Gradually, as the days passed, I became less in awe of Che’s “reputation,” and instead developed a tremendous admiration and respect for him. He was very intelligent and had an ability to lead others. He exuded a sense of security and confidence that made the troops he led feel supported at all times, even in difficult circumstances. He had no qualms in facing an enemy with vastly superior strength, and besides his incredible courage, the guerrillas could count on a leader with an extraordinary sense of tactics and strategy.
Events developed at hurricane speed. This left little time for reflection beyond the immediate exigencies of the war. We became machines focused almost exclusively on combat. We had the advantage of being led by a man who erased any doubts, inspiring us with his unwavering support and confidence. My admiration for Che transcended even the bounds of my growing romantic attachment to him.
After capturing Fomento, Che proposed we take Cabaiguán. So that is where we headed. From a farm just outside the town, we could see a camp of soldiers. A couple of scouts were sent off to check it out. We then continued our march into the town where we found no soldiers. We stayed in a tobacco factory on the edge of town; in preparing for a battle, we established our headquarters and radio communication base there. Che chose this tense moment to recite a poem to me. This was one of the most beautiful ways he knew to express himself.
I was standing in the doorway of the factory and suddenly, from behind, Che started to recite a poem I didn’t know. Because I was chatting with others at the time, this was his way of attracting my attention. I suspected he wanted me to notice him, not as a leader or my superior but as a man. The more time we spent together, I could feel the sparks between us.
As part of the guerrilla unit, I slowly overcame any doubts that I could be a useful member of the troop. I took the opportunity to go to a friend’s house and have a shower. There I was asked, as everyone did, what I thought of Che. I responded as I had to Marta: that he was an older man, very serious, and had a lot of authority. I was only in my early twenties and Che appeared to me much older than he actually was. In reality, he was just 30 at that time.
When we returned to the command post, to my surprise I saw he had his left arm in a cast. During the battle to capture the barracks he had fractured his arm when he had tried to jump over a fence. I gave him a black gauze scarf I had to use as a sling. Over the years, that scarf came to symbolize so much for us. In one of the sweetest things he ever wrote to me, he mentions that scarf. While he was in the Congo, he wrote a short story for me called “The Stone.” In his characteristic ironic, subtle style, he remembers the gauze scarf “she gave me in case I injured my arm...”1 But that was a long way in the future, after we had experienced much together....
After I got over my initial fright at seeing him wounded, my reaction was to scold him for not waiting for me. I knew the streets of Cabaiguán well and I was sure I could have chosen a safer route into town. From that moment, I was determined to never leave his side under any circumstance so that I could protect him. I thought if I was beside him, he would be safe.
Meanwhile, the battle raged with Che leading what was initially a small guerrilla unit; one of the army snipers who had killed one of our members was shot. The enemy surrendered and Cabaiguán was liberated on December 23. That same day the town of Guayos also fell to the rebels.
The focus of the war then shifted to Placetas, and we immediately transferred there. At first, we stayed in a food supply store in that town, huddling between sacks of grain to protect ourselves from aircraft bombing raids. At a nearby house Che spoke with Rolando Cubela and Juan Abrahantes, combatants of the Revolutionary Directorate located on the outskirts of town. Later on I dared to ask Che about this meeting, despite my respect for him and the fact that this might be considered speaking out of turn. He told me that he had made the commitment to give them a third of our weapons in order to maintain unity among the rebel forces. I understood then that his response showed the level of trust as political confidants that now existed between us.
We made our way to Las Tullerías hotel where, with remarkable energy, Che threw himself into preparing for what later became one of his biggest military feats, the battle of Santa Clara. He gave me instructions to copy the passwords to be sent to Sinecio Torres in Manicaragua. From then on, I acted as Che’s personal assistant, which meant I was hardly engaged in any combat but was always at his side. We traveled by jeep to Remedios; I sat in the middle as I usually did. The orders were clear. We were to burn the town council building because the government forces would not surrender. Perhaps Che didn’t fully understand the significance of this act as we Cubans did. For us it was reminiscent of the heroic fire at Bayamo in 1868, when our struggle for independence began. The people of Bayamo chose to burn down their town rather than give it up to the Spanish colonialists, an action that revived the dream of true independence.
