The Yankee Comandante

by Michael Sallah

  At this point, he had no guarantees that he would survive the war. Too many soldiers were coming to the mountains with too many weapons. He knew he had to do something—something he hadn’t done since he arrived. He reached for paper and a pen and walked over to a corner. It was a letter he had needed to write for a long time but could never get the time or muster the will.

  For now, nothing else mattered.

  Dear Mom,

  This will be the first letter I have written to you since I left in December. I know you neither approve or understand why I am here—even though you are the one person in the world—that I believe—­understands me.

  I have been many places—in my life and done many things which you did not approve—or understand, nor did I understand myself at the time.

  I do not expect you to approve but I believe you will understand—And if it should happen that I am killed here—you will know it was not for foolish fancy—or as Dad would say a pipe dream.

  Morgan described what he had experienced: the villagers terrorized by the soldiers and the killings of the old man and the woman who was trying to save her grandchild.

  If Loretta understood anything about the revolution, it was crimes against defenseless people. If she had taught Morgan anything good, it was to stand up for them.

  “I am here with men and boys—who fight for a freedom for their country that we as Americans take for granted,” he wrote. “They neither fight for money or fame—only to return to their homes in peace.”

  He had been thinking about his wife, Terri, and their life together. He rarely talked about her, but he expected her to press for divorce. He was right: She had filed the necessary paperwork four months earlier. “If I live through this, perhaps I can make things easier for the kids.”

  He reached for another piece of paper.

  These were the hardest letters for him to write. He never stopped carrying pictures of his children. First to his doe-eyed little girl, who would squeal in his arms.

  When I saw you last you were a little tyke who was into everything all of the time. You used to sit in the window and when you saw my car drive in you would say—daddy, daddy—and I think those were the first words you spoke. And I know when I did not come home any more I know you missed me and looked out the window for your dad—this was a long time ago baby and possibly you don’t remember—but I do—And always will.

  You are going to grow up to be a beautiful girl with a fine disposition. Stick close to your mom. I don’t think you can find anyone better.

  Morgan cautioned her that if she grew up and met a man who “dreams of castles in the sky,” then let him go. She didn’t need that kind of man in her life. “Remember, your dad was one of those people. And it is very hard for those to love such a man.”

  He folded the paper neatly.

  The last letter was for Billy. It would be a long time before his son would be able to read it, but he knew it could be the last time he could ever communicate with him.

  “When you read this I expect you will be a big boy who wants to whip the world. Always defend what is right and work to get ahead but do so in a way—that does not interfere with others.”

  Morgan then alluded to something about which he rarely spoke.

  Love your God—and your country—and stand up for both. I can say very little to you except this, Bill—and I think it is the best advice I can give you.

  Always be a man. Defend your rights. Respect the rights of others. Listen to what your mother tells you. You may not like what she tells you but believe it she is right. Study and work hard son and I know that your country and your mother will always be proud of you.

  Love always, your dad.

  Morgan carefully folded the last letter and slipped each into an envelope. One of the camp runners would take the parcel to Havana. Eventually, it would be smuggled out by guerrilla supporters to Miami. He could only hope it would reach his family.

  15

  Olga had been awake for hours, rushing between the rebels who had fallen ill with a virus. A B-26 had been flying over and bombing the nearby bohíos, straw huts. It hit farmhouses. It blew out part of the trail. If an army unit marched into the camp right now, the sick rebels were dead.

  A familiar, hulking figure entered the camp, other rebels following him. Her heart began racing. She hadn’t seen Morgan in days. He had been making the rounds to the other satellite camps, but now he was coming back to Nuevo Mundo. He was looking around, and their eyes met.

  Olga trembled. He is alive, she thought to herself, not knowing what happened.

  Morgan walked over and reached out to hug her. For a moment, Olga forgot about everything. She could feel her legs shaking.

  Morgan was carrying something on his shoulder, a bird perched perfectly still. He reached behind his head, let the parrot walk onto his hand, and gently placed it on her shoulder. Then he handed her another gift, a bouquet of wildflowers. “These are the only presents I can give you here in the mountains,” he said.

  Olga stared at the flowers, surprised, then glanced at the parrot on her shoulder. A bird and flowers were the last things she expected after a day of tending to sick men.

  The two walked away from the others while Olga gently held her new parrot. She had never received a gift like this. “I am grateful to you,” she said stiffly.

  The two walked through the main camp, then continued toward the brush beyond the perimeter. For a moment, Olga was nervous. She had never strayed this far from the safety of the other rebels. She had never been completely alone with Morgan.

  By the time they reached the trees, no one was around. Morgan reached over and gently touched Olga’s hand, then both clasped hands. Olga didn’t know what to say. They were in a war, and she was growing closer to her commander.

  “I don’t know you,” Olga finally blurted out. “I don’t know anything about you. We must talk calmly since I don’t know anything about your life and you don’t know anything about mine.”

