Olmedo to the lions, one would have said. The major could almost feel some of the officers running after him, in hot pursuit, tongues hangingout, trying to bite his heels and waiting for him to stumble and fall to tear him to pieces.
He devoted the first twenty minutes to presenting facts, figures and performance indexes, while not forgetting to acknowledge all the hard work that had been carried out at the base, its historical importance and the integrity of those who had run it. He then spoke of the increasingly empty pavilions, that some premises seemed underused and others obsolete. He knew that figures are incontrovertible, and he cited them to counter the hostility he saw in some faces. His interpretation would follow, and that would require eloquence.
No one interrupted him as he presented his conclusions, but when he finished, several officers raised their hands. The lieutenant who was taking down the minutes next to the colonel established the order in which they’d have permission to speak. It would not be easy. But Olmedo didn’t feel guilty about the report and was not cowardly about defending it. He was not there to impose a new order, but neither would he exempt anyone from duties long ago contracted. So he turned his gaze to the officer who was about to say a few words.
His full name was José García Bramante, but many did not know it, calling him only by the second surname, which he preferred. He’d recently been promoted to captain. He was forty-one but, thanks to his enthusiasm for physical exercise, was in very good shape; at the end of the long nocturnal marches with his Cetme slung on his shoulder and a backpack loaded with fifteen kilos of rocks, or on the hard running track, he was usually the first on the finish line, leaving behind a couple of hundred exhausted twenty-somethings . He seemed pleased when the other officers or soldiers congratulated him for those exploits. Every now and again he asked for a couple of days’ leave of absence in order to run marathons. Olmedo had known others like him: army men obsessed with physical strength who, in time, ended up looking like those gym-equipment salesmen who appear on TV very late at night. Even the muscles of his cheeks and forehead appeared buff fromso much effortful contraction. A few days previously Olmedo had watched him in the shooting gallery, as he was the officer in charge of armaments. Bramante held the Cetme so firmly and so close to his body that it seemed a continuation of his arms, so much so that the bullets appeared to be issuing from his fingers. And yet, Olmedo was not sure he was a great soldier. Perhaps his cunning might be useful in guerrilla warfare, where it was fundamental to react quickly, but he wasn’t very efficient when it came to modern tactics. Unlike sportsmen, soldiers did not always get results in direct proportion to the dedication and intensity they put into their training, and often those who best deported themselves at parade and respected the rules and repeated the lessons about strategy performed less well under real-life fire than those who neglected their training in times of peace. Olmedo had seen, in Bramante’s service record, that the captain had never asked to take part in missions abroad that might entail risk. He had the impression that, underneath the hardness, the need for admiration and recognition, was a hidden fault, a degree of insecurity, which had always reminded him of the modern version of the Roman
Miles
Gloriosus
who defended his privileges while the barbarians were pushing the borders of the empire.
‘Major, I agree with you that the army needs to be modernised, equipped with better technology and housed in better premises, and that we need to train enth-enthusiastic professionals instead of a bunch of ap-apathetic recruits,’ he said, uttering some words with difficulty, perhaps because he talked too fast fearing that, if he stopped, he’d forget what he had prepared. ‘Where I
He devoted the first twenty minutes to presenting facts, figures and performance indexes, while not forgetting to acknowledge all the hard work that had been carried out at the base, its historical importance and the integrity of those who had run it. He then spoke of the increasingly empty pavilions, that some premises seemed underused and others obsolete. He knew that figures are incontrovertible, and he cited them to counter the hostility he saw in some faces. His interpretation would follow, and that would require eloquence.
No one interrupted him as he presented his conclusions, but when he finished, several officers raised their hands. The lieutenant who was taking down the minutes next to the colonel established the order in which they’d have permission to speak. It would not be easy. But Olmedo didn’t feel guilty about the report and was not cowardly about defending it. He was not there to impose a new order, but neither would he exempt anyone from duties long ago contracted. So he turned his gaze to the officer who was about to say a few words.
His full name was José García Bramante, but many did not know it, calling him only by the second surname, which he preferred. He’d recently been promoted to captain. He was forty-one but, thanks to his enthusiasm for physical exercise, was in very good shape; at the end of the long nocturnal marches with his Cetme slung on his shoulder and a backpack loaded with fifteen kilos of rocks, or on the hard running track, he was usually the first on the finish line, leaving behind a couple of hundred exhausted twenty-somethings . He seemed pleased when the other officers or soldiers congratulated him for those exploits. Every now and again he asked for a couple of days’ leave of absence in order to run marathons. Olmedo had known others like him: army men obsessed with physical strength who, in time, ended up looking like those gym-equipment salesmen who appear on TV very late at night. Even the muscles of his cheeks and forehead appeared buff fromso much effortful contraction. A few days previously Olmedo had watched him in the shooting gallery, as he was the officer in charge of armaments. Bramante held the Cetme so firmly and so close to his body that it seemed a continuation of his arms, so much so that the bullets appeared to be issuing from his fingers. And yet, Olmedo was not sure he was a great soldier. Perhaps his cunning might be useful in guerrilla warfare, where it was fundamental to react quickly, but he wasn’t very efficient when it came to modern tactics. Unlike sportsmen, soldiers did not always get results in direct proportion to the dedication and intensity they put into their training, and often those who best deported themselves at parade and respected the rules and repeated the lessons about strategy performed less well under real-life fire than those who neglected their training in times of peace. Olmedo had seen, in Bramante’s service record, that the captain had never asked to take part in missions abroad that might entail risk. He had the impression that, underneath the hardness, the need for admiration and recognition, was a hidden fault, a degree of insecurity, which had always reminded him of the modern version of the Roman
Miles
Gloriosus
who defended his privileges while the barbarians were pushing the borders of the empire.
‘Major, I agree with you that the army needs to be modernised, equipped with better technology and housed in better premises, and that we need to train enth-enthusiastic professionals instead of a bunch of ap-apathetic recruits,’ he said, uttering some words with difficulty, perhaps because he talked too fast fearing that, if he stopped, he’d forget what he had prepared. ‘Where I
Similar Books
