Menoyo ordered his men to break into teams. One would take the southern side of the building, another would take the opposite. They were to wait for his orders. Menoyo then told his own team to set up firing positions. He didn’t want anyone wasting ammo, but he wanted the soldiers to feel the heat. Normally, he would have waited. But this case was different. They had to open fire first. The only way they were going to force the soldiers to fight would be to let them know they were outside.
Menoyo scanned the huge structure and then lifted his hand. “Fuego!” he called, dropping his arm. The rebels fired, aiming at windows and doors. The shots rang out, waking the soldiers inside. Moments later, the troops began shooting back. For several minutes, both sides fired volley after volley. But the rebels had the upper hand. The soldiers had nowhere to go. If they tried to escape, the rebels were waiting.
Then one of the rebels approached Menoyo with an idea. He had once worked in the sanitarium as a nurse and knew of a tiny door on the side of the building that was chained with a padlock. If they could get inside, they might be able to disrupt the army’s operation. Menoyo nodded. He called on others, including Ramiro Lorenzo and José Casanova, and filled them in on the details.
As darkness fell, the men scoped out the building. One by one, they jumped across the terrain but stayed several hundred yards away in the shadows. Menoyo studied the door and nodded to the others. “Let’s try it,” he said.
They crawled on their hands and knees to the side of the building. Then, taking out a pair of metal cutters, they severed the chain and quietly pushed the door open.
Still on their knees, they squeezed through the opening and found the narrow spiral staircase just inside that led to the main offices upstairs. Menoyo and the men slithered up the stairs and reached the main floor, where they crept down the hall. They passed each door until they came to the offices, where a light was shining through the crack under the door.
Menoyo jumped in and surprised an army officer before he could grab his gun. “You are under arrest,” said Menoyo as the man turned white. He introduced himself and asked who he had the pleasure of arresting.
The officer looked up at Menoyo, shaken. “I am Commander Perez Corcho,” he said.
Their gamble had paid off.
Corcho put up his hands while the men frisked him. Menoyo walked over to the PA system. “This is Comandante Eloy Gutiérrez Menoyo, commander of the Second Front of the Escambray,” he said, his voice echoing through the building. “We have already taken over the town square, and we are in the building. Everyone needs to throw their weapons in the hallways. Come out with your hands in the air.”
The soldiers tossed their rifles and machine guns down and went to the main floor, where the armed rebels secured them.
Topes de Collantes was theirs.
22
Lázaro Artola crawled atop the ledge. He and his men had trudged along trails choked by thick brush, trying to reach the town before the others. They successfully had avoided a plane buzzing over the mountains. Now, staring down the long road, he could see into the streets of Manicaragua, a dozen miles from the provincial capital of Santa Clara and a gathering point for soldiers.
Much of the city had been laid out in square blocks of old, ornate storefronts and high arching columns. People passed through narrow street corners. The stench of horses and trucks wafted through the air. Artola motioned for his men to get ready.
One by one, they fixed their rifles. Artola had one of the most disciplined columns in the Second Front, but this was dangerous work. He had no time to look for road mines, no time to take cover if the planes arrived.
“Move out!” he yelled.
Like clockwork, his men fanned out toward the town square. Some crawled along the storefronts, others jumped behind trees. Just as they reached the plaza, civilians popped their heads out from the shops, some even venturing out to the sidewalk. “Los soldados han desaparecido,” some said, waving their arms. The soldiers are gone.
The locals pointed to the road leading out of the city. The soldiers had packed up and left for Cienfuegos, they said, forty miles west. Artola discovered no one at the garrison. He had expected a fight, but the townspeople were telling the truth. The rebels had taken Manicaragua without any resistance.
Artola signaled for his messengers. His men would go to Cumanayagua and let the Second Front officers there know that the Manicaragua garrison belonged to the Second Front and that the government soldiers were heading to Cienfuegos. They probably were moving along the highway since they hated going into the mountains. Make haste.
Nearby, people came out onto the streets, erupting in cheers. The local farmers hated the government almost as much as the droughts that had killed their coffee plants. As his men shook hands with the people, Artola noticed another group of rebels entering the plaza. But they didn’t belong to the Second Front. They were Che’s men. At the head of the column was Directorio captain Raúl Nieves.
Nieves stopped for a moment and shook his head. Che would be disappointed. He had wanted the 26th of July to plant their flag in the ground here. The Second Front had beaten them.
In Cuba’s military headquarters in Havana, General Francisco Tabernilla Dolz stared grimly at the dispatches coming in from the Escambray: Fomento, Cumanayagua, Remedios, all critical garrison towns. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
It was early yet, but something in the mountains was starting to worry the top generals, including Tabernilla. First, there was Manicaragua. Not only had the town been taken without a fight, but the rebels had blocked off the area. Then the main rail line through the heart of the region had been cut at Zaza del Medio. Now Caibarién, forty-five miles northeast, had just surrendered to Che’s men, which meant the government had lost one of the key ports.
