The Eagles of the Sierra Madre

Prologue

IN APRIL OF 1941, the bluebonnets of the Texas prairie swelled like the waves of the sea. The wind made the hills blur with blue as if Renoir painted the landscape. In a few hours, the flowers would blossom in another day.

Catalina Rodriquez gazed through a cracked window pane. Her eyes were those of a young woman who had recently celebrated her fourteenth birthday. In the dim light, she saw four wagons approach a group of field workers. They gathered from nearby shacks. Some smoked cigarettes, others tried to keep warm. No one bore a smile. Some called them los braceros. They toiled the soil and had little reason to smile. For years, Texas farmers needed their hands to pick the crops. Rotting fruit had no value, and a nation just emerging from the Great Depression needed food. Anglos used another word to describe these brown-skinned workers—wetbacks. Her father angrily denied he was one. We were here for generations…before the Anglos. We never swam across the river.

My father was a proud man. My sister and I believed him, Katia recalled.

A man from a wagon called her father, "¡Fidel!"

From the next room, Katia heard her parents shuffle across the lose floorboards. The walls then shook with the sound of a closing door, and she saw him climb into the last wagon. "¡María— mi alimento!" he called to his wife.

Whatever Papá asked of us, we were obliged to do. He was the respected head of our family and to us the family was everything, she remembered.

She could see her mother run to the wagon with a tin bucket.

The sound of the driver’s whistling followed with the rustle of leather reins. One by one, the wagons pulled toward the rising sun.

I’ll be back at dusk. He waved to her.

Soon Katia could not distinguish him from the others who sat with him. He would be gone all day. For pennies, he would plant seedlings, remove chocking weeds from crops, and then when the season ended, he would be there for the harvests. Fidel had done this for years. She asked how many.

We came to harvest the cotton, onions and corn the year I was born—1926. Her mother added they had been in Texas since President Hoover.

I never questioned the time difference between his claim of ‘generations’ in Texas, and her mother’s assertion of fifteen years, she remembered.

~*~

AFTER THE SUMMER months passed, the last blue flower dropped its seeds. As the shadows grew longer, entire families harvested the last crop before a bitter north cold claimed each field.

Then came winter.

December, the last month of the year began the first month of the rest of her life.

At school, the teachers called me Kate…Katia recalled.

Kate waited at a weathered gate, and for the first time she noticed how poor her father walked. He carried wood for the stove. Mamá said Papá had fallen from a horse. "Can I carry some?"

He shook his head. "Maybe tomorrow. But I would like that you read the newspaper. It’s yesterday’s. El Jefe seemed excited with something in the news. It’s probably about the war. You must read it to me." He sat on a box.

Hawaiian Islands maybe attacked—Kate began to read. Pearl Harbor is said to be—

Her mother interrupted. Catalina, hurry. You have chores. The chickens must be feed, the eggs collected—you and your sister must do the laundry.

"Sí, Mamá."

Don’t forget to feed your brother José while I am gone. Her mother worked in a laundry during the winter. She then kissed him goodbye.

He made his way to a kitchen chair. Morning sun fell upon his worn face. She placed the newspaper at his feet. He began to sleep.

Papá slept a lot. While he snored, Kate and Cecilia whispered. The eggs…let’s get them first.

Cecilia expressed frustration about their life on the farm. I hate this place…Eggs…chickens…I want to leave Texas.

Kate listened as they went through the three rows of shelves, where the hens nested behind wire barriers. Leave? To where?

To Hollywood. I plan to dye my hair like Jean Harlow and be loved by Clark Gable. Cecilia stood in front of a mirror, pulled up her hair and then turned to Kate. Katia, this mob of black hair must go!

Be proud of it, Kate said. To be a Rodriguez is to have hair as black as tar. I Catalina Rodriguez, I am proud of my black hair!

Oh, Katia. You are so old fashion. How do you expect to find your prince with hair like a goat?

Goat?

Well, it seems wild to me. My prince will find me. Men like women with hair that catches the sun.

Shush…if Papá ever heard you, he’ll send you to a convent.

