Fighting with the Contras

The following is a story published in Behind the Lines Magazine in 1994 about Bill Johnson's time volunteering with the Contras in the Nicaraguan Civil War to fight the spread of communism in the Central America.

by Rob Krott
A GREEN AMERICAN VOLUNTEER JOINS THE WAR AGAINST THE SANDINISTAS

JANUARY 10,1985, NICARAO BASE, A REAR-AREA CONTRA CAMP NEAR THE HONDURAN BORDER TOWN OF LA LADOSA

Billy Joe Johnson, an American volunteer from Birmingham, Alabama is being questioned by two English speaking FDN (Fuerza Democatica Nicaraguense) officers.

"What is the gringo doing here?" "Volunteering to help you guys," says Billy Joe.

The officers radio their headquarters for instructions. Only two days after arriving at the Contra camp, Bill met Juan O. Tomayo, a staff reporter from The Miami Herald. Tomayo promptly wrote "The Short, Happy Life of America's Boy-Man: a Hemingway Fantasy Comes Alive in a Nicaraguan Guerrilla Camp." Tomayo chose the title because they had discussed a short story, "The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber" by Ernest Hemingway, and its significance to Johnson (he had a well-thumbed copy of The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway with him). In Hemingway's story the white hunter, Robert Wilson, dismisses his wealthy client, Francis Macomber, and other American men as protected, coddled "boy-men' who never come of age because they lead secure lives without risk or danger. As Johnson says now, "It's pretty obvious from the article he wrote just how wet behind the ears I was.'

Wet behind the ears he was. At the time he was described by Tomayo as "a strapping 6-foot-3, 25 year old with the soft voice, wheat colored hair innocent-wide blue eyes, and a stubby reddish beard barely covering a lantern jaw that looks as if it were drawn for a Super Heroes comic strip character."

His only military experience was a brief stint in ROTC during college, a small Jesuit school where he earned a BS in chemistry. He interned with a surgeon after college preparatory to medical school but dropped out to travel around the world, including a four-month journey across the African continent, looking for adventure. Later, equipped with a map of Mexico and Central America torn from a National Geographic magazine, and $1,000 cash, he jumped a bus to Laredo, Texas, hopped a train to Mexico City, then traveled to Guatemala City by bus (on the bus to Guatemala City he met an American leftist traveling to Managua to work for the Sandinistas).

From Guatemala City, by another bus, he made his way into the FDN's supposedly clandestine Nicarao Base by stopping Honduran peasants along the way and asking "Contras?"
On his fourth day at the base he told Tomayo, "I hope they let me stay and help."

The next day FDN headquarters sent a message to the commandante of Nicarao. "Tell the gentleman, that while we are thankful for his offer, we don't accept foreign participants. Advise him, politely but firmly, to leave the base."

Johnson trudged up the hill to the green plastic tent where he'd shivered through the last two nights in the mountains of Nicaragua and sadly packed his meager belongings. Before he left Nicarao, he talked to an English-speaking FDN officer who thought Johnson would be an asset at the base. As Johnson departed for his trip back to Honduras, the officer waved and shouted, "See you soon.'

Johnson returned to Tegucigalpa, Honduras with Juan Tomayo. On the way he told him, "I guess it's kind of hard to just walk into a war."

In Tegucigalpa he went to the FDN headquarters, where he met Mario Calero. Calero was impressed with the young American, and because there weren't any boots in the Contra inventory to fit Johnson, Calero gave Bill his own boots. Heartened by this, Johnson returned Nicarao.

During his eight months with the Contras, Johnson would get caught up in a major combat action, at a place called Chamascada. At Chamascada, a small, battle-weary band of 70 Contras suffered through daily rocket barrages and held off repeated attacks of Cuban-led Nicaraguan army battalions.

