The Cuban Liberation Handbook

by Joshua Hatuey Marti

  “Whoa son, where you goin’?” said the older mullatto medic. “You jess lie back down there boy. I’ll have you off fightin’ soon enough.”

  The medic cut away Boitel’s clothing around the wound in his side with a pair of scissors. A jagged piece of splintered wood ten inches long and a couple inches wide had pierced his side.

  “It looks like it just went through your skin, not in your abdomen. I’ll have to see it with some light on it,” he said.

  “Naw, it bounced off my abs of steel, it didn’t get me good,” Boitel said hopefully.

  “Just how did this happen?” said the medic as he tore the wrapper off of his scalpel.

  “I fell on it. I fell through that hole in the ceiling. Fell on that piece of wood over there. It must have broken off when I landed on it,” said Boitel, instinctively guarding his wound.

  Carrion, now acting as the medic’s assistant, threw his poncho over Boitel. The medic got underneath the poncho and turned on his flashlight. The Carrion was careful to step on the corners of the poncho that were letting light escape from underneath. The medic injected some lidocaine and cut the flesh that held the wooden spike in place, irrigated, stitched and bandaged up the wound, then gave Boitel a prescription of antibiotics and pain killers all within twenty minutes.

  “You see a medical unit tomorrow first thing, ya hear? That’s an order.”

  “K,” Boitel rolled over on his stomach to get up and groaned in pain as he got on all four. He looked at the medic as he paused before struggling to get up.

  The medic laughed “Well I never said you’d be good as new.”

  “Doc, I’m better than new. Where’s that piece of wood you took out of me?”

  With the bloody stick safely tucked in his web gear Boitel rejoined the battle.

  Free Cuban Armed Forces -

  North invasion force, Guantanamo City, Cuba October 1, 2018.

  “L” Day or Liberation Day. 11:35 PM

  It was a long day for Joshua Gonzalez. A long and glorious day. He felt a need to give thanks. Tagging along with him was a young reporter named Smithy that Joshua was becoming particularly fond of. They entered the long white rectangular tent. Joshua held only a small valise. “Now this is no ordinary tent. It was constructed along the same lines as the ancient tabernacle the Israelites used during their long sojourn after escaping from Egypt.

  The tabernacle of Moses and the temple of Solomon were copies of the genuine mountain temple of Mount Sinai,” recited Joshua.

  Both men entered a small room to their right, a locker room of sorts. He took off his jacket, hung it as neatly as he could on the hook provided. He slipped off his shoes and socks and placed them below his jacket. Now he opened up his valise and gazed upon his most prized possessions. The sacred vestments he would wear in the hour to come. Smithy came a step or two closer and peered into the valise.

  “Oh, I’m sorry Smithy, I forgot myself,” Joshua said as he closed up the valise. “You have some questions I think.”

  “I, uh…I’ve read about the ceremony on the web,” said Smithy as he scribbled on his notepad, “granted, it’s written by your enemies but is it accurate?”

  “Some is and some isn’t,” said Joshua as he sat down with a sigh on the spartan wood bench that ran the length of the lockers.

  “Well, let me ask you point by point. Before you enter the tabernacle you are barefoot and you ceremonially eat some bread and drink water? Is that right?”

  “Yes, when Moses approached the bush that would not be consumed with fire, he learned that the immediate area was a separate, sacral, set-apart space “Come no nearer” commanded God. “Take off your shoes, for the place on which you stand is holy ground” that’s Exodus three-five.”

  “And the bread and water from the rock fountain?” asked Smithy.

  “The bread represents the manna provided by the lord to the Israelites while in the desert. As for the rock fountain, it is a reminder of the water he miraculously provided when Moses touched the rock with his staff,” said Joshua.

  “I’ve heard of the manna but not the water story,” said Smithy.

  Joshua recited by memory, “And the people thirsted there for water: and the people murmured against Moses and Moses cried unto the Lord, saying, what shall I do unto this people? And the Lord said unto Moses Behold, I will stand before thee there upon the rock in Horeb; and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink. And Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel (Exodus 17: 3).” Joshua paused with another sigh and continued, “The image of God, the rock, and the water in this passage is a reminder that both the rock and the water are symbols of God.” Smithy scribbled furiously. “Oh I wish you would have let me take my recorder,” Smithy said in pleasant irritation. “Now, later on in the ceremony there’s bread and water but that stands for something else?” “Yes,” said Joshua, starting to enjoy the conversation, “that’s similar to communion. Christ’s last supper. The bread and wine. The ceremony by which we repent, take upon ourselves his name and promise to keep his commandments. The Altar. What can you tell me about the altar.”

