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 asses. 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 "No-shit there-I-was." Most Contra war stories 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 rocketeither 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 birds 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 at-tack 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 bastards came up the bill 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. Hell, 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 nightthe 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 -bC. 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 bitch 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, mananatomorrow, 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 and cloying as it was, we didn't take any chances and remained at 100 percent security-full alert. About 1500 th at 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." How appropriate I thought, but I wouldn't realize just how true that was until later. 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. If so there are probably some hurtin' Sandinista vets today because chloroquine in excessive dosages causes eye and liver damage.

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 Ito 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 morningno 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 trafficSometime around noon one of our observation posts (OPs) 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. [Kind of a "shot, out" and "shot, over" system for their ground maneuver unit commanders and the forward observers or spotters.]

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. Our reinforcements still hadn't showed, and I looked back towards Honduras, wondering where I was going to be tonight.. .wondering if I would still be alive.

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-FALall 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 banging 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 burn off 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 catching hell 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!" crackle 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.