Castro's Bomb (19 page)

"No sir."

Chapter Eight

It wasn't much, but at least there was a roof over their heads and a wooden floor and nobody cared that there wasn't any furniture.
 
There were holes in the roof but that wouldn't matter until it rained.
 
The roof was aluminum and any rain would sound like horses running through the place, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
 

The abandoned frame house was in a stand of trees and in a slight depression in the ground, which meant it wasn't visible from the dirt road about a half mile away.
 
It had four small rooms including a kitchen with a wood burning stove.
 
There was no indoor plumbing.
 
Reasonably clean and fresh water came from an old fashioned well that had to be pumped by hand.
 
Under normal circumstances none of them would have given the place a second look, but this night it was an oasis.
 
They could rest and rejuvenate themselves in relative safety and comfort.

Andrew and Gunnery Sergeant Cullen quickly organized the men into various duties that included cooking and sentry duty, along with listening for news on the radio.
 
Andrew was insistent that they listen for the seven pm NBC news only.
 
He said it was a means of preserving their batteries.

He also inventoried their skills.
 
Did anyone know Morse code?
 
Groth said he did, a little.
 
Practice, he was told and Groth began by tapping a small rock against a larger one until the others told him to either stop or go elsewhere, because he was driving them crazy.

Could anyone build a generator to provide them with renewable electricity when the batteries inevitably failed?
 
PFC Anders volunteered and was hired.
 
And how about building a radio that they could use to transmit as well as receive?
 
Anders blanched but said he'd work on it right after building a generator.

When it came to cooking, everyone automatically turned to Cathy.
 
"You're joking, right?
 
Yes I've cooked before and, granted nobody's died, but I might drive you back to liking C-Rations."

Nobody felt that was very likely, so Cathy said she'd give it a try.
 
She knew it would help for her to do something, to be useful.
 
Lance Corporal Williams said he'd help.
 
"So much for a good college education getting me out of the kitchen," Cathy mockingly lamented.
 
The bad news was that they had nothing to cook.

Later, Cathy sat on the floor beside Andrew with their backs against the wall.
 
"Can I ask you what you're thinking, lieutenant?"

Andrew smiled.
 
"First off, you're not in the Corps, so there's no need to call me anything other than Andrew.
 
Second, I'm trying to plan ahead.
 
This is a totally unexpected experience and I want to make sure I don't screw it up.
 
If I make a mistake, people might die," he said, thinking of the men who had already died under his command.

"I don't want that to happen either," she said softly.
 
"Do you think the owners of this high class hacienda will come back anytime soon?"

He laughed.
 
The building was little more than a shed.
 
"I doubt it.
 
They've gone and probably permanently.
 
Either they lost their jobs at Gitmo when the barbed wire went up and left for parts unknown, or they fled to Miami with a lot of their friends and neighbors, or, more likely, they got some of the better land that's been divvied up and given to the poor by Castro.
 
No, I don't think anybody calls this dump home anymore.
 
But we do have to be careful of Cuban patrols and anybody else wandering into the area."

"What will you do if that happens?"

"Not a clue," he answered truthfully.
 
"Running rather than fighting is what I would choose if I have a choice."

Cathy decided to change the subject.
 
"It's funny, but I don't think I recall seeing you on base.
 
I hope you're not insulted."

"Well, unless you were fascinated by supplies and budgets, you would've had no reason to see me at work and I was just one of a whole lot of identical lieutenants.
 
I remember you, though.
 
I saw you running a lot in the mornings while I was working out myself."

He didn't add that he thought she looked great in a pair of shorts and with sweat dampened tee shirt clinging to her body.
 
Fantastic legs highlighted a nice trim body.

"Wait," she said.
 
"Did you work with Rachel Desmond?"

"Yeah," he answered, knowing where this was going.

"Are you the guy she was trying to fix me up with?"

"Guilty."

Cathy looked at him intently.
 
"She has good judgment, I think.
 
I'm pleased to meet you."

"Me too," he said.
 
"Just wish it was better circumstances."

Cathy looked around.
 
A couple of the men were already asleep and snoring noisily.
 
She would sleep on blankets on the floor of the smaller room.
 
"Thanks for the privacy.
 
I really appreciate it."

"I try to be a gentleman," he said with a grin.
 
She found herself returning it.
 
The awful memories were receding, at least for a moment, although she knew they lurked within her and could emerge at any time.
 
She'd known one girl who'd been assaulted on a date and it had taken her a very long time to get over it, if she ever did.
 
Cathy didn't feel she had a choice.
 
If she didn't control herself, she might not survive.
 

Now if she could only be sure that her health hadn’t compromised by the possibility of venereal disease and that she wasn't pregnant.
 
The more she thought of it, the more she thought she wasn't, but she was far from certain.

"And not only do I have a private suite to sleep in," she added, "but I understand they've dug me my very own latrine trench.
 
Goodness," she said with a mock southern drawl, "y'all surely know how to show a girl a good time.
 
My own latrine.
 
Why just the thought of it makes me want to up and swoon.
 
And these delicious C-rations?
 
Why you're idea of a Caribbean vacation leaves nothing to be desired."

Her voice had begun to rise.
 
Andrew thought he sensed a note of hysteria, even panic.
 
He gently put his hand on hers and held it.
 
She put hers on top and squeezed hard, fighting back sobs.
 

"Cathy, before this happened I'd been trying to get Rachel Desmond to introduce us.
 