  “Well, Like the temple itself it has the appearance of a miniature mountain. The altar that was built by Moses was constructed either of unhewn stones of the earth itself, and Joshua built an “altar of unhewn stones upon which no man had lift up any iron,” (Joshua 8:31), thus giving the impression of a natural mountain like altar.”

  “How about the ceremonial clothing,” Smithy said as he glanced at Joshua’s valise.

  “That, I will say nothing of,” Joshua said defensively. He paused and looked up apologetically and said, “Sorry. Let me quote a few passages that may help you understand. Firstly, in relation to the temple, from Leviticus we read, “and [Moses] put upon [Aaron] the coat, and girded him with the girdle, and clothed him with the robe, and put the ephod upon him, and girded him with the curious girdle of the ephod, and bound it unto him therewith,” another passage of scripture denotes a token of what Paul regarded as taking upon one the whole armor of God (Eph. 6:13). They all have symbolic meaning.”

  A man in green dungarees appeared at the entrance of the room. “Mr. President, the council needs your attendance.”

  Joshua’s shoulders visibly sunk. “Well Smithy, I got this far,” Joshua paused. “Never mind,’ he said. Joshua leaned toward Smithy and whispered, “I will soon be in a place of worship far more beautiful than this one.” Joshua looked with affection at the white canvas walls that surrounded him. I just wanted one more time here.”

  Joshua stiffly stood up from the bench and put weight on his cane.

  “I’m sorry if I kept you from your ceremony,” Smithy said with real concern. He had many more questions about the vows and oaths, the promises of great rewards in the hereafter, the strange remembrance of soldiers long since dead in the cause for freedom.

  “Nonsense my son, talking with you was the only reason the Lord sent me to the Tabernacle. I see that now.” Joshua looked up into Smithy’s face as he placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Goodbye my boy, God bless you.”

  End of Chapter Two

  Cuba Chapter 3

  Free Cuban Armed Forces -

  North invasion force, 23 km west of Guantanamo City, Cuba October 1, 2018.

  “L” Day or Liberation Day. 11:35 PM

  The war thus far had been nothing but a lot of trudging through the countryside with a lot of heavy equipment for Elvis Olivares. He had left his home in the Pinar del Rio Province nearly two years ago. A schoolmate of his had seen the red flashing light of the rescue ship while riding from work in the tobacco fields. When Elvis heard that the ship was three-point-three kilometers off the coast of Punta de Cartas he immediately dropped the tools he held in his hands and walked the six kilometers to the point overlooking the American ship. With little trouble he managed to elude the patrols located there to intercept escapees. Perhaps they were too busy incarcerating the many ot
hers flocking to the area. Maybe the MINIT officers just did not care to hassle fellow Cubans wanting only to be free. In any event Elvis simply walked up to a house, knocked politely and informed the people inside that he would need to take their door. When Elvis started studying the front door jam the man of the house told him he could have an interior door, perhaps the bedroom door. In the end Elvis was talked into two plastic milk containers tied together by rope. It worked well enough.

  Elvis had been hauling one hundred pounds of gear for nearly six hours, mostly in the darkness. Sweat drenched his clothing and he didn’t even know he knew the vile words coming out of his mouth. He was in charge of one of the new TRAPlxi systems or Telepresent Rapid Aiming Platforms. “Portable, my (blank),” he mumbled.

  When Elvis finally came within sight of his squad they had their packs off, drinking kool-aid from wide mouthed lexan containers peering at a map their squad leader held in front of them. He would be the happiest man in the world if he could just get this pack off. He would want for nothing more from life. Just rest.

  Before he could reach the group of huddled soldiers they began to break up, ruck up their packs and move out again. He was within earshot when he overheard his squad leader say, “There he is now, take him out with you, fill him in on the plan and give something to drink.”

  Elvis groaned. Not even a five minute break.

  “You’re almost there buddy. One more klick,” said his friend Nestor.

  Nestor had escaped to a rescue ship the day before Elvis and was therefore his superior in the pecking order. “Here, drink this.”

  The Kool-aid was warm and watered down but still the best thing Elvis ever tasted.

  “I got you the best spot, with us, out on the far left flank (side),” said Nestor “We got all the action.”

