Books'nSundries

Once Upon a Time in South America

by "Anthony Matejak"
(Via Emil T. Miller)

...To be made available soon (we hope) - ► an excerpt follows this intro...

     This book was written in the 1st person as a "memoir". But is it? And if so whose is it? The fellow who I am hoping will let me publish the thing insists on anonymity and has not decided to let me do so as of this writing (except for the teaser he gave me below), but I am rather counting on it because it gets me all worked up every time I review it, and I feel like my readers will get a kick from it too. The name(s) given are said to be just names.   Are they? Probably. I just don't know what can be said about this "Memoir", or maybe I should say that I don't know just what "ought" to be said about it - or not. Perhaps I should say that maybe this fellow should not have ever written (much less publicized) it, though for the life of me I cannot see what difference it would make this long after the fact. I mean, 45 years or so is a rather long time n'est ce pas? The thing recounts an exciting tale of work and duty in South America, of danger and adventure, and of a sudden and unexpected romance which of necessity, had to be cut short all too abruptly, and (apparently-??) for all time. It hints of a young man's duties in a certain country in South    America in behalf of his home country back when Fidel Castro's chief Communist agitator Che Gueverra and his cronies were pushing for Soviet style communism in several of those countries once upon a time down there, threatening the stability of the whole continent. It relates that these dangerous duties were more or less thrust upon this certain individual who had been sought out because of his patriotism and that he apparently was believed to posses certain skills and abilities which would be of use in this work. Thwarting the goals of these communist agitators in South America was of utmost importance in this period of our history, therefore the call of duty could not be refused. Dare the term "mercenary" also be used? In his particular case the differences between remuneration for services rendered and obligation to render them may appear blurred to some, but duty still stands out as having been the motivating factor, clearly defined and boldly (?) pursued - but not of course, without some natural trepidation.
     However, one is left with the distinct impression that much significant information and detail was left out of this memoir. Enough say, to fill a full-fledged novel, which this fellow says he just might write someday.   If so why was this? Well, because it says that this fellow was sworn to secrecy in the matter - that he and his partner were instructed that they should simply forget any of it ever happened and just be glad that in the end they escaped their tour with hide and hair intact. A certain of their other close mates in this effort was not so lucky, rest his soul, he giving his all in the effort and rests there still, he said, as far as he knew. When their efforts proved a bit too effective, things became dicey and got a little too hot for such a small contingent of dedicated men.   Re-assignment became necessary, but they almost waited too long, romance apparently having had a significant measure of influence in the matter for "our guy", and in the reading of it, you might guess who that might be.
     Their final escape was narrow. As one reads of it, close as a cat's whisker. The memoir, though light on certain specifics, basically recounts a few other specifics and the general way the fellow handled the work and his overall duties, which was not too badly I don't think. Not too badly at all. Especially since he was so young, had never been involved in such things and had no specific training for certain aspects of the "work" in the first place. His stint in the U. S. Army apparently had been considered sufficient, though the writer of the memoir sometimes thought otherwise. Indeed, after he and his partner re-crossed the borders Northward, "The Man" gave him a nice bonus, praised him highly and offered him a well-paid and permanent position afterwards, if he would agree continue in this "field" work for awhile, although in a different country on his next assignment. But before these arrangements were finalized, yet another unforeseen romance sprang up, and marriage, family, and a subtile change in the political situation got in the way of the continuance of this covert undercover work.
     The place and setting for these activities was in early 19... er..., and, well, the memoir is none too specific as to the exact year, time and place, not to mention the real names of those involved, so leave us not put too much importance on these trivialities. All were changed "to protect the innocent" as Joe Friday would have said. Suffice it to say that the episode stands out as a most prominent episode in the life of this young fellow, one never to be forgotten or taken lightly, ...ever. And because of it, never will he marginalize in his mind the dangers faced by those who allow themselves to be placed in harms way in behalf of their country and people, down to our present time (especially in this present time of danger from fanatical Muslim terrorism). A great man once said, "The roots of the tree of liberty must be nourished from time to time with the blood of tyrants and free men," - or something like that. And I sincerely believe this is true. I have the distinct feeling that the lucky young fellow of this memoir is surely glad his blood was not required of him in this instance, though it appears in any case, to be largely a matter of luck on more than one occasion.
     Well, enough speculation. I think you will enjoy this "memoir" if you get to read it, because most will probably relate very easily to the whole range of emotions and feelings of the young man of this accounting, and of those of his partner friend, ...and with the heart of the beautiful Castillian Latino girl of his romance as well, ...of whom I have solid reason to believe that he has not entirely forgotten....
                           (See Excerpt below)
                                                                                        ... © Emil T. Miller (Tony Miller)
                                                                                                  (Click here for AUTHOR'S BIO)