The army was learning that Che’s men would take one town and Menoyo’s men another. It was like a chess game. One swept through the central mountains and the other, the south. In any war, setbacks occur. But the army was losing ground on multiple fronts.
North of Cienfuegos, a rebel team led by Publio Ruiz, a young captain trained by Morgan, had overwhelmed the soldiers in a charge, killing several. At Yaguajay, the rebels led by Camilo Cienfuegos of the 26th of July Movement had stunned the army by surrounding the town and pinning the troops in their barracks.
Tabernilla was beside himself. “Two years of a prolonged campaign” were taking a toll, he said. But it wasn’t just the fatigue of war. The rebels were starting to show their experience.
For an entire year, they had been mapping and patrolling the mountains, which now allowed them to snake through the back roads and trails they had learned so well. Artola made it to Manicaragua in just a few hours. Morgan reached Cumanayagua before anyone else. Both rebel forces were linked by scores of messengers.
In all the months of fighting in the Escambray, the army never created permanent bases in the mountains. Towns such as Cumanayagua and Manicaragua remained vulnerable because the army had no significant presence.
Perhaps it was arrogance on the part of the military or a lack of any real concern on the part of the generals, but after reading the battle reports, Batista was disgusted. He stripped his commanders in the Escambray of their power and put in Colonel Joaquín Casillas Lumpuy to restore order. Batista then sent an armored train loaded with weapons.
He only hoped it wasn’t too late.
23
Peering through the morning haze, Domingo Ortega Gomez lifted his rifle and took aim as the soldiers moved within striking distance. Just a few more seconds, he thought, propping himself up. Just a few more . . .
Ortega’s team members stood by with their rifles raised just as the army men came into view on the narrow dirt road. It was no surprise the soldiers would show up. This road—the stretch of highway between Manicaragua and Cumanayagua—was their only route to reach the southern coast. The
trails through the mountains were too dangerous for the men in uniforms and their vehicles.
Most of them had left the small towns and were now trying to reach Cienfuegos, where they had a chance of joining other units. For Ortega, it was a test. The young Second Front captain just happened to be patrolling the area when he got word the soldiers were coming. The rebels knew that taking control of this stretch of highway would cut off the army’s escape.
Ortega motioned for his men to get ready. It was hard to figure out how many soldiers were in the unit. If it was a company, Ortega couldn’t possibly stop them with just a few rebels. But if he could at least inflict damage, he might be able to send a message the road was no longer safe.
He squinted for a moment, aimed, and then squeezed the trigger. The other rebels fired on the stunned soldiers. Some jumped to the side of the road, others fell. The rebels stood and continued firing as the soldiers ran. It ended as quickly as it started, with nine soldiers dead in the road. The rest escaped. It wouldn’t take long for word to reach the other army units: The Second Front had just cut off the army’s lifeline.
Just after dawn, Morgan summoned his men together. He rarely called these kinds of meetings, but he had just received an urgent message.
The information was sketchy, but hours earlier, a large plane was seen taking off in the darkness from Camp Columbia in Havana. No one knew who was on the flight, but word was that Batista himself had climbed aboard and ordered the pilot to take off.
The rebels looked at Morgan and then one another. Where was this news coming from? They had heard so many rumors about the state of the war, especially in the past week. They had gotten word from a messenger that Che had taken Santa Clara, a major victory. Was it possible that the dictator who once ruled over the entire military machine of Cuba would just leave?
Batista had been the driving force of Cuba for sixteen years. He was the face of their country. He was el hombre. If anything, he would fight to the bitter end.
Morgan didn’t disagree with anything they were saying, but that wasn’t what mattered. They still had a war to fight while they waited for more news. As far he was concerned, they were going to take their next steps in the offensive.
For a long time, the Second Front had needed to take the fight to one of the most important cities in central Cuba: Cienfuegos. With a thriving port, the city provided a crucial link to the sea. The sun had risen over the eastern mountains as Morgan and his column took to the road, leaving their camp.
Soaked in sweat and dirt, they clutched their rifles as they walked on the same road where dozens of soldiers had passed days earlier. Morgan and the rebels were tense. They had no idea what they were facing. Cienfuegos was a maze of winding narrow roads that eventually led to the wide-open bay and the navy base in the center. It wasn’t just a garrison they were targeting. It was a military installation with hundreds of men and a great deal of firepower. The soldiers there had rocket launchers and mortars. They had bazookas, and if they needed, they could call in the P-47 fighter planes.
Morgan had no idea what was going on in the rest of the mountains. But he knew he had to reach Cienfuegos before the city was lost. Once they reached the first set of roads, they could break up and enter the city at different angles, different streets. Gripping his Sten, Morgan picked up the pace. The rebels could see the outline of Cienfuegos just over the pass. Keep moving, he told them as they reached the first main road into the city.
In the distance, the rebels heard what sounded like gunshots. As they closed in, they could see men, women, and children hanging over the balconies, waving flags and shouting “¡Libertad! ” as the rebels approached.