The army barracks at Placetas surrendered. We came in from behind the barracks and saw a rebel soldier sitting on a bench in the garden, sweating and anxious. When Che asked him why he was sitting there, the soldier told him he had lost his weapon. Che ordered him to continue fighting in order to obtain a new weapon. I thought this a very harsh order, but I also had to acknowledge I was still being initiated into the art of war. Che recalled that young man some years later, in one of the most moving chapters in his Reminiscences of the Cuban Revolutionary War. He describes how he found that young soldier who had been wounded in the turmoil of taking the town of Placetas. While offering homage to all those combatants who died in combat, in this piece Che also reflects on the conflict he felt as a leader, having to be so strict and inflexible with his men, becoming someone almost devoid of human feelings. In a way, Che was criticizing himself, while recognizing the difficult situation, revealing himself as someone who was conscious of what he had to do even though he might regret the outcome.
I remember an episode that highlights the spirit of our forces in those final days. I had admonished a compañero because he was sleeping in the midst of battle. He replied that he had been disarmed for accidentally firing his weapon. I responded with habitual dryness, “Get yourself another rifle by going disarmed to the front line... if you’re up to it.” In Santa Clara, while speaking to the wounded in the Sangre Hospital, a dying man touched my hand and said, “Remember, commander? In Remedios you sent me to find a weapon... and I earned it here.” He was the combatant who had accidentally fired his weapon. He died a few minutes later, probably content for having proven his courage. Such was our Rebel Army.2
There is a photo of those crazy days that captures a moment in which I was showing Che a piece of soap and everything that symbolized. At the time the guerrillas had no time to sleep or eat, let alone wash. He was unfazed, given that we had to leave immediately for Caibarién, which had been attacked during the night of December 25. We could think of nothing but combat. We couldn’t focus on feeling tired, hungry or sleepy. Exhaustion and hunger were our constant companions until the end of the war. That is how it was.
Upon reaching Caibarién we met up with Vaquerito, the head of the troop’s “suicide squad.” He informed Che that he had closed off the road. Che reprimanded him and told him to dismantle the barricade. I couldn’t restrain another “intrusion.” I whispered to Che that he himself had ordered the barricade be set up, but perhaps had been half asleep when he had done so. To my surprise he responded in a calm tone saying, yes, I was right.
I sometimes think that this really cemented the bond between us. Che came to respect my forthrightness, even if I might be reprimanded for it. He may not have had a companion with Sancho Panza’s wisdom and sagacity but he had one who was loyal and constant.
The capture of Caibarién was different from other towns because it was close to the sea and there was a frigate off-shore that had to be neutralized. The crew did not give up until the army barracks had surrendered. I thought the confrontation would last longer than it did, but luckily it didn’t. Vaquerito played a key role in this, as did his “suicide squad.”
We returned to Las Tullerías hotel in Placetas, which had become our command post in that town. There we had our first meeting with Antonio Núñez Jiménez, a geographer and university professor, a member of the PSP who collaborated with the July 26 Movement. He had come at Che’s request so we would have a cartographer’s assistance in the final preparations for the capture of Santa Clara. He was planning the best direction from which to attack the town. Based on the information we had, it was decided we should enter from La Vallita, located between Santa Clara and Placetas. We would avoid the central highway, which was now blocked because the Falcon Bridge had been destroyed in an action carried out by the rebels of Che’s Eighth Column in the first days of December. On that occasion the guerrilla troop had been led by Captain Manuel Hernández, who years later accompanied Che to Bolivia using the nom de guerre Miguel. There was an amusing anecdote about the destruction of the Falcon Bridge. When Che heard about the action, he went to check the bridge. It was only just standing; and when he touched it with his foot, the bridge collapsed. That was all it took for Che’s men to tease him saying he had destroyed the bridge with a single kick.
On December 26, Che and I were returning quite exhausted from Cabaiguán. We had spent practically eight days without eating or sleeping. We drank some malt beer, the first real nourishment we had for days. It was so good that I can still taste it even now. We went to meet Ramiro Valdés. Che gave him instructions, insisting that the town be handed over to the civil authority of the July 26 Movement. Attending this meeting were Allán Rosell (the coordinator of the movement in the province in 1957) and other combatants from the column, including San Luis (Eliseo Reyes) and Olo Pantoja, who were both recovering from wounds received in the battle for Guayos. These last two compañeros also fought (and died) with Che in Bolivia.