                             ► Start some "mood" Music! ◄
                                          "Quiet Village"
THE “HEIST”
     As I mentioned to begin with, and since it is "getting late in the day" for me, I speak of at least a few of these things now, because none of my children and grandchildren (nor any of my family) will ever hear any of it unless I spill a few beans now (though I was sworn not to), before I poop out of this world. I never cared until lately, but now I want them to know a few things they never knew about me when I was young and single. After all these years it seems like only yesterday. But to continue:
     After supper that evening I grinned and spoke low to Pablo to the effect that St. Nicholas had come to me early this year. It was obvious that it pleased him to have gotten the rifles for me, and he said "I know of certain workers who would be good to have with you on days we are paid, Jefe."
     I replied, "Thank you Quate, send me four. I will have to train them with the FALs beforehand."
     He smiled at me again, and coming from him a smile made a man know he had a friend he could count on. He replied with a twinkle in his eye, "Jefe, YOU are the one who will be trained by the men I will send you."
     Yes, things that I knew about, and those I had little clue of, were coming to a head. I needed to be ready in this and especially certain other things as well. I would look sharp even around in the construction camp, from now on. I knew there were Latino spies among the workers and I knew who certain ones of them were. But not all, this I well understood.
     The following Monday I took a Powerwagon to the far end of the Road Project and these men and I had us a little practice session. They swung the rifles up, adjusted the slings, loaded and fired with practiced expertise and I was impressed. It was these Contras (could there be any question about it now, pray tell?) who first showed me how to "jungle clip" two magazines together for double the firepower (they used adhesive tape at the time). Being somewhat gifted at such things, I became quickly adept with this full-automatic .308 caliber FAL rifle, and together we developed a strategy in case of an attack.   Basically, at sight of an ambush we would either try to run on through it firing, or if too big a force just try to avoid it, stop, or turn off and quickly exit the vehicle, three through the back door and the driver and another through the front door, then beat it for the nearest jungle cover to the right side if possible, meet up and try to either escape in the foliage to a place of defense, or flank the bad guys in the jungle and return their complement.

The Fusil Automatique
Légèr - FAL
(Light Automatic Rifle) -
(Belgian)

