Bunting winced. He wanted to lie, but she deserved the truth. "I believe that would be me."
"Good God, why?"
He stood and began to pace, his anger and frustration growing. "Because I honestly thought it would help the boys at Guantanamo. We had set up Roman Force during the first crisis and we wound up not needing it because the marines got there with numbers and firepower to defend the base before the situation could get hot.
"When we got last minute word that an attack on Gitmo might be imminent, I told Ted to get Roman Force ready again and wait my orders. When I mentioned it to President Kennedy, he gave me a verbal go-ahead, which he is now managing to forget. Fortunately for me, he and I were not alone in the room, so, if you care, I am not being left hanging out to dry."
Midge shook her head angrily. "Sorry, but I really don't care right now. I am only concerned about Ted."
"Midge, we had no idea the Cubans would move so quickly or in such force against us. They overwhelmed the base before the relief force could get there. When I realized what was happening, I called off the effort. I got most of the planes turned around but, obviously, not all of them."
There was pain on his face and Midge felt a twinge of sympathy. It went away.
"General, are you telling me that you really thought a few hundred men would stop the Cuban Army?"
"No. We thought it would send a message to Fidel that we were serious."
She laughed bitterly. "Didn't any of you fools in the Pentagon consider that a massive assault on an American base indicated that Fidel was already serious? Don't bother to answer."
She stood and straightened her skirt. "I'll give you a few more days to give me some firm information, one way or the other. After that, all gloves are off. I have friends at various newspapers and I'm sure they'd love to write articles comparing Roman Force's futile efforts to the Charge of the Light Brigade. You can be General Raglan. Do you remember who he was?"
Bunting's face turned red. "I believe he was the flaming asshole who ordered the charge." And, he thought, I think it's time for me to retire as well.
Cathy Malone stretched her arms. "I would like a shower. A nice long hot shower. Maybe half an hour, maybe longer, and with an unlimited supply of shampoo and scented soap."
They had all tried to clean up in ponds and streams but those were muddy and contained numerous insects that liked to nibble on human flesh. It was generally accepted that ponds and streams would not really clean anyone. It was not quite the same with rain. Yes rainfall was clean, but it was cold and one other thing Andrew's crew lacked was towels and enough changes of clothing. Body odor had become body stench for all. At least the problem was universal and they were getting used to it.
Cathy sighed and continued. "Then I would like my nails done and that includes my toes. I've never had anybody do my toes."
"Me either," Andrew said. "The Corps kinda frowns on it. I think it clashes with the dress uniform. By the way, Happy New Year."
She blinked in surprise. "It's today?"
"Actually, it was a couple of days ago. Remember how time flies when you're having fun?"
"Funny, but I don't remember having all that much fun, but I'm sorry I missed it just the same. In that case, I also wish I'd been at a party with champagne and good food and dancing the night away in my sexy little black dress. And with some people I really like. Maybe next year."
"Would I be invited?"
Cathy squeezed his arm. "Absolutely."
"Would anybody else be there?"
She laughed. "Maybe not. But I would have to do something with the other guys. After all, we've already been through a lot together. Did you hear what Hollis is saying?"
"No, and I'm afraid to ask."
"Well, he's comparing us to the cast of a bad war movie in which every ethnic group is represented. Then he realizes there's no Italian or Pole, and that the only Jew, Levin, was surrendered to the Cubans. He's happy we have Ward, who's black. Ward said he has an aunt who's Italian and that confused Hollis because that means there's an inter-racial marriage involved. He was happy when I told him my mother is half Polish."
"I am absolutely thrilled for Hollis and the fact that he has so much time on his hands. What else is he saying?"
"He says I am the movie's damsel in distress. I always wanted to be a lovely damsel, although distress is turning out to be very unappealing. So he changed it to us being Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I like being Snow White. I always liked that movie even though it scared me what with the wicked witch and the trees in the forest grabbing at Snow White. As a little girl I wanted to be a princess. Almost as good as being a damsel, don't you think?"
