The Yankee Comandante

by Michael Sallah

  Menoyo knew right away the soldiers were retreating just by the fewer shots they were firing. The battle was over. The plan had worked.

  The soldiers who survived escaped into the nearby woods. The Second Front had achieved another significant victory. Once again, they had taken on a unit more than four times their size. But they had little time to savor their success. They had to move yet again. The army would return, this time with hundreds more.

  12

  Olga leaned over the young man moaning on the ground, his fatigues soaked in sweat and blood. He had been shot in the torso, but no one could do anything for him at the moment. It would be a while before anyone could get him to a clinic.

  Olga reached for a wet cloth and gently dabbed his forehead, calmly brushing back his hair. He was just a teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, trembling, his breathing deep and strained.

  She looked into his eyes as he stared up at her. “It’s OK,” she said. “You’re going to be OK.”

  But even Olga knew that she couldn’t make that promise. In her short time traveling to some of the area camps, she had seen the bodies of young boys wrapped in blankets and screaming for help.

  Quietly, she held onto him, holding him close as he shook under the covers.

  “You have to fight,” she told him.

  As she tried to steady his breathing, rocking him back and forth, she felt someone tap her shoulder. It was Morgan.

  It had been days since she watched him ride off on a horse. “How are you?” he asked.

  She had thought about him every day, wondering whether she would see him again. She had heard about the battle at Chalet do Lora but didn’t know what had happened to him.

  “Thank you, Commander,” she said. “I am well.”

  Morgan smiled and pulled a bouquet of wildflowers from his side. “For you,” he said.

  Olga’s eyes lit up. She reached for the flowers and then took one, gently placing it in her hair.

  To her surprise, Morgan leaned over and kissed her forehead. She could feel the heat rise around her, and for a moment, just she and Morgan were in the camp beneath Tico Puerto, one of the highest peaks in the Escambray. This wasn’t supposed to happen in war, and yet for a brief moment, she forgot about everything else.

  Morgan broke the silence. “I have come here to tell you that you have been transferred to another camp. My group and I will leave tonight, and you will go with us.”

  Rather than ask questions, she nodded. She was excited at the prospect of leaving with him. But she didn’t know that she was about to be drawn into one of the most dangerous areas of the Escambray, where the soldiers and rebels were staking out their territory for the final push.

  Olga gripped the reins tightly as her horse made its way down the steep trail winding around the rocky slope. For most of the night, she leaned back in her saddle, never straying too far from Morgan. Even as the sun broke over the peaks, the rocky path didn’t get any easier to travel.

  They began their slow climb upward. Every few hundred yards, they had to leave the trail to avoid the steep ravines. This was unlike any other part of the Escambray: mist and vines so thick and tangled around trees that in some places they could barely see the sun. On some of the narrow trails, they had to travel single file.

  As the rebels began to ride up a hill, Olga suddenly felt her saddle come loose. Within seconds, she slid off the rear and tumbled down the steep embankment. “Help!” she yelled, as she felt her body bounce along the rugged terrain and down a gorge. By the time she hit the bottom, she almost blacked out. She could feel a sharp pain in her back and arms.

  Most of the unit had already made it to the top of the hill when one of the rebels noticed that Olga’s horse had made it, but she wasn’t on it.

  Morgan quickly turned around, his face white. He wound down a cow path until he reached the bottom of the ravine.

  “Olgo, are you OK?” he shouted, jumping off his horse.

  “I am all right,” she said. Embarrassed, she tried to sit up, but Morgan told her to stay down. He reached over and gently squeezed on her right arm and then on her left to make sure nothing was broken.

  Olga looked up, smiled faintly, and then inched herself up, trying not to let anyone know how much her body ached.

  “I’m all right,” she said, still woozy.

  Slowly, with Morgan lifting her up, she sat and then looked around at everyone surrounding her. She waited for a minute, then stood up before walking slowly to her horse.