     The huge project over which I had been hired as the Superintendent (among other things), responded to all I had set in motion so well that it now hummed along running itself to a great extent, and I just mothered over it and gave it direction as needed. Our progress even amazed me, and all the hands now began to work with pride and a sense of accomplishment that I have yet to see equaled, even in the States. They enjoyed the work, the fellowship and the orderly life in camp. The most positive of the things I did was straightening out the sorry mess (eating) arrangements the previous Superintendent had set up. The effect of the good meals the men now had (as opposed to frijoles and tortillas twice a day) was profound. This set the tone and changed everything overnight. Making Pablo the "Camp Commandant", Juan my Assistant, and motivating the "Mordida Leaches" were the other main factors. Frank's knowledge of grading and machinery and his handling of it set the overall pace of the work and took a great load off me. A simple statement from him to the other foremen like "I'm going to need to get on across that next culvert pretty quick now, boys", would put them in high gear far ahead of that area. He would be pushing dirt over one end of it and sheepsfoot rollers going even as the forms were being pulled off and backfill/compacting was being done on the other end.
     I decided to grade and gravel base the road to the little town and to build a permanent connection to the highway we were building. And heck, I ran it right by our camp compound for convenience. I knew I was stepping out of my authority but I felt the reason for the work in the first place was for the benefit of the people and I really did not care if I was fired for it or not, since I was still a little hot under the collar at "The Man", who had been less than straight with me at first. As it turned out, the _______an government officials looked the work over as if it showed on the plans, and never said a word. El Stupido's! This little town and it's good, simple people would now have access to the outside world, but I was not sure this would all be to the good. Progress perverts as well as facilitates.
     The robberies of the beer and camp supplies stopped completely with Pablo in charge of the compound and stores of course. With each of the drastic changes I made initially, Frank would shake his head in smiling wonder. Finally he said, "Anthony, I'll be honest. I never thought you had all this in you. You're makin' this project hum and the men are bustin' their butts for you. I never thought you could handle a job like this, and the people in town think you hung the moon." Frank was not in the habit of complimenting anybody, so I felt truly stroked.
     "Well, Frank," I replied, "lets face it. I've gotten by with things on this project here I never could in the States. You know I've been shooting from the hip so to speak, and I've had a lot of luck as well as help from you and Juan, but I appreciate you saying that. We've come a long way, and if things don't crater politically, we've got things moving towards completion. This project was 18 months old and far less than a third complete when we got here. Now we're more than three fourths complete and heading into the home stretch. If the government holds up against the Commies we'll be through here in less than six more months. If not, at least we've got it this far and the town will now be accessible other than by donkeymobile. This project is the perfect cover for all this other sh*t too, but we're fooling nobody. Hell, even Juan knows what we're up to. We best look sharp."
     My thoughts and efforts were primarily on the Project and my new friends in town (one especially) but in fact my intuition told me that my stock with the communist guerillas had been going down even farther and in about equal proportion as it had gone up with the men on the project and with the people in the town and general area. I was a marked man and I knew it instinctively, not only by virtue of being an American and my free-wheeling position over the project if nothing else, not to mention all the other stuff that was cramping their style, and they had to know I was the man here on the ground behind it all. And as time went on Frank and I (and others) gave the Cuban agitators several more hard reasons as well, since we had our ways of always knowing where their camps were. Frank, Pablo, the "Boss Man" and myself coordinated these "other" activities which made things unpredictable and mighty unpleasant for certain of those jokers and seriously impacted their rabble-rousing. Frank was a marked man same as me, but only a little less so than I would have been if our jobs were reversed. But in hindsight I can see that I personally had yet to truly understand the seriousness of my danger and just what all communist crap was going down in that country, indeed in more than just this one country of South America. It was destined to spread and continue for many years before getting better.
     Waking up dead only happened to 'other guys'. This was my attitude. Indeed it is the only one which allows one to face mortal danger, since only those with a death wish will face it otherwise, but I did not really believe I was in this kind of danger. I surely should have. Oh, foolish youth. I was in fact thought to be deeply involved in several things I knew little or nothing about, not to mention those I was and did, and by not only the Cuban communists either. Certain communist sympathizers in the government had their sights on me and sold us out at every opportunity they could. To give further details would only serve to confuse and call for such clarification as cannot be given. But for now, eliminating me was not their main interest due to the good will of the project as well as that felt for me among the people, and the Cuban scumbags knew better than to make the people mad. Their bold move would come, and not be long at that, but until it did they would be discreet. But until that time came, providing our intelligence could see it coming, Frank and I would have go into the bush to continue our "work". There were just simply not enough of us. Ours was a delaying action that would serve to help give world geo-politics time to build in favor of our side. We hoped.
     The first few months had gone by with the "The Man", aka the "Boss Man", the "Houston Contractor" (one and the same in case you haven't figured this out already) not showing up and each week talking me into staying longer, and I became less and less mad at him for holding out on me at first about certain things. Finally we quit talking about it, and I was not only in communication with him on Saturdays, but several times during the week as well, and, when he was in the country by other means than coded telephone. Even so, we talked only when we needed to, he leaving word at the Cantina or by way of Pablo when he wanted me to contact him. Over time better means of communication was established for our little extra-curricular activities, and the dit dah dah dit stuff was done away with. That rascallion only told me after the fact that my knowing Morse Code had been one of the reasons for "hiring" me - that I could fly a light plane another. He didn't know sh*t. I had soloed, that was about all, and taught by a guy as crazy as I was at the time who didn't even have a license himself (had it taken away from him after a certain incident). But "The Man" had seen my deficiencies already - after I missed a tiny clearing and pancaked an old WWII Talorcraft into the bush on one job and we had to walk out leaving the thing rotting there in the jungle. Thank goodness it did not catch fire, and as they say, a good landing is surely one you can walk away from, even if hobbling a little .                                                                                            (Click to Enlarge)

