Olga leaned over the young man moaning on the ground, his fatigues soaked in sweat and blood. He had been shot in the torso, but no one could do anything for him at the moment. It would be a while before anyone could get him to a clinic.
Olga reached for a wet cloth and gently dabbed his forehead, calmly brushing back his hair. He was just a teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, trembling, his breathing deep and strained.
She looked into his eyes as he stared up at her. “It’s OK,” she said. “You’re going to be OK.”
But even Olga knew that she couldn’t make that promise. In her short time traveling to some of the area camps, she had seen the bodies of young boys wrapped in blankets and screaming for help.
Quietly, she held onto him, holding him close as he shook under the covers.
“You have to fight,” she told him.
As she tried to steady his breathing, rocking him back and forth, she felt someone tap her shoulder. It was Morgan.
It had been days since she watched him ride off on a horse. “How are you?” he asked.
She had thought about him every day, wondering whether she would see him again. She had heard about the battle at Chalet do Lora but didn’t know what had happened to him.
“Thank you, Commander,” she said. “I am well.”
Morgan smiled and pulled a bouquet of wildflowers from his side. “For you,” he said.
Olga’s eyes lit up. She reached for the flowers and then took one, gently placing it in her hair.
To her surprise, Morgan leaned over and kissed her forehead. She could feel the heat rise around her, and for a moment, just she and Morgan were in the camp beneath Tico Puerto, one of the highest peaks in the Escambray. This wasn’t supposed to happen in war, and yet for a brief moment, she forgot about everything else.
Morgan broke the silence. “I have come here to tell you that you have been transferred to another camp. My group and I will leave tonight, and you will go with us.”
Rather than ask questions, she nodded. She was excited at the prospect of leaving with him. But she didn’t know that she was about to be drawn into one of the most dangerous areas of the Escambray, where the soldiers and rebels were staking out their territory for the final push.
Olga gripped the reins tightly as her horse made its way down the steep trail winding around the rocky slope. For most of the night, she leaned back in her saddle, never straying too far from Morgan. Even as the sun broke over the peaks, the rocky path didn’t get any easier to travel.
They began their slow climb upward. Every few hundred yards, they had to leave the trail to avoid the steep ravines. This was unlike any other part of the Escambray: mist and vines so thick and tangled around trees that in some places they could barely see the sun. On some of the narrow trails, they had to travel single file.
As the rebels began to ride up a hill, Olga suddenly felt her saddle come loose. Within seconds, she slid off the rear and tumbled down the steep embankment. “Help!” she yelled, as she felt her body bounce along the rugged terrain and down a gorge. By the time she hit the bottom, she almost blacked out. She could feel a sharp pain in her back and arms.
Most of the unit had already made it to the top of the hill when one of the rebels noticed that Olga’s horse had made it, but she wasn’t on it.
Morgan quickly turned around, his face white. He wound down a cow path until he reached the bottom of the ravine.
“Olgo, are you OK?” he shouted, jumping off his horse.
“I am all right,” she said. Embarrassed, she tried to sit up, but Morgan told her to stay down. He reached over and gently squeezed on her right arm and then on her left to make sure nothing was broken.
Olga looked up, smiled faintly, and then inched herself up, trying not to let anyone know how much her body ached.
“I’m all right,” she said, still woozy.
Slowly, with Morgan lifting her up, she sat and then looked around at everyone surrounding her. She waited for a minute, then stood up before walking slowly to her horse.
She didn’t want anyone to know that pain was shooting up her back. They needed to get out of the area. The soldiers were coming.
Morgan rose in his saddle, and then reaching for his Sten, thrust the weapon in the air. They had finally arrived.
One by one, the rebels at the camp came out to meet Morgan as he rode into the center. Covered by ferns and pines, the camp was actually a large farm in the heart of the Escambray in an area known as Nuevo Mundo. Because the topography was so different—an abundance of ravines, caverns, and thickets of trees—the area was ideal for a rebel camp.
Morgan and the others didn’t even have time to untie their horses before they learned they were in danger. Farmers had spotted a scouting party of Batista’s army in the lower mountains. It was just a matter of time before they set up their base.
The rebels more than likely had enough time to rest for the night. By morning, they would be fresh. Then they could begin their own series of hit-and-run attacks and protect the new camp, which would serve as temporary headquarters.
One of the men had pointed to the farmhouse, where the owner, Doña Rosa, was brewing hot, thick cortaditos for the new arrivals. Tough and outspoken, Rosa was one of the most well-known members of the resistance, a wealthy landowner who loved the rebels almost as much as she loathed Batista. A round, middle-aged woman with an infectious laugh, she equipped her home with a shortwave radio to listen to rebel broadcasts from Santa Clara and to communicate with other operators.
Olga immediately took to the motherly figure, who invited her to stay in one of her rooms. Born in Galicia, Spain, Rosa was like so many others in Nuevo Mundo whose families were fiercely independent and opposed anything that resembled dictatorships. They were better educated than many of their Cuban counterparts, and their pride in craftsmanship was obvious. Large roof tiles, wooden walls, wood floors, and stone foundations comprised Rosa’s house, a stately home with a sweeping view of some of the most magnificent mountains in the Escambray.
Rosa was risking her life by associating with the rebels, but she didn’t care. If she died, she died on her land. Morgan and Olga gathered around a table as they listened to her talk about the hardships the farmers faced under Batista’s Rural Guard. She was tired of it. Too many people had been tortured and run off their land.
A light drizzle fell outside as the rebels tried to keep warm, some gathering around the wood-burning stove and listening to a rebel broadcast crackle over the shortwave. Olga leaned in, trying to listen, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Morgan motioned for her to walk outside.
“Now?” she asked.
“Yes, right now.”
She had already been briefed about all her tasks, including making sure messages were sent for supplies. She wasn’t sure what he wanted to tell her, but she followed. He led her to a corner of the camp and sat down. From his pocket, he took out a photograph of his daughter, Annie, and another of his son, Billy. The boy with his gaping smile looked unmistakably like his father.
“This is my family in the US,” he said.
She stared at the photos but didn’t say a word. Olga didn’t know that he had children. She didn’t know he was married. Morgan placed his hand on Olga’s shoulder. He told her not to worry. He was no longer with his wife. The only people who mattered to him were his children and mother.
He reached over and handed her a piece of paper with writing in English on it. “This is the address of my mother,” he said. If anything happened to him, he wanted Olga to let her know. “I know I can trust you,” he said.
She nodded and put the paper in her pocket. For a moment, neither of them said a word. Morgan was trusting her with something almost as important as his life. Olga wanted to ask him so many questions. She wanted to say so many things. But it was better to stay quiet. Morgan stood up and hugged Olga, and then they went in opposite directions: Morgan to his hammock and Olga back to Rosa’s house.
She tried to sleep that night but couldn’t. When the sun finally broke over the mountains, she went to look for Morgan. His hammock was empty. He was already gone.