Someone should be shot for negligence. Thankful that there was no moon and realizing that the invasion had been timed with that in mind, he stole through darkness. Sometimes in a low crouch, sometimes sliding flat on his stomach, he moved in the shadows behind the shrubbery, drawing ever closer. His heart pounded.

  The sound of a revving engine halted him. Fifty feet away, the main gun of a tank protruded from a hollow place near the intersection.

  Circling wide, Atcho approached it from the rear. Step by careful step, he crept up behind a lone guard standing by the tank.

  The guard shifted his feet. Atcho froze. A sound came from the front hatch. The driver was preparing to exit. If he cut the engine, he would eliminate the noise that was Atcho’s only protection.

  Atcho sprang. Cupping his hand over the guard’s mouth, he pulled the man down and yanked his head around until he heard the neck crack.

  The engine fell silent.

  Atcho ducked behind the tank, mounted it, and crept forward, using the turret for cover. Keeping an eye on the other soldiers, he watched the driver’s hatch. It opened, and an arm appeared in the soft light of the tank’s interior. Atcho waited until the arm rested on the hull, then slammed his foot down on the heavy steel hatch. An anguished cry and a metallic clang broke the night.

  Startled soldiers wheeled, then scattered, some in the direction of the tank, others seeking cover by the side of the road. They were too late.

  Atcho whirled and jumped to the cupola, hoping the machine gun was loaded. It was, and he opened fire.

  One soldier ran directly at the tank. A burst of bullets caught him in the chest mid-leap. He fell to the ground.

  Atcho swung the machine gun in a horizontal arc, firing in short bursts. Two soldiers who had made it to the road fell on their faces, propelled by the force of hot lead. Two more ran for cover in the swamps. They felt stinging impacts, and then watched their own blood oozing into the dank earth.

  In moments, all was still. Cautiously, Atcho opened the commander’s cupola, and found it empty. Then he checked the driver’s compartment. The unfortunate man was alive, but barely conscious and bleeding badly. Atcho dragged him out and propped him by the side of the road where he might be found and rescued.

  Returning to the tank, he crawled inside. It was an American-made M41 Sherman. He had driven earlier models during his yearling summer training at Ft. Knox at the end of his first year at West Point, but that had been a World War II M4 model. He had seen pictures of the M41, which had been developed to counter the Soviet T34-85, but Atcho had not been aware that any had been delivered to Cuba. How did the Cuban army get one?

  Fortunately, the driving mechanisms were not that different. Taking a minute to study controls, Atcho started the engine and barreled through the barricade toward Playa Giron. The war machine groaned over a small rise, then settled into a higher than normal cruising speed as Atcho drove toward the sound of guns.

  In the glow of the running lights, he saw a road leading to the right through the swamp. He cut the engine and listened. Explosions and small-arms fire sounded. He re-started the engine and forged in their direction.

  He rounded a bend and entered a fierce battle from the south flank. Guns blazed on both sides of the swamp. Bullets pinged off the tank.

  Atcho continued his headlong flight through the deadly gauntlet until he came upon a wide clearing. Knowing that the exile forces were to his left, he turned sharply into them. Gunfire from his front increased, concentrated on the tank.

  Atcho continued his desperate drive until he was well past the line of men spread out on either side. For fear of hitting their own soldiers, they stopped firing toward him.

  Taking advantage of the lull, Atcho cut the engine. He threw the hatch open, waved his hands and shouted, “Don’t shoot. I’m a patriot.”

  Cautious men with camouflaged faces in dark battle dress surrounded him.

  “Don’t shoot,” Atcho yelled again. “I’m a patriot. My name is Atcho. No one else is with me.” From behind, he heard men climbing onto the tank. He sat very still in the driver’s seat and waited. In the distance, he heard the firefight still raging.

  “You’re Atcho?” The voice was low, surprised. “Come.”

  Atcho clambered down. When he reached the ground, the man faced him. “Thanks for getting our tank back. It was captured a day ago. Is there ammunition for the main gun?”

