by Lee Jackson
Atcho was amazed. Juan’s decisions dispersed command and control assets all over the island on the basis of “ … believing that … not expecting that … ”
Why weren’t we told? he asked himself incredulously. He shook his head sadly as the most evident answer impressed itself on his mind: The U.S. didn’t trust us!
“We have to go, Atcho. You will be needed in Oriente.” Miguel seemed not to comprehend Atcho’s reticence. “In a few days, Cuba will be free. The Russian will be forced to release your daughter.”
He nodded somberly. “All right,” he said simply. “Let’s go.”
They gathered their companions, and headed toward Oriente.
PART III
7
The reported landings had occurred at Baracoa, a small village near the northern tip of the southeastern coast of the island. A large flotilla of ships was spotted off the coast of the same town. Further inland, at a village called Jamaico, the loose confederation of guerrilla organizations had designated headquarters.
Atcho and his small contingent hiked for miles to avoid major intersections where checkpoints were most likely. Then, disassembling their weapons and carrying them with loose clothing in bags slung over their shoulders, they split up and hitched rides with members of Cuba’s general population.
“Find out how near we are to having an uprising,” Atcho instructed his men. “Even with the United States helping, unless the people themselves overthrow Castro, we have little chance.”
While riding with villagers, Atcho learned to his dismay that his sense of reality seemed to be proving correct. “Have you heard about the U.S. invasion?” he would ask.
“Yes!” came the typical enthusiastic response. “And our leader, Fidel, will throw the imperial Yankees out!”
A day later, Atcho arrived, regrouped with his men in Jamaico and contacted the underground. To his dismay, he learned that two landings had been attempted at Baracoa, but for inexplicable reasons, they were soon abandoned. Meanwhile, a battle raged at the Bay of Pigs, more than halfway up the island on the southern coast, where a brigade of Cuban exiles had seized a beachhead. Castro’s forces were moving en masse to counterattack in Zapata Swamp, but were bogged down by narrow roads just south of Jaguey Grande. The action at Pinar del Rio had been a feint.
Atcho was consumed with anger as he listened to the news. After some thought, he instructed Miguel and the others, “Follow as best you can. If we are going to get there in time to help, we need to move quickly, which means separately.” Then, grimly, he set out alone, bound for Cienfuegos, a large town a healthy distance from the place where Castro’s forces were massing, and east of Bahia de Cochinos, the Bay of Pigs.
8
Two days later, Atcho entered Cienfuegos. Townspeople were nervous about the battle raging to their northwest, but had only spotty information about its progress. The most useful knowledge he picked up was that the invasion force seemed firmly entrenched in the little town of Playa Giron, approximately seventy miles away.
At dusk, Atcho set out for Playa Giron in a “borrowed” pick-up truck and drove northeast as fast as he dared. Traffic faded as he neared the battle zone. He hoped to get close enough to continue on foot before reaching a checkpoint.
Cresting a small rise, he stopped. Far out on the horizon, tracers streaked the sky. Muffled explosions broke the incessant drone of insects in the surrounding swamps. At an intersection, a squad of soldiers watched the tracers from a barricade. Preoccupied with the sights and sounds of distant battle, the guards did not see Atcho, and he was far enough away that they did not hear him.
Cautiously, he backed the truck down the rise, and hid it in the thick foliage. Then he began a stealthy approach to the intersection. To his advantage, night was settling. He lay still, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to encroaching darkness and his other senses to acclimate to the screech and stench of the surrounding swamps. Then he made his way to the crest of the hill, where he observed the soldiers clustered at the barrier in the middle of the road.
Fools! Whoever is in charge should be shot for negligence. Thankful that there was no moon, and realizing that the timing of the invasion had probably been planned with that factor in mind, he crept through darkness. Sometimes in a low crouch, sometimes creeping flat on his stomach, he moved in the shadows behind the shrubbery, drawing ever closer. Adrenaline coursed through him as his heart pounded.