Despite the fact that most of the combatants were not yet aware of the overall strategy, that meeting was to clarify our tactics. Ramirito Valdés would head east to Jatibonico; Bordón and Chaviano would stay close to the town on the central highway from Cienfuegos, after destroying the bridge over the Sagua River to stop reinforcements coming from Matanzas. Che would go to Placetas to prepare for the offensive in Santa Clara. The rest of the men of his Eighth Column were waiting in Placetas, along with forces of the Revolutionary Directorate, to finalize details of the attack.
We left the town in a jeep on the night of December 27, arriving at the university in the early hours of December 28. As usual, I traveled with the bodyguards, this time without Parritas, who had stayed behind in Placetas. Ramirito drove the jeep and would then go on to carry out the mission he had been given. The most wonderful thing about that trip was that we shared a large can of peaches. I have no idea where it came from but those peaches tasted like nectar of the gods.
Our first command post in Santa Clara was set up at the Central University within a couple of hours. It would later be moved closer into town. That morning I was overwhelmed when, quite unexpectedly, Che gave me an M-1 rifle, saying that I had earned it. This was my first important achievement as a combatant; I was keenly aware of how strict Che was in his criteria for who should receive weapons. I felt very satisfied and extremely proud.
We got the news that the group led by Acevedo and Alberto Fernández had already reached Santa Clara and had explored the various routes leading into town. They had already been able to speak to some local people.
On the morning of December 28, the rest of the troops began to advance along the road from Camajuaní and this led to the first clash with enemy soldiers. Batista’s tanks were hidden in the surrounding areas. We suffered a few losses: four seriously injured were taken to my old school of pedagogy at the Central University, now converted into a war hospital. This was the moment Che saw the young man from Remedios, the same man he had ordered to find a weapon to replace the one he had lost. The young man was now mortally wounded. Che took his hand and spoke to him briefly; he was very moved by this encounter. Deeply saddened, he left Oscarito to care for the poor guy, knowing nothing more could be done for him. I didn’t have the courage to enter the hospital as I knew that the compañeros inside were in a bad state.
A little while later we took the jeep to Camajuaní, very close to the outskirts of Santa Clara, in order to check out the situation for ourselves. We immediately saw some snipers on Capiro Hill. Luckily, the tanks had retreated, suggesting that the army’s morale was quite low, in contrast to the fame that preceded Che everywhere he went. At this point, we were approached by Luis Lavandeiro, a man of French origin, armed with a .30-caliber machine gun. He was accompanied by a group of rebels from the army recruits school. When they heard gunfire from a small plane that was bombing the town, they retreated.
Che responded immediately, ordering the troops to stay and fight. He grabbed a machine gun and started firing. More than anything, his action was symbolic, but it helped overcome the panic. He knew that a .30-caliber machine gun would have minimal impact against the bombardment from an enemy plane. In the confusion of the battle, I thought Che’s attitude was crazy and that he had failed to realize we faced a stronger, better-equipped enemy supported by aircraft. I doubted our chance of victory and thought we would have to retreat. Everything happened so quickly that there was no time to speculate and we continued to advance. I was afraid Che would be hurt at any moment, which luckily did not happen, but I overcame my fear and hesitation, focusing on the battle we had to win. Che had already proven himself to be an exceptional leader, and he did this again in Santa Clara.
We headed into the town, coincidentally passing by the house belonging to Lolita Rosell, a friend from the urban underground. By this time, it was December 28, the day of the Innocent Saints,3 and everyone was playing pranks. When I saw the look of confusion on my friend’s face, I told her she was not hallucinating, but that our dream was becoming reality. We continued to the Public Works building and set up the second command post, where orders were given for the final offensive.
That afternoon we returned with the bodyguards by jeep to El Pedrero, which was now totally secure. We attended the funeral of a combatant. We also visited José Ramón Silva, one of our captains who had been badly wounded in Cabaiguán. On our return we visited Leonardo Tamayo (Tamayito), also wounded, but not as seriously. We met up with my friend Ernestina, a nurse for the column, and Che asked her to look after Silva, who was in a critical state.
