Gunnarson commented. "That means we'll be fighting on two fronts. We'll have to watch our backs."
"I'm afraid you're right," Cruiser said bitterly.
The column continued across the grasslands back toward the creek as it began to rain again.
Chapter 4
THE LOZANO GRASSLANDS
2 DECEMBER
0930 HOURS LOCAL
CAPITAN Tomas Platas led his nine-man column across the savannah, moving at a steady pace as they followed their assigned patrol route. He was concerned about the physical conditioning of the men, and glanced back, noting that several walked along with heads bent, obviously struggling as they went through the grim, ancient military practice of putting one foot ahead of the other. These sweating Falangists had abandoned staff positions to join the revolution, and none had the stamina of younger soldiers. Many had not served in line outfits for years.
They were divided into two rifle teams and a machine gun crew, and all were veteran noncommissioned officers from the Chilean, Bolivian and Argentine armies. They were in full field gear, carrying rifles while the automatic weapons crew was further burdened with an Amali light machine gun. The second-in-command of the patrol was a scowling Portuguese who had served in the Spanish Foreign Legion for a decade. Suboficial Adolfo Punzarr name Spanishized from the original Punzarrao of his native country--was in excellent physical condition. This large, muscular man with a shaven head had an enormous mustache that curled out from beneath a nose battered flat in innumerous brawls. Punzarron had fled into the Legion to avoid a murder charge in Portugal.
The suboficial, with the staying power of a bull unable to sense pain, scowled openly at the others in the patrol. He had nothing but contempt for the headquarters types. At least half of them were not truly devoted to the Falange. They had fled into the sanctuary of the revolution because of pending disciplinary actions, serious indebtedness, shrewish wives, or other personal problems. Those were the ones who found it so hard to readapt to field soldiering.
Here on the patrol, any slowing down or even a misstep earned the faltering man a heavy slap across the back of the head from the Portuguese's large hand. It didn't matter if he was a sargento or sargento-mayor, Punzarron treated the weakling like one of the pathetic wretches sent to his regiment from recruiting stations to be brutalized into effectiveness for the ranks of the Foreign Legion.
Capitan Platas didn't like the man, but Comandante Toledo, who had served with the suboficial, gave implicit orders that none of the lieutenants or captains were to interfere with his methods. No one denied that Punzarron was a brute, but he got instant results using his fists and boots.
The forty-year-old sargento carrying the thirteen-kilo machine gun was having a particularly tough time of it. The crew had been passing it among themselves to share the load, but Punzarron quickly put a stop to that. Custom dictated that the gunner was responsible for the weapon, and by God, that meant he and he alone carried it! The sargento-gunner had been supervising an ordnance repair shop before leaving the Argentine armed forces, and it had beeny ears since he had served in a line combat outfit. He finally stumbled and collapsed to the thick grass, near exhaustion as the weapon fell to the ground.
Platas turned at the commotion and saw Punzarron pull the man to his feet, slapping his face hard. After the punch-up, the out-of-shape Argentine was forced to hold the weapon over his head and double-time around the column. Stark fear of the Portuguese ex-legionnaire gave him the strength to perform the punishment. Platas, who was from a crack Bolivian parachute battalion, appreciated the results of the punishment, but he disliked seeing a senior noncommissioned officer treated like a raw recruit.
After three circuits of the patrol, the gunner was allowed to stagger back into ranks to continue the
"I'm afraid you're right," Cruiser said bitterly.
The column continued across the grasslands back toward the creek as it began to rain again.
Chapter 4
THE LOZANO GRASSLANDS
2 DECEMBER
0930 HOURS LOCAL
CAPITAN Tomas Platas led his nine-man column across the savannah, moving at a steady pace as they followed their assigned patrol route. He was concerned about the physical conditioning of the men, and glanced back, noting that several walked along with heads bent, obviously struggling as they went through the grim, ancient military practice of putting one foot ahead of the other. These sweating Falangists had abandoned staff positions to join the revolution, and none had the stamina of younger soldiers. Many had not served in line outfits for years.
They were divided into two rifle teams and a machine gun crew, and all were veteran noncommissioned officers from the Chilean, Bolivian and Argentine armies. They were in full field gear, carrying rifles while the automatic weapons crew was further burdened with an Amali light machine gun. The second-in-command of the patrol was a scowling Portuguese who had served in the Spanish Foreign Legion for a decade. Suboficial Adolfo Punzarr name Spanishized from the original Punzarrao of his native country--was in excellent physical condition. This large, muscular man with a shaven head had an enormous mustache that curled out from beneath a nose battered flat in innumerous brawls. Punzarron had fled into the Legion to avoid a murder charge in Portugal.
The suboficial, with the staying power of a bull unable to sense pain, scowled openly at the others in the patrol. He had nothing but contempt for the headquarters types. At least half of them were not truly devoted to the Falange. They had fled into the sanctuary of the revolution because of pending disciplinary actions, serious indebtedness, shrewish wives, or other personal problems. Those were the ones who found it so hard to readapt to field soldiering.
Here on the patrol, any slowing down or even a misstep earned the faltering man a heavy slap across the back of the head from the Portuguese's large hand. It didn't matter if he was a sargento or sargento-mayor, Punzarron treated the weakling like one of the pathetic wretches sent to his regiment from recruiting stations to be brutalized into effectiveness for the ranks of the Foreign Legion.
Capitan Platas didn't like the man, but Comandante Toledo, who had served with the suboficial, gave implicit orders that none of the lieutenants or captains were to interfere with his methods. No one denied that Punzarron was a brute, but he got instant results using his fists and boots.
The forty-year-old sargento carrying the thirteen-kilo machine gun was having a particularly tough time of it. The crew had been passing it among themselves to share the load, but Punzarron quickly put a stop to that. Custom dictated that the gunner was responsible for the weapon, and by God, that meant he and he alone carried it! The sargento-gunner had been supervising an ordnance repair shop before leaving the Argentine armed forces, and it had beeny ears since he had served in a line combat outfit. He finally stumbled and collapsed to the thick grass, near exhaustion as the weapon fell to the ground.
Platas turned at the commotion and saw Punzarron pull the man to his feet, slapping his face hard. After the punch-up, the out-of-shape Argentine was forced to hold the weapon over his head and double-time around the column. Stark fear of the Portuguese ex-legionnaire gave him the strength to perform the punishment. Platas, who was from a crack Bolivian parachute battalion, appreciated the results of the punishment, but he disliked seeing a senior noncommissioned officer treated like a raw recruit.
After three circuits of the patrol, the gunner was allowed to stagger back into ranks to continue the
Similar Books
