The T34s were relics of World War II where they were the best in the world and the mainstay of the Red Army. Newer tanks were better, but the T34/85s were still damn good tanks, especially against what he could throw at them. And what were his orders? Try and delay them. Yeah. Wonderful. But he would do as he was told. Perhaps a few shots at them would cause them to think twice and turn back. Yeah, and he was a brain surgeon. Maybe they could throw rocks at the Cuban tanks.
For a crazy moment, Andrew considered asking for volunteers to run and throw grenades at their treads, or try to make some Molotov cocktails, but he decided he wasn't in the business of asking his men to commit suicide. Instead, he made sure all his men were as safe as they could be inside the bunker.
"Sergeant Cullen. We will let them get close, open fire and try to hit those trucks, not the tanks. It would be a waste. The road turns and we might have an angle shot with the.50. We will not use rifles. They would be useless and we will save our ammunition."
He'd already taken inventory and each man had a grand total of six clips for his rifle, while the.50 had only a couple of hundred rounds. They could use it all up in a couple of minutes if they weren't careful. But then, what was the point of saving it?
"I don't think we can stop them," Ross added, stating the obvious, "but we have to at least give it a try. Then we will go to our fallback position and see what else we can do."
Light flickered from the lead tank and, an instant later, machine gun shells splattered against the concrete wall of the bunker. Some made it into the firing slits and one man screamed, hopefully just in fear. The tank's 85mm cannon opened fire. The shell slammed into the ground just in front of the bunker. The concussion staggered Andrew, throwing him across the bunker.
Andrew lurched to his feet. He ordered the machine gun to fire and watched as tracers reached out for a handful of trucks that were visible because of the turning road. He grunted in satisfaction as one of the trucks seemed to stagger and stop. The gunner, Hollis, skillfully guided his weapon and the bullets chewed into the cloth covered back part where Cuban soldiers should have been sitting. Men were tumbling and jumping out of the two trucks behind the stalled one, which had begun to burn. The Hollis' gun raked the men on the ground and the two remaining trucks.
A second shell slammed into the bunker. The tank was firing at almost point blank range. The inadequate roof collapsed and Andrew could see unwelcome daylight. They'd been opened up like a can of sardines. Men were down, killed and wounded.
"Out of here!" Andrew yelled, and Sergeant Cullen joined in. They grabbed the wounded and spilled out into the area behind the tents. "Down to fallback," Andrew ordered. He would be the last man out. He looked about and saw that anyone left inside was dead. He ran.
For a few precious moments, the ruined bunker was between them and the advancing tanks, but then they were exposed. Machine gun bullets flayed the air and Andrew ran as hard as he could. Bullets chewed up the ground by his feet and he threw himself onto the ground and began to crawl furiously.
Finally, he made it to the dubious safety of the gully. Others tumbled in with him. Cullen was one of them. Andrew caught his breath and counted noses. Seven including himself. That's it? He looked over the edge of the gully and back to the bunker. A number of crumpled forms lay on the ground.
He counted again. Still seven. He had started with twenty-one men, counting himself, and now he had seven.
Worse, the Cuban column was grinding past the bunker and the fallback position. The tank that had destroyed their bunker opened fire with its main gun and chewed up both the remains of the bunker and the men lying dead or wounded on the ground.
"You want us to shoot up another truck?" Cullen asked.
Andrew thought quickly. If they did that, they'd come under attack from either a tank or a personnel carrier and they had damned little to fight back with. Still, he didn't feel like giving up just yet.
"Everybody. Get ready to fire one full clip at the last truck in the column. Then scoot like hell for the hill behind us, and don't even think of wasting time reloading. When we've done that we'll try and make it back to the base."
He paused and gave the signal. It took only a few seconds for the seven of them to fire off eight rounds and the people in the truck gave no indication they'd even noticed. Maybe it didn't carry people, only supplies.