When my prince comes, I will be rescued, and take me far from this place.

You would go off and leave mamá and papá alone?

I will visit.

And leave me.

It’s been decided. One of us needs to stay in order to watch our parents in their old age. You are the one.

Who decided that? Kate was surprised.

Katia, you expect me stay here as a blonde?

You’re talking crazy. No one has yellow hair here, but the Anglos.

Precisely, that’s why I must go to Hollywood, and you must stay.

Hollywood?

A place you will never see. It’s been decided.

Decided?

How do you expect me to stay if Clark Gable is to discover me? Cecilia’s eyes seemed wild.

You expect a famous actor to discover you in a cotton field? Are you all right?

No, no, no. This is how it will be. You don’t understand. You are the oldest. The oldest stays! Cecilia was commanding. I go to California.

Oldest? Only by a minute.

Still the oldest. You can’t expect me to give up Clark Gable?

Clark Gable is never coming here. Kate’s voice rose.

All you have to do is wait. I’ll then make him notice me—wiggle my hips enough, he will. All men do.

Such nonsense, but I too will have a prince and live in…ah, Hawaii.

A prince? Bite your tongue! That’s not the way it will happen. When I go to Hollywood, you must stay! No Hawaii for you. Do you hear me? They can’t grow old alone. Cecilia dropped an egg. Now look what you made me do.

Kate looked at her sister with astonishment. It was as if Cecilia had become the keeper of the family. Katia, now, let’s get to the house before you drop another egg.

Once inside the house, her father began to stir in his chair. His hand reached for the newspaper. He interrupted Kate. Katia, read the paper to me?

"Sí, Papá…Cecilia, gather the laundry, I’ll be with you in ten minutes."

He neither read nor spoke English.

It says Japan has attacked Hawaii. Kate paused. "Sí, Papá. It happened two days ago. It’s all over school."

Sunday? It did? I wish we owned a radio. How did they…? With horses? Ships? He looked astonished.

With airplanes. Kate kept reading. Hundreds of Japanese airplanes attacked the Navy’s ships in Pearl Harbor. Hundreds of sailors have died. Many while they slept in their ships. People at church were shot. Does Mamá know?

That evening, Kate’s mother returned. It’s all over the town—the war.

Mamá, they attacked a church? What a dreadful thing—on a Sunday. In the old country we once— His fist rose to the ceiling.

Fidel. She stared at her husband, almost as if to stop him from revealing a secret.

"Sí, Mamá, in the old country we had a life in the Sierra Madre," he said.

It seemed odd to Kate, how he changed the subject and that he just stared as if he was dreaming of something. What Papá? Kate shook his hand. Old country? You’ve been there?

"Nada," he replied. What do I know about war, about guns? He looked at his hands. I know only about crops—war is for young men.

And women? Kate asked. What if I was to join like Miguel Blanco just did. He’s joined the Army. His parents signed the papers yesterday.

No, Mamá said.

Papá didn’t you once say women fought like soldiers in Mexico?

"Sí—that was a long time ago and not in the army. They fought in la revolución."

Oh, Katia, you are only fourteen years old. What army takes little girls? Mamá said.

I am not little. If I were old enough—would you grant permission? I did not know why, but somehow I felt I too had the right to join the army to defend my family and America.

Her Papá thought for a long time. If Mexico was attacked, fine. I approve. You must make a promise that your honor be guarded against silly men who talk of love and marriage.

And, and—you better come back, Cecilia added. Do you hear me? Remember your obligations. What if the prince comes while you are killing Japanese? You’ll never see Hawaii.

Kate looked at her sister. My sister has become my governess?

Fidel. Her Mamá held his hands. I pray that day never will happen.

I shall go to church tomorrow and light a candle that Katia never leaves our family. Cecilia grinned.

Mamá, what kind of people would attack Mexico? She is such a little country. You need not worry, he said. No, Katia, I’m afraid you’ll never be in an army like Joan of Arc.

"And I shall pray to God that Katia will never leave us—not for love or war," Cecilia crossed herself. Not even for a prince. Write that in your diary…I wait for my prince and my moment of discovery.

