The Time of the Hero

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “Brigadiers, front and center!” Gamboa said. Arróspide and two other cadets stepped forward. “Company, at ease!”

  The lieutenant walked a few steps away, followed by the noncoms and the three brigadiers. Then he squatted down and scratched lines and crosses on the ground as he explained the details of the various stages of the attack. “Do you understand the placement of the troops?” Gamboa asked, and his five subordinates nodded. “Good. The combat groups will begin fanning out as soon as the order to advance is given. And fanning out doesn’t mean ganging up like sheep, it means keeping apart but in a skirmish line. Understand? Good. Our company attacks the south front, the one we’re facing. See it?”

  The noncoms and brigadiers looked up at the hill and nodded.

  “What are the instructions for the advance, Sir?” Morte asked. The brigadiers turned to look at him and the noncom flushed.

  “I’m coming to that,” Gamboa said. “Forward ten yards at a time. Periodic advance. The cadets will run ten yards as fast as they can, then hit the dirt…and if anybody digs his rifle in the dirt, I’ll kick his ass from here to the guardhouse. When everybody in the first line is down on the ground, I’ll blow the whistle again and the second line will fire. Just one round. Understand? As soon as they’ve fired, they’ll run forward ten yards and hit the dirt. The third line will fire and run forward. Then we’ll repeat it from the beginning. All the movements should be done at my commands. We’ll keep it up till we’re a hundred yards from the objective. Then the sections should close in a little so as to keep out of the terrain where the other companies are. The final attack will be made by the three sections at once. The hill should be almost clear by then, with only a few enemy positions left.”

  “How long do we have to take the objective?” Morte asked.

  “An hour,” Gamboa said. “But that’s my problem. You noncoms and brigadiers have to watch out that your men don’t spread out too much or get too close together. And don’t let anybody lag behind. Also, keep in contact with me, in case I need you.”

  “Do we brigadiers go first or last?” Arróspide asked.

  “Brigadiers in the first line, noncoms at the rear. Any more questions? Good. Go brief the squad leaders. We’ll be starting in fifteen minutes.”

  The noncoms and brigadiers went off on the double. Gamboa saw Capt. Garrido coming and was about to stand up, but the Piranha motioned that he should remain squatting. Both of them watched the cadets, who had broken up into groups of twelve. They tightened their belts, knotted their bootlaces more securely, pulled down their caps, wiped the dust off their rifles, checked their slings.

  “They like this,” the captain said. “The morons. Just look at them. You’d think they were going to a dance.”

  “I know,” Gamboa said. “They believe in war.”

  “If they ever had to fight a real battle,” the captain said, “they’d all be cowards or deserters. But lucky for them, the only shooting we ever do is on maneuvers. I don’t think Peru will ever have an honest-to-God war.”

  “But Captain,” Gamboa said, “we’re surrounded by enemies. You know yourself that Ecuador and Colombia are just waiting for the right moment to take a piece of the jungle away from us. And we still haven’t got even with Chile for Arica and Tarapacá.”

  “That’s just talk,” the captain said. “Nowadays everything gets settled by the big powers. I was in the campaign against Ecuador in ’41. We could’ve gone all the way to Quito, but no, the big powers had to butt in and find a diplomatic solution. The nerve of them! The civilians end up deciding everything. It doesn’t mean a damned thing to be a soldier in Peru any more.”

  “It used to be different,” Gamboa said.

  Pezoa and the six cadets came running back. The captain called to him. “Have you covered the whole hill?”

  “Yes, Captain. It’s completely clear.”

  “It’s almost nine, Captain,” Gamboa said. “I’m going to begin.”

  “Go ahead,” the captain said. And he added, with a sudden gust of peevishness, “Give those lazy bastards a good workout.”

  Gamboa returned to the company. He looked them over, from one end to the other, as if he were estimating their hidden possibilities, the limits of their endurance, the extent of their courage. His head was tilted back a little. The wind fluttered his combat shirt and the wisps of black hair that stuck out from under his cap.