When Johnson returned to the Contra rear area, he encountered a concerned and furious Contra commander, who was determined that an American volunteer was not going to get killed while the United States Congress was voting on Contra Aid appropriations. Johnson was allowed to stay, but only if he spent his time working in the rear as a medic. The former med student soon found himself doctoring wounded Contras and treating the usual 100 or so daily cases of dysentery. But before his unglamorous transfer to "the rear,' Johnson got some of what he was looking for at a Contra radio relay point on a hilltop called Chamascada. This is his story. -RK

0900 21 JAN 1985: A Monday, I arrived back at the base camp at Nicarao. Far off in the distance, I could hear explosions which I assumed to be some kind of artillery fire. "Those boys have been partying like that for ten straight days," said the camp's doctor, who spoke near fluent English. He told me he thought the FDN was shelling the Sandinistas. The Doc was leaving with a supply run to the front in the morning on what he called a "morale visit" and offered to show me the war "close up" if I wanted

0600 22 JAN: The morning of the supposed supply run, Commandante "4-2" suggests I draw a weapon and ammo from supply, because "we're dropping mortars on them because they are attacking us. Best to be on the safe side, amigo." Fine by me. I didn't exactly relish the thought of being unarmed in a combat zone, even if we weren't going to be all that close to the front.

Our destination was a defensive position (actually a fortified radio relay station) about six clicks inside Nicaragua called "Chamascada." I thought it might be a real good idea to go into Nicaragua armed. Since I wasn't a weapons expert, I was initially overwhelmed at the prospect of choosing a weapon from the pile. [The FDN had a wide variety of weapons: FN-FALs, German Heckler & Koch G-3s, the usual US stuff like M-14s, M-16s, Ml Garands, and Ml carbines, and a hodgepodge of Mausers, Uzis, Egyptian-made Swedish K's, 9mm subguns (aka the Port Said), and of course AK-47s, AKMs, and RPKs.]

My choices narrowed when I quickly discovered that most of the weapons were either poorly maintained, old (rusting FNs from the 1950s), or lacked ammunition. Many of the rifles had shot-out bores. I finally settled on an AKM, mainly because it still had some rifling left in the barrel and I was fairly certain I could pick up more ammo (scavenged from the battlefield if necessary). My particular AKM (like most combloc weapons) was captured. Part of the wooden fore-end was chipped away. "Grenade," said one of the Contras. I shouldered my "new Kalashnikov assault rifle and hoped I would have better luck with it than its previous owner.

Besides the weapon, I was issued 300 rounds of ammo, four Brazilian fragmentation hand grenades and a six-round bandoleer of 40mm grenades for our M203 and M79 grenade launchers. I began to wonder just how close "up close" really was. We started at 0800 after the typical meal of frijoles con arroz (beans with rice), tortillas, and thick, heavily sugared Honduran coffee. Altogether there were six of us; four Contras ages 13-20, the doctor, and myself. Since this was basically a re-supply mission, we were also humping in 2000 rounds of NATO 7.62mm ammo, 1000 rounds of 7.62x39mm ammo for the Kalashnikovs, 24 40mm grenades, and 30 hand grenades. This was supposed to be a four or five day supply of ammo for the guys we were re-supplying. What size unit was this, I wondered. A squad? If our six-man group got hit in an ambush, we'd blow this much stuff off in a matter of minutes. Well, we would if I had anything to do about it.

The boys informed me that the trip to Chamascada normally took them about four hours, emphasizing that it was all uphill. Man, they weren't kidding. In some places the grade was nearly 75 degrees and you had to use handholds hacked into the side of the mountain. The Doc and I thought we were in fairly good physical condition, but a combination of the climbing and the thin air (the altitude was 1500+ meters) was kicking our tales. When we left we optimistically thought we would make it to Chamascada by lunchtime. Now we were hoping we wouldn't have to spend the night camped on the trail. Besides the weight of the ammo, one of the things slowing us down was the thick jungle growth which had replaced the cultivated fields and coffee plantations of the lowlands.

About 1400 that day we stopped at "Quinientos," an intermediate camp on the route to the front. Quinientos was just a group of eight or ten of the ubiquitous tree branch and sheet plastic "hooches" the Contras used for shelter. The camp was out in the open and totally exposed. We had stopped to eat and while waiting for "lunch" to be served were entertained by Contra war stories. One of the guys started telling a typical Contra story which centered around the poor soldierly qualities of the cowardly Sandinistas. This story had a unique twist, though. The storyteller mentioned that he really feared the Sandinistas' Cuban advisors.

