From that point on, the instructors put the students through the rudiments of marching. They went from "forward march" to "halt." Then "to the rear march" was introduced, and they began moving forward and back, keeping in step as Punzarron bellowed out the cadence, "Uno, dos, tres, quatro!"
Things began going better until they moved into the column and flanking movements. From that point on, all mistakes were dealt with punches and kicks from the trio of Falangist drill masters. But eventually, bruised and angry, the convicts responded quickly and correctly to the commands as the period of training continued.
.
1800 HOURS
GENERAUSIMO Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato stood with Coronel Jeronimo Busch at the entrance to the convicts' camp. They watched as the prisoners marched back in a column of twos, eyes to the front, shoulders back, and in step with the cadence. Punzarron marched his charges inside, put them through a couple of "left flank,"
"right flank," "to the rear" and column movements, then halted them, facing them toward him. He dismissed them, and the tired men walked wearily to their tents to prepare their evening meal.
Punzarron reported to the two officers while Chaubere and Muller headed for the noncommissioned officers' mess bunker. Castillo was pleased. "I congratulate you, suboficial, you have shaped that scum into something resembling soldiers."
Punzarron smiled at the compliment. But inside the camp, Navajaso Coletti walked up to the gang leader, Gordo Pullini. He spoke softly to his chief, saying, "If you ever decide to have that Portuguese hijo de puta killed, I would like the honor of sending him to hell."
"That I promise you, Nava," Pullini said. "Now let's eat and get some rest after all this nonsense."
Chapter 13
PETROLEO COLMO FIELD OFFICE GRAN CHACO
6 JANUARY
0515 HOURS LOCAL
THE EC-635 helicopter had landed five kilometers to the southwest of the field offices, out of sight and hearing of the site. Now, after a quick cross-country hike from the aircraft, Coronel Jeronimo Busch and his companion Suboficial Adolfo Punzarron peered at the facility through their binoculars. They were fifty meters away, well hidden under their camouflage capes as they observed the target of that morning's mission. Twenty meters farther behind the command duo, Sargento-Mayor Amaud Chaubere and Sargento Antonio Muller, along with four Falangist troops, were also concealed in the grass of the savannah.
The bright red Petroleo helicopters, tied down on their pads, were easily visible, but no guards were within sight. "They are careless with their security," Punzarron remarked.
"I do not think they want to give an outward impression that they are a tactical combat outfit," Busch said.
This mission was planned and put into execution the evening before. The Falangist intelligence officer, newly promoted Comandante Diego Tippelskirch, had been radioed a confirmation that the Petroleo Colmo Oil Company was a CIA front. This verification also contained the information that three missing Falangist fighters captured by the bandidos were being held in the firm's field office in the southeastern part of the Gran Chaco.
Now Busch turned toward Chaubere and Muller to signal them to move forward with the four troops. They approached with Star submachine guns locked and loaded to join Busch and Punzarron. The group moved en masse toward the building with Busch in the lead. When they reached the door, they paused only long enough to listen for any activity within the building. There was none. The coronel kicked the front door open, and they rushed inside.
The raiders found nothing but a small office, and they wasted no time in charging through another door that led farther into the interior of the building. This was a dormitory of sorts with four men lying in bunks. They had just awakened and opened their eyes in time for a quick glimpse of their killers. Eight submachine guns spurted bursts of 9-millimeter slugs that swept across the sleeping area. The oil company men were visibly pummeled by the bullet impacts, and a couple toppled out of their bunks onto the floor.
Muller noticed some keys hanging on a far wall by another door. He went over and took them off the wall. After unlocking the egress, he stepped into a short hallway that led to a cell at the end. He hurried to the barred gate and saw the three Falangists. Two were standing up grasping the bars, while the other looked up weakly from where he lay on his bunk.
One of the standing prisoners grinned widely. "Por Dios! We are glad to see you!"
The other man on his feet, a veteran sargento of the Chilean marines, was so happy he laughed alo hijos de chingadas were going to send us back to Santiago for court-martiaclass="underline" '
Muller quickly opened the cell, and the two shook hands with them both, looking down at the man who still lay on his bunk. "How's he doing?"
"Not too good," the first prisoner said. "He was given some medical attention, but they said he would have to go to a hospital for proper treatment. They were going to fly us out this afternoon."
The second prisoner gestured at their badly injured comrade. "He's not really fully conscious." He looked into Muller's eyes. "We don't have the facilities to do anything for him if we take the poor tipo back to Fuerte Franco. And if we leave our poor companero here, they will take him away for treatment, but after that, he will go under intense interrogation."
Muller walked over and sat down on the bunk. "Hello, amigo," he said. "We can have you flown to an army hospital just over the Argentine border. They will have you on your feet in no time." As he spoke, he pulled his Beretta automatic pistol from its holster on his web belt. He gently placed the muzzle against the delirious man's temple. A pull on the trigger sent brains and blood splattering over the cell wall. Muller got to his feet. "Let's go, companeros!"
The trio went back into the dormitory. When they walked in they saw that an uninjured man had been found under one of the bunks. He stood in his shorts and T-shirt with his hands in the air. Busch stood in front of him, scowling. "Y to nombre?"
"Me Ilamo Roberto Torres-Martinez," Alfredo said, using a cover name. "Soy de Puerto Rico."
"A Puerto Rican, eh?" Busch remarked. "That means you're an American citizen, does it not?"
"Wait a minute!" Muller exclaimed. "I've seen this fellow before!" He walked over and studied Alfredo's face. "Segura! He was on the helicopter that landed after that patrol was ambushed. I found a good place for concealment in the grass." He laughed loudly. "The bastards were looking all over for me."
The Chilean ex-marine confirmed it. "That is true. He was there when they captured us."
Busch punched Alfredo once, causing him to stumble backward. He hit him hard again, then a third time that sent the CIA man to the floor. Chaubere walked over and picked him up. He clipped him too, and Alfredo wisely went down, feigning that he was badly dazed.
The punch-up was interrupted when Punzarron came in from another side room. "There is a radio in there, and somebody is calling over it."
Muller picked Alfredo up and frog-marched him into the commo room with Busch and Chaubere following. A voice came over the speaker. "Petrol, this is Brigand. Over. I say again. Petrol, this is Brigand. Over."
Busch looked at Chaubere. "You speak English, do you not?"
"Yes, sir," the Frenchman answered. "But I am afraid it is like my Spanish. Heavily accented."
Busch reached out and yanked Alfredo from Muller's grasp. "I know damn well that you speak English, puertorriqueno'
"Yes," Alfredo said in English. "I speak the language fluently."
"Then answer that transmission!" Busch ordered.
Alfredo picked up the microphone and waited. As soon as the call was repeated, he pressed the TRANSMIT button. "Brigand, this is Petrol. We are compromised. I say again. We are compromised! We are--"