At Close Quarters (5 page)

The colonel had looked at him when uttering the last phrase, and now he was expecting an answer – an austere, hardened old man silhouetted against the large window, scornful of luxury and superfluity, who would retire from active service in a few months’ time with neither pomp nor circumstance, just as he had lived his life.

‘Yes, I did agree,’ Olmedo replied. ‘We no longer needed hundreds of thousands of men …’ – he paused before saying ‘wasting time in the barracks’ and chose a more positive expression – ‘to fight for their country.’

‘It wasn’t all about fighting, Olmedo, and you know it. The military service was a good way of getting to know one’s country, and for getting to love it,’ he added.

Olmedo did not agree with that either, but he didn’t contradict the colonel. ‘I think that, all in all, we have as many men as we need. And whenever the quota has not been met, we’ve received enough applications from foreign soldiers. Such as your own orderly,’ he said, knowing the colonel held him in high esteem.

‘Make no mistake about them, Olmedo, make no mistake. I remember that, a few years ago, when we almost went to war with Morocco over Perejil Island, we were putting together a squadron to take part in a rescue operation. The officer of the Legion asked volunteers to step forward, and you know how many foreigners took that step?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Not one! None that were not Spanish. And by Spanish I mean those like you and me, not those who wear the uniform in order to obtain Spanish citizenship and because six hundred euros a month is a fortune in the countries they come from.’

When he finished, the colonel turned again towards the window, as if he wanted to hide his face as he added, in a voice so low that Olmedo had difficulty understanding him:

‘All too often those who make greater sacrifices for their country end up being neglected by their superiors.’

It was a remark Olmedo could not answer without expressing his disagreement, and so he remained silent, waiting for his orders, as the meeting should have started five minutes ago. Castroviejo must have noticed too and approached the table to pick up the documents.

‘Let’s go over, and persuade them of the accuracy of your report,’ he said. ‘I won’t be affected by any of it. In six months, before the excavators tear down the walls of these pavilions, I’ll be retired.’

Castroviejo and Olmedo walked down the corridor, as soldiers stood to attention, clicking their heels and saluting them with a quick, exact movement of the hand. They went into the meeting room where the officers were already waiting, standing round a long oval table the two ends of which were noticeably empty. The oak of the wall panels and the table and chairs might once have been clear, but time had darkened the wood and its drab patches showed where it hadn’t aged well. By one of the windowless walls were two cabinets which kept symbols and trophies that told the history of the base under lock and key; in between the two pieces of furniture, under the motto ‘All for one’s country’, a Spanish flag enjoyed pride of place, its flagpole a little splintered and the cloth frayed in one corner. It had been recovered from the enemy by the San Marcial soldiers who, in 1898, had taken part in a battle somewhere in the Philippines. Olmedo could never remember the exact name of the place. Behind the glass, each in its frame, were pictures of the last three Spanish monarchs – and of Franco – visiting the premises or presiding over a ceremony or parade in one of the courts that would soon be turned into flats, gardens or streets. At the back of the room, in a corner, was another cabinet containing unique treasures: certificates of victories in combat; two old swords stained with urine, which was said to be Moorish blood; and a bunch of medals with hard, resounding
declarations
of honour which purported to prove that the prestige of an army rests on how much enemy blood it spills. Those symbols
of sacrifice, strictness and toughness did not greatly appeal to Olmedo, reminding him that the army was the only place he’d known where one could be issued the death penalty just for idle talk.

The room was the most solemn one in the base and was seldom used. Olmedo understood the colonel had chosen it because the meeting would be a kind of farewell, a declaration that San Marcial was being demolished, and few things could be more important to him.

Olmedo stood at one end of the table and the colonel at the other. Olmedo would have preferred to have had him by his side, but he guessed what the seating plan actually meant: Castroviejo was leaving him on his own, standing as far away from him as possible. He would not contradict his report, as he’d said a few minutes before, but neither would he encourage the suggestion that he supported or shared its conclusions.

Olmedo waited for the colonel to be seated before sitting down himself. All eyes were on him, following with curiosity and excessive tension – as if he were handling explosive material – the movement of his hands as he opened his briefcase and took out the report, which was bound in black – not the most appropriate colour, he realised at that moment.

The colonel spoke first:

‘You’ve all heard, even though a final decision hasn’t been taken yet, that San Marcial will be closed down … suppressed,’ he corrected himself. ‘As you know, the Ministry of Defence had commissioned Major Olmedo to write a report on the strategic and economic viability of the base. He will tell you his conclusions now. Major?’

‘Thank you, colonel,’ said Olmedo, thinking that, even though the tone had been kind and the introduction neutral, the colonel had chosen his words very carefully to hint at his disagreement and dissociate himself from the report, thereby throwing Olmedo to the lions, one would have said. The major could almost feel some of the officers running after him, in hot pursuit, tongues hanging
out, 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 from
so 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 don’t agree is when you say that that can’t be done here, in San Marcial. We’ve got all the necessary inf-infrastructure.’

‘I may not have clearly explained what Madrid wants in terms of strategic reorganisation on a national scale,’ he conceded. ‘The idea is to concentrate resources, which are now too spread out, in a few highly operative centres.’ He chose abstract words that might contribute to dispelling disagreement.

