“What you’re going through, right now, is no different than what just about every second lieutenant goes through the first time they survive a firelight. Oh, I suppose there is the odd character who charges into his first battle and walks away from it without a second thought. But those creatures are rare and, if they exist, dangerous. You see, West Point and the Army have filled your head with a lot of ideas and theories about war and leadership that you, under peacetime conditions, cannot possibly understand and sort out. While it’s true that we can teach you the technical skills needed to employ the, weapons and people under your command, and provide you with an idea of what it’s going to be like through realistic training, there is no way in hell that West Point, sitting in
splendid isolation high above the Hudson, or the Army, or anyone, can adequately prepare you for the experience of being shot at and watching people, your people, die. There’s just no way.”
Since Kozak had expected, at best, an inquisition, Cerro’s comments were a welcome relief, at first. Slowly, however, she began to wonder if they were simply fluff, a standard “You’re okay, kid, now drive on”
speech given to every lieutenant after their first action. Abandoning her position of leaving the initiative to Cerro, Kozak asked him how he’d felt after his first firefight.
Sliding back into his seat, Cerro crossed his legs, allowing his hands, linked together, to come to rest on his stomach. He looked down and a slight smile lit across his face as he let out a small chuckle. “You know, Colonel Dixon, the G3, and I were talking about that just before I came over here. My first action.” Cerro looked up at Kozak, and his smile widened. “I was lucky it happened in the middle of a war and not, like yours, alone and on national television, ‘cause it was a fucking disaster.’’
Cerro paused. “Even today, years later, I still can’t think about it without wondering how I survived without killing myself and every man in my platoon.” Suddenly, as if someone had hit a switch, Cerro’s smile disappeared.
When his eyes locked onto Kozak’s, she could almost see a cold emptiness in them. When he spoke, he did so with an even tone that lacked all feeling, all emotions. “It was a night jump to seize an airfield.
We went out at five hundred feet. Though I was in the air less than two minutes, with all the tracers flying this way and that, it seemed to take forever. I hit the concrete runway like a ton of bricks, knocking myself silly. I wasn’t even able to unhook myself from my harness for several minutes. Imagine, lying there in the middle of a firefight. Explosions going on all around you, people screaming, officers and NOCs shouting orders, your platoon out there, somewhere in the middle of the darkness and chaos, running about and fighting. And there I was, lying flat on my back after screwing up the simplest of all airborne skills, the parachute landing fall, unable to do squat.”
Cerro paused, looking up at the ceiling as he took in several deep breaths. “In those few seconds, I was convinced that I was the dumbest, most incompetent, most worthless piece of shit God had ever placed on the face of the earth.” Slowly, his head moved from side to side. “God, I can’t imagine anything before or since that compared to what I felt that moment.” When he looked down at Kozak again, she could see his eyes were moist, almost as if he were on the brink of tearing. Not that it mattered, for she realized that he was no longer with her. Though he was looking right at her, she knew he didn’t see her. Instead, images she could only vaguely picture were dancing before his eyes, images that were burned onto his brain by the fear and horror that his words could never do justice to.
Slowly, methodically, Cerro continued. As he did so, he picked his words with great care, more out of the desire to do justice to the memory of that moment than for impact. “We lost the CO that night. He had a malfunction and creamed into the runway. Didn’t find his body till next morning. I lost my first man too. Young black kid from Jersey. He joined the Army to get away from the slums and gangs. Specialist Ellis .
Johnston wasn’t the smartest person in the world. Nor was he the best soldier. In fact, he was, at times, a downright pain in the ass. But he was mine. And I lost him. He was blown away by a twenty-three-millimeter antiaircraft gun while I was lying out on the runway thrashing about and trying to recover from my own stupidity.”
