“Francisco Vasquez.” The youngster grinned. “Mis amigos call me Cisco.”
“Thanks for talking with me, Cisco. My name’s Don Hardy.” Cisco seemed momentarily taken aback, and Hardy remembered something about “don” being an honorific like “lord” in the old Spanish empire. He hurried to explain. “Don as is Donald, not Don Quixote. How long have you been with the 65th infantry?”
“Just a few weeks.”
Hardy was surprised. “Didn’t you have basic training in Puerto Rico?”
Cisco shook his head. “They gave me a uniform and put me on a boat for Korea,” he said. “Once I got here, they gave me a rifle and estos soldados viejos taught me how to shoot. A lot of us here are like that.”
Hardy stopped writing. “That’s it for training?”
“Si. Esa es la verdad.”
Hardy shook his head. If that truly was the extent of the training Private Vasquez — and possibly the others had received — it explained a lot about their less-than-military appearance. At least this young soldier spoke some English. For those Puerto Ricans who only knew Spanish, Hardy couldn’t imagine what it must be like not to understand what the officers were saying.
Hardy felt sympathy for these men. He could see that they had drawn the short straw in more ways than one, both as second-rate soldiers and citizens. The trouble was that many officers expressed only disgust for these men who were fighting for their country. Hardy thought it wasn’t right and was glad for a chance to write about it.
“I’m not all that surprised by what you just told me,” Hardy responded. “I wasn’t here then, but I heard that there were a lot of guys rushed through basic training so that they had troops over here, especially last year when it looked like the Chinese and North Koreans were going to overrun the peninsula. Sometimes, basic training was shortened to two weeks.”
Cisco held up two fingers and grinned. “Dos semanas? Wow! More like dos dias por mio!”
What Cisco Vasquez didn’t add was that life as a Borinqueneer wasn’t so bad, once you got used to it. So far, he had come through the limited fighting unscathed. There was enough to eat, including the daily beans and rice, and plenty of camaraderie among the enlisted men. Many tended to treat Cisco like their little brother and took him under their wing. The fact that he spoke English gave him a small measure of importance because he could communicate with the officers and mainland soldiers.
He had come from a large family of eight brothers and sisters in Puerto Rico. That was a lot of mouths to feed, and so it was with some relief that his parents received the news that he had enlisted. There were a few middle-class Puerto Rican families — doctors and business owners or higher-ranking officials of the government. For everyone else, life was mostly a struggle. Many young people left for places like New York City or joined the military like Cisco because it was their best option for a better life.
He wasn’t even eighteen yet, but that didn’t stop the recruiter. The United States needed soldiers to fight the war in Korea, and Puerto Rico was eager to do its part.
Always, there was the carrot that the United States held out that Puerto Rico might someday become a state if the island did its part in the Korean War.
“You will grow to be a man,” the recruiter had said, giving Cisco’s thin biceps a squeeze. “When you return, you will need to beat the girls off with a stick!”
That had sounded good to Cisco. But in his first skirmish, Cisco had quickly realized that he would be lucky to get home to his island again. War proved deadly and terrifying. Everything had been so confusing, with explosions and bullets whistling overhead. He had struggled to load and fire his unfamiliar rifle, but he did the best he could. He was a Borinqueneer now, and the Borinqueneers did not run from a fight.
But when one of the officers shouted an order in English, the men around him had not known what to do. “Que? Que?” they asked. The noise of battle added to the confusion and uncertainly.
Cisco had found himself translating the orders as best he could. He soon found himself assigned to be a runner, carrying messages from the officers to the Spanish-speaking squads in the field. It was a dangerous task, but Cisco had never shirked from danger. It was also an assignment of some importance. The others depended on him now, never mind the fact that he was young and inexperienced. He was glad that his abuela had made him practice English.
Of course, he did not share any of this with the reporter. It was more than the reporter wanted to know.
“How’s the food?” the reporter asked. “I hear that you guys prefer rice and beans over C rations.”
Cisco smiled and nodded. Here was a question that he could answer.
“A Puerto Rican soldier fights on rice and beans. What good will canned food do him? Canned food feeds the belly but not the soul.”
The reporter wrote it all down.
Chapter Twelve
Like a faucet turned on, the monsoon rains came down. To Cole, the volume of water coming down reminded him of a summer downpour in the mountains, but whereas those thunderstorms unleashed their fury and rolled on through, these monsoon rains fell unrelenting.
“Better build an ark,” Cole said to the kid. “We might be needing one, from the looks of things.”
“At least the rain will keep the Chinese quiet,” the kid responded.
“Don’t be so sure about that.”
In Cole’s experience, the Chinese chose to attack in the dark of night and in the bitter cold. Why should the rain be any different? The enemy took every advantage of the weather and terrain. Grudgingly, he had to admire that, because it was just the way Cole himself chose to fight.
They sat in their tent and watched it rain, glad that they had dug the ditch around their tent deeper. Even so, the ditch threatened to overflow and flood their blankets. From time to time, others in the squad shouted through the storm to one another. Some stripped off and took a shower under the streaming sky, taking advantage of the fact that the cool nights had been replaced by warm and humid conditions riding the coattails of the monsoon.
Jang-mi and the two Korean villagers who had helped them rescue the pilot were bivouacked with the South Koreans. Briefly, Cole wondered how they were faring in all this rain. He was sure that Jang-mi just shrugged it off. The monsoon season was something that the people here had learned to take in stride. Not much seemed to bother her, anyhow. In Cole’s opinion, she was one tough customer.
They heard the squishing footsteps of someone approaching through the rain.
“Hello? I’m looking for Cole and Wilson. Anybody home?”
To their surprise, it was Lieutenant Commander Miller, slogging through the rain in a sodden poncho. He had been billeted with the company officers near the command post. He was carrying some sort of package.
“Over here, sir,” the kid shouted into the rain.
“Scooch over,” the pilot said.
Moments later, he came barreling in through the tent flap, wet poncho and all. The three of them were suddenly like sardines in the confines of the tiny tent. The pilot also seemed to bring the monsoon inside with him. He flipped back the dripping hood of the poncho and took off his helmet, further managing to drench the interior of the tent.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, pulling his legs under him and sitting awkwardly at one end of the tent.
“I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to, coming from officer country.”
“There is a little more room in the officer’s quarters,” the pilot agreed. “However, you have to share the space with the rats. Big buggers, they are.”