This Contra firmly believed that it was impossible to kill a Cuban with a bullet. Killing a Cuban required a rocket either a LAW or an RPG. Other Contras I spoke to said they also believed this, and some said that many of the dead Cubans were found with little "Voodoo pouches" containing bird's feet, lizard tails, balls of hair, and other Voodoo paraphernalia. The doctor said he'd heard the same out on the coast, but like me, had assigned rumors such as the "Voodoo Cubans" to the "for further investigation" category. (Note: It is possible that these dead Cubans were practitioners of Santeria, a Voodoo type religion common in Cuba, Central America, and the Caribbean.)

Like the day before, the heavy artillery barrages were continuous, and as we marched we got closer and closer to the area being shelled. A few minutes after we halted we heard what sounded like firefights, a sudden crescendo of heavy automatic weapons fire, in at least two spots farther up the trail. The firing continued off and on for about half an hour, and after a few minutes of silence we heard a loud blast.

When I mentioned that I wasn't altogether happy about walking into a possible ambush up ahead, the Contras assured me that this was usual for the front and everything was basically okay. I remained unconvinced until I noticed that one of the Contras had left some of his armament behind and was now armed with only a single grenade and a sack of chicken eggs.

About thirty minutes later we encountered seven wounded Contras returning from Chamascada. They'd been caught in the open by a rocket which wounded all of them. One of the walking wounded, about 50 years old by the look of him, was thrown 10 or 15 feet by the blast, and though he had no visible wounds (though he seemed to be suffering from concussive injuries) he was violently engaged in projectile vomiting as a result of shock. Though none of the wounded appeared seriously injured, the doctor checked out each man, and after he was satisfied with the medic's work we pushed on.

Chamascada Base was a well-entrenched position situated high atop a ridge which ran north to south. The westerly slope was pasture, clear of any trees, unlike the heavy growth we had been climbing through for most of the day. We met the commander, a 20-year-old Contra code named "Commanche," who seemed to be very much in control of the situation. His area of operations encompassed the ridge where the main body of his force was dug-in, and three ambush or support positions located about 500-1000 meters away from the main position on the ridge's east, west, and south spurs. Each of the outposts was manned by a dozen men and communicated with Comanche's CP and the main base if needed via hand-held radios. Thirty men were dug in along the ridge-lines with partial overhead cover. This was the front line. To push the Contras back into Honduras the Sandinistas would have to attack up the steep barren western slope right into the guns of the Contras. It would be suicidal. Comanche had a great defensive position. I was about to say something about it when I noticed that fully one third of the Contras were armed with decrepit bolt action Mausers of uncertain ancestry. Well, I thought, maybe they make up for their lack of modern small arms with esprit. You need guts and a real hatred of communism to fight Kalashnikovs with bolt actions.

Comanche's men were a beat up looking bunch. He told me, "This is the eighth straight day of combat and the twelfth straight day of rocket attacks for these men. Today, the piriacuacos (literally rabid dogs, the standard Contra epithet for their enemies) pounded us all morning long with the rocket launcher (Soviet BM2 1 multiple rocket launcher) and then in the afternoon, attacked. The boys are in good spirits because they routed the attack so thoroughly that some of them actually left the trenches and chased them down the bill. They were still celebrating when they sent one well-placed rocket.., which explains the wounded men you probably ran into on the way here.., ordinarily we don't have casualties from the rockets.

The Sandinistas lost 17 dead in that attack. Seven on the crest of the ridgeline near the trenches. Some of the Contras were unceremoniously heaving the bodies down the hillside when we arrived. I asked Commandante Comanche, "How did the Sandinistas manage to get so close to your position? You can obviously see them coming from a long way away."

