Chapter Six
Andrew gathered the small group around him in the inadequate shade of a grove of scrub trees. He hoped the pattern of limbs and leaves would hide them from at least some prying eyes. It was decision time. They had found a shallow ditch about a hundred yards away from the bunker and had carefully enlarged it for protection. They were safe for the moment.
The sounds of battle had faded and an unreal silence now prevailed. They knew it could mean only one thing. The battle for Guantanamo Bay was over and the Cubans had won. And that meant they were totally adrift and alone in an alien and hostile land.
Andrew took a deep breath and began, "Men, the way I see it, we have two choices. First, we can find a Cuban unit and surrender to them. If we do that, the odds are very good that we will be well treated. You saw what they did for Levin and Stillman and I'm pretty confident that we'd be treated just as well. Once in a prison camp, there's a reasonable expectation of ultimately being released for the simple reason that this war can't go on forever. I believe that, in a very short while, a very pissed off United States will kick Castro's ass right up between his ears."
Hollis glared at him. "But we'd be like convicts if we surrendered, wouldn't we?"
"Yes," Andrew said. "But we'd be safe."
"I didn't join the Marines to be safe," Hollis said. "If I'd wanted to be safe, I'd have joined the navy and wear a condom all the time. Besides, didn't we all swear not to surrender unless we have no other choice? Sorry, sir, but I think we still have some better options. Surrendering's without a good reason’s for pussies."
Andrew smiled inwardly, pleased by the comment. The Code of Military Conduct prohibited surrender except as a last resort and their situation was a long ways from anything resembling a last resort. He saw the others in agreement with Hollis.
"Okay, that leaves option two. We stay out here and try to get in contact with U.S. forces and also try to be useful, whatever that means. Of course it also means that we'd be considered combatants and maybe even guerillas, in which case we might be shot if we were captured."
"Life's a bitch," PFC Groth added. "If I have a vote, I say we stay out of the prison camps as long as we can. Besides, don't the Commies torture and try to brainwash people into betraying the U.S.? I don't want any part of getting my brain washed."
"Yeah," Sergeant Cullen said somberly. "At least that's what they did in Korea, but the Cubans aren't the Chinese and I really don't think they'd try anything like that. The United States is so close to Florida that they have to know that there'd be retaliation by our side. The Cubans also must realize that this'll be over fairly shortly and they wouldn't want anybody accusing them of atrocities and later hanging their asses for war crimes. I think we'd be reasonably safe if we managed to surrender without getting shot in the first place."
Andrew nodded agreement. He thought it almost inconceivable that the Cubans would behave in any way like the Chinese Communists had done in Korea, where they'd starved, beaten, tortured, and murdered prisoners of war. However unlikely, though, such brutal behavior couldn't be totally ruled out.
Andrew smiled tightly. "Then we've decided? We stay out here and keep free for God knows however long we can and try to take part in whatever is going to happen?"
All nodded or said yes.
"Look," Andrew continued, "this isn't a democracy and we all know it. For better or worse, I'm the senior person here and I will give the orders. But I don't want anyone here who doesn't want to stay. We can't afford that, so if anybody does want to wander off down that road and find some Cubans to kiss up to, go do it and nobody will say a word. But do it now."
Nobody made a move. Andrew stood. "Okay, that's that. The next order of business is to find food and shelter."
"And toilet paper," Ward added and everyone laughed.
"No shit," Andrew grinned. "And take all the ammunition we can find as well as any weapons we can carry. The machine gun in the bunker is destroyed, but we might find some other useful stuff, so let's get scrounging. Right now we all have weapons, but who knows when we might find other strays like us or just need replacements. Let's hustle. There'll be more Cubans passing by any time now."
Cullen stood. "Heads up, people. I want you to pick up all the food, ammunition, and weapons you can find. And then grab all the blankets and rain gear, ponchos, you see. This may be Cuba, but it’s winter and, while it's not going to be very cold, it's not going to be all that hot at night, either. Anybody gets sick and they're just shit out of luck."
"That's gonna make for mighty heavy packs, sarge," Ward complained.
Ross answered with a grin. "Hell, we're all marines, aren't we? Hauling a couple of hundred pounds of equipment all day will be nothing."
A distant sound caught their attention. They looked up as it got louder. Jets.
"Ours," Cullen said, recognizing the silhouettes of American F104 Starfighters. "Finally, a day late and a dollar short, as usual with the fucking Air Force."
General Ortega was pleased. Fidel himself had phoned and was beside himself with praises for Ortega and his brilliantly conceived and executed mission. Still, it had not come without a heavy price. At least a thousand Cuban soldiers were dead or wounded and a hundred more were missing. The outnumbered, disorganized, and overmatched Americans had fought stubbornly and well. The final scene had played out only a few moments earlier with the surrender of the hundred plus Americans from their command bunker.
Taking this one bunker had cost more than a hundred casualties, including the fifty or so dead, along with one almost irreplaceable tank. It was lost when an overzealous officer had personally led a charge against the American guns. Fortunately, the officer was dead. Now he could be revered as a hero of the state instead of being court-martialed for his consummate stupidity.
Ortega had promised this Major Hartford that his soldiers would be treated well and he had every intention of keeping his promise. He was a Cuban and a professional soldier, not a barbarian. When it was appropriate, the approximately three thousand American prisoners, many of whom were noncombatants, would be moved to another site, probably the nearby port city of Santiago.
Until that time, they served another purpose as, overhead; the first wave of American fighters was busy shooting down and chasing Cuban MiGs and while avoiding heavy anti-aircraft fire that had been another unpleasant surprise for the Americans. While several MiGs had been shot down, so too had at least a pair of American fighters, although by anti-aircraft and SAM 2 missiles and not by Cuban pilots who were no match for the Americans. A shame, but Ortega never thought Fidel's fighter planes would be a major factor after the initial attack on Guantanamo.
Ortega had broadcast in the clear the fact that the prisoners were being kept in close proximity to the Cuban forces in order to keep the American planes from bombing and strafing them and, of course, his own men. When darkness fell, he would move and hide his armor. He had no doubt that the Americans would quickly and completely control the skies. Now, however, there was chaos both in the air and one the ground and it served him well.
He counted his losses. Along with the dead and wounded, most of whom were relatively useless militia and therefore expendable, he'd lost a dozen tanks and personnel carriers. He would see what could be salvaged. He would need every armored vehicle available when the inevitable American counter-attack occurred. Comrades Fidel and Che seemed to be of the mind that the Cuban military was strong enough to deter the Americans from returning to Guantanamo, but Ortega was not so foolish as to believe that.