  “Goddamn it, spread out!” he shouted. “Do you want to get yourselves butchered? There should be at least five yards between each man. Do you think you’re going to Mass?”

  The squad leaders left their places and shouted to the cadets to separate. The three lines grew longer and sparser.

  “It’s going to be a zigzag advance,” Gamboa said. He spoke in a loud voice so that they could hear him at both ends of the lines. “You were taught about that in the Third. So make sure you don’t advance one behind the other. This isn’t a parade. And if anybody doesn’t hit the dirt when I give the command, or gets ahead or behind against my orders, he’s a corpse. And the corpses won’t get a pass on Saturday or Sunday. Is that clear?”

  He turned toward Capt. Garrido, but the captain seemed distracted: he was gazing off at the horizon with wandering eyes. Gamboa raised the whistle to his lips. There was a brief stirring in the lines.

  “First attack line, ready for action! Brigadiers in the lead, noncoms in the rear.”

  He looked at his watch again. It was exactly nine o’clock. He gave a long blast on his whistle. The sharp sound startled the captain and hurt his ears. He realized that for a few moments he had forgotten all about the exercises, and he felt rather guilty. He walked over into the scrub behind the company to follow the action.

  Before the sound of the whistle died, Capt. Garrido could see the first attack line surge forward in three groups. The cadets ran at top speed, fanning out like the tail of a peacock. They ran bent over, following the brigadiers, carrying their rifles upright in their right hands, the muzzle pointing at the sky, the butt a few inches from the ground. Then there was a second blast on the whistle, shorter than the first but sharper and further off—Gamboa had run off to one side to control the movements—and suddenly the line vanished among the weeds as if felled by a whirlwind. The captain was reminded of the tin soldiers in a shooting gallery when the BB’s knocked them over. Then he could hear Gamboa roaring: “Why did that group get ahead? Rospigliosi, you horse’s ass, do you want to get shot? Keep your rifles out of the dirt!” The whistle blew again, and the line sprang up out of the weeds and advanced on the run. A moment later, at another blast from the whistle, it vanished again, and Gamboa’s voice was lost in the distance. The captain could hear loud curses and unfamiliar names, could see the first line advancing, then his attention was distracted by the other two lines. The cadets had forgotten that the captain was nearby: they were shouting to each other, making fun of those who had gone ahead with Gamboa. “That Negro Vallano flops like a frog, he must have rubber bones. And that shitty Slave, he’s afraid he’ll scratch his face.”

  Suddenly Gamboa appeared before the captain, shouting: “Second attack line, ready for action!” The squad leaders raised their right hands, the thirty-six cadets stood tense and motionless. Capt. Garrido looked at Gamboa. His face was calm but he was clenching his fists and his eyes were bright and restless: they jumped everywhere, glittering, glowering, smiling. The second line rushed forward, the cadets grew smaller, the lieutenant ran beside them with his whistle in his hand.

  Now the captain could see two lines spread out in the field, alternately dropping down and leaping up. They gave a semblance of life to that inanimate landscape. But he could not see whether the cadets hit the ground in the prescribed manner: left knee, left hip, left elbow, with the rifle against their ribs instead of in the dirt. Nor whether the combat groups were keeping together. Nor whether the brigadiers were still out in front, like spearheads, but without losing contact with the lieutenant. And then Gamboa reappeared, h
is face as calm as before but with fire in his eyes. He blew his whistle and the last line ran toward the hill, followed by the noncoms. There were three lines advancing now, further and further away, and the captain was left alone in the spiny scrub. He stayed there for several minutes, thinking how slow, how sluggish the cadets were, compared to the soldiers or the graduates of the Military School.

  Then he walked on behind the company, using his fieldglasses. From a distance, the operation looked like a simultaneous advance and retreat: when the first line hit the ground, the second charged past them and took the lead, and then the third line replaced the second. On the next advance, the three lines returned to their original order, and seconds later they merged into a single line. Gamboa waved his hands and shouted, he seemed to be aiming and shooting at certain cadets with his finger. Capt. Garrido could not hear him but he could guess what he was saying.