Comanche said, "There are two reasons: 1) We are very short of ammunition, and 2) we have the piriacuacos' radio frequency. After a heavy rocket attack we invariably hear their Cuban advisors telling them "go take the hill. ..they've abandoned their position. Of course we don't make them think otherwise until they are right at the trenches.. .we get maximum kills that way. Two days ago the Cubans told another group the same thing. Those poor guys came up the hill with their AKs on their shoulders, laughing, and with their radios playing. We nailed 34 that day." (I must have looked a little skeptical, because he quickly pulled out a wad of Sandinista ID cards as proof). Our conversation continued...

"How do you know it's Cubans giving the orders?"

"You can tell by their accents, mostly, and the excited way they talk. They let too much of that propaganda go to their heads."

The wind shifted and I noticed the smell of the putrefying dead bodies baking in the hot Central American sun just a few meters down the hillside. "You never bury the dead. You always, ahhh, 'dispose' of them down the hill? I was just wondering, because the smell here is pretty bad."

"Well, every time those guys attack they have to pass by all those bodies. Some of them are just skeletons now. It's just a little psychological warfare, eh, to have what could happen to you so vividly depicted right before your eyes just as you're trying to work up some courage."

I nodded my head. This guy was barely out of his teens and he knew what he was doing. I looked around and then asked him, "I thought the FDN was fighting a guerrilla war. Isn't defending positions like this conventional warfare tactics?"

"Yes, you're correct on that point, but this is a strategic position for the FDN. Chamascada provides an important radio link between Nicarao and our forces operating deep inside Nicaragua. Also, this position protects our main infiltration routes in this area. It's not a very hard position to defend anyway. You can see how steep the approaches are, and the Sandinistas always attack from the open side. From down in the valley where they start their attack, they have to climb 400 meters straight up. They don't have much fight left in them after a climb like that."

Comanche told me the worst part about defending Chamascada was that since the Sandinistas knew their exact location, the Contras were under constant rocket bombardment. Even though they were dug in, the experience of being under constant bombardment made everyone edgy and restricted the Contras to their holes. Besides the usual morale problems, the Contras were especially frustrated because their standard operating procedure as a guerrilla force was to pick up and move once the Sandinistas located them and fired them up. By the first salvo of rocket fire the Contras were usually long gone. They weren't trained or prepared for this static defensive warfare under constant rocket attack. The upside was that they were taking a fearsome toll on the Sandinista attack force. I told Comanche there'd been a great deal of criticism in the US press about the FDN's ability to hold territory. From the well-fortified trenches and the sleeping huts it looked like they'd been holding Chamascada for awhile.

"Thirteen months," said Comanche.
As it turned dark Comanche showed us the best part of defending Chamascada at night the view. From the high altitude of the ridge the lights of about 10 cities were visible, including Estelli about 70 kilometers away. The wind was blowing at a steady 40 kph, and I quickly checked the temperature. It was 28F. The cold ate straight through our fatigued bodies, and Comanche showed us to our hut.

The hooches were of the usual stick and plastic sheeting variety, which didn't promise much in the way of shelter from anything except the wind. I didn't think I'd be sleeping much anyway, especially when Doe pointed out the numerous shrapnel holes dotting the plastic. "I wouldn't worry about those rockets, they need observers to spot for them and the observers need light," said Comanche, "they do, however, attack at night, but we'll let you know if anything comes up." Right!

The next day was quiet but was filled with an air of expectation. After eight straight days of fighting, you begin to think attacking daily may have become habit forming for the Sandinistas. In the morning the Doe saw "patients." This included virtually everyone on the ridge. Only two men were actually ill. Everyone else just had non-specific aches and pains. They weren't actually malingering...it just seemed like they wanted to see the Doc as a break from the monotony and to gripe and moan a little. One of the Contras complained of "cold feet." I had a little laugh at that when it was translated. I was curious to see what the Doe was going to pull out of his bag to warm up the guy's toes, when he told me that on a morale medical mission everybody got "treated" even if it was only a handful of salt tablets given as placebos.