On our way back, at sunset, something most unexpected happened. I don’t know if it was because of the time of day, or because of a deep need he had, but for the first time Che spoke to me about his personal life. He told me about his marriage to Hilda Gadea (a Peruvian economist), and his daughter, Hildita. At the time I wasn’t sure if he had said Hildita was three or 13 years old. He told me that by the time he left Mexico he had already separated from Hilda. He told me of their many misunderstandings and, from the way that he spoke about her, I sensed he no longer loved her, or at least he wasn’t in love with her. I couldn’t really figure out what he was trying to tell me in this conversation, but I was more inclined to take Hilda’s side, because of my tendency to defend other women. In fact, he was trying to tell me he was no longer married and was struggling to express his feelings. I was still under the sway of my romantic novels, and was also involved in the struggle for the freedom of both my country and myself. I imagined Hilda as a very elegant woman with a strong personality. It couldn’t be any other way because how could such a courageous and virile man not have that type of woman at his side? Despite my romantic notions, at that time Che appeared to be very much alone. I could not begin to imagine how much his commitment was based on love.4 But sensing this brought me closer to the commander who was leading such an important battle. It also brought me closer to the man.
I can see myself in that car in the fading afternoon light, in the company of a man who is relating the story of his life to a fellow soldier. She, aware of what is going on around her, is looking out for the safety of her commander. But Che is interrupted and we continue on our way.
During the actions that took place in Cabaiguán and Placetas, we traveled by jeep to see Camilo Cienfuegos in Yaguajay. We had some most enjoyable times within the maelstrom of the war, and those moments brought us all closer together. They helped us get to know each other as we really were. Some of us were naïve, others, very clever; we were all young and full of hope for a future victory. We took every chance to have fun. I remember one day when we were traveling in the jeep with Oscarito, Nuñez and his wife, Lupe Velis. Alberto Castellanos was at the wheel and I suddenly realized that everyone was falling asleep, including Alberto. I began to chat with him so that he wouldn’t fall asleep, describing all the beautiful places in Cuba, like the beach at Varadero. He fancied himself as a bit of a lady’s man, so with his characteristic cheeky grin he remarked that the best thing at the beach were the women. He sighed when he mentioned a particular beach in Holguín, Guardalavaca. Then he sighed, “Oh what women!” These were our compañeros: simple folk, sometimes crude, but always full of respect and affection for their compañeros. Our joking woke all the others and in the midst of the hilarity we hit a pothole in the road. We arrived at our destination a little late but in a very jolly mood. At the end of the day Camilo showed us his famous “war tank,” baptized with the impressive name of “Dragon,” a name that quite contradicted its rather rudimentary design.
At around this time, on Che’s orders I went on a mission with Harry Villegas. As we approached the command post on our return, we saw B-26s flying overhead, releasing their bombs indiscriminately on the defenseless population. I had Che’s camera and my M-1 rifle with me. Instinctively, I dropped to the ground to protect myself, even though Villegas was trying to tell me there was no danger. In my fall, I broke the camera, something I regarded as a disaster. I asked Villegas not to tell Che how the camera came to be broken and he respected my request. Friendships and mutual affection, forged during this time, have remained intact to this day.
Arriving exhausted back at the command post at midday, I gave Villegas the camera and lay down on the floor to rest. I was on the verge of tears, thinking when Che found out he would accuse me of cowardice. Thankfully the incident stayed between Villegas and me. But it wasn’t the only blunder that might have exposed me in our leader’s eyes. On the night of December 29, Che and I went out for a walk along the highway. He scrutinized everything so that no detail escaped him, and I took notes like a good assistant. He told me we had to locate a “Caterpillar,” a bulldozer, in order to lift the railroad tracks to derail the dictator’s armored train that was expected to arrive.
Che had a deep, guttural voice and because it was late at night he spoke in a whisper. I didn’t understand what he had said. I had no idea what a Caterpillar was—he used the word “Caterpillar” in English—so I noted down what I thought he had said in Spanish: “catres, palas y pilas” [beds, shovels and batteries]. It was a mistake on my part and, realizing I was confused, he asked to see what I had written. He jokingly remarked, “A teacher, eh?” Dreadfully embarrassed, I answered defensively, “What do you expect? I don’t know what a ‘Caterpillar’ is.” I couldn’t hide my shame, so I remained silent. From that moment on, every time something similar happened he would sarcastically remind me of this. Years later, when I told our children this story, they enjoyed taunting me, chanting: “Beds, shovels and batteries!”