  “I didn’t have time to check.”

  The soldier nudged Atcho’s arm and led him into the swamp away from the fighting. “I am Rafael. We heard you were on your way but had no idea how or when you’d arrive.” He gestured toward the tank. “You lived up to your reputation.”

  “How’s the invasion going?”

  “Not good. We’re part of the main body of Brigade 2506. We received none of the air support we were promised. The US Navy sits over the horizon doing nothing, and our supply ship was sunk. This is the fourth day, and the invasion is probably over. Most of the leaders are doing their best to execute an orderly retreat.” Rafael paused gloomily. “We just learned that news, and it hasn’t had time to spread. Only here at the Bay of Pigs is the fighting still fierce. One Cuban-exile commander already took a contingent of soldiers to escape out to sea in small boats.”

  “Was the underground any help?”

  “Hell no. They were disorganized. Contact was sparse, and assets deployed in the wrong places. You’d think they weren’t expecting the invasion, or they didn’t really support it.”

  “They did their best,” Atcho muttered with an edge of bitterness. “Have you heard from Juan Ortiz? He’s one of the resistance leaders in this area.”

  “I’ve heard of him, and he’s a helluva fighter. He’s the main guy who’s had any success.”

  “I need to get in touch with him.”

  “We were instructed to bring you to headquarters. You can contact Juan there.”

  They walked far to the rear of the battle area, where a Jeep waited. Atcho shook Rafael’s hand.

  “I hope we meet again under happier circumstances,” Rafael said.

  “Any circumstances would be better.”

  Atcho settled in beside the driver, an old man in his sixties. “Did you come in with the landing force?” Atcho asked incredulously.

  The man displayed a toothless grin. “I would do anything to liberate my country.” He glanced at Atcho and grinned again. “You think because I’m old I can’t fight?”

  Atcho looked at him through tired eyes with a wan smile. He grasped the old man’s shoulder. “I would never think such a thing.”

  As they drove, the sounds of battle receded. Soon they left the swamp and turned parallel to the ocean a few hundred yards away. The Jeep gained speed, heading for low buildings silhouetted against the sand. Atcho saw several military vehicles surrounding an antenna-encrusted bungalow.

  When they halted by the buildings, he stepped wearily from the Jeep. Waves murmured and broke on the beach. Atcho strained to see the village of Playa Giron. All was quiet. Not even a dog barked. “Toothless” motioned Atcho to follow. They circled to the front door.

  Light was dim inside the one-room building. At the far end, an operations area had been set up with maps, radios, and field desks. Several men eyed Atcho silently.

  These guys aren’t friendly. Tired as he was, he was glad of no need to carry on conversation.

  Then he heard a click behind his head. Too late, his exhausted senses sounded an alarm.

  “Welcome, Comrade,” a steely voice said. “You are a prisoner of Fidel Castro and the Cuban people.”

  His feet rooted to the floor, Atcho felt the cold nose of a pistol just behind his right ear. “Stay still. You too, old man. Put your hands against the wall.”

  Atcho’s stomach knotted. He complied in silence. Beside him, Toothless did the same. Two Cuban soldiers searched them, took their weapons, and ordered them to join the group Atcho had seen on entering. Those prisoners greeted Toothless and regarded Atcho with dull curiosity.

  Atcho said nothing. He settled on the floor in the corner and leaned against the wall, head in his hands. I walked right into the headquarters Castro most wanted to capture. “Ah, Isabelita,” he breathed, “will I ever see you again?”

  He watched for an opportunity to escape, but the guards remained alert. How would I find Isabel, anyway? My group is destroyed. He leaned against a wall. Escape first, then find Isabel. To do that, they can’t know who I am.

  Toothless sat next to him. “You’re Atcho, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  Atcho placed his arm around the old man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you are mistaken. I am Manuel. I know about Atcho. I saw him killed on the battlefield tonight.”

  Toothless sat next to Atcho throughout that first night of captivity. The old man never indicated whether he believed the ruse. He seemed to accept “Manuel,” but sensed that Atcho’s pain went beyond the loss of battle.

