moment offering you a chance to join our cause. The most obvious advantage to you is that you will not be returned to that penitentiary in Patagonia. You will be given new names, your pasts will be wiped out, and if you serve the Falangist cause faithfully, you will be given fine opportunities in the new order. You'll have money and women, be able to start families and raise children. And, best of all, yo honored and respected members of established society?' He paused as he watched them consider the proposition. 'Now! All who wish to join the Ejercito Falangista take one step forward?'
One man immediately stepped forward. Within an instant he was joined by the others. Coronel Jeronimo Busch smiled to himself. Now the Falangist cause had cannon fodder to throw at the enemy.
Chapter 11
LA PAZ, BOLIVIA
HOTEL VISTA DE MONTANA
23 DECEMBER
0815 HOURS LOCAL
THE cheap room seemed even smaller than it was with the five men crowded into it. They consisted of Dirk Wallenger, a reporter for the Global News Broadcasting television network of Washington, D. C.; the Chilean journalist Miguel Hennicke of the newspaper El Conquistador; a local TV cameraman; and a translator who was fluent in English, Spanish and Portuguese. All were gathered around the bed where Suboficial Adolfo Punzarron sat.
The Falangist wore a faded sports shirt, badly worn slacks, and cheap sandals that adorned his sockless feet. He was uncharacteristically unshaven, and his usually carefully tended mustache was shaggy and drooping. He had identified himself to his visitors as Mauricio Castanho, a Brazilian cattleman and survivor of the massacre at Novida in the Gran Chaco of Bolivia.
Hennicke, speaking through the translator, said, 'You told us you had photographs of the atrocity in your village, Senor Castanho. May I see them?'
Punzarron aka Castanho walked over to the luggage stand in the corner of the room. He retrieved a large brown envelope from a battered suitcase and returned to the bed. 'Here they are.'
Hennicke began looking at the photos, passing them over one at a time to Wallenger. The images were disturbing. Dead men, women and children were strewn within a small area just outside a village. The corpses were bullet-torn and sprawled in grotesque positions from the violence of their deaths. It was obvious to the veteran journalists that these were real, not fakes.
Wallenger winced at the scenes. 'Who took these photographs, sir?'
'A priest,' Punzarron replied, using the cover story invented by Tippelskirch. 'He is a traveling padre who visits settlements in the Gran Chaco. He performs marriages, baptisms, last rites and other such services for the people there. He always has a camera to record ceremonies. He used it to take those pictures of my poor, dead friends and neighbors.' He sighed audibly and dramatically. 'And my family who were all murdered:'
Since Hennicke also spoke English, the translator had only to interpret in that language for the two journalists. After he told them what Punzarron said, he was confused. 'This fellow speaks fluent Portuguese, but he does not speak in the Brazilian manner. I don't understand.'
Hennicke shrugged. 'What difference does his accent make? He was obviously there at that place. See? He's even in a couple of the photographs, standing among the corpses.'
Wallenger agreed. 'We don't care how he speaks. We're interested in the story of the slaughter.' He turned to the cameraman. 'Record all this. I'll edit it later myself.'
Hennicke's attention was back on the subject. 'Senor Castanho, tell us exactly what happened.'
'We were all asleep,' Punzarron said. Then the sounds of helicopters woke us up. We all went outside our huts to see what was going on. We thought maybe it was our friends the Falangistas. But the visitors were somebody else in uniforms. I think maybe more than twenty of them. Their commander told us we were under arrest as illegal aliens. But our village chief Joao Cabecinho said we had all the necessary visas and permits. He offered to go get them to show him. This made the commander angry, and he said we had to walk out of the village into the open country on the far side.'
'Was he speaking Portuguese?' Wallenger asked.
'No,' Punzarron said, shaking his head. 'He spoke in Spanish. Joao Cabecinho translated for us. And we obeyed the orders. As soon as we were gathered where they wanted us, the commander yelled something aloud. It sounded like an order to his men. They started shooting. Everybody was falling down, so I dove to the ground, and a couple of fellows fell on top of me. I lay still, acting as if I was dead. Then they walked among us, and if anyone twitched or moaned, they shot him in the head. They killed everybody. They killed men and women and little children. Everybody.'
'Were these criminals soldiers?' Wallenger asked.
'Yes,' Punzarron said. 'They wore the type of uniforms that are spotted with different colors. And they wore green berets. But they did not speak Spanish among themselves. In fact the only one who spoke Spanish was the commander. And I heard words I recognized in English when the others talked. Like 'yes' and 'hurry' and 'kill babies.' And now I remember the leader said 'fire' before they shot us. All that I remember. I will never forget it as long as I live. It was horrible.'
'Are you sure they weren't Bolivians?' Hennicke asked.
'Yes, I am sure,' Punzarron said. 'Some of them had blond hair and were very fair. There were some black men too, but most looked like American white men.'
'Who are these Falangistas you spoke of before?' Hennicke asked.
'They are good men who are soldiers,' Punzarron explained. 'But they never hurt us. They brought us food and medical supplies. They visited our village many times and told us how they were the saviors of South America. They were fighting the men in the green berets, but they were not sure who they were.' Punzarron paused for dramatic effect, then said, 'I hope the Falangist liberators kill all those horrible Americans?'
Wallenger signaled for the cameraman to stop shooting. He glanced at Hennicke. 'What do you think, Miguel?'
'Who else could it be but Americans?' the Chilean said. 'There are bandits in the area, but they are Bolivians with lots of Indians among them. None look like Europeans. And why would bandits use up a lot of bullets to kill people for no good reason? Most of those gangs are miserably poor. They even steal clothing. Let us also consider the helicopters. Those bastards were from an organized military force.'
Wallenger turned to Punzarron. 'Tell me, Mr. Castanho, did the killers steal anything? Did they loot the village?'
'No,' Punzarron said. 'After they were sure everybody was dead, they got back on their helicopters and flew away.'
'May we have these photographs?' Hennicke asked.
'Yes, sir,' Punzarron said. 'I have other copies in my bag. There are plenty for both of you.' He went back to the suitcase and pulled out another packet, handing it to Wallenger. 'Do you have any more questions, sirs?'
'I don't:' Wallenger replied. 'At least not for the time being.'
'Nor I,' Hennicke said. 'My friend and I will go now. We would like to see you again if possible.'
'I will be here for three more days,' Punzarron said. 'Then the Falangists are going to help me get back to Brazil.' He showed what he hoped was a sad expression on his brutal face. 'I never want to see the Gran Chaco again. I lost my wife and four children in that horrible criminal atrocity.'
As the journalists, translator and cameraman left, Capitan Diego Tippelskirch in the room next door took the earphones off. They were attached to the recorder he had used to listen in on the conversation in Punzarron's room.
Un exito grande de propaganda!
.
THE GRAN CHACO SEAL BASE CAMP
24 DECEMBER
2200 HOURS LOCAL
BRANNIGAN'S Brigands were back together again, and it was Christmas Eve, but the detachment was not celebrating. A heavy rain fell, literally dampening the already subdued holiday spirits. Everyone was hunkered down