"Dear God. And all of this is going on behind my back?"
She laughed. "Command is so lonely, isn't it?"
"Wait, if you're Snow White, which of the damned dwarfs am I?"
She looked at him in mock surprise. "Why Grumpy, of course."
Andrew Ross laughed like he hadn't in a long time. Here they were, sleeping and living in the open, wearing clothing and uniforms that were becoming more filthy and ragged each day, and becoming personally filthier each day, and all the while trying to survive in a hostile nation, and yet his men had time to think of nonsense like that.
"Yeah," he said, "invite the guys to the party and I'll make sure they leave early. I just hope it happens soon. I just wish we could do more to help ourselves get out of here. I wish we'd been able to find where they're hiding those tanks so we'd be useful and get them blasted before the invasion."
Ward strolled by. "Lieutenant, I have a really serious question for you?"
"Okay."
"We are so in the dark here about the world outside. Do you have any idea who won the Rose Bowl? I've got ten bucks on it and I gave fourteen points to Wisconsin."
Ross made a mental note to let the men listen to scores, rather than just the news. It was bad enough missing their favorite television shows, like Ed Sullivan or Lucille Ball, even though she'd divorced from Desi Arnaz. "Then you're out ten, Ward. It was Southern Cal 42 and Wisconsin 37."
Ward shook his head in mock sadness. "I really didn't think people from cheese country could play USC that close. Damn."
The attempt to follow the camouflaged tank had failed when Cullen had come across a series of patrols and checkpoints that stymied him. Obviously the tanks were hidden somewhere behind them, but precisely where they couldn't tell anybody in the States. Other vehicles, armored and wheeled, had gone down the road similarly hidden and equally untraceable. Somewhere there was a tank park that deserved to be bombed and they couldn't say exactly where.
They'd also found dummy tanks made of wood and canvas in open fields. Obviously, they were there to be bombed and maybe to ambush American planes. They'd relayed that info back home and hoped somebody was paying attention. Regardless, it was nice to be able to transmit even vague information now that they had the radio and had actually figured out how to use the codes.
The bad news was that the Cubans now knew they existed and would be looking for them. They had been careful and made certain they changed location every day and now they would have to be even more alert. They'd made a habit of digging two man fox holes so they would be less visible during the day. In case of attack, they would serve as defensive points.
It would be relatively easy to move away from the Gitmo area, but how would they be able to do their part to help the US retake it? Granted, whatever they did would certainly be small, but there was the unspoken determination to do something, anything.
Sergeant Cullen came back to their camp from a little scouting which had resulted in him finding some fresh fruit. He saw the lieutenant sitting with Cathy and stifled a smile. Good luck, he thought. And they were going to need it. He thought Cathy was cute enough but he preferred his women a little more voluptuous. Like Marilyn Monroe. Too bad she'd gone and killed herself the past summer. What a waste. Yeah, like he was ever going to meet her.
He looked
around. Okay, he thought, where is everybody? The lieutenant and Cathy were huddled by a tree and Williams and Groth were on sentry duty. He'd just checked on them so that was fine. So where were Hollis and Anders? He kicked a sleeping Ward on the sole of his foot. Ward was alert in an instant.
"Where are your buddies?"
Ward yawned. "They said they were going down the road to check out a damaged truck. They said they saw boxes that might contain food and stuff."
Cullen felt his anger rising. "Did either of those yo-yos even think to ask permission?"
"No, gunnery sergeant," Ward stammered.
"You know where that damned truck is, don't you, and stop saying gunnery sergeant."
"Yes, Gunny."
"Wonderful. Grab your weapon and follow me."
The two men walked, half trotted, through the underbrush. Cullen led and he kept an eye out for trouble. Ward told Cullen that the wreck was maybe two miles away and they thought it had been strafed by American planes. There were containers on the road and Hollis thought they might contain something useful.
