24

FOR FREE TIME after dinner, the common room boasted satellite television, a VHS, board games and playing cards, although most recruits went straight to their hammocks. I was unable to join them, owing to my punishment. While others relaxed, I worked alone in the shipping container, listening to the slow thump of the diesel generator, organising shelves and making supply lists.

What Alfa 1 had intended as a punishment, I was determined to convert into positive learning. I enjoyed being on my own. I learned about weapons and improved my logistical skills. More importantly, it kept my mind occupied.

Working logistics in the armoury was similar to ordering and inventorying supplies for Papá’s storage shed, although on a grander scale. Both entailed predicting needs and planning for contingencies. The camp required building materials, diesel for generators, medical supplies and various hardware products. We also needed food for a hundred and thirty-five people, including pallets of rice and gallons of cooking oil that were delivered to the gate every week.

One of the ways the government tried to prevent supplies reaching the Guerrilla was restricting the purchase and sale of certain items. Guns, bullets, camouflage fabric for uniforms, green fabric for police uniforms, VHF and UHF radios with more than two kilometres range, and even armoured civilian cars were all considered ‘war matériel’ and required a licence from the Defence Ministry. Legitimate importers and distributors would be taking a risk selling on the black market. But for the right price, people will do anything.

The container also had a desk and two tall, grey metal filing cabinets. Culebra was in charge of the armoury, and I was glad to be working with him rather than Beta. I soon noticed his weakness, which was laziness. He appreciated my diligence since it meant less work for him.

‘If you trust me to lock up,’ I said, ‘I’ll finish the count. You sleep.’

I fell easily into the role, organising my own system, placing orders for spare parts and writing shopping lists for Culebra’s supply runs into Puerto Bontón. We had our trusted black market suppliers for restricted items, and phoning them to place orders became my responsibility. I kept a petty cash float, a ledger of purchases and, eventually, Culebra even told me the safe combination. The only unpleasant thing about working in the armoury was the heat. One sweltering day, when Culebra complained about it, I tentatively said, ‘Why not cut a small window above the desk to let hot air escape?’

He cut the window that very day, a thirty centimetre by thirty centimetre square that he covered with wire mesh. Culebra might have been lazy, but not when it came to his own comfort.

Another of my jobs was to help repair weapons. When a weapon malfunctioned, Culebra consigned it to the repairs box. There it might remain for months until replacement parts were imported or, if it had only a minor fault, until Culebra had time to fix it using a part from another decommissioned weapon. A tiny component could prevent an entire pistol from working. One might have a broken firing pin, another a magazine that jammed or a faulty trigger spring.

Culebra taught me how to disassemble the damaged weapons and search for the required part. Most of the pistols were Taurus PT92s – the same type Tango and Murgas had shown me at El Filtro. Manufactured in Brazil, they were inexpensive and had few working parts.

‘When will we learn to fire one of these?’ I asked Culebra.

‘You won’t,’ he said. ‘Not during basic training.’

As recruits, we’d use Galil rifles. Pistols were only for commanders; the perimeter guards were being taught to use them as part of their advanced training course. But I needed to learn to use a pistol before I went after my father’s killers. A rifle was too large to steal, and anyway, I wanted Papá’s murderers up close.

‘Would you teach me to shoot one?’

He laughed. ‘Maybe one day.’ He was just brushing me off, but I resolved to change his mind.

Ten days into the training, Culebra had just returned from purchasing supplies in Puerto Bontón. I was helping him unload the bags from the camp’s Chevrolet Blazer SUV when Alfa 1 approached us.

‘We need more electrical tape urgently,’ he said to Culebra. Tape hadn’t been on Alfa 1’s shopping list. I could see Culebra wanted to roll his eyes, but instead he took a deep breath and opened the Blazer door.

‘I can drive,’ I offered.

Alfa 1 laughed. ‘You’re fifteen.’

‘I’ve been driving on our finca since I was twelve. And I have a licence.’

‘Is it valid?’

They waited while I went to my locker to fetch it. On my way back, I realised that if Alfa 1 examined it closely he’d know I’d lied about my name. I was sweating as I handed it over, but he merely glanced at it before handing it back.

‘No recruits allowed off La 50 alone. Prove you can be trusted. Then we’ll see.’ My heart sank until he turned to Culebra and added, ‘Pedro will drive. You supervise and report back to me later.’

I now accompanied Culebra whenever he bought supplies in Puerto Bontón. Culebra was content as I was the one driving and carrying heavy bags of provisions while he ‘supervised’. And I’d come to the attention of Alfa 1. After that, I sometimes saw him watching me thoughtfully, and I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or nervous. On the one hand, Alfa 1’s attention might put me in line for a promotion. But he was also more likely to notice if I deviated from the rules, and that could be very dangerous.

There were many rules in the Paramilitaries and many punishments for breaking them. Some were financial punishments in which fines, called multas, were deducted from your wages. Accidentally dropping your weapon, for example, might cost ten dollars. Most punishments, however, involved forms of physical torture.

