In Search of Enemies - A CIA Story - John Stockwell

[130] IN SEARCH OF ENEMIES
Caxito, where we drove the next morning, unlike the other sit~s ,
looked like the scene of a real battle. We drove through it twice and
I could see no building that hadn't suffered at least one mortar hit.
The African houses on both sides of town had been razed. A small
church school, which had been the MPLA headquarters, had suffered
a devastating attack from the FNLA. Entire cinder-block
buildings had been reduced to· rubble; no wall was unmarked by
mortar rounds, shrapnel, and small-arms fire. In the yard stood
another shattered BDRM-2 and two jeeps, destroyed by repeated
hits from ro6s and bazookas. Roberto proudly recreated the battle
for me, noting that the FNLA fire had been so accurate that a neutral
Portuguese army garrison in barracks two blocks away had been
untouched. Then Falstaff interpreted while Chevier told how the
Zairian Panhards had become disoriented and taken the road to
Luanda, and how Roberto had jumped in a car alone and raced after
them miles behind MPLA lines to guide them back to the battle. I
decided to believe the story. Roberto was now involved and there was
no denying how intensely he wanted Luanda.
The battle of Caxito was a different matter. I walked carefully over
the schoolyard, nervously mindful of the dangerous mines and duds
which could be detonated by my foot. Studying the layout intently
I formed my own picture of the action. No doubt the compound had
been the object of a noisy and expensive attack, but there was no
evidence of any defense. There were no bunkers or foxholes, no piles
of expended rounds. The armored car and jeeps had been knocked
out where they were parked against the wall. The MPLA had fled
without making a serious effort at defending Caxito, and the damage
had been done by rampaging FNLA forces as they swept through
unopposed.
Most of the MPLA had fled, but two or three had been caught in
the shelling. I snapped pictures of a cadaver in the ruins, wondering
what Bubba Sanders would think to do with it. Roberto toed some
rubble aside and retched when a shrunken, grinning corpse stared
back at him. The author of the bloody revolt of 1961, who insisted
that revolution without bloodshed was impossible, was himselfweakstomached.
On the scarred wall of the headquarters building there was a black
and red MPLA poster, torn and shredded from bullets and shrapnel.
I took it down and folded it into my travel bag. In front of the