"Assholes," Cullen snarled. "Did it ever occur to them that it might be an ambush, just like the dummy tanks might be? Or have you forgotten that the Cuban fucks know we're out here?"
Ward's jaw dropped, "Oh, Christ."
When they were about a half mile away from where Ward thought the truck was, they heard the distant pop-pop sounds of gunfire. When they got much closer, they were able to differentiate between the sounds of an M1 Garand and other, different, weapons, but they didn't hear the lethal chatter of AK47s.
The two marines crawled to the top of a low hill. The truck was a quarter mile away and more than a dozen Cuban soldiers were between them and the truck and were crawling towards it. The Cubans had divided into two groups. One was advancing on the truck and the other was providing covering fire. The Cubans were militia and carried what appeared to be old bolt-action rifles. Nor did they seem to be firing with any kind of accuracy. Thank God for small favors, Cullen thought. He and Ward slid over the crest and ducked behind a curve in the earth. They were behind the Cubans and he was confident they could not be seen.
"Ward, you a good shot?"
"I'm a marine, gunny."
"Don't be a smartass. Can you start picking off those Cubans?"
"Yes."
"Good. So can I. Now, start killing them from the left and I'll begin from the right."
The Cubans were about two hundred yards away, well within killing range for good shooters using their own weapons and firing from a stable, prone position.
The two marines aimed and fired, slowly, steadily, and accurately. Cubans spun and dropped. Not every shot hit but enough did. Nor did the Cubans immediately realize what was happening. They were fixated on overwhelming whoever was by the truck with numbers and gunfire. Very quickly a half dozen Cubans either lay still or writhed on the ground.
The remaining Cubans now realized their peril, wheeled, and fired on the two marines but without effect. Cullen and Ward were almost invisible.
A Cuban soldier gestured and the survivors began to break off. Ward and Cullen continued to shoot as did whoever was behind the truck and another pair of Cubans fell lifeless, including the one who'd ordered them to pull back. Always knock off the leaders, Cullen thought. When a couple of Cubans picked up wounded comrades, Cullen told Ward to hold off. The fight was over.
A few minutes later, the remaining Cubans sped off in a couple of trucks that they'd hidden off the road.
"I told you it was an ambush," Cullen said coldly. "Let's go see about Hollis and Anders."
Hollis was fine. Shaken and scratched, but otherwise okay. Anders was not so fortunate. He had a sucking gunshot wound in his chest and it was going to kill him since it had clearly ripped through a lung. But he's not going to die here, Cullen thought. He ordered Hollis and Ward to carry the wounded marine back to the camp. Even if he'd been killed, he wasn't going to lie by the truck like the dead Cubans were. There were five Cuban bodies and he lifted what weapons and supplies he thought would be useful.
Cullen did a quick check of the crates that had been so enticing to Hollis and Anders. Empty. His men had been conned, and one of them was going to die because of it. He felt like strangling both of them, or at least Hollis. He was always the leader of the two.
Of course, he wouldn't strangle anybody. Even if he really wanted to, it wasn't a good idea. They were so few and now they'd lost one of the few. He'd seen the stricken look on Hollis's face. The young man would take a long time getting over his horrible mistake. Maybe never. Hollis and Anders were buddies.
Whoever said War is Hell was absolutely right, he thought. Dammit to hell.
Cathy and the others did what they could for Anders, which was not much at all. A skilled surgical team in a first rate hospital might have been able to save him, but not a handful of people with nothing better than a rough knowledge of first aid and enough morphine to kill the pain. They pumped Anders full of morphine until he stopped moaniing.
Hollis kept sobbing how sorry he was and before he drifted off, Anders seemed to understand. In a moment of lucidity, he smiled and told Hollis that it was okay, that no one had stuck a hook in his ass and dragged him out to that truck. He had gone of his own will because he thought it was a good idea.
"Sometimes the goose lays a golden egg and sometimes she shits all over you," Anders actually managed to say before lapsing into unconsciousness. A few moments later, he died.