The sound of a revving engine halted him. Fifty feet away, the main gun of a tank protruded from a hollow place near the intersection. Circling widely, he approached the rear. He crept up behind one lone guard standing by the tank. Presumably, whoever had started the engine was still inside. Step by careful step, he crept nearer, mindful that one stumble might alert the sentry.
The guard shifted his feet. Atcho froze. A sound came from the driver’s hatch. The driver was preparing to exit! If he cut the engine, he would eliminate the noise that was Atcho’s only protection.
Atcho sprang. Cupping his hand over the guard’s mouth, he pulled the man down and broke his neck. Just then, the engine fell silent. Atcho ducked swiftly behind the tank, mounted it, and crept forward, using the turret for cover. Keeping one eye on the other soldiers, he watched the driver’s hatch. It opened, and an arm appeared in the soft light of the tank’s interior. Atcho waited until the arm rested on the hull, then slammed his foot down on the heavy steel hatch. An anguished cry broke the night, accompanied by a metallic clang.
Startled soldiers wheeled, then scattered, some in the direction of the tank, others seeking cover by the side of the road. They were too late. Atcho whirled and jumped to the cupola, hoping the machine gun was loaded. It was, and he opened fire.
One soldier had run directly at the tank. A burst of bullets caught him in the chest mid-leap and he fell to the ground. Atcho swung the machine gun in a horizontal arc, firing in short bursts. Two soldiers who had made it to the road fell on their faces, propelled by the force of hot lead. Two more ran for cover into the swamps, felt stinging impacts, and then watched their own blood oozing into the dank earth.
In moments, all was still. Cautiously, he opened the commander’s cupola, and found it empty. Then he checked the driver’s compartment. The unfortunate man was alive, but barely conscious and bleeding badly. Atcho dragged him out and propped him by the side of the road where he might be found and rescued.
Returning to the tank, he crawled inside. It was an American-made M41 Sherman. He had driven earlier models during summer training at Ft. Knox at the end of his freshman year at West Point, but that had been a World War II M4 model. He had seen pictures of the M41, which had been developed to counter the Soviet T34-85, but Atcho had not been aware that any had been delivered to Cuba. How had the Cuban army acquired one? Fortunately, the driving mechanisms were not that much different, and after a minute to study controls, he started the engine and barreled over the barricade toward Playa Giron. The war machine groaned over a small rise then settled into the higher than normal cruising speed that Atcho set as he headed toward the battle.
In the glow of the running lights, he saw a road leading to the right through the swamp. Atcho cut the engine and listened. Explosions and small-arms fire sounded from that general direction. He started the engine again, turned onto the road, and forged ahead. He rounded a bend and realized he had entered a fierce battle from the south flank. Guns blazed from both sides of the swamp and bullets pinged off the tank.
Atcho continued his headlong flight through the deadly gauntlet until he came upon a wide clearing. Knowing that the exile forces were to his left, he turned sharply in that direction. Gunfire from Atcho’s front increased in intensity, concentrated on the tank. Atcho continued his desperate drive until he was well past the line of men spread out on either side. For fear of hitting their own soldiers, the exiles stopped firing in his direction.
Taking advantage of the lull, Atcho abruptly cut the engine. He threw the hatch open, waved his hands vigorously and shout
ed, “Don’t shoot! I’m a patriot!”
Cautious men in dark battle-dress and camouflaged faces surrounded him. “Don’t shoot!” Atcho yelled again. “I am a patriot! My name is Atcho! There’s no one in the tank but me!” From behind, he heard men climbing onto the tank. He stood very still, and waited.
“You’re Atcho?” The voice was low and full of surprise and respect. “Come!” the voice commanded. While Atcho clambered down, the man gave instructions to those waiting below. When Atcho reached the ground, the man turned to him. “Thanks for getting our tank back,” he said. “It was captured a day ago. We’ll make good use of this warhorse. Is there ammunition for the main gun?”
“I didn’t have time to check.”