      By this time my Houston "Boss Man" had in fact given me Carte Blanche not only over the project but certain "other" things as well, and he made our salary deposits to the Houston bank on time just as he had promised (I had a friend in Houston check to be sure), and he responded to everything I asked for. Frank and I tried our best to accommodate him and his "assignments" in turn as well, within reason, he being who he was and all. Frank took things more realistically than me I think, and would have quickly left with me had I been mad enough at "The Man" to do as I had threatened. Frank did not view this mess of intrigue quite as the "adventure" that I was beginning to, and with good reason. He had faced mortal danger and seen much gory death in Korea. I had not, and could not rightly relate to it. Frank knew too, that by now I did not want to leave at all. Had I been fired I would have stayed in town, at least for awhile. Why? Because of Rosalinda, what else? As for Payday, he had his occasional contacts with "the Man", but basically they had had a falling out and Payday was out of the loop. Payday looked out after Payday's crooked ass, and that was all.
     When the payroll was hit I had been lulled into a false sense of security and was still distributing the pay envelopes to the individual crew foremen at those work sites on the end of the work closest to the town. In hindsight, I should have been paying off only at the camp compound and only on Fridays, no matter what the situation or inconvenience for some. Generally I did, holding it under guard by Pablo’s men until Friday afternoon, except on certain occasions when it came later than Friday. We never knew when the money would arrive. The men needed their money and would get antsy if it was late. This particular time it was three days late and there was a crowd around the Job Shack every evening asking about it. The squad of government troops arrived in their jeeps with it on a Tuesday morning and Payday insisted I should payoff that day. A payoff in the middle of the week meant I would loose 10-15% of the work force to "celebration" for at least a day, but that was just to be expected in that country. Why the hell I listened to Payday about it I don’t know, I guess more because I wanted to please the workmen. I figured Payday was tired of putting up with them every evening too. I am now convinced otherwise. Payday was playing his own dirty little game. Due to this and especially a certain later episode, that S.O.B. had best pray I never come across him again in this world.
     That afternoon I took my four guards in a Powerwagon to pay off the crews on the far end. At a point opposite an unfinished culvert we had to take the little bypass road dozed out around it in the jungle which crossed the stream. There were men working on the culvert, equipment going nearby, and Frank's truck was stopped beside a dozer and sheepsfoot roller on the other side of the culvert. This being so, the ambush was unexpected and we were totally surprised by the ten to twelve banditos who jumped out in front of us as we came up out of the bed of the stream and rounded a little bend. Had they waited until we got closer they would have had us cold. And had one of them shot into the air instead of through the windshield about 2 inches from my head I would have stopped because they were so many and they all had FAL rifles. They were not in fatiques, but then banditos were not known to have FALs either. I smelled a rat immediately. "Bandito's" was their cover, the payroll was just a bonus.   It was my ass they were after, and Pablo had warned me that it would happen sooner or later.
     So I, being scared sh*tless, yelled "hit it" and we all bailed out and hit the bushes as we had planned beforehand, the Powerwagon still rolling in gear towards the bad guys and with bullets flying. We gathered up in the jungle as we had planned, none of us hit or as yet having fired a shot. The banditos were as surprised at our quick action as we were of them I suppose, but there was no cover to be had against the bullets, just hunker down in the foliage and hope.
     I had been driving, the guards at the windows front and back, and when I bailed out it was without my rifle. It was on a front seat and within reach but I was vacating the premises so fast that as I snatched it up, it banged hard against the door frame and I dropped it. Now, back in the bushes, I surely felt naked with just the Colt .45 automatic in my hand. Sam Colt had been my constant companion since that first day in this sweltering country. I strapped it on every morning the same as I put my on my pants and shirt - except for those certain "excursions" when the Colt Woodsman was the more appropriate weapon, and because it was silenced and therefore didn't bark as loud. Anyway, I felt naked without that Colt .45, and it came to hand quickly now.