  She didn’t want anyone to know that pain was shooting up her back. They needed to get out of the area. The soldiers were coming.

  Morgan rose in his saddle, and then reaching for his Sten, thrust the weapon in the air. They had finally arrived.

  One by one, the rebels at the camp came out to meet Morgan as he rode into the center. Covered by ferns and pines, the camp was actually a large farm in the heart of the Escambray in an area known as Nuevo Mundo. Because the topography was so different—an abundance of ravines, caverns, and thickets of trees—the area was ideal for a rebel camp.

  Morgan and the others didn’t even have time to untie their horses before they learned they were in danger. Farmers had spotted a scouting party of Batista’s army in the lower mountains. It was just a matter of time before they set up their base.

  The rebels more than likely had enough time to rest for the night. By morning, they would be fresh. Then they could begin their own series of hit-and-run attacks and protect the new camp, which would serve as temporary headquarters.

  One of the men had pointed to the farmhouse, where the owner, Doña Rosa, was brewing hot, thick cortaditos for the new arrivals. Tough and outspoken, Rosa was one of the most well-known members of the resistance, a wealthy landowner who loved the rebels almost as much as she loathed Batista. A round, middle-aged woman with an infectious laugh, she equipped her home with a shortwave radio to listen to rebel broadcasts from Santa Clara and to communicate with other operators.

  Olga immediately took to the motherly figure, who invited her to stay in one of her rooms. Born in Galicia, Spain, Rosa was like so many others in Nuevo Mundo whose families were fiercely independent and opposed anything that resembled dictatorships. They were better educated than many of their Cuban counterparts, and their pride in craftsmanship was obvious. Large roof tiles, wooden walls, wood floors, and stone foundations comprised Rosa’s house, a stately home with a sweeping view of some of the most magnificent mountains in the Escambray.

  Rosa was risking her life by associating with the rebels, but she didn’t care. If she died, she died on her land. Morgan and Olga gathered around a table as they listened to her talk about the hardships the farmers faced under Batista’s Rural Guard. She was tired of it. Too many people had been tortured and run off their land.

  A light drizzle fell outside as the rebels tried to keep warm, some gathering around the wood-burning stove and listening to a rebel broadcast crackle over the shortwave. Olga leaned in, trying to listen, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Morgan motioned for her to walk outside.

  “Now?” she asked.

  “Yes, right now.”

  She had already been briefed about all her tasks, including making sure messages were sent for supplies. She wasn’t sure what he wanted to tell her, but she followed. He led her to a corner of the camp and sat down. From his pocket, he took out a photograph of his daughter, Annie, and another of his son, Billy. The boy with his gaping smile looked unmistakably like his father.

  “This is my family in the US,” he said.

  She stared at the photos but didn’t say a word. Olga didn’t know that he had children. She didn’t know he was married. Morgan placed his hand on Olga’s shoulder. He told her not to worry. He was no longer with his wife. The only people who mattered to him were his children and mother.

  He reached over and hand
ed her a piece of paper with writing in English on it. “This is the address of my mother,” he said. If anything happened to him, he wanted Olga to let her know. “I know I can trust you,” he said.

  She nodded and put the paper in her pocket. For a moment, neither of them said a word. Morgan was trusting her with something almost as important as his life. Olga wanted to ask him so many questions. She wanted to say so many things. But it was better to stay quiet. Morgan stood up and hugged Olga, and then they went in opposite directions: Morgan to his hammock and Olga back to Rosa’s house.

  She tried to sleep that night but couldn’t. When the sun finally broke over the mountains, she went to look for Morgan. His hammock was empty. He was already gone.

  13

  Menoyo stared across the valley, looking for signs of the ­soldiers—a glint of light, a shimmer of smoke. The army was coming, that much he knew. But if the rebels could track their movements, they had the advantage.

  Batista already had sent some two thousand soldiers to the Escambray, the most he had ever sent to the central mountains. If the ungrateful farmers wanted his firepower, they were going to get it. He also planned to send the B-26s to bomb key positions.