Leaning forward, with his elbows resting on his knees and the index finger of his right hand pointed at Kozak, Cerro drove his next point home as if he were drilling her with a machine gun. “Now I know, today, in retrospect, that there was nothing I could have done to prevent Johnston’s getting killed. He landed three hundred meters from where I did and was drilled by the antiaircraft gun before he got his harness off. Had I been there with him, I would have been killed too. It was just one of those things. But such logic, that kind of clear, uncompromising logic, didn’t mean shit to me the next day, when it was all over, as I watched his squad leader dropping the pieces of Specialist Ellis . Johnston into the body bag. It took me over three years to finally see that what happened to him wasn’t my fault.”
Suddenly, Cerro scooped up the folder from the floor and stood up.
“Johnston was a soldier. He knew what that meant. And what happened to him was no different than what happened to lots of other guys in that war and every war before and since. I knew that, too.
VMI
, Fort Benning, and every officer and
NCO
that had trained me had taught me that.
I knew men died. I knew that I could die. I knew that. But at that moment, when I looked down on the shattered remains of a man who had placed his faith in my abilities to lead him and pull him through, I damned near folded up. All the lectures on leadership, all the great examples of famous ‘heroes’ who had faced combat and come through, all the training in the world didn’t mean shit to me or Specialist Ellis . Johnston. He was dead and I wasn’t.”
There was a sudden, embarrassing pause as Cerro suddenly realized that he was no longer looking af. Johnston, that he was standing there, lecturing to Kozak. Her face, turned up toward his, was masked with an impassive stare that belied the pathos she was trying hard to suppress. He hadn’t come to lecture her. He hadn’t come to tell stories. Cerro’s only task had been to get her to consider rewriting her report. Now, he wondered if he had succeeded or failed. That, however, was no longer the issue. He had tripped out, crashed, and burned on memories he had thought he had buried. Unable to continue, and not really caring, Cerro plopped the folder containing Kozak’s statement on the chair he had been sitting on. For a moment, he looked at it, then turned to her. “You did extremely well, Lieutenant Kozak, given the situation you were in. You have nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to regret. I would advise you to do as the G3 recommends and rewrite your statement, taking all the whining, sniveling, self-flagellating bullshit out and sticking with the facts.”
Cerro moved to the door, opened it, and started to leave, then stopped.
He spun about and faced Kozak. “If you’re half the infantry officer I think you are, you’ll rewrite it.’’ Without further comment, Cerro walked out, leaving Kozak sitting on the examining table, tears streaking down her cheeks and soaking the cotton packing that protruded from her nostrils.
International
Bridge Number i, Laredo, Texas
2210 hours, 7 September
From the south bank of the river, Guajardo watched his combat engineers, hanging precariously above him from ropes, preparing the bridge for demolition. From dangling pouches they wore, or from pallets held up by ropes of their own, the engineers took blocks of military explosives, securing them to cross members and stringers that supported the roadway above. When enough explosives had been packed up against the cross member or stringer, an engineer carefully took blasting caps from a separate pouch and placed them into the mass of explosives. When the blasting caps were set, a companion followed, wiring them together. This was no easy task. From the main firing line, branch firing lines to the individual blasting caps set in the explosives needed to be cut the same length so that the explosives on a span of the bridge went off simultaneously.
Since several spans were being dropped, the wiring had to be arranged so that the bridge span farthest from the blasting machine, used to initiate the demolition sequence, went off first, followed by explosives on the next span closer in. If the closest span were dropped first, the explosion and the falling debris could sever the wires leading out to the farther span and stop the sequence of destruction.
In addition to the exactness required for the placement of explosives, size of the charges at each location, and wiring sequence, backup systems and booby traps to hinder sabotage were necessary. Less than an hour after the engineers had started working, a group of American Army officers had gathered on the north bank, watching every move. One of them, a lieutenant colonel, Guajardo saw, wore a green beret. To Guajardo, the appearance of the American lieutenant colonel in his green beret was an arrogant challenge. Though Guajardo knew that the Americans would use special operations people to try to prevent the destruction of the bridge, he at least expected those people to be a little more discreet.