  “All right,” said Elvis between heavy breathing and gulps of fluid. He tried to sound as enthusiastic as he could. All he wanted to do was drink Kool-aid, curl up in a fetal position and sleep. He stood there swaying slightly under his heavy load.

  “Madre mia,” said Nestor “give me the gun. I’ll carry it.” He turned to three soldiers still adjusting their loads. You guys go scout the position, Rodriguez, you come back and help with Olivares’ equipment.”

  “If I wanted to carry his equipment I would have been the TRAP gunner,” Rodriquez snapped.

  Nestor’s jaw tightened and eyes narrowed as he silently stared at Rodriquez.

  Rodriquez felt a little sheepish about his curt response. “Oh, aye, aye Cap.” He looked at Elvis. “Sorry elf boy, I’m just tired as (expletive).” He blew a hard a couple of times as he shifted the weight on his back “I’ll be back, we’ll get you there. We can’t slow that enemy advance without our hide-e-hole gunner,” he jided.

  The final hike was more like one-and-a-half kilometers to their defensive position but it was worth the effort. It was a good position thought Elvis, a brushy slope overlooking the main highway heading east on a broad flat expanse.

  “There’s no one between you and the bad guys now, buddy. Everyone out there is enemy. Do not hesitate to shoot. Comprehende?” said Nestor.

  “Yes sir,” Elvis replied as he got out his trenching tool. “What do we hear on artillery support?”

  “Well, they’re, uhh... they’re still trying to push past Guantanamo City. I don’t think we can count on them at least for a couple hours. Maybe tomorrow. But we should have a mortar in position sometime tonight… Maybe tomorrow.”

  Elvis could hear the worry in his friend’s voice and even through his greenish night vision image he could see it in his face.

  Elvis started digging. “No sweat. This baby can hold off the entire Eastern and Central army combined.”

  “I hope so. ‘Cause they’re on their way. The Eastern army will be rolling down that highway anytime now,” Nestor said as he overlooked the landscape.

  “Tell me something I don’t know, like when we’re getting artillery support and maybe some air support,” grunted Elvis between shoveling. “And how ‘bout some IMSlxii (Intelligent Munitions System) units in front of our position. We could all just dig our holes and take a nap if we had some of those.”

  “Air support, psschaa… you must be smoking somethin. We’ll be lucky to get a predator overhead tomorrow if we are still alive. We’ll be lucky if…” His voice trailed off.

  Elvis paused and looked up at Nestor. “You better be digging, boss man,” Elvis said as he perceived something different in his friend.

  Nestor stood frozen in the darkness with the night vision binoculars to his eyes. “They’re here.” He said “Advancing in formation. Three klicks out. Lots of them.”

  40 Kilometers west of Ciego de Avila

  October 2. L Day plus one. 4:00 PM

  The train lay dead still on the tracks as men busily scurried about carrying the wounded on makeshift cots.

  It took a total of thirty minutes to gather the prisoners and organize them into working medical groups. Each wounded soldier was assigned at least two of his comrades to take care of him.

  Then Corporal Garcia Lopez addressed the waiting prisoners. “I extend the best wishes of President Marti. President of All Cuba. Seeing that you are currently unemployed,” chuckles dominoed through his men, “he formally extends to you his invitation to join the Free Cuban Armed Forces.”

  Corporal Lopez had never talked to Joshua Marti in his life but he was right in assuming that the flyer and his actions were all the authority he needed to speak in the name of the Free Cubans.

  “You will receive your back pay still owing to you from the Communists. You will receive shares in the Free Cuban Armed Forces that will be worth no less than ten thousand U.S. dollars, probably more like a hundred thousand. If we maintain control of Ciego de Avila Province you will get a percentage of the entire province. You and your families will be given the opportunity to immigrate to the United States if you want to. It is there for you to take, it is there for you to lose. And believe me if any of you give me reason to doubt your fidelity to this cause or slack in your duties I will bounce you out of this army so fast,” he paused, smiled and said, “could I see by the raise of hands who would be interested in this proposal?”

  One soldier’s arm shot up with enthusiasm. He looked around him to the unsure looks of his comrades. He grabbed his friend next to him by the arm and raised it. “Get your arm up dummy!” All eyes turned to him and he responded by standing up, eyeing carefully this crazy Lopez guy who was so unstable as to attack a train filled with large elements of the Western army with just a handful of guys. This crazy little commander could be capable of anything. With Garcia Lopez’ nod of permission the prisoner turned to his fellow troops.

  “All those who don’t want to join the Free Cubans raise your hands.” The soldier said as he looked over the large group.