  Menoyo knew the worst was yet to come, but he was far better prepared to deal with the confrontations. His unit was growing and finally trained in the basics. He was especially pleased with Morgan. He had become popular among the young barbudos, many of whom had asked to serve in his small unit.

  One night, Camacho came over to Morgan, and the two began talking. The other rebels watched as the two huddled over an old Winchester, piecing together the parts to put it back together. They had patched up their differences.

  By the morning, the two had devised a homemade assault rifle. Using the frame of a 1907 Winchester and combining it with other parts, they created a base so the gun could fire with interchangeable barrels, depending on what ammo was available. They called it the Cuban Winchester.

  Morgan’s progress wasn’t lost on the other Second Front comandantes, including Carreras, Fleites, and Artola. After meeting in a circle at the end of a long July day, they called Morgan over to them. They had all agreed: It was time for Morgan to lead his own column. He was being promoted to comandante, the highest rank accorded a rebel in Cuba.

  Morgan had been running smaller patrols, but Menoyo wanted his guerrilla trainer to lead now. For Morgan, it was bittersweet. He was elated over the confidence that Menoyo and others expressed in him, but no one from his family knew—not his mother, not his father, not his children. Amado and some of the others approached Morgan to congratulate him, but he downplayed the moment. Every one of the men was important to the unit, he said. If there was any consolation, it was that he had proved his detractors in the US Army wrong. He was a good soldier.

  Menoyo wanted to launch patrols in the new area, but even before they could gather supplies, a runner rushed to camp with bad news: The Rural Guard had just looted Escandel. Some of the villagers might have been beaten.

  Menoyo called his comandantes over. This was serious, he said. The people in the village were dirt poor, but they had still scraped together food and supplies to send to the Second Front camp a day earlier. Perhaps the Rural Guard had found out.

  “We have to get over there,” Menoyo told his men.

  Menoyo and Morgan led their teams together—over wire fences and steep slopes—along the long, winding trail that led to the hamlet.

  Menoyo peered through his binoculars. “There,” he said.

  The runner had reported looting, but this was worse. Some of the huts were smoldering in burned heaps. Thick, black smoke still hung in the air. They spotted the body of an old man sprawled by the side of the road and a villager hunched over him. Another villager ran up to Menoyo, shaking and crying. The Rural Guard had discovered that the hamlet had been supporting the rebels.

  Hours earlier, the guards—some of them drunk—had burst into the structures, overturning tables and chairs. They grabbed a seventy-two-year-old man doddering with mental illness and demanded to know the whereabouts of the guerrillas. Dumbfounded, the old man had no idea what they were asking.

  A tall sergeant struck the man in the face and ordered him to tell them. The soldiers forced the old man into a chair, the sergeant waving a knife in front of him. Still, the old man didn’t know what to say. The sergeant then reached over, pulled on the man’s lips, and in one motion came down with his knife and severed them from his face. Blood spurted on the man’s clothes and the floor as he screamed. But the soldiers weren’t finished.

  The sergeant pulled the old man from the shanty—while the villagers pleaded for him to stop—and fastened a rope around his neck. Pulling the rope like a leash, he yanked the man to the back of a truck and tied the rope around the rear bumper. One of the guards jumped behind the wheel and, revving the engine, sped away.

  To the wild delight of the guards, the truck dragged the old man over the dirt road, his feet and arms flailing in the dirt.

  By now, the whole hamlet had come out, all of them screaming at the guards to stop. A woman ran to where her grandchild was hiding. She fell to the ground as one of Batista’s men fired a round of bullets into her. Then the sergeant gave the order for his men to torch the huts. One by one, the guardsmen lit the walls and thatched roofs.

  Morgan’s face flushed with anger, his fists clenched. He had never seen anything like this. He had known for a long time why the Cuban people had rebelled against Batista. But he hadn’t witnessed the depths of the brutality until now.

