The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [277]
“Long live Marshal Floriano!”
Colonel Silva Telles gives orders to proceed to A Favela. “It goes against the official rules of military tactics to leap into the lion’s mouth in unknown terrain,” Captain Almeida snorts to the lieutenants and the sergeants as he gives them their final instructions. “Advance like scorpions, first one little step here, then another and another, keep your proper distance apart, and watch out for surprises.” It doesn’t strike Sergeant Frutuoso as an intelligent move either to proceed like this in the dark since they know that the enemy is somewhere between the first column and their own. All of a sudden, the proximity of danger occupies his mind entirely; from his position at the head of his squad he sniffs the stony expanse to the right and to the left.
The fusillade begins all at once, very close, intense, drowning out the sound of the bugle commands from A Favela that are guiding them. “Get down, get down!” the sergeant roars, flattening himself against the sharp stones. He pricks up his ears: are the shots coming from the right? Yes, from the right. “They’re on your right,” he roars. “Fire away, boys.” And as he shoots, supporting himself on his left elbow, he thinks to himself that thanks to these English bandits he is seeing strange things, such as withdrawing from a skirmish that’s already been won and fighting in the dark, trusting that God will guide the bullets they are firing against the invaders. Won’t they end up hitting their own troops instead? He remembers several maxims that he has drilled into his men: “A wasted bullet weakens the one who wastes it; shoot only when you can see what you’re shooting at.” His men must be laughing like anything. From time to time, amid the gunfire, curses and groans can be heard. Finally the order comes to cease fire; the bugles blow again from A Favela, summoning them. Captain Almeida orders the company to hug the ground till he is certain that the bandits have been driven off. Sergeant Frutuoso Medrado’s chasseurs lead the march.
“Eight yards between companies. Sixteen between battalions. Fifty between brigades.” Who can maintain the proper distance in the dark? The Official Rule Book of Tactics also states that a squad leader must go to the rear of his unit during an advance, to the head during a charge, and to the center when in square formation. The sergeant nonetheless goes to the head of his squad, thinking that if he positions himself in the rear his men may lose courage, nervous as they are at marching in this darkness where every so often the shooting starts again. Every half hour, every hour, perhaps every ten minutes—he can no longer tell, since these lightning attacks, which last almost no time at all, which tell on their nerves much more than on their bodies, have made him lose all notion of time—a rain of bullets forces them to hit the dirt and respond with another just like it, more for reasons of honor than of effectiveness. He suspects that the attackers are few in number, perhaps only two or three men. But the fact that the darkness gives the English an advantage, since they can see the patriots while the latter can’t see them, makes the sergeant feel edgy and tires him badly. And what can it be like for his men if he, with all his experience, feels that way?
At times, the bugle calls from A Favela seem to be coming from farther away. The calls and the ones in answer set the cadence of the march. There are two brief halts, so that the soldiers may drink a little water and casualties may be counted. Captain Almeida’s company has suffered none, unlike Captain Noronha