  The group looked sullen and still in shock from battle.

  “Ogra, Quintero Valdes, Suarez,” the soldier spat the names out bitterly, “get your stinking arms up. Not so big now are you, you sons of (blanks).”

  One of the named men raised a pointed finger at his accuser “You traitorous (expletive), you will be shot when this is over.”

  The soldier’s face mottled red with rage and instinctively grabbed for his bayonet only to find the scabbard empty. He turned to Corporal Lopez. “Give me your pistol, I’ll kill the bad ones for you.”

  Lopez laughed with pure joy. He walked through the crowd of sitting men to put his hand on the shoulder of this brash middle-aged soldier. Lopez could now read the soldier’s badly worn embroidered nametag. “Solano is it?”

  “Yes sir, Rafael Solano. Private,” he said as he saluted.

  Lopez smiled and saluted back then extended his hand to shake.

  “Nobody is going to kill nobody,” Lopez said with a good natured smile. “You are in charge of these prisoners. Pick out the ones you think we can’t work with and send them over there,” he said as he pointed toward the head of the t
rain. “We need the tank crews to report over at that tree there,” Lopez said pointing in the opposite direction.

  “We need all of the tank crews. You’re in charge. Make it work,” Lopez said as he took off his holster. He paused and looked at Solano squarely in the eye as he handed over the gun and said, “You shoot no one. Comprehende?”

  Solano saluted “yes sir!” With a malevolent smile he pulled the Makarov handgun out of its holster and turned again to his hated ex-commanders. “Ogra, Quintero Valdes, Suarez,” Solano yelled. Through gritted teeth and his knuckles going white on the grip of the gun he said, “stand up”. The men hopped to their feet with newfound energy. “Go to that car over there,” he said as he waved the gun in the direction of the train. The men obeyed without hesitation. Next he bellowed out, “All tank crews stand up!” The prisoners looked puzzled but some slowly got to their feet. Solano walked around the sea of men kicking the feet of some who were still sitting. The uniforms gave the tankers away. “Get up, I said.” When he was satisfied all the tankers were standing he gave them their orders.

  Free Cuban Armed Forces -

  North invasion force, 23 km west of Guantanamo City, Cuba October 2, 2018.

  “L” Day or Liberation Day plus one. 12:05 AM

  The communist artillery rounds started to fall as Elvis was about three-fifths done with his foxhole. The guys in his unit called his a post hole since it was such a tight fit. The hole to hide the TRAP gunner was different from a regular fighting foxhole. It was made to support a lid to hide the gunner completely. An enemy soldier should be able to stand right next to the hide and not know it was there. In theory at least. His comrades were too busy with their holes to camouflage the top of his so he spread out some dirt on the top of his round plastic lid and battened it down tight over his head. A light, thin, very tough armored cable stretched from his hole to the trap gun now sitting in its own hole nearly thirty meters away. In the darkness of his cramped confines Elvis opened up the hearty little laptop which seemed to illuminate the hole like a hundred watt light bulb. He moused over the screen and clicked on the ‘extend’ button. The TRAP gun which had been laying slightly below ground level now automatically pivoted its four horizontal supports to vertical which brought the gun to about one foot above ground. Using the mini joystick he traversed the gun from side to side viewing the oncoming communists. Hundreds of heat signatures from human bodies dotted his screen. They were advancing on his hill spread out and ready for battle. So much for surprise. Six communist tanks roared around a bend in the road and came into view. Four of the rear tanks were firing machine guns and their main guns randomly into Elvis’ hill. The artillery rained even harder now. He could hear the snipers in his squad starting to hammer furiously at targets. An American made Javelinlxiii missile streaked straight down the road to hit the lead T-62 tank squarely on forward part of the turretlxiv. Elvis thought for a second that it had no impact. It hit on the tank’s most armored spot. However, in a second or two the tank ground to a halt and stood motionless on the road. Another javelin hit the last tank in line with more spectacular results. The top two hatches blew open immediately by a series of secondary explosions as the ammunition carried inside the tank ignited. The communists never did value the lives of their tankers much and so did not build the kind of protections in the Warsaw Pact tanks that were inherent in western tanks, like an onboard fire suppression or storing the tank’s ammunition in a blast proof chamber in the back of the turret with armored panels that blow outward to release any exploding ammunition into the sky and a blast proof automatic door to protect the crew from that exploding ammo. The T62 gunner and loader, on the other hand, actually carried a tank shell between their legs!