  “The past is already past,” he replied, then pulled her close and kissed her—a long kiss that Olga didn’t expect.

  She felt her legs go weak and pulled away. “Now is not the place, Commander.”

  Morgan looked at her, surprised. “Why?” he asked.

  Olga looked at him squarely. Neither one knew if they would survive the fighting. Morgan had fought in more than a dozen skirmishes and could have been killed in any one of them. Olga herself could be killed, she said.

  Morgan shook his head. He told her that he was convinced the Second Front was going to end this war. They would do all they could to drive the soldiers from the mountains and take control. If Castro and the others could do the same in the Sierra Maestra, they were that much closer. When the war was over, he wanted Olga to be at his side, he said.

  Olga pushed back.

  “Now is not the time—or the place,” she said. “We are in a war.”

  No one wanted this meeting, not the rebels, not even the runners who had been carrying messages back and forth. It was no secret that Menoyo and Chomón didn’t like each other, but they had stayed clear of each other during most of the revolution—until now.

  Chomón had arrived at the camp with ten bodyguards to deliver a message to the Second Front. Menoyo brought his commanders, including Morgan. Both sides gathered across from each other at the Dos Arroyo camp.

  The two former friends greeted each other, but soon their voices rose as they had before. The worst of the fighting still lay ahead. Chomón said he came to the mountains with a message: Menoyo needed to step down.

  Menoyo had been a warrior, true, but Chomón didn’t believe he had the experience to wage war on large army units carrying heavy artillery. Chomón was still leader of the Directorio. Technically, the Second Front fell under his command. His choice was to appoint Rolando Cubela, a veteran who made his bon
es years earlier killing Batista cops.

  Menoyo gritted his teeth and glared at Chomón. Menoyo was the first rebel to arrive in the mountains. He formed the structure of the rebel militia. He recruited the members and trained them. How dare Chomón come into the mountains and insult him in the middle of the war.

  “I am comandante!” he shouted, his face red.

  Chomón stopped himself for a moment but then reared up. Menoyo had to follow orders. He was still a part of the Directorio.

  “No!” Menoyo shouted.

  For a moment, the other rebels thought the two were going to come to blows. This wasn’t good for the young rebels to witness, and it certainly wasn’t good for the revolution. The soldiers were coming. They soon would be heading from Cienfuegos from the south, and Santa Clara from the north. In a matter of weeks, they would reach rebel territory, their goal: to split the mountains. There was no way the rebels were ready for a direct confrontation. They needed to stick together to have any chance of taking the mountains. But now it looked as if the real war was among the Directorio.

  Menoyo stood. That was the end of their meeting. If it meant breaking from the ranks of the Directorio, then so be it. That was Menoyo’s final decision.

  Chomón stood. As far as he was concerned, Menoyo was committing treason, he said. But Menoyo had already made his decision.

  As Chomón and his men walked away, the comandantes of the Second Front, including Morgan, gathered around Menoyo. “Gallego,” they said. “We are with you.”

  They had fought together and risked their lives. At times, they barely survived. What was Chomón thinking by coming back into the Escambray like this after months? Fleites, Carreras, Artola, Morgan—they all pledged their allegiance to Menoyo and the Second Front. If the revolution failed, they would all fail together.

  16

  Every morning, Olga stopped at Doña Rosa’s front porch to visit her baby parrot. Perched on a small stand, it shuddered and cooed as she approached, offering Olga a welcome escape. She joked that the parrot could say her name but not Morgan’s.

  One morning, after checking on the camp, she found her pet wasn’t on its perch. Frantic, Olga ran to every corner of the camp, looking to see if the green bird had flown somewhere else.

  “Did you see my parrot?” she asked the rebels.

  Soon the entire camp was looking for the bird. The young rebels searched the trees around the camp. They looked inside the hammocks. They searched the trails just beyond the camp grounds. Then they found a tiny, furry ball on the ground. It was Olga’s parrot—dead.

  With tears in her eyes, Olga walked away. She wasn’t supposed to leave the camp, but no one was going to stop her. Staring straight ahead, she passed the bohíos and the rows of coffee plants beyond the camp’s boundaries. She disappeared on a trail into the dense brush.

  She never should have grown so attached to the little bird. She never should have allowed it to become part of her life. She had taught it to talk. She taught it to perch on her shoulder. She held the little creature close and felt its soft green feathers against her cheek.

  Olga had lost her home. She had lost contact with her family. The one little thing that gave her joy in life was gone. Like everything else in this war, it had died. Deeper into the woods she went. Her legs grew heavy. It felt like she hadn’t slept in days. She reached the side of a creek, but now she had no idea where she was. Light streamed through the leaves, but nothing looked familiar. She had never veered this far from safety. She might be able to follow the creek bed, but the light beyond the trees was fading. Even if she knew her way back, it would take hours to return to camp.

  She was so tired.

  She found a clump of thick bushes alongside the running water, lay on her side, and closed her eyes.

