Ernesto “Che” Guevara stood in the open field, a bend of the Jatibonico River rushing behind him. With his long hair and ragged fatigues, no one would have taken him for the leader of the column. He and his men were exhausted, their feet covered with blisters and blood from trudging across difficult terrain. This land was strange and unfamiliar to the rebels, but they had finally made it.
For Guevara—Fidel Castro’s trusted lieutenant—the river was the starting point into the Escambray. He and his men had dodged the Rural Guard not once but four times during their trek. They had gone without food for days. With the rising foothills before him, Guevara knew they stood just days away from reaching their destination.
If anyone had doubted he would make it, he had just proved they were dead wrong. If anyone thought he couldn’t cross the swamps in Camagüey, he had disproved them. He showed them all, even Castro himself. Now he’d show them again. From the map, it was now a straight, westward jaunt to the camp near Banao. It was time to unite the other factions. It was time to take the Escambray.
A trained doctor from Argentina, Guevara was rising in the revolutionary movement and just as eager as Fidel to make his mark. He had first met Castro in Mexico City, where Fidel and Raúl Castro had fled to avoid being arrested by Batista’s secret police in 1955.
Guevara hit it off with the brothers in the Mexican capital. A hotbed of revolutionary intellectualism, the Latin bohemia of the Distrito Federal had become a cauldron of bitter anti-Americanism. The Castros talked about their long struggle in Cuba, while Guevara recounted a life-changing motorcycle trip he took through South America—a trip that opened his eyes to the ugly sides of the continent.
Guevara volunteered to join Castro and other guerrillas when they boarded the Granma, a rickety cabin cruiser, for a clandestine journey from Mexico to Cuba to launch their efforts. When the wooden craft ran ashore, the rebels waded through a treacherous swamp before government soldiers ambushed them. Guevara, the Castro brothers, and nine others survived the attack, escaping into the Sierra Maestra. In time, the small group grew into a formidable force, launching attack after attack on government soldiers. Guevara impressed the other rebels during those battles by refusing to back down.
When Castro decided to expand his base into the Escambray, he turned to Guevara, warning the Argentine that he would face opposition from Menoyo’s rebels.
By the time Guevara arrived at the Second Front outpost, he was ready for confrontation. At first glance, there wasn’t much to it: a few huts and what looked like the remains of a campfire. Guevara inched closer, running into the sentries. The guards knew he was moving into the mountains, but they didn’t know where. Guevara didn’t waste any time. He walked right past them to a parked Jeep at the edge of camp.
Hoisting himself up on the vehicle, his back against the autumn sky, he faced the men gathering curiously around him. In a clear and steady voice, Guevara told them that he had come to deliver a message from the Sierra Maestra. He needed to make this clear: This was going to be their land. It didn’t matter what had happened before now. The 26th of July Movement was about to make some of the biggest moves of the war. Everyone—including the rebels surrounding the Jeep—either had to join or be left out. It was their choice.
From across the camp, Carreras spotted the men crowded around the Jeep. He rushed over and broke through the line. “Para ahora mismo! ” Carreras shouted. Right now!
Guevara looked down. The rebels on both sides grabbed their guns. As the men later recalled, the Argentine said he represented the forces of the revolution. He had a right to be there and didn’t need anyone’s permission.
Carreras glared at his counterpart. “You have to talk to me before you talk to these people,” he said.
For Guevara to pass through this region, especially in crossing the Hagabama River, he needed permission that could come from one man only: Menoyo.
Guevara jumped down from the Jeep.
Everyone watched the two men to see what was going to happen next. Either man could have killed the other right there, a shooting that would have triggered internecine combat.
Guevara didn’t expect such a test of his authority. No one had talked to him this way. But he knew that Castro would disapprove of any bloodshed—at least now. Guevara had to stand down if he wanted to accomplish Castro’s mission.
He stepped back and began talking to the others present. If the rebels of the Escambray wanted to join him, they should do so. They could come over to the 26th of July.
He then spun around and walked away. No blood was spilled that day, but the feud between Carreras and Guevara was far from over.
18
It began as a drone over the mountains, a moan that barely echoed down from the clouds. At first, no one noticed. The sound rose into a low rumble, like thunder in the distance, but still no one paid it any heed. Morgan and Olga just wanted to be alone.
As they walked along the path leading to camp, Olga looked up and saw what appeared to be an airplane in the distance cross over the mountain. Then she saw another.
Morgan quickly pulled her close and moved them toward a mound of bedrock. Within seconds, the two planes were rumbling above them. Olga covered her face as a hail of bullets fell from the sky, kicking up dust just a few yards away. Morgan threw her to the ground and rolled on top of her. Neither one moved.
The planes circled, unleashing a steady stream from the air guns. Olga could hear the planes directly over them, the earth trembling from the shots raining down. Shaking, Olga gripped Morgan.
“It’s OK,” he told her. “It’s OK. It over, finito.”
She had many close calls, but never anything like that. Morgan kissed her and held her for a moment. Olga didn’t want to move. She always prided herself on being brave, on facing anything: the police, the soldiers. But this had come so close.
