Menoyo crept to the edge of the trees and peered at the ground below. “Mira,” he said, pointing to the rows of coffee plants and the sprawling farmhouse just beyond the brush. Government forces had taken over La Mata de Café, a large plantation owned by the Lora brothers, members of one of the wealthiest families in the Escambray.
Morgan and the others stared down the same ledge. In an open area dotted with farmhouses and wooden structures, they saw soldiers—everywhere. Menoyo and his men knew that when they set out they might run into Batista’s men; they just didn’t know how many. Of all the places in the vast Escambray—two hundred thousand haunted acres—this is where the army had chosen to camp. Either the officers knew the rebels’ location, or they had a remarkable sense of intuition. It had to be more than just a coincidence.
Menoyo lifted his binoculars and scoped the trouble below. In the center of the plantation stood a large stone and wood chalet, through which officers were moving. To the sides, outbuildings served as temporary barracks for the soldiers. He wasn’t sure, but there was a good chance the unit was hauling mortars and other heavy artillery.
“Esperamos,” he said. We wait.
The rebels needed time to strategize. Menoyo, Morgan, and the others formed a circle. They had only thirty-five men with them, and it was too late to gather any more. At this point, the other camps were far away on their own patrols. The main rebel unit could wait and regroup with the others days later, but no one knew how long the army would stay put.
Menoyo recognized that this might be their only chance to hit the two hundred or so soldiers, unaware and unprepared, and inflict serious casualties. If the soldiers were plotting to attack Menoyo’s central position, the rebel unit needed to ambush them now. The other option was to wait until the cover of night and surround them from every corner.
“See that?” Menoyo pointed to the chalet serving as commanders’ quarters. That was their first target. If a few rebels could get close, they could lob grenades inside. If they landed the explosives properly, they could wipe out most of the leadership right away. That could force the rest to retreat and scatter, as had happened days earlier.
The rebels formulated their plan. They would split into several smaller groups, and each would take up position around the four-acre spread. Menoyo and Morgan would approach the front and rear of the chalet and, on the commander’s signal, would toss explosives into the command house, thereby signaling the beginning of the assault. In the darkness, the soldiers would have no idea how many rebels surrounded the farm.
“Terrorize them in their sleep,” Menoyo said.
The rebels could see that he and Morgan were growing closer, spending hours together every day talking strategy and other business. Morgan was speaking more Spanish, and Menoyo was picking up some English as well.
More and more, Menoyo was depending on Morgan to take the young men under his wing and teach them the rudiments of fighting. When they were scared, he needed Morgan to buck them up and shake out their heebie-jeebies.
Darkness edged in as the men huddled in the brush. This was no hit-and-run field exercise. This was a direct attack on an army camp. They had to hit the soldiers quickly.
It was time.
Menoyo motioned for the others to take their positions. “Let’s go,” he said.
He and Morgan darted toward the camp. The last thing they wanted was to run into a sentry. If shots were fired, the ambush would fail. Both men peered through the darkness but didn’t see anything between them and the chalet.
They bolted toward the main building, Menoyo clutching his M3 submachine gun and Morgan his Sten. By sheer chance, they passed unnoticed through the sentries, halting in the dark, hearts pounding, as they reached the side of the chalet. Next they had to get inside. Quietly, both men inched up to the entrance. They swung open the door, hurled their explosives inside, wheeled around, and ran to the perimeter before they could become targets themselves.
Within seconds, the grenades exploded, sending shards of glass and wood flying into the air. The rebels surrounding the camp opened fire.
Soldiers ran screaming from their makeshift barracks. Others remained inside, reaching for their weapons to return fire. All they could do was hunker down and try to withstand the assault. They had mortars but no idea where to fire them. In the darkness, they couldn’t gauge the position or even the size of the rebel forces.
Back and forth, the two sides exchanged shots. Just when the soldiers thought the attack was over, the rebels launched another barrage. Had the army known how few men were attacking, they might have stood their ground. But in the chaos, they wanted only to escape while they still could. Some of the soldiers fell back and found an opening between the rebel positions. One by one, they ran.
Menoyo knew right away the soldiers were retreating just by the fewer shots they were firing. The battle was over. The plan had worked.
The soldiers who survived escaped into the nearby woods. The Second Front had achieved another significant victory. Once again, they had taken on a unit more than four times their size. But they had little time to savor their success. They had to move yet again. The army would return, this time with hundreds more.