  Though he did little to encourage Toothless’ friendship, Atcho welcomed the caring presence of the old man. Thin and wizened, his empty mouth smiled often, despite the circumstance. He represents Brigade 2506 and Cuba bravely.

  9

  The Cuban army trucked the captives to a holding area north of the swamp. From there they transported them to Havana.

  On the second day, Toothless sneaked into Atcho’s group. “Manuel,” he said quietly. “I have news you should hear.”

  Atcho returned the old man’s worried scrutiny with vague interest. “There was a leader of the resistance,” Toothless went on. “His name was Juan Ortiz.”

  Atcho became alert, but he showed no outward change of expression. “Go on.”

  “I heard he was killed.”

  The old man continued speaking, but Atcho heard him as though in a fog. A lifetime of memories with Juan passed through his mind.

  Outwardly impassive, Atcho grieved. His body felt heavy and tired. He wanted only to find a dark corner and lie down. “How did he die?”

  “I don’t know much. I heard he was a close friend of Atcho’s. When Juan was captured, they questioned him about Atcho. He wouldn’t talk, so they tortured him. When he still wouldn’t talk, they shot him.” The old man shook his head. “The men who saw his murder say he was very brave.”

  Atcho held back burning tears. His throat constricted, but he refused to allow even a gasp to escape. He turned to Toothless. “Thank you.”

  The next day in Havana, the guards segregated Brigade 2506 members from underground resistance fighters. Atcho knew that treatment of those in the second category would be far worse.

  He expected public trials. Castro had too much flair to miss an opportunity to show the world his justice. Beatings and torture would be private events, only rumored, and officially denied. Executions would be many, accomplished as official sentence and brutal retaliation.

  Atcho’s worry over discovery of his alias, Manuel Lezcano, dissipated. Records were poor. He told authorities he was from the province of Oriente.

  He stood in a line with other prisoners to have his picture taken. Then, they stood trial, herded into a crowded courtroom with Fidel’s disciples screaming for the firing squads.

  Prisoners’ families watched from the other side of the courtroom. Their misery, etched on their faces, turned into abject grief when, one hour after entering the courtroom, sentences had been meted out and appeals exhausted. On leaving the courtroom, Atcho faced thirty years in prison, to be incarcerated in the most notorious prison in Cuba, the Isle of Pines.

  10

  May 1961

  Atcho felt like a walking cadaver when he staggered from a bus with his fellow prisoners at El Presidio Modelo on the Isle of Pines. A boat had brought them from the main island of Cuba early that morning. The bus had picked them up at the quay in Nueva Gerona and had taken them to the prison. Five massive towers rose into sight. Four of them were seven stories high and two hundred feet in diameter. The one at the center was only three stories high but had a much larger diameter. The mess hall.

  On seeing the towers, Atcho felt a cold chill. He turned to one of his companions. “What do you think?”

  The man did not respond but stared vacantly at the ominous round cellblocks. In silence, they trudged under the harsh commands of their guards to one marked Circular 4, which would house the newest cargo of “fresh meat.” In its cavernous interior, a single watchtower rose five stories from the center, and a mass of humanity moved on the ground floor and on the tiers above.

  Access was firmly secured at the base of the interior watchtower. From their perch, four armed guards observed every cell on each floor ringing the outside walls. The building was thirty-seven years old. Having housed generations of prisoners, the stench of effluent, tropical dankness, and decades without cleaning stung Atcho’s nostrils. He felt the visceral press of multitudes of dirty male bodies against him.

  When the outer doors closed, the guards who had escorted them stayed outside. A tall, muscular inmate wearing a blue prison uniform approached the new group. “I am Javier,” he growled. “The prison warden appointed me to govern Circular 4.” He pointed to several other men in blue prison uniforms. “Those are my assistants. They’ll show you how things work here. You’ve each been assigned a cell and a work group. Don’t give me trouble.”