At lunch time the next day we were lit with three rockets. There's a sonic boom as each rocket snaps overhead followed by the explosion when it hits. Add the typical "whoosh" of incoming to that and it'll put the fear of the Lord into anyone. No wonder the Contras here looked so shell-shocked. The Contras said this attack was just harassing fire, since the rockets overshot Chamascada by a good 500 meters. The general consensus among the defenders was that, manana - tomorrow, we'd be hit with an all-out ground attack.

The prevailing wisdom was correct. At 0600 the Sandinistas started dropping mortar rounds on Chamascada. The Doc said they bracketed the hilltop, and seemed to be zeroing in on the southern outpost. It was an ideal morning for a ground attack. The hazy morning fog hanging in the hills limited our vision to about 50 meters to our front. We waited expectantly in our trenches, eyes straining in vain to penetrate the enveloping fog. Comanche's radio man began picking up situation reports from Sandinista commanders giving their positions in the clear. One of the attacking ground commanders gave his location as being only 150 meters to our front. We braced ourselves for the coming onslaught.

A loud cacophony of fire broke out near the southern outpost. The firefight was furious and sustained, lasting about five minutes. Sporadic, isolated shots were heard throughout the next hour. The commander of the southern outpost reported halting an attack by a large Sandinista force. Back up on the ridgeline we were wondering whether the main body of the attack was just down the foggy slope waiting to attack or whether they got lost in the fog and hit the southern outpost by mistake. Maybe the attack wouldn't come; maybe the Sandinista commandante needed map reading lessons.

But with the fog as thick as it was, we didn't take any chances and remained at 100 percent security-full alert. About 1500 that afternoon the fog lifted, confirming our opinions of commandante bad azimuth's military orienteering skills.

The next day was sunny and quiet, a thankful respite after nine hours of fearful apprehension wondering if we're going to get pushed off the ridge line by the Sandinistas. Two consecutive sleepless nights had left us all exhausted and we spent the day catching up on our sleep. Later that afternoon, we sat around eating roasted corn and engaging in a favorite Chamascada pastime - watching the circling vultures riding the mountain thermals down to a spot on the hillside below.

The troops were watching with more interest than I thought the activity really merited, until they pointed out that some of the vultures had landed in different locations than usual. This usually meant fresh dead and more war booty, so a hastily organized patrol departed immediately to make a reconnaissance. While they were gone someone turned on a transistor radio and we listened to Billy Joel sing, "It's not the real thing, it's just a fantasy."

About an hour, the recon patrol returned with two Kalashnikovs and a medical kit. There'd been more, but the patrol thought they'd been spotted by Sandinista observer, so they cleared the area before they were hit by the dreaded rockets. The Doc inspected the medical kit which turned out to be East German, complete with a German language first aid manual sans pictures, and a large quantity of chloroquine phosphate tablets. According to Doc, chloroquine is used to treat malaria. Since there wasn't any malaria in this region, the Sandinistas were rumored to pop chloroquine to get high before an assault.

Late in the day Comanche received a radio communiqué ordering him to Nicarao for mission coordination. Comanche decided it would be a good idea for the Doc and me to return with him. We weren't exactly happy with his decision and we were sorely disappointed we hadn't seen more action. The next day was another quiet morning - no rockets, no mortars. This only served to reassure Comanche that Chamascada would be okay without him during his trip to the rear. Comanche, the Doc, myself, and one Contra for added security left at 0730 for the long march back to Nicarao. We were only 15 minutes down the trail when the Sandinistas mortared Chamascada. They only fired three rounds, none of which were close to any of the defensive positions.

Comanche said the Sandinistas target registration was an ominous sign of an impending attack. Comanche returned to his unit. The Doc and I were actually happy we weren't going to miss the action. When we arrived back in Chamascada the radio operator breathlessly informed his commander that radio intercepts indicated the arrival of three fresh enemy battalions with a total estimated strength of 2,500 men in the area. We continued to monitor the enemy's radio traffic which consisted mostly of commanders reporting their units' positions.