“Dios mío,” she said.
Slowly, they both stood, Olga’s knees trembling. It was time to get back to the camp. God only knew what had happened there.
They rushed back along the trail. Morgan dashed to the first hut, then the second. Some of the huts had been peppered with shots, but so far no one was injured. The other rebels were scrambling through the camp, making sure the nearby farmhouse and equipment were unharmed. The planes would return.
Olga and Morgan turned to each other. Either one could have died. Either one could have been left without the other.
“I love you,” Morgan said.
Olga hugged him. She had seen for the first time how quickly they could be shot—and killed. They had survived by a matter of inches.
Menoyo paced like a cat.
The planes were picking up. They had hit near Nuevo Mundo, and they had dropped bombs near Manicaragua. Batista wasn’t going to let up with the air power. That was the only way he could force a surrender. With every report of damage, Menoyo was getting angrier.
Batista’s men had been beaten at Charco Azul. They had been beaten at Chalet de Lora and Finca Diana. It was clear the army’s strategy had suddenly changed. Instead of moving deeper into the mountains, the troops had been ordered to halt. Batista was trying to bait the rebels out of the mountains by bombing.
If that’s what Batista wanted the rebels to do, then Menoyo would meet that challenge. But it had to be planned carefully.
As long as the rebels remained encamped in the mountains above Batista’s men, nothing was going to move forward. Menoyo pointed on the map: Trinidad. The southern coastal city southwest of Sancti Spiritus would be the perfect target. It would send a clear message that the rebels were going to take the fight to the cities. If that’s what Batista wanted, that’s what he was going to get.
Trinidad had an old stone-and-wood garrison loaded with machine guns, grenades, and other weapons. The US government had cut off Batista’s supply, but he had gotten around that obstacle by going directly to
Britain, of all places.
The Second Front didn’t have a lot of ammunition, but it now had four hundred men. Menoyo and the other commanders would lead them.
With his men gathered around, Menoyo spelled out their plan of attack. Two main roads led directly into Trinidad, with a few—but not many—entry points to the rear. The garrison was here, he pointed out.
One bad move, one wrong entry, and the rebels could lose the element of surprise. Then they became targets. There were simply too many soldiers, and they’d be attacking from all over, including the garrison. The rebels needed to come like bats out of hell.
Menoyo had already thought this out. They would gather at a place known to the locals as Mangos Pelones—a farm on the edge of a highway ten miles from the city. They could get trucks from the local plantation owners to haul everyone into the town. Once they got to the entrance, they would split into groups and surround the garrison, while the point men took on the guards.
Menoyo wanted no surprises. If Batista’s soldiers were effective anywhere, it was in the cities, where they could control the buildings and the people. Months earlier, the army led a brutal attack on civilians in Cienfuegos as punishment for a revolt at a nearby naval base. Soldiers stormed the streets, arresting and killing people even suspected of helping the insurrectionists. Menoyo looked at his commanders. Get ready, he said. They were embarking on a plan that was close to a suicide mission.
Olga stared over the tops of the coffee plants as the wind blew across the plantation. At the highest point of the camp, it looked like a sea of green. There was still no sign of Morgan. He should have been back by now, coming up the trail with his men. He had left on patrol, but he wasn’t supposed to be gone this long.
She had tried to keep busy, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She should have heard from the runners by now. She remembered the paper he had given her on that cool, rainy night with his mother’s address. She remembered the promise that she had made. “If anything happens to me, let her know,” he had said. She turned sadly and walked back to the farmhouse, where the grower, Nicholas Cárdenas, had opened his plantation to the rebels.
One more hour, she said to herself. Una hora mas.
She didn’t know everything about what the commanders were doing, but it was no secret that the fighting was about to get more intense. She could see that every day with the rebels arriving at the camp. If Morgan died, she would regret that she had never told him everything that she wanted to say, that she wanted to be at his side—even if they both died.
In the distance, she heard voices just beyond the farmhouse. She rose and walked to the edge. Straining to see over the plants, she saw men coming up from the trail. Looking closer, she spotted him. “He’s alive,” she said as she rushed across the camp.
He was exhausted but managed a smile when he spotted her.
Never again would she let a moment like this pass. “You won, commander,” she said, staring up and smiling.
Morgan looked around for a moment, confused. “I won?”
“I believe I have already given it enough thought,” she said. Olga didn’t care that everyone was now staring. “I will marry you.”
Morgan threw down his gun, leaned over, and kissed her. He knew this wasn’t a good time. He knew that he might never leave Cuba alive. But if he died without marrying Olga, somehow his life—and all that he had sacrificed so far—would have been for nothing.
It was time.
19
Ventura Hernandez glanced outside and beckoned for Morgan and Olga to come in. Batista’s men had camped just miles away, and the Rural Guard had been prowling the area, dragging the guajiros from their bohíos to find out who had been helping Menoyo.
In the middle of the mess, Hernandez and other farmers were just trying to live their lives. The Second Front rebels had been their saviors. No unit did more for the Escambray, protecting the people from the dreaded soldiers. For months, Hernandez had helped the Second Front, sneaking them bananas and coffee, warning them about trouble in the valley.