  Morgan rushed through the camp, yelling for Olga. He had checked Doña Rosa’s house, looked in her hammock, and began rousting the others.

  “Where’s Olga?” he asked, raising his voice. No one knew.

  He ran to the edge of camp and stared across the plantation, but saw no sign of her. He yelled for his men. They had to find her. They strapped on their guns and made for the main trail that led from the camp. Except for the plantation, dense forest covered most of the area. She could have taken only a few well-worn paths. But the longer she was away, the more dangerous it became. Batista’s men had been sending scouting units into the area, trying to pinpoint the rebel positions. If they ran into Olga, they’d kill her.

  Morgan motioned for his men to hurry, but even they knew finding Olga was going to be difficult.

  “Olga!” Morgan yelled.

  But there was no response.

  He never should have let her out of his sight. He knew she was upset over the parrot, but he had no idea how bad she felt—not to the point where she would risk her life. He stared into the trees and kept moving along the path, oblivious to anything else but finding her.

  As he neared a thicket near a brook, he spotted something near a clump of bushes in the distance. It was Olga. She was breathing, her eyes closed.

  He gently shook her shoulder as he whispered her name. Startled, Olga sat up and looked up at the man standing over her. He didn’t care that the other rebels were present. He bent down, took her into his arms, and kissed her. Both put their arms around each other and embraced.

  Morgan saw something in her that he had never seen before. He had been with many women in his life, but no one had sacrificed so much. She had given up her life for a deeper cause and risked it all. Morgan would never let this happen again. From now on, it would be different.

  For Olga, it was all happening so fast. She had already lost people close to her. People she loved. The last person she wanted to lose now was Morgan.

  Both knew at this moment their lives were about to change. Neither one could afford to hold back their feelings, not anymore.

  17

  Jesús Carreras Zayas paced back and forth, his eyes glazed. Even his men knew to stay away from him. For months, the farmers in the eastern Escambray had been picking up faint radio signals from Sierra Maestra that delivered tidbits about the latest skirmishes. But this was different.

  The announcer was talking about the Escambray, and the rebels hadn’t expected the message. The broadcast was urging people to sever their alliances with other rebel units and join the 26th of July Movement.

  “La verdadera revolución está en la Sierra Maestra,” the voice proclaimed. The real revolution is in the Sierra Maestra. Then the announcement that caught everyone by surprise: The movement was coming to the Escambray. Get ready.

  Carreras and the others reeled. This was their territory. They had spent the last year fighting for every inch of ground, every deer trail, every road. But it was more than that. The Second Front was making a name for itself. Who was Castro to take over another unit that was holding its own?

  The column leader of the Second Front wanted to know more. If the 26th of July Movement was sending men into the Escambray, they had to pass through the North Zone, his operations area between Fomento and Sancti Spiritus. There was no other way.

  To Carreras, it was also personal. He had lost men over the past few months while sticking and running on the soldiers. He had just discovered that one of the new recruits who came in July was a Batista spy responsible for the deaths of six rebels in Havana. To carry out justice, Carreras took the spy to the back of the camp and shot him in the head.

  Carreras meant business, and if the barbudos from the Sierra Maestra were coming, he needed to alert his men in the field to keep watch. He also had another plan. He would leave a stern warning at the camp: No one—not even the leaders of the Sierra Maestra revolutionaries—was going to pass through the territory and call it their own. The blood of the men of the Second Front had soaked into the soil of the Escambray. Not even Castro himself, the most recognized leader of t
he rebel forces, was going to diminish their position.

  After he finished writing, he stood up, walked over, and tacked a message to the side of a wall for all to see. The words were clear: “No troops could pass through this territory,” under any circumstances. If they did, “they would be warned a first time,” but if it happened again, they would be “expelled or exterminated.”

  Menoyo had to scramble. The soldiers were coming, some in Jeeps and others on foot. Because of the airstrikes, it was getting tougher for the Second Front to move, but the biggest problem was that the rebels were running low on ammo. If they had to take on a battalion, it would be disastrous—especially a head-on attack. The government wasn’t just sending raw recruits. These men came from the 11th Battalion, a unit already bloodied from fighting Castro.

  Unlike most of the military cronies who served under Batista, the 11th was led by Ángel Sánchez Mosquera, a tough commander who led search-and-destroy missions in the Sierra Maestra. During his sweep through the mountains, he burned the bohíos of peasants suspected of helping the rebels and executed the rebels he captured.

  The Second Front needed a plan. It wouldn’t be easy, especially with a shortage of ammunition. Menoyo had to gamble. He would set up his attacks through small, mobile units. If each man could fire three rounds and then fade into the brush, they could make good use of their limited ammo. Then, by sending in another team and repeating the strategy, they could also lead the enemy to believe the attacks would keep coming. The idea was to inflict as many casualties as they could.

  It was a risky strategy, but Menoyo didn’t have a choice. He was in danger of losing his mountain stronghold.