     The men I was with were experienced and it showed immediately. They quickly spread out some, formed an assault line, looked to me for leadership and began to advance to flank the bad guys. I moved into the line, determined to do my part. When we came out on the little road again the vehicle had nosed into the jungle and stopped. Some of the bandits were firing into it apparently thinking somebody was still in it. Two or three were knelt down watching out for us but we had a slight advantage in that we knew better where they were and opened up a split second earlier than them. For about ten seconds the firing was deafening and we estimated later that maybe 200 to 250 rounds had been fired total, mostly in short bursts. We had hit the ground to fire, and they broke and ran, shooting as they scattered into the jungle. It was quiet as we jumped up, crossed the road and hit the jungle again ourselves. Amazingly, nobody on either side appeared to have been hit, at least that I could see. We found different only later. This brief little spat over, I checked my pistol and found the barrel hot, the magazine empty, and the slide held open. You can bet I changed magazines and released the slide in short order.
     Now myself, I figured to leave well enough alone, that if we stayed put and hunkered down the bad guys would eventually leave. I mean what with a lot of workmen on the roadway so nearby and all, everything should be okay, and personally the payroll to me was not worth the risk to my precious bod. It was just wishful thinking and too, I didn't know then that the payroll was still in the Powerwagon. But these guys with me didn't see it that way. They coolly reloaded and looked to me for orders. Sh*t! So I acted bold, began moving forward and flanking a little to the right. After all, I was their "Jefe" was I not?
     The bad guys had us outnumbered and so did not expect this either, and we surprised them again. I myself never saw hide nor hair of them at first, but two of my guys raised out of their crouch and fired solid bursts at a certain area, then we all fired and hit the ground again with bullets flying back at us and zipping through the foliage. It got quiet again and we waited, watched, and listened.
     Just as we started to creep forward again enough to see that the boogers had moved out, we heard a single different-sounding rifle shot behind and off to the right of the area where the bad guys had been. Then came another shot. Then a little later, another, then some hollering and more fast and furious full automatic fire. I wasn’t long figuring this out. It was Frank. I knew he had seen us turn off the roadway to get around the culvert work. Frank being quick witted and with his M14 rifle right there in his truck, had grabbed it and hit the jungle to help out as soon as he heard the firing. Later he would say that he had heard the firing, left the roadway and was easing through the jungle trying to make sure which group was the bad guys and then try to come up on their flank. He had guessed right and confirmed it when they came into view, moving to his right and away from our advance, but he did not know where we were.

