Peering through the morning haze, Domingo Ortega Gomez lifted his rifle and took aim as the soldiers moved within striking distance. Just a few more seconds, he thought, propping himself up. Just a few more . . .
Ortega’s team members stood by with their rifles raised just as the army men came into view on the narrow dirt road. It was no surprise the soldiers would show up. This road—the stretch of highway between Manicaragua and Cumanayagua—was their only route to reach the southern coast. The trails through the mountains were too dangerous for the men in uniforms and their vehicles.
Most of them had left the small towns and were now trying to reach Cienfuegos, where they had a chance of joining other units. For Ortega, it was a test. The young Second Front captain just happened to be patrolling the area when he got word the soldiers were coming. The rebels knew that taking control of this stretch of highway would cut off the army’s escape.
Ortega motioned for his men to get ready. It was hard to figure out how many soldiers were in the unit. If it was a company, Ortega couldn’t possibly stop them with just a few rebels. But if he could at least inflict damage, he might be able to send a message the road was no longer safe.
He squinted for a moment, aimed, and then squeezed the trigger. The other rebels fired on the stunned soldiers. Some jumped to the side of the road, others fell. The rebels stood and continued firing as the soldiers ran. It ended as quickly as it started, with nine soldiers dead in the road. The rest escaped. It wouldn’t take long for word to reach the other army units: The Second Front had just cut off the army’s lifeline.
Just after dawn, Morgan summoned his men together. He rarely called these kinds of meetings, but he had just received an urgent message.
The information was sketchy, but hours earlier, a large plane was seen taking off in the darkness from Camp Columbia in Havana. No one knew who was on the flight, but word was that Batista himself had climbed aboard and ordered the pilot to take off.
The rebels looked at Morgan and then one another. Where was this news coming from? They had heard so many rumors about the state of the war, especially in the past week. They had gotten word from a messenger that Che had taken Santa Clara, a major victory. Was it possible that the dictator who once ruled over the entire military machine of Cuba would just leave?
Batista had been the driving force of Cuba for sixteen years. He was the face of their country. He was el hombre. If anything, he would fight to the bitter end.
Morgan didn’t disagree with anything they were saying, but that wasn’t what mattered. They still had a war to fight while they waited for more news. As far he was concerned, they were going to take their next steps in the offensive.
For a long time, the Second Front had needed to take the fight to one of the most important cities in central Cuba: Cienfuegos. With a thriving port, the city provided a crucial link to the sea. The sun had risen over the eastern mountains as Morgan and his column took to the road, leaving their camp.
Soaked in sweat and dirt, they clutched their rifles as they walked on the same road where dozens of soldiers had passed days earlier. Morgan and the rebels were tense. They had no idea what they were facing. Cienfuegos was a maze of winding narrow roads that eventually led to the wide-open bay and the navy base in the center. It wasn’t just a garrison they were targeting. It was a military installation with hundreds of men and a great deal of firepower. The soldiers there had rocket launchers and mortars. They had bazookas, and if they needed, they could call in the P-47 fighter planes.
Morgan had no idea what was going on in the rest of the mountains. But he knew he had to reach Cienfuegos before the city was lost. Once they reached the first set of roads, they could break up and enter the city at different angles, different streets. Gripping his Sten, Morgan picked up the pace. The rebels could see the outline of Cienfuegos just over the pass. Keep moving, he told them as they reached the first main road into the city.
In the distance, the rebels heard what sounded like gunshots. As they closed in, they could see men, women, and children hanging over the balconies, waving flags and shouting “¡Libertad! ” as the rebels approached.
One rebel stopped and talked to the pedestrians hugging one another in the streets. The news was already crackling over the radios: Batista and his generals had fled the country. Morgan ordered his men to keep moving. There was no time to celebrate. They had one important stop: the road to the bay. If Batista had indeed fled, the Second Front was going to make sure the port and the naval base belonged to the guerrillas. Just beyond the next block, Morgan could see the sparkling blue waters of Jagua Bay, the centerpiece of the city.
By the time they reached the end of the road, the naval base loomed over the causeway. Morgan stopped for a moment and stared at the fortress. Then he turned to his messengers. “Tell them they are surrounded. There is no place for them to go.” At first, his demands sounded crazy. The navy base could fire on the rebels at any time. It could batten down the hatches and wait for the army.
Morgan held his Sten tightly as he waited for his answer. No one inside the naval base was moving. Morgan was handed a radio. It was the commander, who assured Morgan that the rebels could lower their weapons. The base was surrendering.
Now Cienfuegos belonged to Morgan and the Second Front.