THIS IS THE FIRST CHAPTER OF A SHORT FICTIONAL ACCOUNT. I DON’T KNOW IF IT IS «FLASH-FICTION» OR SOMETHING NOT AS FLASHY, BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT.
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DINO’S HILLS
Dawn never shone bright on these hills. Too much foliage, too much humidity, too many of those green canopies over our heads and way too cold for me. There was a constant mist in the air and fog until zero-ten hours, it was like trekking through clouds. This was January, it would warm up, after all, this is a tropical rain forest.
We were a mixed group, Army, Navy, Marines and “the boys” (We won’t mention who they work for). My three-man group formed what in our section was considered a “platoon”, which in no way resembled a real platoon like in the Infantry. Yet we pounded the dirt as much as they did, but alone, no artillery cover, no air support, no reinforcements and no uniforms.
In those years and for a few that followed, our mission was considered classified. Now it’s been declassified, probably because no one gives a rat’s ass. The nation’s attention has shifted from Central America to the Middle East. But in those years…the late 1970’s…the threat was from communists creating revolution all over the southern half of the Americas and we were there to make sure that did not happen. Especially in this small country…which I will not name…in Central America, one with many beautiful valleys and lakes and many, many hills. That made it perfect for the insurgent guerrillas because since the days when a similar bunch of these overthrew the Cuban government, they grew fond of hiding in the hills…
“Smokey” was my point-man. He got the name, not because of being a heavy smoker, hell, we all would have been “smokeys”, no, but because he hailed from the Smokey Mountains back home, far, far away. Zeno, our navigator and my All-American-Mexican-born-Arizona-resident, a soul truly as red, white and blue as they come, who started life in the Mexican side of the Sonora Desert, manoeuvred us expertly through the rain forests like a native. And then there’s yours truly, Dino. Presently an Army sergeant, born in another continent, far, far away across the pond, as they say, but transplanted to sunny Miami, Florida, and in charge of the mission.
We were sent to these hills because the “boys”, the ones who also did not wear a uniform and sure as hell were not Army, said that one of their recon flights over the area had spotted what they thought to be a campfire. My orders were to find it and neutralise the threat. This was my second mission during this tour of duty. The first one I really don’t even want to remember, but it…somehow…went like this:
I arrived in July and was assigned to a team that would conduct training drills, trying to form those who would be soldiers. But these were civilians, I guess, or resistance fighters, or something, but they were brave and had volunteered to fight the communist guerrillas that were threatening to tear apart their homeland. So we were there to turn them into infantry troops, and only that. And I was happy because these looked like inexperienced but enthusiastic young men and women. I will teach them how to fight, how to survive and how to win, after all I…I think…had the experience.
On the second week our small camp, which had been set up close to the beach on the western… Caribbean…coast, was attacked by a group of about twelve communist guerrillas. The trainees either went down or fled. So it was us against the bad guys and we fired back because when you put a platoon like ours in a situation like this, policy and treaties go down the shitter, and we fight. The commies ran. Perhaps we should not have, but sure as hell we did, and the three of us chased them as they retreated into the deep woods that surrounded our camp.
We had never been in there, so big mistake. We soon found ourselves in a dark, swampy area, waist-high in water probably infested with water moccasins and who knows what else, above us spiders as big as rhesus monkeys and all around us, mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds. It was a bitch…
Our training kicked in and we fell silent, down on one knee, hyper alert, all ears, all eyes and trying not to develop tunnel vision. Soon we were flowing with the water, drifting with the air, and at one with the surroundings. Then we heard them up ahead, deeper into this hell on Earth. They had surely spotted us too and fired. We went down under the water and listened again. Silence. I turned to Zeno who was the closest to me and motioned that we would rise together and fire. He understood and motioned to Smokey behind him.
Then we, smoothly and cleanly, came up, weapons pointed in the direction where their fire had come from, and opened up. We unloaded our magazines, rifles on full automatic, and tactically reloaded and opened up again, and again, until finally I yelled “Cease fire! And stay low”.
No movement from the woods, no sounds, no snakes, no spiders, no mosquitoes. It seemed like everything had been swallowed up by the atmosphere laden with gun powder, echoes of our M-16’s and the occasional tree branch, that broken by a bullet, fell into the bog. The silence after the storm embraced us.
“Let’s get the hell out of here” I ordered.
“Far out man!” came Zeno’s squeaky voice.
“Yeah, right on brothers!” Said Smokey with that southern accent that at times I could not understand.
We re-deployed back to our camp. More troops were arriving in choppers. I saw the Colonel walking my way. And just when I was about to start to explain what had happened, he said, “Come with me sergeant” and led me back to the chopper.
(Chapter One of FICTION BY BRAVO CABRERA. C.2021, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 16 NOV 2021, Valencia, Spain)
JaZzArt en València 