  And suddenly the captain heard the firing. He looked at his watch. Right, he thought. Exactly nine-thirty. He raised his field glasses, and saw that the first line had reached the prescribed position. Then he looked up at the targets but could not make out the hits. He ran forward about twenty yards and raised his glasses again. This time he could see that the targets had a dozen perforations. The soldiers are better, he thought, but these cadets are going to be reserve officers when they graduate. It’s scandalous. He kept moving ahead, without taking the glasses from his eyes. The lines continued to advance ten yards at a time. The second line fired, and the echo had scarcely died when the whistle ordered the front and rear lines to advance. The cadets looked very small against the horizon as they ran and then threw themselves down. Another whistle blast and another line fired. After each round of firing the captain inspected the targets and estimated the hits. As the company neared the hill, their shooting was more accurate: the targets were riddled by now. He looked at the faces of the cadets who were firing. They were red, infantile, beardless faces, one eye closed and the other fixed on the sight. The recoil jarred those young bodies, but although their shoulders hurt already, they would have to leap up, run forward, hit the ground and fire again, surrounded by an atmosphere of violence that was only a simulacrum. Capt. Garrido knew that war was not like that.

  A moment later he noticed a green silhouette, and he would have stepped on it if he had not swerved in time; he also saw a rifle with its muzzle buried in the ground, against all the instructions for the care of weapons. He could not guess the meaning of that fallen body and gun. He leaned over. The boy’s face was distorted with pain and his mouth and eyes were wide open. The bullet had struck him in the head. A little stream of blood ran down his neck.

  The captain dropped the field glasses he was carrying in his hand. He picked up the cadet, putting one arm under his shoulders and the other under his legs, and began running headlong toward the hill, shouting, “Lieutenant Gamboa, Lieutenant Gamboa!” But he had to run a number of yards before they could hear him. The first company—identical green beetles clambering up the slope toward the targets—was too absorbed in Gamboa’s commands and the effort of climbing to look behind. The captain tried to locate the lieutenant’s light-colored uniform or one of the noncoms. Suddenly the beetles stopped and turned around, and the captain realized he was being watched by dozens of cadets. “Gamboa, noncoms!” he shouted. “Come here, hurry!” The cadets were running down the hill toward him and he felt foolish with that boy in his arms. I’ve got a dog’s luck, he thought. The colonel’s going to put this on my record.

  Gamboa was the first to reach him. He stared at the cadet in astonishment and bent over to look closer, but the captain shouted, “Quick, get him to the infirmary! As quick as you can!”

  The two noncoms, Morte and Pezoa, picked up the body and started racing across the field. They were followed by the captain, the lieutenant, and the cadets. The cadets came running up from all directions to take a shocked look at that face as it bobbed up and down: a pale, emaciated face which all of them recognized.

  “Faster,” the captain said, “faster.”

  Suddenly Gamboa grabbed the cadet away from the noncoms, hoisted him onto his shoulders, and ran ahead. In only a few seconds he was already several yards away.

  “Cadets,” the captain shouted, “stop the first car that comes by!”

  The cadets left the noncoms and cut across the field on the run. The captain remained behind, with Morte and Pezoa.

  “Is he from the first company?” he asked.

  “Yes, Captain,” Pezoa said. “The first section.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ricardo Arana, Captain.” He hesitated for an instant, then added: “They call him the Slave.”

  Part Two

  I’m twenty years old. Don’t let anyone tell me it is the most beautiful period of life.