  Morgan had fought in battles. He had killed. But this was different. These were innocents. The Rural Guard had targeted and extracted a gruesome vengeance on farmers caught in the middle of a revolution over which they had no meaningful control. Morgan could barely look at the old man on the ground, his face contorted and mutilated. Only an animal could do something like that to a defenseless person. There was going to be hell to pay.

  The remaining villagers told the rebels where the guardsmen were heading. The guerillas came up with a plan: They would shadow the soldiers and wait for the right moment to attack. But instead of traveling on the road behind them, the rebels took a side route.

  Through his binoculars, Menoyo could see men in army fatigues moving along the road, making sure they were heading in the right direction. For the next hour, he and the others jogged along a deer trail on the edge of a huge ravine. Most of the men were tired, but wouldn’t have stopped for anything.

  As the sun was setting, Menoyo came up on a ledge and looked down. The soldiers had stopped and looked to be setting up camp in a row of houses. If they could surround the army camp from above, they could launch a surprise attack.

  “We hit them tonight,” he told the others.

  Menoyo split his thirty men into groups to surround the houses. Morgan took a dozen rebels and waited in the rear to repel any escapes. The trap was set.

  As they waited, Menoyo said it appeared there were more soldiers than just the ones who had ransacked the village. There was a chance they were packing more serious firepower: mortars, grenade launchers. If they could stun the soldiers with the first shots—even just to scare them—Batista’s men wouldn’t have time to set up any artillery. Hopefully, the enemy wouldn’t be able to discern the size of the rebel force.

  Menoyo gave the order. The rebels opened fire on the houses where the soldiers had camped. As expected, the troops panicked and ran from the buildings. The rebels fired relentlessly into the scrambling guardsmen, watching as their bodies fell to the ground. Within minutes, dozens lay in the mud, dead or badly wounded. Others crawled or ran from the camp and bolted down the road.

  Morgan, waiting in the bush, gave the second order to fire. Rebel rifles cracked along the roadway, but it was too dark to tell if they were hitting anyone. Morgan and his men ran toward the soldiers, but they did so at their own peril. They coul
d be running into an ambush.

  The rebels stopped. It was time to head back and join Menoyo and his men. In the morning light, they could see better and stood a better chance of finding the soldiers. As they walked back to the camp, they learned from some of the other rebels that the big, hulking sergeant—the worst of the culprits—wasn’t among the dead. Morgan had wanted to find him. For now he had to wait.

  Shortly after rising the next morning, Morgan and his men spotted Batista’s soldiers walking along the road to Camagüey, some of them carrying wounded comrades. Morgan ordered his men to hurry to the pass before the Rural Guardsmen set up an ambush on both sides of the road.

  Just as the soldiers appeared, Morgan raised his hand. “Tres, dos, uno,” he counted, just loud enough for his men to hear. The rebels opened fire on the stunned soldiers. Some fell to the ground, while others tried to run. The leaders in front didn’t know what to do. Most of the enemy guardsmen had nowhere to go. They threw up their arms. They were surrendering.

  Morgan lowered his gun and ordered his men to stop.

  The rebels walked forward, slowly, carefully scrutinizing each of their captives. There he was: the sergeant. “We have him,” Morgan said. Without hesitating, the rebels pushed the man away from the other captives. And then, without waiting for orders, they sprayed his body with bullets, even after he had fallen to the ground, a bloody pulp of flesh and bones.

  14

  Sitting by himself, Morgan looked out over the mountains, the peaks rising into the pale summer sky. It was rare that he caught moments like these, but after returning from the ambush on the Rural Guardsmen who had terrorized the villagers, he wanted to be alone.

  Months had passed since he had left his family on a chilly December morning, months since he had ventured into the mountains to throw himself into a revolution. His son, Billy, would be walking by now. Annie, his daughter, would be close to starting kindergarten. He had never gone this long without talking to his mother. Most of the time, Morgan had to push everything from his mind just to stay alert. One day at a time.