Kaikan, British Guyana [Disputed Territory]
July 19, 1896
Santiago Martinez was sick of the army. Every day for the past couple of weeks he had had to wade through these accursed swamps that characterized the area of the border his battalion was responsible for guarding. "God-damned British," began his best friend, Vidal, on a rant that characterized his speech patterns, "if they would just stay behind the Essequibo River, where they belong, I could be in my nice, cozy, dry, home right now, eating my wife’s cooking."
While Santiago agreed that Vidal’s house and wife were both very appealing (especially his wife), he disagreed with his friend on the matter at hand. "You’ve got it all wrong, esé, they wouldn’t send us home. Probably to another corner of the Earth to settle a border dispute there." His friend smiled and nodded, acknowledging the point behind the statement rather than the accuracy of it. What do I care about this area anyway, thought Santiago. It’s not like it’s a nice place to live. Of course, he already knew the answer to that. I don’t care, but Venezuela does. That is good enough for me.
Of course, that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. He, too, would much rather have been home in Cumana, where both he and his friend had grown up, with his own wife, a sweetheart if ever there was one. But soldiers didn’t have to enjoy there duty, and he certainly met that requirement.
Suddenly, he realized he had forgotten to scold Vidal. "Oh, and don’t use the name of God in vain," he said, trying to act as if his comment wasn’t as late as it was. As if to enforce what he was saying, he crossed himself. "Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén."
"A Hail Mary? You need to ease up my friend."
"You relax in your way, I relax in mine. Being in disputed territory as we are, there is good reason to fear that combat is around the corner."
"Santiago, you worry too much. This is the twelfth time–"
"Fourteenth time," interrupted Martinez, knowing already what his compatriot was going to use to back up his argument.
Vidal did not slow down. "–twelfth time that we have gone on patrol in this area. Nothing is going to happen."
"Cut the chatter back there, soldier, this ain’t no time for goofing around!" nagged the mission commander, Lieutenant Vasquez.
That set the men straight. With the reputation Vasquez had for discipline, they would have been fools to continue in their manner. Unfortunately, that left to the men nothing but their surroundings to focus on. This particular swamp, though he had not been through it before, was smaller than those he had experienced in the past. That did not mean it was pleasant. The water was murky, muddy, and thick. Santiago would have been a fool to think they would be allowed to take the easy way around. No, they went straight through. At some points, ankle-high, at some points, knee-high- at some points, waist-high, but always rank in stench and disgusting in feel. Santiago, having gone through a number of swamps like this already, was surprised that he had not yet come down with anything serious. Some of the other men he worked with weren’t so lucky.
After nearly 15 minutes of wading and struggling, the 14 Venezuelan soldiers came out on the other side unharmed, yet thoroughly disgusted. Before anything could be said, they were shouted at from far to their front. "Attention, soldiers of Venezuela!" came the clear, British voice. "You are trespassing on the territory of British Guyana. We will give you this warning once, and only once. You must exit this territory, and go back to your own nation. Any who continue forward will be shot." The orders, clear and easily understood, were still a shock. Nobody had really expected to run into the British. What to do now? Should they turn back, and run away, tails between their legs? Should they advance, and risk a battle? How large was the British force anyway? It was at times like these that he was glad he was only a Sublieutenant, and not the commander. Lieutenant Vasquez would have a tough choice. He did not hesitate.
"Who is this that challenges us?" he challenged.
"Soldiers of the Her Majesty, Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom, the rightful owner of this territory," came the reply, without a second wasted in thought.
"This territory belongs, without question, to the Republic of Venezuela. You are the trespassers, and thus, to you, we issue the same demands you gave us." The Lieutenant never sounded so professional as he did there, issuing that challenge to the British and their Empire. Of course, no matter how legitimate the Venezuelan claim to the territory as, the British had effective control of the disputed region.
The British soldier ignored the disputation. "You must exit this territory, and go back to your own nation. Any who continue forward will be shot," he repeated, without any change in his voice.
Vasquez did not intend to give up. "Ready your weapons, men," he whispered. Santiago lifted his M18937mm Mauser to his chest, as did the others in his squad. In unison they advanced.
"You must exit this territory, and go back to your own nation. Any who continue forward will be shot," he reiterated, now noticeably getting nervous. His voice gave away his feelings. After all, the Venezuelans still could not see him. "Continue forward and you will be shot!" The Venezuelans did not stop, but they did begin spreading out and maneuvering about the trees, in case he did, in fact, keep his promise. "I won’t warn you again!" he screamed, nervously trying to stifle a battle hat, though they had just met, was long in the making.
The "violators" were now up to running pace. The silence in those last few moments of peace was eerie. Then it came. The pitter-patter of feet on the ground, the rustling of the British behind the bushes, the nearly inaudible sound of said foes adjusting their positions and taking aim; a trigger was pulled, the gunpowder ignited, a bullet flew out of the tube of each of the enemy’s guns. Then, hell was let loose.