Things were beginning to look pretty grim for the defenders of Chamascada. Comanche radioed Nicarao with an urgent request for reinforcements and an ammunition re-supply. Best case scenario for receiving help was reinforcements arriving in four or five hours. If we were attacked any time soon we'd have to hold out for at least that long or bug out. Comanche ordered a redistribution of ammunition.

Everyone had about 200 rounds to his name. Things weren't looking very good and the rest of the morning was spent listening to the increasing Sandinista radio traffic. Sometime around noon one of our observation posts spotted a large enemy force moving toward the ridge, just as a message from the Sandinistas rocket battery commander was heard stating the rockets were loaded and "listo" (ready). Every time we heard the command "Listo!" we knew the rockets were on their way and would impact in about 20 to 30 seconds. Just in case our radio monitor missed that call, the battery also sent "cinco" or "diez" to indicate how many rockets were inbound.

The Contras' interceptions of Sandinista transmissions kept casualties to a minimum. In the next two hours, our position was pounded with over 80 rockets. At 1400 the barrage was lifted, and we monitored the Sandinista order to attack. Other radio intercepts indicated the Sandinistas were confident this attack would succeed; their commanders were planning to secure Chamascada and bivouac for the night.

Comanche was confident despite the fact that his under strength company was almost out of ammo and was going to go toe-to-toe with a reinforced brigade with artillery in direct support. Maybe he was just trying to be a good leader and keep appearances up for the men. It looked like Custer's Last Stand to me. I didn't have much time to worry about all this because the Sandinistas had crept forward under cover of the rocket attack and I was crouched down in the trench line as automatic weapons fire stitched the air overhead. You could hear the whip-snap of the bullets.

The whole trench line opened up in a violent fusillade of automatic weapons fire and 40mm grenades; we unloaded our weapons furiously down the hill in the direction of the attackers. Contras were heaving grenades as fast as they could pull the pins and clacking off the Claymore mines.

It was a stereotypical "mad minute." The guy next to the Doc and me was an M60 gunner. He burned off a few rounds and the gun jammed. He popped the feed tray cover and frantically tried to clear the stoppage, unsuccessfully, and then threw both of his grenades and then grabbed two more, one of Doc's and one of mine. He let them fly and then burned off about 80 rounds from his FN-FAL all in about a minute's time. Besides his poor fire control, his rifle marksmanship wasn't all that great either...most of the firing was done with the weapon held over his head with his eyes closed and his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. I couldn't blame him, even as I was steadily firing away with my Kalashnikov I couldn't help but flinch from all the rounds whizzing by.

Doc was popping up out of his hole like a jack-in-the-box to fire short bursts, so I just followed his lead, alternating with him putting out rounds and myself...controlled semi-auto fire, pausing only to change a magazine and check the antics of the Contra sharing my position. I wanted to make sure he was at least getting the muzzle of the FN over the lip of our trench.

We were really catching it from the attacking Sandinistas. All the outposts as well as the main position were being hit, and hit hard. If this kept up, and with the lack of anything resembling fire control (if I could use the Contra sharing my hole as an example), we were going to be out of ammo and overrun very soon. Then I remembered that fully one-third of Comanche's men were armed with bolt action Mausers. If they were putting out a steady stream of suppressive fire we might be able to hold them off. Hopefully, the heavy outpouring of automatic weapons fire from our defenses would give us initial fire superiority and slow the Sandinistas assault.

The Sandinista attack stalled; miraculously we'd held them off. Within the hour the firing tapered off, and we were optimistically thinking that the Sandinistas had hung it up for the day. Reinforcements loaded down with extra ammunition would reach us later that night, and all would be well. Wrong answer! Fifteen minutes later we heard "Listo!" over the radio and quickly ate dirt from the bottom of our holes. We took a full barrage of 30 rockets. One struck just outside my trench. The force of the blast picked me up, turned me over, and slammed me to the bottom of the trench. The hill was enveloped in a cloud of dust and smoke, and we were all dazed and shaken, our ears ringing.

I lay in the bottom of my hole wishing my wood and metal Kalashnikov was big enough to crawl under. I had just gained a new and healthy respect for the Soviet BM-21.