  He waved his hand to indicate hundreds of prisoners milling about. “Your fellow inmates they think they should not wear these blue uniforms.” He indicated his own. “They complained today. They think that because they are political prisoners, that makes them better than us.” He leered at them and exchanged grins with his cohorts. “Don’t think it,” he snapped. “I’m going to divide you into groups. You start work tomorrow morning.”

  Moments later, Atcho stood with a group of young men roughly his own age, designated for the marble quarries. They awaited further instruction. Then, Atcho heard a commotion to his right.

  An old man, skinny and bent over, walked deliberately in front of Javier. Dressed only in his underwear, he carried his blue uniform in his arms. “These towers were built for nine hundred men.” he yelled angrily. “There must be twice that many in here.” He threw the uniform at Javier’s feet. “I will not wear these clothes of criminals.” He spat onto the floor. “I’m not a common thief like you. I will not be ruled by convicts.”

  Javier looked startled, then his face darkened. The cavernous interior had gone quiet, with only a murmur coming from a few who had not sensed the unfolding drama. On the watchtower, the guards moved uneasily, weapons pointed toward Javier and the old man.

  Atcho tensed.

  Another prisoner walked in front of Javier and threw down his uniform, then a third, and a fourth. Within seconds, twenty prisoners, clad in only their tattered, grimy underwear, stood defiantly in front of Javier, looking alternately between him and the guards in the watchtower.

  Atcho saw a guard speak into a telephone. Moments later, the outside door swung open. A band of guards rushed in. They grabbed the old man, beat him, and dragged him outside.

  “Silence,” Javier yelled above the din. More prisoners quickly drowned him out as they stripped off their uniforms and threw them down. Around the walls, yet more inmates angrily left their cells and descended the narrow concrete stairs, stripping their uniforms off as they came.

  Javier’s “assistants” drew close to him. On the watchtower, Atcho saw the same guard once again speak into the telephone.

  Atcho stepped into shadows and worked his way to one side of Javier. Around them, men yelled and jeered. The assistants’ attention remained riveted on the rebellious political prisoners. Javier tried to order calm, but no one paid attention to him.

  Suddenly, Atcho delivered two sharp blows, one to Javier’s stomach, the other directly into the bridge between his eyes. He heard a crack of bone.

  Javier went down. The entire motion took barely a second, and Atcho stepped back into the shadows.

  Javier’s men grouped around and moved toward the exit, encircled by the furious crowd of political prisoners. At that moment, a shaft of sunlight broke through the doorway, and more guards rushed in. They secured Javier and his men and made a quick exit, closing and locking the heavy iron door behind them.

  Inside, the noise died. All eyes turned toward the watchtower. One guard still talked on the phone. The others had spread out so that they had full rifle coverage of the interior. The guard on the telephone replaced the receiver and picked up a bullhorn. “Go back to your cells.” His voice was half authoritative and half wavering. “Go back to your cells. Now.”

  The prisoners began dispersing, each individual headed toward his few square feet of space. Atcho nudged one of the men in his underwear. “Where do I go? I just got here.” The man looked at him through sagging eyes. He did not respond, nor did he start walking. He seemed lost in a trance. Then, he faced the tower and called out.

  “Listen to me.” At first, no one seemed to hear him, so he called again. “Guards. Listen to me.”

  Movement stopped. One of the guards peered down. “You want more trouble?”

  “You tell your boss that we will not be governed by criminals. We are educated men who never broke the law. We will govern ourselves, or you will have to shoot us all.” He paused, and yelled again, “We won’t wear the uniforms of criminals.”

  Around him, other prisoners looked at him in awe and fear. “You go too far,” one said quietly.

  “No,” he responded vehemently. “They’ve taken everything away from us. I will either keep my dignity or die with it.” He set his jaw firmly.

  Around him, a small group gathered. It grew until every man in Circular 4, stood packed together, facing the watchtower defiantly.

  The guard spoke into the phone again. A moment later, he lifted the bullhorn and called down, “The warden will meet with your representatives tonight. Go back to your cells.” He lowered the bullhorn and picked up his weapon.

 

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