  —PAUL NIZAN

  1

  I feel sorry for poor Skimpy, last night she kept howling and howling. I wrapped her up in my blanket, and even put my pillow on her, but you could still hear the noise she was making. Every little while she seemed to be choking and suffocating, and her howling was terrible, it woke up the whole barracks. It wouldn’t’ve made so much difference before, but now they’re all so nervous they started to swear and shout insults and tell me, “Get her out of here or else,” and I had to talk tough with some of them from my bunk. By midnight it was just too much. I was as sleepy as the rest and Skimpy kept howling louder and louder. Finally some of them got up and came over to my bunk with boots in their hands. I didn’t want to have a fight with the whole section, now that we’re all so upset anyway. So I pulled her out of my bunk and carried her down to the patio and left her there, but the minute I turned my back I could tell she was following me and I had to bawl her out. “Shut up, you bitch, and stay where I put you.” But Skimpy kept following me, with her bad leg held up so it wouldn’t touch the ground, and it was pitiful to see how hard she tried to catch up with me. Then I picked her up again and carried her out to the field, I put her down in the weeds and scratched her neck for a while, then I came back and this time she didn’t follow me. But I didn’t sleep well, in fact I didn’t sleep at all. Just when I’d be falling asleep, bang, my eyes’d open by themselves and I’d start thinking about the poor dog, and besides that I started sneezing because I didn’t put on my shoes when I took her out to the patio, also my pajamas are full of holes and I think there must’ve been a cold wind, maybe it was even raining. Poor Skimpy, freezing out there, and she always feels the cold so much. Lots of times I’ve made her angry at night because I turn over and she gets uncovered. She growls a little and pulls at the blanket with her teeth until she’s covered up again, or she burrows down to the foot of the bed so she can feel the warmth from my feet. Dogs are very faithful, more so than relatives, no doubt about that. Skimpy is a mongrel, a mixture of every kind of dog, but she’s got a heart of gold. I don’t remember when she came to the Academy. I’m sure nobody brought her here, she was going by one day and decided to come in and look around. She liked it, so she stayed. I think she was already in the Academy when we arrived. Maybe she was even born here, she may be a native of the Leoncio Prado. When I first noticed her she was very small, she kept coming into the section all the time, beginning with the days of the initiation, she seemed to think it was her home, if anybody from the Fourth came in she rushed at his feet and barked and tried to bite him. And she was stubborn, they’d send her flying with a kick but she’d get up and charge again, still barking and showing her teeth, the little teeth of a half-grown pup. She’s full-grown now, she must be over three years old, that’s old for a dog because they don’t live too long, especially if they’re mongrels and don’t get much to eat. I don’t remember ever seeing Skimpy eat very much. Sometimes I toss scraps to her, they’re the best meal she gets. She doesn’t eat grass, she only chews it for the juice and then spits it out. She’ll take a mouthful of grass and chew it for hours and hours like an Indian chewing coca. She was always around in the section and som
e of them said she had fleas and they ran her out, but Skimpy always came back, they chased her away a hundred times but a few minutes later the door began creaking a little and you could see her muzzle down at the bottom next to the floor. We had to laugh at how stubborn she was, and sometimes we let her in and played with her. I don’t know who thought of calling her Skimpy. Nobody ever knows where nicknames come from. When they started calling me the Boa, I laughed at first but then I got mad and asked everybody, who made it up, but they just said What’s-his-name and now I can’t get rid of that nickname, they even use it in the neighborhood. I think it must’ve been Vallano. He was always telling me, “Give us a demonstration, piss over your belt,” or “Show us that cock of yours that hangs down to your knees.” But I’m not sure it was Vallano after all.

  Alberto felt someone grasp his arm. He could not recognize the cadet’s face, but nevertheless the boy was smiling at him as if they knew each other. A shorter cadet was standing behind him. He could not see them clearly: it was only six in the afternoon, but the fog had already come in from the sea. They were in the patio of the Fifth, near the parade ground. Groups of cadets were passing back and forth.

  “Wait a minute, Poet,” the boy said. “You know all kinds of things, is it true that ovary means the same as balls, only feminine?”

  “Let go,” Alberto said. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Don’t be like that. It won’t take a minute. We’ve got a bet on.”

  “About a song,” the smaller one said, coming forward. “A Bolivian song. He’s half Bolivian and he knows some songs from there. Strange kinds of songs. Go ahead, sing it for him so he can see.”

  “I told you to let go,” Alberto said. “I haven’t got time.”