The man nudged Atcho’s arm and led him into the swamp away from the fighting. “My name is Rafael. We received word that you were on your way from Oriente, but had no idea how or when you would arrive.” He paused, and looked back toward the tank. “You’ve definitely lived up to your reputation.”
“How’s the battle going?”
“Not good. We’re part of the main body of 2506 Brigade. We received none of the air support we were promised. The U.S. Navy sits just off the horizon doing nothing, and our supply ship was sunk. This is the fourth day of battle and the invasion is probably over. Most of the others are doing their best to execute an orderly retreat.” Rafael paused gloomily. “We just learned news of the battle, and it hasn’t yet had time to spread. Only here at the Bay of Pigs is the fighting still fierce. Apparently, a major Cuban exile commander has already taken a large contingent of soldiers to try to escape out to sea in small boats.”
“Was the underground any help?”
“Hell no! They were disorganized. Contact was sparse, and assets deployed in the wrong places. You’d think they either weren’t expecting the invasion, or didn’t really support it.”
“I assure you, they did their best,” Atcho said with an edge of bitterness. “Have you heard from Juan Ortiz? He’s one of the resistance leaders in this area.”
“I’ve heard of him and that he’s a helluva fighter. He’s the main guy that’s had any of the success down here.”
“I’ve got to get in touch with him. How do I do that?”
“We were instructed to bring you to headquarters if and when we found you. You can contact Juan there.”
They walked far to the rear of the battle area, where a Jeep waited. Atcho shook Rafael’s hand. “I’m glad we met, friend,” he said. “I hope we meet again under happier circumstances.”
“Any circumstances would be better. I hope so, too.” Atcho settled in beside the driver, an old man in his sixties. “Did you come in with the landing force?” he asked incredulously.
“Sí.” The man displayed a toothless grin. “I would do anything to liberate my country.” He glanced over at Atcho and grinned again. “You think because I’m old I can’t fight?”
Atcho looked at him through very tired eyes. He reached over and grasped the old man’s shoulder. “No, Viejo,” he said through a wan smile, “I would never think such a thing.”
As they drove on silently, the sounds of battle receded. Soon they left the swamp and turned parallel to the ocean a few hundred yards away. The Jeep gained speed, heading for low buildings silhouetted against the sand. Atcho saw that several military vehicles surrounded an antenna-encrusted bungalow.
When they halted by the buildings, he stepped wearily from the Jeep. Waves murmured softly and broke on the beach. Atcho strained to see the village of Playa Giron. All was quiet. Not even a dog barked. “Toothless” motioned Atcho to follow. They circled to the front door.
Light was dim inside the one-room building. At the far end was an operations area set up with maps, radios, and field desks. Several men eyed Atcho silently. These guys aren’t too friendly, he thought tiredly, but was glad there was no need to carry on conversation.
Then he heard a click behind his head. Too late, his exhausted senses sounded an alarm.
“Welcome, Camarada,” a steely voice said. “You are now a prisoner of Fidel Castro and the people of Cuba!” Rooted to the floor, Atcho felt the cold nose of a pistol just behind his right ear. “You are very intelligent to stay so still, Camarada. You too, old man. Now, both of you put your hands against the wall and spread your legs.”
Through exhaustion, Atcho’s stomach knotted, he felt his shoulders droop, and he complied without saying a word. Beside him, Toothless did the same. Two Cuban Army soldiers searched them. They removed the pistol Atcho kept in his belt, and the knife strapped to his calf. When the search was completed, the soldiers ordered them to move over with the group Atcho had seen on entering. The prisoners greeted Toothless warmly, and regarded Atcho with dull curiosity.
Atcho said nothing, settled on the floor in the corner and leaned against the wall, head in his hands. He could not believe the turn of events. Anger at himself gripped him. How could I have been so stupid to have let my guard down and walk right into the headquarters that Castro wanted to capture? Then he thought of his daughter. “Ah, Isabelita,” he breathed quietly. “Will I ever see you again?”
