Olga had been awake for hours, rushing between the rebels who had fallen ill with a virus. A B-26 had been flying over and bombing the nearby bohíos, straw huts. It hit farmhouses. It blew out part of the trail. If an army unit marched into the camp right now, the sick rebels were dead.
A familiar, hulking figure entered the camp, other rebels following him. Her heart began racing. She hadn’t seen Morgan in days. He had been making the rounds to the other satellite camps, but now he was coming back to Nuevo Mundo. He was looking around, and their eyes met.
Olga trembled. He is alive, she thought to herself, not knowing what happened.
Morgan walked over and reached out to hug her. For a moment, Olga forgot about everything. She could feel her legs shaking.
Morgan was carrying something on his shoulder, a bird perched perfectly still. He reached behind his head, let the parrot walk onto his hand, and gently placed it on her shoulder. Then he handed her another gift, a bouquet of wildflowers. “These are the only presents I can give you here in the mountains,” he said.
Olga stared at the flowers, surprised, then glanced at the parrot on her shoulder. A bird and flowers were the last things she expected after a day of tending to sick men.
The two walked away from the others while Olga gently held her new parrot. She had never received a gift like this. “I am grateful to you,” she said stiffly.
The two walked through the main camp, then continued toward the brush beyond the perimeter. For a moment, Olga was nervous. She had never strayed this far from the safety of the other rebels. She had never been completely alone with Morgan.
By the time they reached the trees, no one was around. Morgan reached over and gently touched Olga’s hand, then both clasped hands. Olga didn’t know what to say. They were in a war, and she was growing closer to her commander.
“I don’t know you,” Olga finally blurted out. “I don’t know anything about you. We must talk calmly since I don’t know anything about your life and you don’t know anything about mine.”
“The past is already past,” he replied, then pulled her close and kissed her—a long kiss that Olga didn’t expect.
She felt her legs go weak and pulled away. “Now is not the place, Commander.”
Morgan looked at her, surprised. “Why?” he asked.
Olga looked at him squarely. Neither one knew if they would survive the fighting. Morgan had fought in more than a dozen skirmishes and could have been killed in any one of them. Olga herself could be killed, she said.
Morgan shook his head. He told her that he was convinced the Second Front was going to end this war. They would do all they could to drive the soldiers from the mountains and take control. If Castro and the others could do the same in the Sierra Maestra, they were that much closer. When the war was over, he wanted Olga to be at his side, he said.
Olga pushed back.
“Now is not the time—or the place,” she said. “We are in a war.”
No one wanted this meeting, not the rebels, not even the runners who had been carrying messages back and forth. It was no secret that Menoyo and Chomón didn’t like each other, but they had stayed clear of each other during most of the revolution—until now.
Chomón had arrived at the camp with ten bodyguards to deliver a message to the Second Front. Menoyo brought his commanders, including Morgan. Both sides gathered across from each other at the Dos Arroyo camp.
The two former friends greeted each other, but soon their voices rose as they had before. The worst of the fighting still lay ahead. Chomón said he came to the mountains with a message: Menoyo needed to step down.
Menoyo had been a warrior, true, but Chomón didn’t believe he had the experience to wage war on large army units carrying heavy artillery. Chomón was still leader of the Directorio. Technically, the Second Front fell under his command. His choice was to appoint Rolando Cubela, a veteran who made his bones years earlier killing Batista cops.
Menoyo gritted his teeth and glared at Chomón. Menoyo was the first rebel to arrive in the mountains. He formed the structure of the rebel militia. He recruited the members and trained them. How dare Chomón come into the mountains and insult him in the middle of the war.
“I am comandante!” he shouted, his face red.
Chomón stopped himself for a moment but then reared up. Menoyo had to follow orders. He was still a part of the Directorio.
“No!” Menoyo shouted.
For a moment, the other rebels thought the two were going to come to blows. This wasn’t good for the young rebels to witness, and it certainly wasn’t good for the revolution. The soldiers were coming. They soon would be heading from Cienfuegos from the south, and Santa Clara from the north. In a matter of weeks, they would reach rebel territory, their goal: to split the mountains. There was no way the rebels were ready for a direct confrontation. They needed to stick together to have any chance of taking the mountains. But now it looked as if the real war was among the Directorio.
Menoyo stood. That was the end of their meeting. If it meant breaking from the ranks of the Directorio, then so be it. That was Menoyo’s final decision.
Chomón stood. As far as he was concerned, Menoyo was committing treason, he said. But Menoyo had already made his decision.
As Chomón and his men walked away, the comandantes of the Second Front, including Morgan, gathered around Menoyo. “Gallego,” they said. “We are with you.”
They had fought together and risked their lives. At times, they barely survived. What was Chomón thinking by coming back into the Escambray like this after months? Fleites, Carreras, Artola, Morgan—they all pledged their allegiance to Menoyo and the Second Front. If the revolution failed, they would all fail together.