‘No, you have, you have. But, if I may say so, your explanation
does not answer my question,’ he replied looking at the colonel, seeking in vain his support, as Castroviejo remained silent, apparently less interested in what was being said than in the reactions it gave rise to in those who were listening to it.

‘I’m afraid that, in that case, only someone in charge of making decisions can answer you. My powers do not go beyond the writing up of the report.’

Olmedo noticed how irritated Bramante was by his answer, and how coldly the colonel leaned over the agenda of the lieutenant to check the list of those wishing to speak.

‘Captain Ucha,’ he said.

‘I think you’ll be able to answer my question.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘I’ve listened attentively to your conclusions and, although you didn’t put it this way, what you’ve come to tell us is that the better the weaponry of an army the less necessary the men who are in charge of it. I don’t agree with that, but this is not the place to argue the point. I only wish to ask you: what are they going to do with us? Not with the rank and file, but with us, the officers. Some will perhaps choose to pass to the reserve. But, the rest, where will they send us? Ceuta, Melilla? The Balkans? An Arab country, under UN or USA supervision? Where will they send us? What will they do with us?’

‘It’s not the first time an army base has been closed down, and the rights of all affected parties have always been respected, and many requests have been granted. It is safe to assume that our superiors will be generous and will respect our choices.’

‘Except the choice of staying here, in San Marcial.’

‘Except staying here, yes.’

‘But that’s the only thing many of us want.’

Ucha was sitting very near him. In spite of the man’s calm tone, Olmedo thought he might be the officer less inclined to accept a transfer, and one who would never forget who had written the report. Among the military caste, there were always types like Ucha – quiet, patient and tenacious, men who knew that good
things come to those who wait. He was an unsociable man, chose night shifts, and always appeared distant, not because he was afraid of anything, but because he wanted no responsibility.

Other officers spoke against the report, but their opposition was less staunch. They mentioned what the city would lose with the closure of the base, the sources of revenue and jobs that would disappear, such as cleaners and food providers, maintenance and transport technicians, bars and restaurants patronised by the troops. Or they expressed blanket complaints about how politicians marginalised everything to do with the army. But then a commander agreed with Olmedo’s report and the fears dissipated into arguments among the officers. For a few minutes neither Castroviejo nor Olmedo said a word, while the assistants
commented
or discussed the likely consequences of the closure. One of the younger captains raised his voice in support of Olmedo and attracted everyone’s attention when he described the changing times with a futuristic vision that was in sharp contrast with that image of old wood, bloodstained spoils and photographs of deceased soldiers:

‘I do see the need to substitute these damp, colourless barracks with modern, functional buildings of steel and glass, with a computer on each desk, fast lifts and concealed staircases, with automatic doors that don’t need to be guarded as they would be accessed via a keypad and code.’

An hour later the colonel was about to bring the meeting to a close when Ucha asked one last question:

‘And you, sir, what will you do?’

‘When?’ replied Olmedo.

‘When they close San Marcial, as we all know will happen. Where will you go? Because you’re a part of this too,’ he added leaning back in his chair, well aware that he had lost the battle but, also, that he could still inflict some pain.

That was the only question Olmedo had feared, because it was the only one he didn’t have an answer to. The people from Madrid had suggested that, if he so wished, he could be destined
for the central offices of the Ministry. The last few missions he’d been involved in had not been easy and they wanted to compensate him for his good work. Apart from a likely promotion in due course, he would not want for new special commissions, as there were many aspects of the army that needed reorganising. And if he did not want to be far from his homeland, the Mediterranean he was so attached to, they could post him to Valencia. But in both cases he’d have to leave the city, and doing that meant being away from Gabriela, as she would not follow him. He could always ask for an extended leave of absence, or even take early retirement, but he didn’t really want to. Although he sometimes felt tired and worried, he was too young to be inactive. He knew he was good at his job, and early retirement would make him miserable, miserable like someone who, trained to fly planes, is reduced to driving horse carts. Besides, he loved his profession, the army life, the camaraderie shared in effort, the closed world of the barracks, the respect of honour, courage and loyalty, even the harsh, terse language, provided it didn’t get too crude. He felt at ease as a part of a solid, enduring organisation that extended from King Don Juan Carlos I down to the last soldier in San Marcial – a
brotherhood
that would come to his help whenever he might need it. He liked all that, even if some people might question it upon hearing his report. Indeed, he would find it very hard to devise or invent for himself a satisfactory life outside that of the military. And so, fully aware of the attention everyone was paying to him at that moment, from the colonel to the lieutenant in charge of the minutes, he replied:

‘I don’t know, I don’t know what I’ll do if they close down San Marcial.’

He noticed everyone went quiet as he walked into the canteen. Bramante, Ucha and three or four other officers who appeared to be conspiring in a small circle near the bar stopped talking when they saw him. He drank a beer near other officers and promptly left, unable to stay there to eat in their company.

He drove towards the promenade. With the arrival of April the wind had changed and carried a slight warmth that encouraged tourists to walk along the beach, with the bottoms of their trousers rolled up, and their shoes in their hands, like pioneers braving the cold water. To the west, the mountains were wearing their new green suit, having cast off the grey heavy coat of clouds with which they robed themselves in winter.