There were two types of captives to deal with. First were uniformed members of the exile force. The others were underground fighters, such as Atcho. He was sure that treatment of those who fell in this latter category would be worst. There would be public trials, of that he was sure. Castro had too much flair to miss an opportunity to show the world his justice. Beatings and torture would be private events, only rumored, and officially denied. Executions would be many, accomplished both as official sentence and the result of brutal retaliation.
He watched for an opportunity to escape, but besides his own exhaustion, the guards stayed close. And if I do escape, how do I find Isabel – now with no organization? He lowered his head into his hands once more, and then leaned it back against the wall Escape first, then find Isabel. But to do either, I can’t let them know who I am.
Just then, Toothless walked over and sat down next to him. “You are Atcho, aren’t you?” he whispered.
Atcho placed his arm around the old man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you are mistaken,” he replied softly. “I am Manuel. But I do know about Atcho. I saw him killed on the battlefield tonight.”
9
Toothless sat next to Atcho throughout that first night of captivity. The old man never indicated whether he believed the ruse about Atcho’s death. He seemed to accept “Manuel,” but also sensed that Atcho’s pain went well beyond the loss of battle.
Though he did little to encourage Toothless’ friendship, Atcho welcomed the caring presence of the man. Thin and wizened, his empty mouth was often smiling. Because they were forbidden to talk that night and while being transported the next day, Atcho learned little of him beyond what had been disclosed on their ride to headquarters. He is brave. He represents 2506 Brigade very well.
The Cuban army trucked the captives to a holding area north of the swamp. From there they transported them to Havana. The captives’ spirits were low. No one cared to talk.
On the second day, Toothless approached Atcho. “Manuel,” he said quietly. “I have news I think you should hear.” Atcho returned the old man’s worried scrutiny with vague interest. “There was a leader of the resistance,” Toothless went on. “His name was Juan Ortiz.”
Atcho suddenly became alert, but he showed no outward change of expression. “Go on,” he said simply.
“I heard that he was killed.”
The old man continued speaking, but Atcho heard him as though in a fog. Images passed through his mind: the fire, the square in Havana, and their days together in Jaguey Grande. Though outwardly impassive, Atcho began to grieve. His body felt heavy and tired. He wanted only to find a corner in a dark place and lie down. “How did he die?”
Toothless looked at him compassionately. “I don’t know much. I heard he was closely a close friend of Atcho’s. When Juan was captured, they questioned him about
Atcho. He wouldn’t talk, so they tortured him. When he still wouldn’t, they shot him.” The old man shook his head sadly. “The men who saw his murder say he was very brave.”
Tears burned in Atcho’s eyes, but he held them back. His throat constricted, but he refused to allow even a gasp to escape.
He turned to Toothless. “Thank you, Viejo.”
The next day in Havana, 2506 Brigade members were segregated from guerrillas. Atcho’s concern about discovery of his alias, Manuel Lezcano, dissipated. He had told authorities that he was from the province of Oriente. Records were poor in Cuba.
His trial was public. He stood in a line with other prisoners to have his picture taken. Then they were herded into a crowded courtroom with Fidelistas screaming “Paredor! Paredor! Firing squad! Firing squad!” On the other side of the courtroom were prisoners’ family members. Their misery, profound in their expressions, turned into abject grief when, one hour after entering the courtroom, sentences had been meted out and appeals exhausted. On leaving the courtroom, Atcho faced thirty years in prison, and was on his way to incarceration in the most notorious prison in Cuba, the Isle of Pines.
PART IV
10
May 1961
Atcho felt like a walking cadaver when he staggered from the bus with his fellow prisoners on arrival at the El Presidio Modelo, the Model Prison on the Isle of Pines. He knew he must look dead. A boat had brought them from the main island of Cuba early that morning, and then the bus had picked them up at the quay in Nueva Girona and taken them to the prison. Five massive towers rose into sight. Four of them were seven stories high each, and two hundred feet in diameter. The one at the center was only three stories high, but had a much larger diameter. This was the mess hall. On first seeing them, Atcho felt a cold chill. He turned to one of his companions.