He turned to Olga and Morgan standing in the middle of his stone-and-wood farmhouse. “I will be your witness,” he said.
Hernandez would prepare the documents for them to be married and seal them: “The free territory of the Escambray.” But before the ceremony, he instructed his daughters to take Olga down to the creek that meandered through his small farm. “Be careful,” he told them.
His girls grabbed a towel and soap and led Olga down the hill. The sun was setting over the mountain as they reached the end of the trail. The creek bubbled up at the end of the small road. The girls led Olga to a bend where the water was rushing over stones and branches and a nearby waterfall cascaded down from a ledge. One of the girls told Olga that she could bathe here.
As she slipped off her shirt and slowly removed the rest of her clothes, the girls huddled around her, giggling. Olga slipped into the water, first to her knees, then her waist, and finally she immersed herself.
“Oh my God,” she said aloud. It had been months since she had had a full bath.
She stared up at the sky, a cool breeze blowing across the valley, the tops of the trees waving as if they were moving just for her. She thought about all that had happened: her escape, the war. If she could stop time—now—just the way it was . . .
“We should go,” said one of the girls. They worried that the Rural Guard could be coming.
The Hernandez daughters shielded Olga as she stepped from the water. Shivering in the cool air, Olga followed them to the trail. Each walked next to each other to make sure no one could ambush them from the brush.
At the door, Morgan met Olga, still wrapped in the towel, her hair cascading down. For a moment, he stood and stared. She had never looked so beautiful. Morgan, too, looked different. While Olga was gone, he had gotten a pair of scissors and cut off his beard. She had never seen his full face. Even his eyes seemed different.
Hernandez had decorated the table with a vase of wildflowers and a bowl of bananas, oranges, and mangoes. Olga knew he didn’t have much. Hernandez’s wife had walked out on the family one day, but the girls stayed with their papa. He worked the land mostly by himself, making sure they had enough to eat and sell at market.
Through the door came Onofre Pérez, a big round man with thick forearms, who served as one witness. Francisco “Panchit” Léon, an aging, gray rebel twice as old as the others, would be the other.
Hernandez quickly stood up. “We must start,” he said. But first he asked that one of his daughters take Olga into a bedroom.
When Olga walked in, she saw that they had laid out a blouse along with a floral skirt and a pair of shoes. “You can wear them,” said the farmer.
Olga was speechless. She had never been treated so kindly since arriving in the mountains. For this family to do this for her—they didn’t even know her. She slipped into the clothes, careful not to crease the fabrics.
Hernandez wasted no time. He handed Morgan and Olga their vows on a piece of paper. As Morgan read his lines, tears welled in Olga’s eyes. She couldn’t believe it. She lost her family in Santa Clara when she fled to the mountains. She might never see her mother or sisters again. But here—now—she had gained a new family, William Morgan—someone she would hold in her heart for the rest of her life.
“I love you,” she told him.
They kissed, and then looking up, everyone clapped.
Morgan and Olga in the Escambray mountains, with assault rifles, smiling lovingly into each other’s eyes Courtesy of Morgan Family Collection
Pérez had spent weeks with Morgan in the mountains but had never seen his comandante so much at peace. Hernandez offered the group a pitcher of punch made of homemade rum and fruit juice. Everyone took turns toasting the happy couple.
Morgan put his arm around Olga an
d motioned for her to walk outside. In the darkness, they walked down near the river, the moon casting shadows on the ground below. Twigs snapped under their feet as they found a quiet corner of the farm.
Morgan reached into his pocket and took out a present: a jar of cream—a luxury in the mountains during a war. Olga smiled. Even when she lived in Santa Clara, she hadn’t received a gift like this.
“I don’t have anything to give you but my love,” she said.
“Your love is more than enough for me,” he replied. “When your country is free, we will be very happy and love each other more.”
Above the mountains, the stars shone brightly, lighting up the black sky. They embraced, kissing, slowly sliding down to the ground and rolling on the grass. They didn’t care that it was cold or that the others were nearby.
In the darkness, Menoyo and his men crept past the row of faded pastel storefronts, lights flickering inside. One more block, and they would stand within reach of the garrison.
Trinidad had dozens of neighborhoods. A virtual maze of concrete blocks with barrel tile roofs lining narrow cobblestone streets covered the center of town and offered plenty of hiding places. Even with two hundred soldiers running around the city, the rebels could find plenty of spots where no one would find them. For most of the afternoon, they had been filtering quietly into the city and then ducking into the homes of supporters who had been waiting to host them.
To keep a low profile, Menoyo had split the Second Front into strike teams, the same strategy as in the mountains. Each would converge on the garrison from a different street. He motioned for his men to gather at the block just beyond the target. They had just seconds before their actions drew the guards’ attention.
Menoyo had reviewed the attack plan for weeks with his commanders, each group taking a post fewer than fifty yards from each corner of the building. It was no different than positioning themselves for an ambush in the bush, taking the high ground behind thick brush and ridges.
The Yankee Comandante Page 10