    Now, Frank had been in some heavy fighting in Korea, in which I was just a whisker too young to participate, graduating from High School just after the Cease Fire took effect. Frank had no qualms or hesitation when the chips were down. As he said later, when you have the advantage you take it and you press it for all it's worth. And there is hardly anything like being fired at from two different directions that will take the fun out of it all, especially not knowing for sure where it is all coming from. It did at that time for those guerillas. Frank said they were ahead of him and off to his right when he dropped the first one. Said he had heard so much firing he figured we had bought the farm and he was mad and determined to make the boogers pay. Then when another raised up a little to look around, he dropped him too. His third shot he had fired into where he had seen one disappear, and when they broke and ran he had emptied his twenty round clip after them.
     So at that third single far shot, I had heard one of the bad guys holler something, there were more bursts and single quick popping, then all was quiet. After awhile, it seemed like ages, we crept out to the roadway, and a little later Frank eased out of the jungle too, looking surprised to see us. We went behind the culvert headwall and talked it over. There were maybe twenty workmen hunkered down inside that culvert and more hiding in the jungle. Frank was almost sure the bad guys had pie-yied since they broke and ran after his third shot, but we took no chances as we spread out, followed him and eased to where he said he knew there were two down. Actually there were three. Two former and one hard hit but still living bad guy that my four guys heard groaning farther back in the jungle and found a little later. These guys made a scout and about twenty minutes later Frank and I heard the Powerwagon crank up and shortly they drove up the little road to the closest place to load up the wounded guy and the two dead ones. There was another guerilla they had found where the Powerwagon had gone into the bushes, and only then did I notice one of my guys was hit and he did not even know it. There was a lot of blood on his side and when his shirt was off and side wiped of blood, there was a neat little hole in his side, and a slightly bigger one out around back about two inches in. We pressed a folded cloth over these and bound them tight with strips of his shirt to stop the blood. The man paid no attention to it and acted as if it was nothing.
     Now, there is a certain and appalling feeling that comes over a guy when he sees a man, up close and personal, laying dead. Laying I mean, where he has just fallen and died, not laid out in a funeral home. Once before I had this feeling as a ten year old back where I grew up. Two black guys had argued by a railroad track late one night, and one had cut the others’ throat. I was walking to school the next morning and walked over to see what the policemen were looking down at. I will never forget that mess. It was a horrible sight and a profound feeling, and both came disturbingly back to me once again at this time.
     We loaded them all into the shot-up Powerwagon, and as we drove back out on the right-of-way keeping watch all the while, I motioned to the foremen to bring the other workmen on in to the compound on the flatbed trucks. At the compound my guards went directly to Pablo. It was obvious that they were reporting to him, and I well understood why. Pablo came over to look in the back of the Powerwagon, then came around to me just as I was about to leave for town with the dead and wounded. "Jefe," he said compellingly, "it will be best if I handle this situation. I will explain it when I return." So I took my rifle and got out of the Powerwagon as Pablo and the other guards got in and hurried off for town to find the Alcalde and the "Medico". I knew one of the reasons for Pablo's actions. One of the dead guys was the former Head Cook of the compound, the guerilla spy who had quit the week I relieved him of his cooking duties. The other reason I could only guess at the time. It is still disturbing to remember.
     Yessirree. Things were picking up and closing in on me. I was scared alright. Yet wild horses could not have dragged me away from that mess. I intended to see it through - see just what I could make of things. I knew I would always regret it and forever wonder about it if I didn't. Indeed I was ravenously gobbling it all up and hardly realized it! To go right at whatever scared or intimidated me - that had been my way for months now. Not intentionally. It wasn't bravado - I just couldn't help it. What was happening to me? I didn't know, and not knowing scared me a little. I had discovered that to live on the edge is to live life at it's very apex. To be in mortal danger together with other good men in common cause and in the same predicament, some depending on you and all depending on each other, well, there is just nothing else that can equal that. And then there was Rosalinda. Beautiful, exotic, sweet-hearted and talented Rosalinda, who had given piano recitals before El Presidente and others at the capitol. And she had proclaimed her love to be all mine. Were all these things really happening to ME? Me who just 5 years ago had been a poor, timid boy from a small town in Georgia?

                                                                                                 © Anthony Matejak...
                                                                                         via Emil T. Miller (Tony Miller)
                                                                                                                                 (Click here for AUTHOR'S BIO)

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