In spite of my ignorance, a Caterpillar miraculously appeared in the morning, driven by a civilian with instructions to raise the tracks. When he set about doing this, he was shot at. Another older man, who was an innocent bystander, was shot in the stomach and had to be taken to the clinic nearby. With the aid of a telescope, we tried to see where the shots were coming from. We realized there were black figures moving on the roof of the Gran Hotel (now the Santa Clara Libre Hotel) located across from Vidal Park. From their vantage point, the snipers had a good view of the entire town. Che immediately went to find a member of the “suicide squad,” ordering him to lift up the railroad tracks.
This is how, on the afternoon of December 30, the famous armored train was derailed and fell into our hands.
Just after we succeeded in damaging the railroad tracks, Che and I entered Santa Clara, accompanied by Guile (Ramón Pardo Guerra), Harry Villegas and José Argudín. We walked down Independence, the main street. Before we reached Maceo Street we met a young Chinese photographer, who had his camera with him, and thanks to him that moment was preserved for posterity.
We continued walking and a few blocks from the park we heard a tank shooting in the distance. Despite the danger, Che crossed the road in front of an armored car and his beret flew off his head. Argudín had gone down another street toward the park. Seeing the armored car, I froze on the spot. I realized we were close to my house, but it took some seconds for me to snap out of it. I crossed the road to Che, thinking I should not leave him alone since I knew he didn’t know his way around my town. I was shocked to see Che return to pick up his beret. To our surprise the armored car retreated, maybe suspecting an ambush. We continued together with no further incidents. Sometime later, in one of our rare private moments, Che confessed that when he had seen me in such danger, he realized how much I meant to him. Of course, that was hardly the ideal moment for such a confession.
After walking quite a way, we decided to go to the Church of St. Carmen to review the situation. The church was across the street from the police station, where some compañeros were posted. We headed to where the armored train had been derailed. We crossed the bridge and Che started to issue orders, directing operations. Once the train had been captured he asked Núñez Jiménez and Alberto Castellanos to take Batista’s soldiers to Caibarién to transfer them to the frigate there.
Che always treated the prisoners with absolute respect, according to the norms of the Rebel Army, despite the fact that many of those on the train were members of Colonel Sánchez Mosquera’s bloodthirsty unit, responsible for the murder of a large number of campesinos in the Sierra Maestra.
The fighting continued as we returned to the command post. The next day, December 30, was an ill-fated day. We headed out again on the Maleza highway to go around the train station from where we could reach the police headquarters. Che realized snipers were shooting close to his feet. No one was following him. In a fraction of a second I had rushed to him, as did Fernández Mell. We skirted the old teacher’s college, turning into a street where Vaquerito ordered us to hide between some houses and to keep out of the way of our combatants, who were advancing towards the snipers. Vaquerito ducked across from the station into a gap between the buildings, but he was mortally wounded. With his long hair dripping blood, he was carried by four compañeros. I remember so clearly how paralyzed we were at the sight. Che examined him and told Oscarito to take him straight to the clinic. I asked Che if he was dying because the poor young man was having convulsions. He responded sadly, yes. When Che saw Vaquerito so badly wounded, he apparently remarked that his death was equal to that of 100 men. I didn’t hear him say this, but that was certainly how we all felt. Everyone regarded him as an exemplary fighter, one who had risked his life many times but who wouldn’t live to see the triumph now so close.
Che and I returned to where Vaquerito had been killed. He looked around and gave precise orders in the hope of blocking any further action from the enemy. Acevedo attacked the prison and the court house; Alberto Fernández and Alfonso Zayas fought from the cinema Cloris located near the Gran Hotel, where we knew there were enemy forces. Within a few days (December 29–31), with lightning attacks, we derailed the armored train, and took over the provincial government building, the Caballitos barracks of the motorized police, the barracks of the 31st Squadron, the prison and the police station. But we had yet to defeat the enemy troops resisting from the court house, the Gran Hotel and the Leoncio Vidal Regiment’s barracks.
