It began as a drone over the mountains, a moan that barely echoed down from the clouds. At first, no one noticed. The sound rose into a low rumble, like thunder in the distance, but still no one paid it any heed. Morgan and Olga just wanted to be alone.
As they walked along the path leading to camp, Olga looked up and saw what appeared to be an airplane in the distance cross over the mountain. Then she saw another.
Morgan quickly pulled her close and moved them toward a mound of bedrock. Within seconds, the two planes were rumbling above them. Olga covered her face as a hail of bullets fell from the sky, kicking up dust just a few yards away. Morgan threw her to the ground and rolled on top of her. Neither one moved.
The planes circled, unleashing a steady stream from the air guns. Olga could hear the planes directly over them, the earth trembling from the shots raining down. Shaking, Olga gripped Morgan.
“It’s OK,” he told her. “It’s OK. It over, finito.”
She had many close calls, but never anything like that. Morgan kissed her and held her for a moment. Olga didn’t want to move. She always prided herself on being brave, on facing anything: the police, the soldiers. But this had come so close.
“Dios mío,” she said.
Slowly, they both stood, Olga’s knees trembling. It was time to get back to the camp. God only knew what had happened there.
They rushed back along the trail. Morgan dashed to the first hut, then the second. Some of the huts had been peppered with shots, but so far no one was injured. The other rebels were scrambling through the camp, making sure the nearby farmhouse and equipment were unharmed. The planes would return.
Olga and Morgan turned to each other. Either one could have died. Either one could have been left without the other.
“I love you,” Morgan said.
Olga hugged him. She had seen for the first time how quickly they could be shot—and killed. They had survived by a matter of inches.
Menoyo paced like a cat.
The planes were picking up. They had hit near Nuevo Mundo, and they had dropped bombs near Manicaragua. Batista wasn’t going to let up with the air power. That was the only way he could force a surrender. With every report of damage, Menoyo was getting angrier.
Batista’s men had been beaten at Charco Azul. They had been beaten at Chalet de Lora and Finca Diana. It was clear the army’s strategy had suddenly changed. Instead of moving deeper into the mountains, the troops had been ordered to halt. Batista was trying to bait the rebels out of the mountains by bombing.
If that’s what Batista wanted the rebels to do, then Menoyo would meet that challenge. But it had to be planned carefully.
As long as the rebels remained encamped in the mountains above Batista’s men, nothing was going to move forward. Menoyo pointed on the map: Trinidad. The southern coastal city southwest of Sancti Spiritus would be the perfect target. It would send a clear message that the rebels were going to take the fight to the cities. If that’s what Batista wanted, that’s what he was going to get.
Trinidad had an old stone-and-wood garrison loaded with machine guns, grenades, and other weapons. The US government had cut off Batista’s supply, but he had gotten around that obstacle by going directly to Britain, of all places.
The Second Front didn’t have a lot of ammunition, but it now had four hundred men. Menoyo and the other commanders would lead them.
With his men gathered around, Menoyo spelled out their plan of attack. Two main roads led directly into Trinidad, with a few—but not many—entry points to the rear. The garrison was here, he pointed out.
One bad move, one wrong entry, and the rebels could lose the element of surprise. Then they became targets. There were simply too many soldiers, and they’d be attacking from all over, including the garrison. The rebels needed to come like bats out of hell.
Menoyo had already thought this out. They would gather at a place known to the locals as Mangos Pelones—a farm on the edge of a highway ten miles from the city. They could get trucks from the local plantation owners to haul everyone into the town. Once they got to the entrance, they would split into groups and surround the garrison, while the point men took on the guards.
Menoyo wanted no surprises. If Batista’s soldiers were effective anywhere, it was in the cities, where they could control the buildings and the people. Months earlier, the army led a brutal attack on civilians in Cienfuegos as punishment for a revolt at a nearby naval base. Soldiers stormed the streets, arresting and killing people even suspected of helping the insurrectionists. Menoyo looked at his commanders. Get ready, he said. They were embarking on a plan that was close to a suicide mission.
Olga stared over the tops of the coffee plants as the wind blew across the plantation. At the highest point of the camp, it looked like a sea of green. There was still no sign of Morgan. He should have been back by now, coming up the trail with his men. He had left on patrol, but he wasn’t supposed to be gone this long.
She had tried to keep busy, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She should have heard from the runners by now. She remembered the paper he had given her on that cool, rainy night with his mother’s address. She remembered the promise that she had made. “If anything happens to me, let her know,” he had said. She turned sadly and walked back to the farmhouse, where the grower, Nicholas Cárdenas, had opened his plantation to the rebels.
One more hour, she said to herself. Una hora mas.
She didn’t know everything about what the commanders were doing, but it was no secret that the fighting was about to get more intense. She could see that every day with the rebels arriving at the camp. If Morgan died, she would regret that she had never told him everything that she wanted to say, that she wanted to be at his side—even if they both died.
In the distance, she heard voices just beyond the farmhouse. She rose and walked to the edge. Straining to see over the plants, she saw men coming up from the trail. Looking closer, she spotted him. “He’s alive,” she said as she rushed across the camp.
He was exhausted but managed a smile when he spotted her.
Never again would she let a moment like this pass. “You won, commander,” she said, staring up and smiling.
Morgan looked around for a moment, confused. “I won?”
“I believe I have already given it enough thought,” she said. Olga didn’t care that everyone was now staring. “I will marry you.”
Morgan threw down his gun, leaned over, and kissed her. He knew this wasn’t a good time. He knew that he might never leave Cuba alive. But if he died without marrying Olga, somehow his life—and all that he had sacrificed so far—would have been for nothing.
It was time.