Andrew wanted to cry but he was too angry. He'd lost all those men and they hadn't done a damn thing to slow down the Cuban advance.
John F. Kennedy had dressed hurriedly. He was unshaven and unkempt. And angry. He glared at the young Air Force captain who stood before the table with all the phones. He shook his head. It wasn't this poor guy's fault.
"You drew the short straw, didn't you, captain?"
"Sir?"
"Duty in the White House on Christmas." He looked at the man's name tag. Dudley. He wondered if his buddies called him Dudley the Dud. Right now he felt like Kennedy the Dud. He wondered if this was how history would remember him for being in charge during what appeared to be yet another monumental debacle and disgrace for the U.S. At least much of the blame for the Bay of Pigs had fallen on his predecessor, Eisenhower. In history he'd read of an Old Saxon king called Ethelred the Unready. Would that be his legacy? Kennedy the Unready? Or maybe John the Easily Fooled? Damn it to hell.
"So what can you tell me, Captain Dudley?"
"Sir, it appears that the base at Guantanamo Bay is under attack by large elements of both Cuban air and ground forces."
"Appears? Dudley, are they being attacked or not?"
Dudley flinched. He'd been hanging around politicians too long and had almost forgotten how to give a straight answer. "They are, sir. Reports are scattered and confused, but the base is definitely under attack and it does appear that both air fields at Gitmo have been bombed and shelled and put out of commission, and that Cuban armor is moving to overwhelm the base. Attacks are moving quickly and coming from several directions."
So the report from the CIA was true after all, Kennedy thought, sickened by that fact. And I will be blamed for this and rightfully so. "Are we responding, or are the generals all waiting for my authority to do something."
Now Dudley was a little more assured. "The men at the base are defending it as best they can, and there are Air Force and Navy planes headed to Cuba. Unfortunately, it will not be a coordinated response, but they will shoot down whatever the Cubans have up there."
"Did the base itself have any planes up?"
"Don't know, sir."
"Two," said a voice from one of the phones. It was Admiral Anderson. "One was shot down and the other has ditched at sea after running out of fuel. Before he ditched, the pilot claimed the two of them had shot down three Cuban MiG 17s."
"Was the pilot rescued?" Kennedy asked.
"A Coast Guard cutter is closing in on him now. As to the other pilot, the one who crashed, he's presumed dead."
Along with a lot of others who are presumed dead, Kennedy thought. He couldn't allow himself to be preoccupied by one or two men. He had to focus on the grand scheme of things.
Like how to inform the American public that they were at war.
However, that was already somewhat out of his hands. CIA Director McCone came on line and informed the president that Castro was already on the radio bragging about the attack and the imminent fall of the base that he said was a cancer on Cuban soil.
McCone continued. "Sir, he's saying he attacked with three full divisions and we had no idea it was coming. The obvious implication is that we were stupid."
And he may be right, Kennedy thought. American radio and television news broadcasts had begun to broadcast the reports.
Kennedy shook his head. "Then the base has fallen?"
"No," said Anderson, "or at least not yet. There are several reports that the Cubans have penetrated to the Bay itself, and that's only about five miles from the boundaries of the base. We're looking at a very small piece of real estate, sir, and it won
't take long before it is overrun."
There's just a still hope, Kennedy thought. Maybe it can be reinforced and protected. This was quashed almost immediately by General LeMay who sounded both sleepy and angry.
"In an hour I'll have fifty planes over Gitmo and we'll blow their MiG asses right out of the sky. But by that time, the Cuban soldiers will be so mixed in among the Americans on the base that we won't be able to distinguish enemy targets from friendlies. Hell, sir, that’s likely happening already."
The president checked his notes for the names of the commanders at Guantanamo and turned to Dudley. "Where are Colonel Killen and Admiral O'Donnell and what are they saying?"
Dudley shrugged. "We haven't heard a thing from them, sir. They may be killed or captured."
"Then who the devil are we talking to?"