‘Think you’re here for a romantic holiday?’ Culebra yelled at Silvestre, simply for whispering to Piolín. ‘Fifty push-ups.’

Once the commanders singled a boy out for punishment, they waited for him to make more mistakes. When Silvestre was overheard by Beta joking that he had a destiny to eat some Tweetie Bird pie, he was punished with El Suplicio Chino – The Chinese Torture. Facing down, he had to support his weight on his toes and forearms and keep his body straight like a plank for two minutes. The moment a knee touched the ground, the trainers struck him hard with his own wooden rifle and the clock started again.

Seeing Silvestre being beaten by the instructors, I worried about Palillo. At school, Palillo had played the class clown. I feared that his impulsiveness, rebelliousness, or interest in Piolín would get him in trouble. During class I sat next to him tensely, ready to nudge him to keep quiet.

In the second week, on payday, we were permitted a three-minute phone call from the office. This was a great privilege, Beta told us. Guerrilla soldiers were banned from ever contacting their families again.

Beta sat nearby to make sure we didn’t give away information about our location. Most recruits said they were working on an African oil palm plantation. They’d see their families at the end of sixteen weeks and would phone again when they could.

When my turn came, I considered calling Mamá but was still too angry with her.

‘Don’t you want to let her know you’re okay?’ asked Culebra.

Instead of calling, I arranged to have my salary deposited into my parents’ account at the Agricultural Bank. That way, Mamá would know I was alive.

Later, during question time in Alfa 1’s political class, Tango raised his hand. Perhaps after contact with the outside world he’d grown overconfident.

‘Murgas and I were told we’d be paid four hundred dollars per month.’

Alfa 1’s face flashed menacingly like lightning on the horizon. ‘On the first day I told you the pay and asked if anyone joined against his will. And now you two dare question me?’

For insubordination, Alfa 1 gave the brothers the harshest punishment to date. Two days tied to wooden posts in their underwear in the blazing sun, a punishment known as El Soleado – Sunstroke. They received no food but enough water to keep them alive. Blistered and weak, they rejoined our table on the third morning.

Punishments were given arbitrarily and were often completely disproportionate to the offence. But the commanders’ message was clear: there was nothing we could do to question or defy them. They owned us completely.

Of course, the girls were treated leniently. They talked and giggled without being reprimanded, and the commanders went easy on them during physical training. This was part of the system of penalties and inducements used to win them over. Although Tortuga always finished the obstacle course long after Ñoño and outside the maximum time permitted, nothing was said.

Whenever I saw a new punishment meted out to another boy, I tried to train myself to survive that punishment. During free time, I practised push-ups, sit-ups and pack runs with bricks. Some days I refused to eat, giving my food to Palillo. Other days I didn’t drink, no matter how hot and thirsty I became. To practise for when we’d have to do guard duty, I kept my eyes open all night.

I wanted to make myself tough enough to handle anything they threw my way. If Alfa 1 punished me, I’d take it and thrive. I aimed to be the best recruit of my intake and earn promotion. The faster I rose through the ranks, the sooner I’d gain the skills and the opportunities to go after Papá’s killers.

I tried to occupy every waking minute so I wouldn’t have time to think. But when I did have a moment’s rest, my thoughts invariably returned to Papá. I liked to remember him in our happy times, fishing on Sundays, sitting in our pew at the church or at the family dinner table with Mamá serving roast beef.

I still woke from nightmares, covered in sweat. In my dreams, Papá now died in different ways: drowning in the river where we fished, while I desperately tried to pluck him from the rapids, or thrown head-first through the windscreen of our truck when I ran a stop sign and collided with a bus.

There were only two constant elements to the nightmares: Papá always died violently and the fault was always mine.

 

In connection with my work in the armoury I sometimes had to go to the office, where I overheard the trainers’ phone calls, radio communications and snippets of conversation. By staying as still as a spider, I could get them to forget I was there and talk freely.

Culebra grew careless and left files open. One day, when I was alone in the container, I passed the desk and saw a face I recognised: Ratón’s. The photo was slightly blurry, as though taken through a long-distance lens. It was lying on a sheet of paper in an open manila folder on the desk.

I looked over my shoulder guiltily. Then I slid the photo across and scanned the words on the page below:

 

CHAPA:		Daniel Joaquin Gómez.
APODO:		Ratón
UNIT:		34th Unit, Vichada Province
RESPONSIBILITIES:		Recruitment, logistics, and community liaison
LAST REPORTED SIGHTING:		2nd November 20––, seen buying supplies in Villavicencio by a civilian informant

 

Finally, I’d found the first useful clue in the hunt for my father’s killers. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could trace the Guerrilla using their supplies. Necessities such as food, oil and antibiotics they could buy from any corner store or marketplace. But provisions such as camouflage uniforms, military hardware and specialised batteries required authorised distributors. That was how I’d get to Ratón. According to the file, he’d last been sighted buying supplies in Villavicencio only six weeks earlier. And I already knew what one of his regular purchases must be – batteries for the Motorola radio through which he’d received the order for Papá’s execution.