The radio soon came to life again with a Cuban voice and the ubiquitous, "Go take the hill... .They've abandoned their positions." It was quickly translated for me and I couldn't help but smile a little. By now the word had gotten out on this joker, and the Sandinistas weren't buying it anymore. The Contras fired 'em up with a volley of 40mm grenades as they started up the hill, and they turned back.

By now we were certain that the last attack was it for the day. Then Comanche told us the bad news. The southern outpost had been overrun. With the uncovered avenue of approach up the spur on our southern flank undefended, we were in trouble.

Comanche wasn't sure if we could hold the ridge without our southern support position, and he didn't have enough men for a counter-attack. Comanche ordered the doctor and I to return to Nicarao. A shell-shocked Contra who had broken and ran during the rocket barrage was to guide us.

We had to sprint about 300 meters along the ridgeline totally exposed to Sandinista fire and then hope the Sandinistas hadn't worked in behind us and set up ambushes or stop-groups between us and Quinientos. Of course the Sandinistas spotted us and began throwing rockets along the trail. Most were over-shots but close enough to make us sweat. They tore up the trail and the surrounding jungle, knocking down trees and cratering the landscape, making our movement difficult. Our ex-filtration made the Sandinistas think all the Contras were bugging out and they promptly renewed their assault. We started catching automatic fire over our heads as we ran.

I don't know if it was stray rounds or if we were receiving fire from a long distance ambush. Between the incoming rockets and the rifle fire, our "guide" disappeared. We eventually made it to safety and staggered on down the muddy trail in the approaching darkness towards Quinientos. We were met by the recently arrived reinforcements who had halted rather than approach Chamascada at night. I think they were a little nervous about the heavy rocket fire also. I laughed when our "guide" walked up to Doc and complained about the rockets upsetting his stomach. I looked at Doc and said, "What do you want to give this guy besides a good, swift kick in the rear?"

Doc grinned at me, winked, and reached into his medical kit pulling out a syringe with a dull, large-gauge needle and promptly gave our buddy a large shot of water in the rear.
Comanche and his men staggered into Quinientos around 2100. With their ammunition nearly gone, the southern outpost overrun, and no sign of help, he knew his chances of holding Chamascada through the night were zero. He ordered a night withdrawal. Miraculously none of his men were serious casualties. In the morning, radio intercepts indicated that the Sandinistas had five reluctant infantry companies in attack positions below Chamascada. Sometime around 0800 we heard the first incoming rockets hitting our abandoned positions. I guess sometime later in the day the Sandinistas attacked and found what their Cuban advisors had been saying for weeks was true there really was no one there.

***

Four weeks after Johnson left Chamascada and the Contras were forced to withdraw, Comanche led the attack to retake the ridgeline. He was badly wounded in the wrist, the bullet penetrating his watch and severing the tendons. Johnson, meanwhile, had returned to Nicarao, where he was ordered to stick to medical duties in the rear lest he become a casualty or worse, get captured.

He worked as a medic at Nicarao and later at another camp near La Paraiso. In his opinion, one of his biggest contributions was the morale boost that he as an American gave the Contras. He served as physical proof that Americans cared about the future of democracy in Nicaragua. He also helped explain the American political process to them and why more help wasn't forthcoming.

Johnson later met Tom Posey, head of the CMA (Civilian Military Assistance), and received some support from him. Johnson was an unpaid volunteer during his eight months with the Contras but received $585 in expense money over the months from Mario Calero. During his stay he rubbed shoulders with some of the major players in the Contra Aid game and some of the really good guys like Jim Tumey and Dr. Chuck McHugh, as well as whackos like Sam Hall.

Now, nine years later and a lot older and wiser, Bill Johnson reflects on his days with the Contras almost nostalgically. "...I got a real high just from being associated with thousands of men who believed in something, something bigger than themselves, something they were prepared to fight and die for. It's hard to find commitment like that in America?"

This story is dedicated to a Canadian volunteer, Peter Bertlie, KIA on a mission deep in Sandinista held Nicaragua.