So, when we get back to the States, and we will get back, I'd like to take you to dinner at the nicest place in Miami or Washington or wherever we wind up.
 
Okay?"

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
 
"I was a little near the edge just then, wasn't I?"

"I don't blame you.
 
All of us are whipped, emotionally and physically.
 
What we need now is a little rest so we can begin to realize that this isn't a bad dream that's going to go away.
 
Let's face it.
 
When we all wake up, we'll still be here."

She shook her head.
 
Her body began to shake and tears ran down her cheeks.
 
"Andrew, I can't believe what has happened to me, to us.
 
My home has been destroyed, my best friend blown apart by a bomb or a shell, and," here she paused, wondering quite what to say, "I saw a very good friend of mine raped by a Cuban soldier."

She let go of his hand, got up and walked the few steps to her room and turned.
 
Privacy did not include a door.
 
A blanket was hung in the doorway.
 
"Tell you what, Andrew, I'll take you up on that dinner."

Any thoughts the American prisoners had regarding the possible omnipotence of the Cuban military after the sudden Cuban victory ended when they met Colonel Humberto Cordero.

The Cuban colonel knew when he was out of his depth, which was now.
 
More than that – he was drowning.
 
He was overwhelmed at the thought of administrating to a couple of thousand surly American POWs.
 
Only a couple of days ago, he'd been the chief jailor in the city of Santiago, Cuba.
 
He'd commanded a dozen guards and controlled maybe fifty or so inmates, most of whom were there because of petty thefts, drunkenness, or the occasional stabbing, along with the periodic wife-beater who he quickly released.
 
Cuban men did not consider wife-beating a crime unless, of course, it went too far and the wife was either killed or had broken bones.
 

Nor was Cordero truly an army colonel.
 
He was a fifty-year old and grossly overweight nobody and he was quickly realizing that he'd like those days back.

But they weren't coming back.
 
El Presidente, Fidel Castro, had given him the rank of colonel, assigned him several hundred ill-trained militia, and told him to guard over two thousand American prisoners of war, all of whom would have liked to cut off his balls and stuff them down his throat.

The prison camp was located in a large field outside Santiago, which was about fifty miles from Gitmo.
 
Construction workers had hurriedly thrown up a couple of hundred tents and surrounded the whole thing with a double fence made of barbed wire, with rolls of concertina wire inside the two fences.
 
Watchtowers had been built and machine guns installed.
 
It looked impressive.
 
Cordero knew it was a shell, a sham.
 
The watchtowers would have to be reinforced.
 
They'd been built so hastily that they swayed in a breeze.
 

Major Sam Hartford understood Cordero's dilemma.
 
In a fundamental sort of way, he even sympathized with the little fat man, and when it became evident that Colonel Cordero could be manipulated, he did so with a vengeance.
 

First, he convinced Cordero that it would be foolish and inefficient to separate the enlisted men from their officers, which was ordinarily done with POWs.
 
Hartford told him that keeping the officers and men together would facilitate the administration, feeding, housing, disciplining, and controlling the prisoners.
 
In return for that, Hartford promised that he would keep his men on their best behavior.
 
If it occurred to Cordero that it would enable Hartford to organize the prisoners as a resistance and espionage force, he didn't seem to mind.
 
Nor was he concerned that Hartford might lie to him, and that puzzled Hartford, but he let it go.
 
He would not look a stupid Cuban gift horse in the mouth.

Hartford had quickly decided that Captain Tom Keppel, the man who'd shared the command bunker with him, would be his administrative officer.
 

"Tom, while you are getting everyone a place to sleep and something to eat, I want you to also take an inventory of a few things."

Keppel smiled wickedly.
 
"Let me guess.
 
You'd like to know who speaks Spanish."

"You're reading my mind, captain, but that's only a start.
 
I want to know who managed to bring in a radio, and maybe some batteries.
 
Then I want to know who has a weapon.
 
I don't think anybody managed to smuggle in a Garand or a carbine, but maybe somebody has a pistol hidden in his shorts, and I'm sure there's a ton of knives out there."

Keppel agreed.
 
The searching of the prisoners had been cursory at best.
 
Hartford had complained vehemently to Cordero when some of his pea-brained guards had started to steal watches and cigarette lighters from the men.
 
To his credit, Cordero had put a stop to it.
 
Cubans did not steal, he said stiffly.
 
At least not when someone was watching, Hartford thought.

"There's more, Tom.
 
I want to know who has anything unusual in the way of a skill.
 
Like building a two-way radio from scratch, or how to make a bomb, or how to dig a tunnel without killing himself.
 
And, goodness, you're not making any notes, are you?
 
Why not, captain?"

Keppel grinned.
 
He knew he'd just passed a test.
 
"Written notes have a bad way of being found by the bad guys, major.
 
I read that in a novel once."

"Must've been a good book, Tom.
 
And last, at least last for this meeting, I want to know how much money we have.
 
Or anything else we can use for barter or trade.
 
I don't expect the men to give up anything precious, like a wristwatch from gramps for graduation, or a wedding ring, but I would like to know what favors and information we can buy."

"Or steal?"

Hartford slapped Keppel on the shoulder.
 
"I'm beginning to like the way you think."

At least Hartford now knew that the Red Cross had a comprehensive list of prisoners, which meant that his family had been notified that he'd survived the battle.
 
That was one less thing to worry about.
 
Now if he could only figure out a way to screw up the Cubans.