Ross shook his head. Anders never swore. "That was the morphine speaking. We will never tell his family those were his last words." Cathy was sobbing and he put his hand on her shoulder. He wondered if she'd ever seen violent death before this tragic Christmas and the days that had followed. Probably not. They'd all had enough since then.
"We bury him and we get the hell out of here." Ross added.
There was no disagreement. While their current hideout was well away from the site of the skirmish, the place would be crawling with Cuban soldiers looking for whoever had shot up their ambush. Andrew took Anders' dog tags and put them with the others. At least he knew Anders. It wasn't like the anonymity of the men who'd lost their lives at the bunker in what seemed an eternity ago.
He slowly realized a great truth. It was better not to know the men he would be sending into battle. It hurt too much.
Humberto Cordero was a general and it pleased him. It also pleased him that his earlier feelings of inadequacy were largely under control, although, he admitted to himself, not that far from the surface.
The prison housing the Americans was functioning as well as a prison camp full of hostile enemy soldiers could. The Americans had been docile. There'd been no mutinies, no uprisings, and, while he suspected the inmates in a series of thefts in Santiago, he couldn't prove anything. In particular, how the hell had any prisoners managed to get out of the camp and back? Nor was he going to organize a sweep of the camp, not with the Red Cross contingent encamped almost alongside the prison. The Americans would doubtless resist and there would be bloodshed. It was frustrating.
Nor did Cordero mind that the Yankees called the camp Disneyland, and had tagged him as Donald Duck. In a way, it amused him, and, if it made the prisoners happy and kept them docile, no one was harmed.
A radio was operating in the camp and that bothered Cordero a little, but there wasn't much the prisoners could do besides talk with the mainland and there was little harm in that. They'd doubtless passed on information regarding military units in the area, but he was confident the yanquis didn't know all that much.
Besides, as a general, Cordero had more important things to do than worry about the internal workings of the camp. That was why he had a staff. He was in nominal command of the five thousand man militia division that was scattered throughout and around the city of Santiago. He did not presume to give specific direction to the more senior general in actual command, not that it would have mattered. That worthy had been a union organizer until a f
ew months ago and knew as much about running an infantry division as Cordero knew about brain surgery.
Another niggling problem was with acting sergeant Carlos Gomez who sat nervously in front of him. General Ortega was in overall command of the defenses in Guantanamo and eastern Cuba and had decreed that Gomez should report directly to Cordero.
"Tell me, how many men did you lose?"
Gomez was sweating profusely. "Five dead and three wounded."
"And how did that happen, sergeant?"
"We were ambushed and nearly overwhelmed by a much larger American force. There aren't half a dozen marines out there, general, there’s at least a platoon of them. And they are heavily armed. My men and I fought hard and well. It wasn't our fault."
Of course not, Cordero thought. It never is the fault of slime like you. He'd had one of his enlisted men talk casually with the others in Gomez's command and knew the truth. They'd laid an ambush and been ambushed instead. Only it wasn't by a large number of Americans; it was generally agreed that only two or three at most had attacked them from the rear and with such devastating results while Gomez's men had at most two marines pinned down by the truck.
Cordero sighed. "Now I suppose you want more men and I suppose you want to command them?"
"Indeed, my general. Give me a hundred soldiers and make me a captain and I guaranty that we will wipe out the nest of American snakes."
Cordero wondered how Gomez would accomplish that without getting anywhere near the action. His informants had told him that Cordero hadn't been with five miles of the skirmish. Instead, he had been with a local whore. Still, something had to be done.
"Two squads," Cordero said. "That will make good your losses and give you more men by half. I think your estimates of the number of Americans might be off. In fact, I think you are a fucking liar. You will make do with what you will get."
Gomez rose and saluted, "Of course, general."
The insult rolled right off Gomez's back. He was thrilled that he was going to keep his command and his rank, however temporary. If the Americans would only hold off on their threatened invasion, he would be able to amass a goodly amount of money, jewels, and other items of opportunity that he could use when he got out of Cuba.
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