One rebel stopped and talked to the pedestrians hugging one another in the streets. The news was already crackling over the radios: Batista and his generals had fled the country. Morgan ordered his men to keep moving. There was no time to celebrate. They had one important stop: the road to the bay. If Batista had indeed fled, the Second Front was going to make sure the port and the naval base belonged to the guerrillas. Just beyond the next block, Morgan could see the sparkling blue waters of Jagua Bay, the centerpiece of the city.
By the time they reached the end of the road, the naval base loomed over the causeway. Morgan stopped for a moment and stared at the fortress. Then he turned to his messengers. “Tell them they are surrounded. There is no place for them to go.” At first, his demands sounded crazy. The navy base could fire on the rebels at any time. It could batten down the hatches and wait for the army.
Morgan held his Sten tightly as he waited for his answer. No one inside the naval base was moving. Morgan was handed a radio. It was the commander, who assured Morgan that the rebels could lower their weapons. The base was surrendering.
Now Cienfuegos belonged to Morgan and the Second Front.
24
The news began filtering over the airwaves: Batista’s rein over Cuba had ended.
The reaction began with shots fired into the air. Car horns echoed down the long boulevard leading to the plaza. The people of Cienfuegos had never experienced anything like it. Overlooking the plaza, they draped Cuban flags over their balconies and waved to pedestrians below. A crowd gathered in José Marti Park and shouted in jubilation to passing cars.
Morgan motioned for his men to gather around. They were in control. They would be moving into the naval base. But that’s not why he was calling them together. In a few minutes, the city was going to erupt, and there was no police force to control the chaos. The rebels who had fought in the mountains for the past year were about to become the local police.
The men were exhausted. They hadn’t slept in days. They hadn’t washed. Some hadn’t even eaten. But in minutes, they were going to be the law of the land.
The young barbudos had never been put in this position, but there was no other way for the transition to begin. Looting would start, and some would try to shoot the Batistianos, those loyal to the old regime. The rebels had to guard every section of the city and, if need be, commandeer cars without hurting anyone. They had to remember that they weren’t in the mountains anymore but watching over women and children.
Holding their guns tightly, the men split into teams and disappeared beyond the first row of buildings. Morgan strapped on his Sten and started walking toward the naval base. Within moments, people on the streets overwhelmed him. Some reached over to hug him. Others kissed him.
“¡Americano! ¡Americano! ” they shouted as he made his way down to the main bridge.
Some Cuban cities still supported Batista, but Cienfuegos wasn’t one of them. Batista had ordered so many crackdowns here. Airplane bombings a year earlier had killed four civilians and injured twenty others. The rebels were a welcome sight.
Morgan never could have dreamed about this happening a year ago. A man running from his past, he had arrived in Cuba with little more than the clothes he was wearing. Now the people were mobbing him on the streets, hailing him as a hero of a revolution that was about to change the course of history.
Menoyo had no time to celebrate. He had just received word: Batista was gone, but the military was still in control in the capital.
It was impossible to predict how it would end. The crowds had erupted in Havana. The Directorio had taken over the Ninth Street police precinct, and some of Batista’s police were shot dead in the streets. The new dawn for Cuba was already turning violent.
The grab for power was under way even before the bodies were buried. Menoyo learned that Che was rushing to Havana. So was Camilo Cienfuegos. Even Rolando Cubela and the Directorio were hightailing it on the Central Highway to the capital. This wasn’t necessarily good. There was bound to be more bloodshed. Batista’s soldiers were still in Camp Columbia. They were also at La Cabaña, the military prison fortress. Thousands of government troops were still camped in three other provinces.
“It’s time for us to go to Havana,
” Menoyo told Morgan.
The groups heading to the capital either were going to form a provisional government or were going to kill one another. Castro had a plan. Cubela and the Directorio had their plan. The interim government left by Batista was in chaos. All that the Second Front had fought for, all they had died for, their entire future lay at stake.
Menoyo needed to make a stand.
25
Over the hood of the Jeep, Olga stared at the long line of cars jammed along the boulevard and then slumped back down in her seat. A crush of humanity was preventing her and the other rebels from moving any faster. People were standing in roads, waving down cars. Music blared from stores while revelers danced up and down the street. Some were hugging and crying. Women and children bounded out of their cramped stucco homes, waving Cuban flags and shouting to their neighbors. This is why she had been fighting. This is why she had risked her life.
To the people of Cienfuegos, every part of the city carried a reminder of the oppression they had endured: the municipal building, where the insurrectionists tried to create a bunker during the navy revolt; the Rural Guard barracks, attacked by the revolutionary sympathizers; the police headquarters, taken over by the rebels.
As Olga’s Jeep pulled up to the main building at the naval station, she pointed to the entrance. “I am going in,” she said.
She pushed open the doors and asked for her husband. A rebel guard told her that Morgan was in the command offices meeting with former Cienfuegos government leaders. Olga didn’t care. She strode to the door and pushed it open.
Inside, everyone looked up. Morgan was sitting behind a table with papers strewn in front of him, surrounded by people she had never met. He looked serious, but then he broke into a grin.
The Yankee Comandante Page 12