~*~

Part 1

Texas

1944

Chapter 1

Bluebonnets in the Wind

MY BROTHER SOMETIMES pretends he is an airplane…at 18, I do not pretend to be what I am—a woman, even if they say I can’t. Sí puedo… Kate wrote on April 3, 1944.

Kate watched José run toward the distant cottonwoods, with arms stretched out as if they were wings to catch the wind. From north of the Red River, a breath of cool air flowed across the low sprawling hills, and made the trees sway, and a field of flowers ripple. The clustered blue-stalked lupines moved as if they were a sea. Her fingers did their best to hold a wind-shook page of a book, as thoughts of a character called Scarlet mingled with accounts from a present war.

Last night, at first I cried upon hearing the death of a neighbor’s son Miguel Blanco in Italy. It was then I became determined to join the Army, and do what I could to defend Texas—America! Kate rejoiced in silence.

The land of gentle hills her family called las Tejas—Texas, for three years had given many of its youth to the second Great War. Until yesterday, she never thought of death, but the loss of Miguel Blanco brought the finality of war to her heart. She liked Miguel, even mailed him a photo of her.

The drone of engines interrupted her thoughts. Her upturned bronze face searched the skyline. She lifted to her bare feet and slowly spun in apprehension. Her silhouette pressed against the sky. Traits of an Aztec maiden had graced her. Her nigrescent eyes riveted to the horizon to where dark specks grew larger with each heartbeat.

Wow! José shouted. Look at them!

What are they?

Airplanes, Sis—pursuit planes—Army Air Corps. Hands over his eyes, José pointed to the dots that became the tight formation of airplanes. He turned knee-deep in bluebonnet flowers, and he giggled. Our airplanes!

So, many, José. Which ones are these? She knew he could recognize them the way a boy could a Lefty Gomez or Joe DiMaggio baseball card.

Thunderbolts. P-47s! He jumped with his hands reaching for the sky. Miles per hour—four-two-eight—whoosh—packing eight machine guns. He made sounds of pu-s-s-h, go-o-s-h, pow, pow, trying to make words explode like bullets out of his lips. Listen to them. I can hear all twenty-five hundred horses.

The noise of the engines grew louder.

The silver surface of painted aircraft seized the sunlight. Each shaped like a potter’s jug, claimed the sky, and were headed south as if they were migratory birds in late fall. Kate’s eyes narrowed, as the planes flew over her head. The metal wings, cut the air, shook the ground upon which the bluebonnets sat, and for seconds, the fleeting shadows of the wings moved over the flowers. The feel of thunder, like a tension before a storm, gripped her. She sensed the earth absorb this sound of war as it traveled to her feet. A part of her wanted her to flee these tools of warriors, and she became frightened.

Heading for Brownsville, yep, he said. Yep! They’re heading for Brownsville.

"Yep? ¿Y no más español?" She smiled at his repeat of ‘yep.’

"You know, they hate us for using it in school—teachers slapping our heads, making us stay after school. They call us foreigners. I don’t want to be a foreigner like a Jap or a Nazis, so I speak their lingo."

Is yep an Anglo word? She closed her book. Yes, it’s best we practice it often…better, when we practice it right. Yep should be yes.

Yep, look at them, Kate—they must be a million of them! He pointed at the sky. José excelled in arithmetic, but she counted only fourteen. Kate? No more Catalina? Not even Katia?

Nope. He made more sounds that were supposed to be the hum of the Army Air Corps’ most fashionable plane, adding to his motif were his outstretched arms.

You look like a silly bird. She giggled. Is that supposed to be a P-4—?

Seven!

Kate could take issue with his ridiculous sounds, but how? She knew that in his mind—the purr of airplanes, the sweetness of this particular kind of aircraft, and the aviators that flew them were real.

Wow—Thunderbolts! Kate, these are the Cs! Where are the Ds? he asked.

Cs? Is that silly man talk? She raised an eyebrow, wondering what he’d been learning from friends at school.

