Most of the young women she knew were more or less ignorant about sex and most at least claimed to be virgins, no matter how much they experimented sexually. There was a growing movement among women that said women should be freer sexually, but she had not yet been converted to that line of thinking. Voluntarily going all the way, screwing, fucking, or whatever term one preferred was for marriage.
Cathy did not consider herself a prude and had permitted a select few boys and young men from high school and college to take what her old aunt used to refer to as "liberties" with her, but had never gone anywhere near sexual intercourse. Above the waist was her rule.
She was also afraid that the filthy and disgusting Gomez had given her what the sailors and marines called the clap. She'd heard many of the young men talk about it. Syphilis and gonorrhea were the names most commonly given to venereal disease and she wondered just when and how she'd know she had it or not. Time would tell, she supposed.
Fortunately, the physical pain was endurable and receding. She was young and would heal, at least physically. If she wasn't pregnant and didn't have the clap, she thought she could handle the mental part. She laughed bitterly. Did she have a choice? She'd have to help herself. She didn't see anyone standing around volunteering to help her by providing a shoulder to cry on. No, she would have to be tough. Either that or she might perish.
Cathy had not wanted to return to the base, but an examination of her carry bag showed serious deficiencies. She'd only planned to use it for creature comforts while on a boat or plane to the States, not for living in the wild like a refugee. Thus, and with great reluctance, she'd returned to do some scrounging. Even though it was tempting since it contained all of her stuff, she decided to stay away from her ruined apartment. She had no idea where this Gomez bastard who'd raped her might be. He said he'd be back and Cathy believed him.
Her foraging had resulted in a mixed bag. Literally. She now had a duffle bag full of C and K ration packages that she'd never tasted but heard were both awful and nourishing. She'd even steeled herself to take some off of the bodies of sailors and marines. If the military said it was food, she'd take it. She had no idea how long she'd be on the run, but part of her said it could be quite a while. It was now late in the afternoon of Christmas Day and there was no sign of any further American response. She'd cheered when she'd seen the American jets, but they'd disappeared. Cold hard logic told her she was on her own for the foreseeable future.
She was more than a little surprised to find that her wanderings had brought her outside her old apartment. Did she dare? She checked in all directions. Alice's mangled remains were gone. Had the base's new owners begun cleaning things up? Everything appeared deserted. She entered through the back door and wished she knew how to fire the rifle she'd picked up from where it had been abandoned on the street. It was a strange looking thing and she presumed it was from a Cuban, since the markings indicated it was Russian. She hoped it might deter someone if they saw her carrying it.
Cathy grabbed a blanket off her bed and hung it over her shoulder. Then she took a second one. Who knew where she'd be sleeping in the future? She stuffed some more clothing and personal items into her original bag and wrapped the blankets around some more, tying them up with electric cords. She would be weighed down but could toss them quickly if she had to.
She cautiously went out the back door. She had just taken a couple of steps when she froze in horror. A small black man wearing combat fatigues was standing a few feet away from her and was pointing a rifle directly at her.
Lieutenant Colonel Ted Romanski groaned in pain. The cast that Sergeant Morton had made out of pieces of wood was less than adequate, to put it mildly.
"You want some more morphine, colonel?"
Romanski had taken some of the painkiller while Morton was setting the break. The sergeant had tried to be gentle, but the injury wouldn't cooperate and the morphine had been necessary to calm him during the process. Still, he knew how little of the precious stuff they had.
"No thanks. Let's save it for something important."
Morton grinned. He didn't think the iron-assed colonel would've taken any more. Romanski had a reputation for being a hard driver who worked with his men even though he was at an age where he could be forgiven for sitting behind a desk.
"Did you find any more survivors?" Romanski asked, even though he thought he knew the answer to the question. Had there been any more survivors who’d parachuted with them, they'd be with them.
"No sir, but I did find evidence that some of the guys survived and were taken prisoner. I also found half a dozen bodies. I took their supplies and ammo and buried the dead as best I could."
Romanski thought Morton had done a good job and said so. Now came the hard part. They were all alone in the wilds of a very hostile eastern Cuba. He had a broken leg and the one other man with him was going to have to help him physically go anyplace, assuming, of course, that they could decide where they should go. He had no qualms asking the highly regarded senior sergeant for his opinion.
"Well, colonel, it doesn't look like we'll be doing anything useful other than surviving for a while. I don't know if and when our guys will be striking back, so I'd suggest finding a place to hole up until you get at least a little bit better."
"Then what, Morton?"
"Then maybe we should move slowly towards Gitmo. If our guys are going to come back, then that's a place where they'll likely go real early."
Romanski took a deep breath. He was exhausted, which pissed him off since he hadn't done much except lie there while Morton patched him up. "Sounds like you're reading my mind, Master Sergeant Morton. Let me get some rest and we'll begin."
"And then I said, what the hell are you doing here, Miss Malone? And damned if she didn't scream and drop everything she had in her arms including that little commie rifle she was carrying. Then I had to remind her who I was and then she came running like she was a little kid who'd just found her daddy and jumped into my arms. Been a long time since a good-looking white girl hugged me,” Ward said solemnly.
"Been a long time since anybody hugged you," Groth retorted.
Andrew Ross turned to Cathy Malone and winked. Cathy smiled weakly. She was exhausted and emotionally drained. She was safe and just wanted to go to sleep.
Ward had been one of her better pupils in the government sponsored education program. She had heard the story of her rescue or deliverance by PFC Ward a dozen times already and it had only been a couple of hours since he'd found her by her apartment. Ward had scared the poor girl out of her wits, although Ward cheerfully admitted he'd been just as surprised as she was. But he had never been scared, no sir. Marines are never scared.
She was so disheveled and dirty that Andrew hadn't recognized her at first, and her face was badly bruised, almost like someone had punched her, and there was a nasty cut on her cheek that Sergeant Cullen had cleaned and bandaged. It took a while before Ross realized he'd not only seen her several times on base, but that she was the young woman he'd been trying to find someone who could introduce him to. Now they'd met, but under some very trying circumstances. She seemed like she might be the kind of person he thought she was, but his original idea of asking her out to dinner and a movie was clearly down the crapper. So much for making a good first impression, he thought. At least she was as big a mess as he was, although she sure looked a lot cuter, bruises and bandages notwithstanding.
She was a welcome if not puzzling addition. Andrew didn't know quite what to do with her. Even if he wanted to, and he definitely didn’t, he couldn't abandon her. First, she wasn't likely to leave. The men he'd sent into the base to scavenge had returned with the information that POWs were being kept at the airbase at Guantanamo, while civilians were already being sent by train to Santiago where they would be moved by boat to Mexico and then to the United States. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't send her through Cuban lines to find a civilian train that might no longer exist. And, she was clearly terrified of the Cubans and he wondered why. She would stay with them for as long as she wanted, but it represented another burden for him.