General Shoup answered. The fury in his voice was barely controlled. His men were dying. "A Major Sam Hartford, USMC, is in charge of the backup command post. The primary command post is not responding. Everybody's taking a lot of artillery along with the bombing and the main command center may have been hit." Which would, of course, explain why Killen and O'Donnell weren't talking, Kennedy realized.
JFK was pleased that the executive committee was getting together so quickly, considering the circumstances and if only by telephone. He needed good advice and he needed it now. He wondered if anyone was snooping in on them and decided that, again, he didn't care.
"Can this Major Hartford’s radio be patched into here?" Kennedy asked, and was assured that it could be done. "Then make it happen. And then let's get everybody here as quickly as you can. I don't like all this talking on the phone crap. I want to be able to see people."
JFK had another thought. Castro might be addressing the Cuban people and the world, but he would have to speak to the American people and explain to them just what had happened and just what the devil he was going to do about it.
Of course, he would have to figure out what to do before he said anything. He didn't want to start World War III on Christmas Day, 1962, anymore than he had wanted to just about two months prior. Then, he and the Soviets had managed to back away from the flames. Could they do it again? They would have to. But what was Russia's role in this current mess and what the hell was Khrushchev's involvement in this new crisis? Damn it, the man had to have known what was going on. What the hell did he want?
He would try to stop it, just like before, but, back then, people weren't fighting and dying like they were now. Oh, Jesus. What had happened to a quiet Christmas with Jackie and the kids? He'd been looking forward to playing with the children. He managed a small smile and admitted that he'd been looking forward to playing with their mother as well.
Ross had his few remaining men spread out as they approached the ruins of the bunker and the equally ruined men who lay, burned and shredded, on the ground and inside.
Andrew blanched. He had seen death before but it had been quiet, orderly and dignified death. It had always been death in a casket and an embalmed corpse that everyone insisted that looked like he or she was sleeping. He always thought that was stupid; nobody ever slept in a casket. They were dead. And nobody ever dressed up in a suit or a good dress to take a nap in a casket, either.
This kind of death was new to Andrew and he could tell it was new to his pitifully small command. Even Cullen looked disconcerted. He caught Andrew's eye and shook his head. One of the other Marines started to vomit and a couple of others followed. Andrew felt his stomach churning at the sight of body fragments and raw meat that was already turning black and attracting swarms of flies. Hands and heads, legs and torsos were scattered about what was supposed to have been his home for a quiet weekend on duty.
If this is war, Andrew thought, you can keep it. Let me get the hell out of this and into law school. But in order to get into law school he had to first get out of this mess. He ordered two of his men to watch each way down the road. The Cuban column was long gone, but who knew what might come next. Probably trucks with supplies and reinforcements for the Cubans fighting for control of the base. They could hear the battle that was still raging a couple of miles behind them.
"What are we doing, lieutenant?" asked Cullen.
"Checking for survivors, even though that's probably a lost cause. Then we're going to search for supplies and extra ammo and then we're going to bury the dead."
Cullen shook his head. "The Cubans will come back and realize that we survived. It's ugly, sir, but why not leave the men where they are?"
Andrew bristled. "Because they are Marines, that's why, and we take care of our people, dead or alive. Besides, they might think we buried them and then skedaddled back to the base. Or they might think some of their people did it. Or they might think we escaped and aren't important enough to worry about. Regardless, we're burying them."
Cullen nodded. "Then it's a good plan."
"Gunny, were you testing me?"
Cullen grinned and shrugged. "If I was, you passed."
Incredibly, they found two men alive outside the bunker. One, Lance Corporal Stillman, was badly wounded and unconscious, while the second, Pfc. Levin, was found under debris that had fallen from the bunker. He only had a broken arm and collarbone. Only, Andrew thought ruefully.
A germ a plan was forming in Andrew's mind and he knew it didn't involve caring for wounded, especially when he didn't have the facilities or the skill to do anything. Maybe they could take care of treating Levin, but Stillman had taken shrapnel to the skull and at least one bullet to the chest. The man needed a hospital and soon.