The model, Sis, not a bra size. José gestured with his hands over his chest. Wait until I tell the guys that one. He laughed.

How do you know their letters?

Because one day I’m going to fly one—better be a D—before this war is over. I want one day go and kill our enemies!

I hope it’s over by then. She sighed, adjusted her tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, and turned to her book. Wouldn’t it be fun to just fly and not kill?

As quickly as the aircraft came, the spots then disappeared over a southern hill. I wished they ended the models a long time ago with the letter A, she whispered to herself.

His sharp ears must have heard her because he turned to her with a frown. Why! We need better planes to kill those Japs!

She opened her book and began to read.

Besides…What are you talking about Sis? No one flew an A! José said with authority. Unless you mean the ’39 project at Republic. You don’t know nuthin’ about airplanes. Girls don’t know nuthin’ about airplanes.

I hear women are flying airplanes, she remained focused on the printed page. Did you know that?

A lie! he sniped. Even if they did, their planes have no bullets in the guns. Women ain’t supposed to kill. They just make babies.

Oh, you’ve been studying the flight of storks. Her lips parted a smile.

Storks? Ah, babies come from your stomach. Us guys know how it happens. Kiss a girl and she makes a baby in six months; then you drop it in hot, boiling water. I know all about babies. Here, I brought you this. He pulled out a wrinkled envelope from his denims and handed her the brown wrapper from the War Department. It looks official.

She took the envelope.

With the airplanes gone, he picked up her book, thumbed the pages and kicked a clump of blue flowers. Darn, no pictures. His eyes looked to her, while the envelope opened. "What’s you reading? ¿Una novella romántica? Any war? Killing? Any airplanes?"

It has some war. She tried to read the form letter she had pulled from the pocket of the envelope. The Civil War…So far there’s a young woman who talks about a man called Ashley.

Did Ashley fly an airplane?

No, they weren’t invented yet. She kept reading the letter.

What did you get, a draft notice? He pulled a flower and tossed it at her. Who would want you—you’re a girl.

Kate had sent an application to join the Women’s Auxiliary Corps months ago. This was their reply.

Well? José swung a stick, chopping the heads off a dozen blue flowers.

I’m to report on the eighteenth of May for my training at the air base.

Training? You ain’t flying! Who you kidding? The Army don’t let girls fly planes! He jumped with laughter. Must be a mistake or pitch for you to buy some War Bonds.

Don’t say ain’t. It isn’t proper English. Besides, many ladies have flown.

It ain’t so! All the guys say ain’t. It ain’t English, it’s American.

Hush, I’m still reading.

You’re going to serve beans and rice. He dropped to the ground and rolled on the cool field of spring, laughing, and then yelled, Serve them high and make gas fly. He kicked his legs to the sky. His head turned side to side amidst the stalks of the bluebonnets.

"No, José, voy a traducir," she said.

Translate? Why? Everyone there speaks English. José looked again at the book cover that Kate had been reading. There was a wide-skirted blue-eyed girl gazing at a man with a mustache, "¡Ido con el Viento—Gone with the Wind! Wind—war? There must be planes in here!"

None, she replied. We better go.

Any kissing? He picked a flower and put the stem in his nose. "If it’s about wind there has to be airplanes."

While she walked off, José placed a second flower on his head, and then tagged along.

Some kissing. I’ll tell you about it on the way home.

How can this Mitchell lady write a book about wind and a war without any airplanes? I don’t believe it. Not even any railroads?

Railroads? She turned. Why?

Because aviators come to Texas on railroads. Maybe you just haven’t read the whole story. It’s a thick book—must weigh five pounds. I know there are airplanes in there. I see a man, with a mustache flying a P-47.

A man with a mustache?

Yeah and he’s waving! Look!

A second formation of airplanes flew toward them.

Who? She looked up. Is he waving at me? Silly, why would he?

The aircraft past over them in a blur. The roar of their engines made Kate cover her ears, and the ground trembled once more. She quickly turned as they disappeared over the next hill.

He did! He did! I can’t believe he waved!

