Obviously annoyed, the commander told me that the rebels had shot at (and missed) an English couple working as missionaries in one of the government schools a few weeks before. It was obviously a case of mistaken identity, for the rebels rarely intentionally killed those ‘helping the cause’.
But then, he added, ‘It’s the mistakes we worry about.’
Battalion headquarters at San Miguel, our base (or more commonly, the cuartel), was a fort in the old tradition that might well have featured in one of those movies originally made about Mexico’s Pancho Villa.
The walls, 15 feet high, were painted in a gaudy combination of brown, green and yellow dazzle. The corners rose into French Foreign Legion machicolations and this Disneyland effect could not have been intentional since it had been built more than a century ago to defend the eastern part of the country when insurrection was endemic.
Over the main gate was a sign: yellow letters on black:
The name Arce (pronounced Arcey) commemorated one of the fathers of the nation, General Manuel José Arce. It was a tough, efficient special unit that had seen its share of action in the war and, until then, hadn’t disgraced itself.
Security here too was tight. A strongly held sandbagged guard post about 50 yards from the main entrance commanded access to two roads leading directly to the fort. Almost always, the guards looked as if they expected trouble. It was an exposed position and they were occasionally sniped at, although that didn’t stop mothers and sisters from hanging about outside while waiting for a chance to visit their menfolk.
Once inside the great doors, things were more relaxed. Soldiers not on duty lounged about in T-shirts and shorts playing board games or futbol on the soccer field out back. Much of the rest of the area was dominated by cavernous warehouses which also served as barracks. Officers were billeted more comfortably near the battalion HQ, set somewhat apart. All windows in the outer walls were covered with wire mesh for protection, though occasionally someone would manage to throw a grenade over the walls.
I was surprised how crude the barracks were, terribly overcrowded and none too clean. The men slept in long rows of stacked iron beds; three, four, even five levels high. There was almost no space for stowing uniforms or equipment and the troops made little heaps of their belongings along the walls. Anything of value was carried in pouches on their belts.
We ate with the troops and the food was execrable. Even in the officers’ mess the cuisine was deadly dull; again mostly beans. The colonel, as we’d been made aware before we arrived, preferred to eat out.
It was at the Arce Battalion headquarters that I first saw large numbers of men who had become landmine casualties.
‘Why don’t you send the crippled ones home? They’re no longer of any use to you in this war,’ somebody asked our escort, a major.
He answered without hesitation:
The first and most important reason why they are still here is that they are mostly peasant boys from this area. If we sent them back to their villages in the mountains, they’d be fingered as having fought against the guerrillas… obviously they would be killed.
More important, this base – this camp – was their home before it all happened. If they want to go, of course they can. At any time. Meanwhile, they stay here. We’re happy to have them.
In any event, he added, they were family, and the unit took some pride in looking after them. ‘Maybe some time there will be money and we can get some equipment to help them.’
The battalion had a proud combat record. Situated as it was in one of the most contested zones of the war – with Nicaragua just across the bay – there was a lively esprit de corps. Every evening at stand-to the men would sing the regimental chorus, lustily and with good effect. It was stirring stuff and could be heard by everybody in town.
Every one of these younger compañeros (few of whom had reached their majority age) willingly went about his duties. That could not always be said for some of the other units we visited. If one were to judge by the number of Arce crests about (a yellow dagger on green surrounded by red) each one of them understood exactly where his loyalties lay.
El Ejercito Vivira. Mientras Viva La Republica was the battle cry. It, too, was blazoned in bold yellow letters above the main gate.