Ross spoke quietly with Levin who paled and then reluctantly agreed. They carried Stillman to the side of the road and rigged a shelter for him and Levin. Andrew gave Levin a pole with part of a reasonably white sheet tied to it. He wished him luck and told Levin they'd be watching and would protect the two of them as best they could if his idea turned bad.
"Trucks are coming from outside the base, from Cuba, sir."
They were coming down the same route as the tanks. He ordered his men back and out of sight and told them not to fire unless he gave the order.
Andrew realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale. He smiled grimly. "Ambulances," he announced unnecessarily. The Red Cross was clearly visible on each of the half dozen vehicles.
As they approached the two wounded Marines, Levin stood and waved the white flag. The trucks stopped. After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, men carrying stretchers got out of the last truck and approached the two wounded Marines. They placed a motionless Stillman on one and aided Levin on to the other. Once loaded, they continued on their way.
Cullen moved beside Andrew. "Good to know the Cubans aren't savages, lieutenant. Chinese Communists in Korea wouldn't have done that. I heard they bayoneted American wounded."
"I didn't think the Cubans were savages, gunny. Every Cuban I ever met was a good person. Still, it was good to see it confirmed."
The dead were still waiting to be buried. They performed that unpleasant task with grim haste. They tried to make sure that each body they buried had one head, two legs and two arms, and largely succeeded. Hopefully, they got the right parts to the right body. Wooden stakes pounded in the ground identified the site as a graveyard.
It was gruesome work. Still, they managed to bury each Marine with as much dignity as they could, and with one of his two dog tags firmly planted in each body's teeth or as close as possible to where the jaw might have been. Everyone hoped they got the right tag on the right body. Andrew thought it really didn't matter. Dead was dead. Sergeant Cullen kept the other set of tags. Hopefully they could be used to inform next of kin what had happened to their loved one.
Along with himself and Cullen, Ross had only a handful of men and he knew them only by their name tags. They were Hollis and Ward, the two men who'd manned the outpost, along with Williams, Anders, and Groth. Ward was the only black man, still a rarity in the Corps.
Now they would h
ave to make plans if they were to survive. They were uncomfortably aware that the sound of firing was receding and slackening in the distance, which meant that there was a lot of distance and Cubans between themselves and the American lines. That is, if there were any American lines.
Cathy and Alice huddled and hugged each other tightly as explosions ripped through what had once been their quiet neighborhood. They were confused and frightened. They didn't know what to do. The fighting was now all around them and they had missed any opportunity to make it to the Bay and any ships that might take them to safety.
Sometimes they could hear voices from the outside. Terrifyingly, they seemed to be speaking Spanish.
The two women had dressed in rugged clothes suited for hiking or camping, acknowledging that dressing for style was useless in time of war. Alice had imitated Cathy by preparing an overnight bag stuffed with what each thought were necessities. They accepted that they had no idea just what might be a necessity in the hours and days ahead.
A shell landed nearby and cracked plaster, showering them with dust. A picture fell from a wall and the glass shattered. "I can't handle this," Alice said. "You can stay if you want, but I am getting out of here."
Alice grabbed her bag and ran out the back door. Cathy was numb with indecision. Should she follow Alice out into the battle that sounded increasingly like an inferno, or should she stay where she was and wait for the fighting to subside? Or wait where she was for someone to rescue her? She didn't know, she simply didn't know. Surely some American marines would come by and rescue her.
She sat on the couch and hugged her knees to her chest and tried not to give in to the panic that was clutching at her. What was happening to her world? Just yesterday she had a good job as a teacher helping young men who wanted to be helped, and yesterday was the beginning of the Christmas holiday, a time of peace and brotherhood. Today, Christmas Day, there was the strong possibility that she would die violently. She numbly hoped that her family would somehow find out what happened to her.
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