Imagine taking a moment from his flight just to wave. Ah, he probably is from California or Chicago. Maybe he’s a prince. What if he just happens to be at the airbase? What if he got Papá’s permission to accompany me to church? Kate imagination got the best of her. She wanted to follow the airplane.

Kate, we hurry.

Hurry?

"Papá wants us home by three. You know Papá?"

When she arrived, her father waited at the steps of her home. You’re late. Your Mamá needs your help in the kitchen.

"Sí, Papá."

Kate felt he watched over her and her sister as if they were rare coins.

What will he say when he learns I’ll be wearing the uniform of the Army?

She had talked with her Mamá about this possibility. She said, I’m to avoid handsome men, and of course, no marriage without Papá’s approval. ‘Remember,’ she said. ‘You and your sister Cecilia must marry men who will live here, and only here in Texas. Your Papá is too old to travel to distant places—no California…no Arizona…and no Mexico."

Up the creaking steps she went. Her eyes searched the floor.

Where were you? he asked. Her Mamá stood by his side.

Oh, Mexico. She felt the anger of his eyes upon her skin.

Bite your tongue! He reached for the switch.

Once inside, Kate spoke, Why Mamá, why is he so angry when I talk of the old country? She turned to her. He makes me ashamed I am Mexican-American.

You are not Mexican-American, you are an American.

"Why Mamá, we still speak the language, eat tortillas con chorizo instead of hot dogs?"

Hot dogs?

Look Mamá. When I got this, for the first time in my life I was proud to be an American. She handed her the letter. I must go.

Her mother glanced at the Great Seal. Aye. From the government. It has happened. Papá will be proud! I know he will.

Proud? When I passed him, just now, I thought he would hit me like a child with a stick for being ten minutes late. Now, this letter means I’m to go be among the Anglos. Perhaps Kate misjudged him. How have things changed?

"Being in the military—it’s about honor. Your papá knows about both."

He does? Kate could not comprehend how a man, who all his life picked cotton and onions, knew anything about war.

He would consider dying for God and country to be an honor.

I’ve never heard him talk like that, and I am a girl.

"Sí, he wishes José was old enough to join. And he has seen photos in Life Magazine of young women in uniforms. For country man or woman, it does not matter. Did you know women fought in the rebellion?"

Rebellion?

"La Guerra Cristero (1)." She quickly covered her mouth, as if to hide something.

"¿Comó? Kate slipped into Spanish. I don’t understand."

"Before you were born Papá took up arms in defense of the faith. ¡Viva Cristo Rey! ¡Viva la Vergen de Guadalupe! He was at Tepatitlán with Padre Pedroza. Your Papá was an officer."

Papá was a soldier? More contradictions. Papá with a gun?

"Sí, in a brigade which numbered almost 25,000 women."

I didn’t know that—women?

"Your Papá is more than a picker of cotton, fruit and onions. He was a soldier of the faith, sworn to restore the Church in Mexico."

I hadn’t known it had left. Catalina surprised, added. Then he was with Poncho Villa?

"No, Katia. Papá was a boy in the days of Villa."

"I never heard of this rebellion— la Guerra Cristero. In school—"

"What do Anglos know about our history? Sí, los federales—the godless troops of Plutarco Elias Calles—el puerco de Sonora! His government wanted to exile the Church."

Whose? The Mexican government? That’s a surprise to me.

"I’ll tell you the story, one day. For now, you’ll make papá proud when you wear a uniform."

He’ll surely have reservations. I am his unmarried daughter, and will no longer be under his watchful eyes.

Of course, but honor goes wherever you go. Make us proud.

What shall I do?

"Just swear to your papá that there will be not search for a husband! You are to serve America as if you were a nun. Avoid all men who come from outside of Texas."

Like those from New York or Ohio?

No outsiders, and avoid especially young men who come from families who go back and forth to Mexico like gypsies, her mother replied. No Mexicans.

Why is it so wrong to fall in love with someone from the outside, especially from there?

"We have bitter memories of where we came from. If you or your sister should ever find a husband from there, your papá will surely die of grief."