This lieutenant colonel, however, made no secret of his presence. By standing there with his green beret on, it was if he were shouting to Guajardo, “Here I am. I’m going to stop you from blowing your bridge and there’s nothing you can do.”
If that were the lieutenant colonel’s intent, Guajardo and his engineers were not about to let his challenge go unanswered. To complicate any efforts to prevent destruction of the bridge by cutting the firing wires, a dual firing system, with one electric and one nonelectric primer, was being emplaced. In addition, the engineers were installing a series of booby traps, some hooked in series, some independent, as discreetly as was possible, as they went along, in such a manner that it appeared to be part of the main demolition effort. Though Guajardo knew that the American special forces were good, and that the odds were better than even that they would be able to prevent the destruction of the bridge, he knew they wouldn’t be able to do so without paying a price.
And that, Guajardo knew, was the purpose of this entire exercise: to make the Americans pay the price. In fact, that was what their entire war-winning strategy was based on. No one on the Council of 13 had any illusions about the initial outcome of a confrontation between the United States and Mexico. In the beginning, the American Army, Air Force, and Navy would be able to go wherever they wanted and do whatever they wanted. Guajardo’s forces simply would not be able to match the American weapons or technology. Even when the full weight of Nicaraguan and Cuban assistance came to bear, weapon for weapon, they would be outclassed.
But if it were true that the Americans would be able to go wherever they wanted, it was equally true that they would not be able to stay. While Colonel Barreda, the foreign minister, traveled through the councils of the world, screaming righteous indignation and demanding that the Americans be forced to leave Mexico, Colonel Zavala, the minister for domestic affairs, would be mobilizing the people for the great patriotic struggle against the invading Americans. With the forces he already had, those that Barreda could arrange for from the Latin American nations, and those that Zavala could mobilize within Mexico, Guajardo would wage a protracted campaign whose sole goal was to fill body bags with American dead. Eventually, he knew, the American public would tire of burying its young. Though many of his own people would also die, at least they knew what they were fighting for. Some Americans, on the other hand, were already questioning their goals and the methods of their leaders. Guajardo would give them something more to consider. Debate, he knew, would redouble when the flag-draped coffins began to appear in every little town and city across the United States.
Though Colonel Ruiz, minister of justice, cautioned that Saddam Hussein had hoped to do the same in Kuwait and had failed, Guajardo reminded him that they were not Arabs. Instead of drawing lines in the sand and hurling empty challenges, Guajardo told his brothers on the Council of 13, they should fight as the Vietcong and their grandfathers had. “Our war will be a righteous war, a war fought to defend our homes and our honor against the colossus from the north. So long as we do not admit defeat, we cannot be beaten. Remember, our people, like us, have nothing to lose except our pride. And even the most sophisticated missile or the biggest, most modern tank cannot strip that from us. Only we can throw that away. And I, for one, will die leading our people into battle before I let that happen.”
Although he had not intended to make such a melodramatic speech to the council, Guajardo didn’t regret it. He had meant every word. They were, after all, a passionate people, used to giving way to their passions when appropriate. At least his brothers knew where he stood. Soon, the Americans would too. If the Americans wanted to come, they would. In the beginning, they would find nothing, just poor villages, old men and women, and destruction. In the beginning, their sweep into northern Mexico would, no doubt, be compared to the almost bloodless American victory in Iraq by their own media and the pseudomilitary “experts” they employed. Guajardo had taken great pains to arrange his forces so that it would appear so. But he would watch, and wait. As the great cats of Africa track a herd, his forces would watch the Americans. When the Americans were comfortable and elation over their “success” was at its height, his forces would come, seeking the strays that wandered too far from the herd.
In time, Guajardo knew, they would prevail. They always had. The Americans had come before and, when they had tired of Mexico, they had left. This time would be no different. It never was. And when they left, Mexico and her people would still be there. They always were.
Hurrah, boys, we’ve got them!