The battle was to be small and short, yet to Santiago and most of the Venezuelans, indeed to most of the British as well, it was their first. The only exception was Vasquez, who had participated in the revolution that brought Joaquín Sinforiano de Jesus Crespo, the current President and head General, into power.
From the target area, no fewer than 8 British soldiers emerged, some from behind trees, some from behind bushes. All cracked off shots immediately, and of those who fired, 5 hit their marks. In a way unlike anything Martinez had ever seen before, men fell to his left and his right. His other childhood friend, a man named Juan, died before his very eyes. As he and the others who weren’t hit ducked behind natural cover that was within 300 meters of their enemies, men like Juan hit the ground face-first. Once there, they could do little more than writhe in pain and await death. Though the number of Britons was little, they were good soldiers, and were able to keep every man on his toes, "on his toes", meaning to afraid to assist his comrades. All except Vasquez, who dashed out of cover to pull up another man, and, under fire, drag him back to safety, though little could be done to help him. Luckily, he was only hit in the leg. The commander was an exemplary soldier. The others, who were new to combat, were cowards, Martinez included. He certainly had an opening to save a friend, yet he didn’t dare risk it.
Those who were able did at least know the procedure. The men popped out of cover when necessary to fire at the British who now, in turn, had to take cover. The numbers were almost even, and, though the level of skill and training was different, the fighting was even. A British soldier collapsed in death, as did another Venezuelan. So it went, that within 10 minutes of the initial exchange, there were no more than 3 Venezuelans and 3 British left. Of those, Santiago was glad to be a member. Looking over, he realized that Vidal was as well, something, for which, he thanked the Saints. Then he noticed the Lieutenant making his move. Over time, he had maneuvered through the thin jungle to come out upon the left of the British position. It was at this moment that he struck! Vidal, who was near Martinez, leapt out of a nearby hiding spot to fire off a shot that hit one of the British square in the chest. The two remaining opponents had hardly finished firing their guns when Vasquez leapt out of the trees and ran at full speed towards the other two, who, by their failure to notice him, had allowed him to get within 100 feet. Santiago, thinking he could help, also jumped from cover and fired, luckily hitting an enemy. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel any different for killing his first man–yet. The last foe, whose death would seal this, the first fight, did not notice the large Venezuelan man running at him, and turned to face him too late. But what is important is that he turned.
The Lieutenant, whose bayonet gleamed in the sun, plunged straight into the heart of that last Briton, at the same time as that nameless man got off a final shot–one that went straight into the pelvis of the commander. Martinez, seeing the last enemy fall, ran out of cover again, this time for good. The feeling of remorse for murder had not yet come over him, but he did not feel well. Walking along the path to the former British nest, he saw dead bodies, mangled in his eyes, but clean compared to what could be done in an actual war. As he walked past a dead Venezuelan soldier, a young body who reeked, of course, of death, and was shot in the side of the head, a bullet that had ripped apart his ear and temple, he leaned over with his hands to his stomach. In one quick motion, he regurgitated his lunch, a movement provoked by the sickening sight of a life cut short.
When he recovered, he stood up as well as he could and ran towards his friend Vidal’s former location. He did not reach it. Seeing that his friend was not there, he proceeded to Vasquez. Already, the brave Lieutenant was standing as well as he could, but Santiago saw that he was wounded. His pain was evident in the look on his face, which was both a smile to commemorate victory, and a grimace of pain with obvious origins.
"Hey, kid, what’s with the look on your face," he asked, "did you just see a ghost?" As this was said, he both chuckled and limped forth. "Urk!"
"Lieutenant, you should sit down or something."
Vasquez gave him a quizzical look. "Sub-lieutenant, I’ve been shot before. This is nothing. I just need to get back to civilization soon. I’m going to head back." He looked around. "Where is Sergeant Vidal?" That was a fine question. Martinez hadn’t bothered to look for him.
"Vidal! Dónde están usted?" he yelled.
"S-Sant-ti-tiago," came the reply, in a low voice. "Over here!" Santiago ran towards the source of the noise as fast as he could. He came upon a horrible sight.
"V-Vid..." he trailed off. "How did this happen?"
"Oh, this? It’s n-nothi-nothing." Even as he talked, he bled out of the two wounds, one in his shoulder, and one in his calf. They came from the two bullets fired by the last two enemies. Santiago was horrified. Before him lay his friend, wounded and dying, and he couldn’t help him, or so he thought at first.
"You’d best carry that man back to the base, or else he’s gonna die," came the unsurprisingly blunt comment by Vasquez, who was already tending to his wounds as well as he could. That was just what he intended to do. As he ran down to lift his companion up and hoist him onto his shoulders, he consoled him.
"Hey, Lieutenant, uh, sir; when this shit gets in the news, what’ll happen to us?" he said on the side.
Vasquez stared into the sky. "What will happen? What will happen?! Boys, enjoy the food at the base, and write to your wives as soon as you can."
"Why sir?"
"Kid, we’re going to war."
There was no more talking on the way back to base.