But why?

~*~

Chapter 2

Hot and Laredo, Texas

FALL IN!

TENIENTE ESTEBAN MENDOZA touched his mustache. He had joined his men without a rifle. Their uniforms explained why none did. They were aviators, and their metallic aviator wings—las alas de México—cut the light of the sun with every move they made.

Feel the excitement. Esteban gazed upon the multitude of those that filled the square.

Newspaper boys sold papers of the war. Journalists wrote of revenge. The hatred against the Germans had moved the city. Hitler’s submarines had sunk several oil tankers flying the Tricolors of the Republic (1). The hideous act had kindled the imagination of those willing to answer a patriot’s call.

Young women kissed sweethearts.

"¡Atención!" chorused through the military lines, and then leather heels slapped against the pavement, making an echo against the ancient walls of the plaza.

The great plaza, where once the footsteps of the Aztec warriors walked after they brought their captives for sacrifice to the pagan gods, now held a new kind of warrior—fighter pilots. Two hundred and ninety-two men, in khaki green, stood at attention in a July shade.

Then he saw them lift on an air current. Esteban’s eyes blinked at the sight of large birds. Eagles, he thought. ¡Las águilas! His imagination was interrupted by a public announcement.

The sending-off of the Mexican Expeditionary Air Force was cause for celebration and worth noting by its government. The voice of el Presidente, Ernesto Camacho crackled through loudspeakers. Five thousand pairs of eyes looked up. As he spoke, a child’s red balloon drifted to the sky. Then other balloons followed. The President paused when hundreds of those bearing the Tricolors lifted with the breeze. It was as if they had announced what followed. Nine chattering Martin biplanes flew in formation.

For a moment, the birds Esteban had watched now joined them.

The President continued, Some may die, so that others will live in freedom. He paused to wipe his brow. El Presidente caught his breath, took a sip of water, and then nodded to the military bandleader.

The sound of the brass band resonated through the square with a patriotic tune. The enthusiasm of the crowd ended with the playing of the next tune. Whistles of rejection greeted Yankee Doodle—disapproval of the culture north of the Rio Grande who some swore were scoundrels and thieves.

"Santo Dios," Esteban whispered. Oops, wrong tune.

The lips of his squadron parted a smile, but when Esteban began to clap his hands, his men followed his example. The crowd joined them.

Camacho took the microphone, and spoke, Together with the United States, yes, our neighbor to the north, we will avenge the loss of life caused by the evildoers who come from across the sea hiding beneath our calm turquoise waters … His fist punched the air with each spoken breath, sparking amor patria. "...the blackened Teutonic Nazi serpent stalks our coastline, but today the spirit of ancient quauhtli has returned. Now our eagles of the Sierra Madre will join with Yankee fliers for the honor of the Republic…"

After el President’s voice no longer echoed from the ancient plaza walls, Esteban led his men away, amidst applause. Thousands of on-lookers along the boulevard stood on sidewalks, waving flags. Ahead, the railroad station awaited them.

The black and red-skinned iron monster hissed steam. The engine bellowed white smoke, adding to the noise of a station platform filled with people. The presence of mounted police prevented the overflow of excitement from extending to where the Esteban’s aviators stood. In American-tailored uniforms, the leather-booted flyers listened to him.

¡Atención! the order called, and each group of men made ready.

Without loss of step, they advanced toward a string of brown cars. One by one, the Mexican Expeditionary Air Force boarded the iron steps.

Inside each car, men found their places, and soon their belongings found spaces under and over seats. When settled, some looked outside to the waving people. Esteban gazed through his blue tinted glass, framed by polished wood. Through a window’s reflection, he could see no one he knew. The familiar sound of music that played for his comrades prevented him from feeling alone.

Esteban, Pancho Villa, he would be turning over in his grave if he saw all of this, Teniente Álvarez said.

"Sí, who would have thought thirty years ago, our armies would join at the Great River against a common enemy? Esteban replied. A hundred years ago, mi abuelito, fought not far from here, against Gringo soldiers. My