually intimate. He talked about his Cuban family too, his children, whom he had barely had time to kiss goodbye. He asked me about mine, about my daughters, ending with a paradox: the ideal situation for a revolutionary guerrilla is to be single, with no family, despite the fact that everything that moves us to take action is related to life, and family. The change of guard duty shift sent us to bed.