Between December 31 and January 1 we attacked the Gran Hotel where I was terrified Che would be wounded. Everything happened so quickly. We rode in tanks we had seized from the police station and we headed to the center of the town where soldiers of the SIM were. We positioned ourselves between the hotel and the park. I had never been inside a tank before and I felt like I was suffocating.
Che got out of the tank and looked around. As he went up the stairs of the Gran Hotel, he realized that there was a grenade on one of the steps. He searched for another way out and somehow managed to reach a tower on the third floor. Meanwhile Villegas and I were sitting in the cinema, waiting for orders from Che. I’m terribly ashamed to say this but, in the darkness of the cinema, for a few minutes we both fell asleep. We fell asleep! Che found us after the enemy had surrendered. The prisoners were locked up in the basement of our command post, and we followed Che, not daring to say a word.
There were many ghastly, hellish incidents in these final moments of the battle of Santa Clara. When Acevedo was attacking the court house he was horrified to see enemy tanks run over one of their own soldiers, who had fallen in combat.
At the command post, our compañera Marta Lugioyo, a lawyer, read out the execution orders, and the names of those who would be executed for committing atrocities. This sentence wasn’t carried out, however, because some of the guilty had escaped.
By January 1, Batista had fled Havana, but the Leoncio Vidal Regiment in Santa Clara still had not surrendered. In order to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, Che sent Dr. Rodríguez de la Vega, Núñez Jiménez and Dr. Ruiz de Zárate to negotiate with Colonel Hernández, the head of the regiment. He was warned that if his troops did not surrender by 12:30 the battle would commence. He did not agree.
Once the deadline had passed, the colonel sent Commander Fernández to speak with Che. The ultimatum was repeated and Colonel Hernández was told he would bear full responsibility for whatever happened. There could be no doubt, if it came to a battle, there would be a great many casualties because the forces were disproportionate. The rebels had about 340 men against 3,000 soldiers who, although demoralized, might decide to fight when faced with the prospect of certain death. Fortunately, the enemy eventually surrendered and accepted the revolutionary command’s word of honor that their lives would be spared.
On January 1, Che was able to communicate with Fidel via radio, receiving the order to proceed immediately to Havana. Batista and his closest collaborators had fled the evening before and the situation was becoming quite confused. That is why Camilo Cienfuegos was ordered to take his “Antonio Maceo” Second Column to Camp Columbia in Havana, Batista’s most important fortress. Che’s “Ciro Redondo” Eighth Column went to seize La Cabaña Fortress at the entrance to Havana Bay, which controlled access to the port and the city.
It is difficult to recall exactly everything that happened next. I know that on January 2, before leaving Santa Clara, I went to inspect the Leoncio Vidal Regiment’s barracks with Che. Sometime on that day I went to my house to see my parents and collect a few belongings. I told them I was going to Havana because the war was not yet over. My parents were very happy to see me and extremely relieved I had not been injured in all the fighting. They had been very worried after they heard from Marta or Lolita that I had become involved in the armed conflict. To their relief their prodigal daughter had returned unharmed. For the time being they had to be content with a fond farewell. I also had a chance to say good-bye to Lolita. I quickly made my way back to the command post. I was very tired, but at least I had had a chance to have a bath and to find slightly more appropriate clothes. I have to confess that, in the mad rush to leave for Havana, my fear was that I would be left behind. All I wanted to do was to continue with the rebel forces.
When I got back everything was bustling as they prepared to leave for Havana. We went to the regiment’s barracks where the Rebel Army command was organizing the troop that would proceed to Havana. We set out on the afternoon of January 2. On the outskirts of Santa Clara, we saw trucks with rebels piled on board. We were in the jeep with our regular compañeros: Alberto, Villegas, Argudín and Hermes Peña. Behind us, in another car, were Rodríguez de la Vega, Núñez Jiménez and others—I can’t remember all of them. What had been a dream seemed to have become reality.
1. Che’s short story, “The Stone,” is included as an appendix to this book.
2. See “The Final Offensive and the Battle of Santa Clara,” in Ernesto Che Guevara: Reminiscences of the Cuban Revolutionary War (Ocean Press, 2006).
3. December 28 is the equivalent of April Fool’s Day (April 1) in Latin America.
4. Che later wrote: “At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love. It is impossible to think of a genuine revolutionary lacking this quality.”