n this 50th Anniversary of the Bay of Pigs Invasion, I would
like to share with our readers a couple of unusual untold
stories of the Assault Brigade 2506 that landed at the Bay
of Pigs on April 17, 1961, that are
included in my unpublished notes.
Of course, Brigade members could retell
numerous stories of events, some funny others sad, that occurred before, during
and after the Bay of Pigs invasion. Those anecdotes, for
sure, would show the dedication, courage, patriotism and
unselfishness of the men who landed on Cuban beaches to
bring democracy and respect for human rights to their
countrymen.
The brigadistas came from different backgrounds and ways of life.
They were white, mulattoe and black; poor, middle class
and wealthy; educated and uneducated; professionals and
laborers; young and old, in summary, a cross-section of Cuban
society. Each freedom fighter had his own long road filled
with frustrations, suffering and sacrifices that led him
from his local environment in Cuba or Miami to tough
training, combat and imprisonment.
But in spite of their differences, all of the
members of the Brigade had at the time
of the invasion the same aspirations:
to bring freedom and democracy to their native land.
As in many real life stories, the Bay of Pigs invasion
had both sad and happy moments. The sad moments of the story
were when we realized that we had not been able to overthrow a communist tyrant
and, instead, facilitated his consolidation; to learn that 114 of our comrades
in arms had been killed in action or at the hands of the
dictator's henchmen; and that eight honorable freedom fighters
were left behind in Cuban communist prisons. The happy moment came
about on December 22, 1962, when the
great majority of us were freed after twenty-two months of
imprisonment and were finally reunited with our loved
ones at Homestead Air Force Base in Florida. We were also
very happy when we learned that we would have the opportunity to continue
our struggle for the liberation of Cuba.
As we commemorate yet another anniversary
in exile this week, I decided to insert on this CAMCO website
a couple of
excerpts from my unedited memoirs.
It is my hope that in these somewhat humorous and sad stories of
the "Cattle Tick Base," "The Hanged Man,"
and "The last desperate hours at Giron Beach," CAMCO's readers
catch
a glimpse of how loyalty, comradery and motivation to succeed
could be developed under grueling circumstances.
CHAPTER VII "THE
ASSAULT BRIGADE 2506"
42.
MOVEMENT TO A NEW TRAINING SITE
s the Brigade's Armored Battalion (Bon-Blin) commander,
I was busy all the time. Every day we began our training very
early. Before breakfast, I held daily meetings with my Executive
officer, Valentín A. Vacallao Fonte, and
with José
Miguel Batlle Vargas, First Company; Luis O. Rodriguez
Martinez, Second Company; Angel R. Mujica Herrera, Third
Company; Luis E. Martínez Castro, Heavy Weapons;
and their executive officers. Most of the mornings
were used for company level training but during the afternoon,
I always had the whole battalion performing training under
my direct command. The entire battalion was assembled for
every activity before the companies were instructed to go
to a particular area or classroom. I wanted to ensure that
every member of my battalion knew each other and also the respective
commanders of the other Brigade's units. In a couple of weeks I was
able to have a very cohesive command structure in which
every member was well informed of what he was expected to
do. The training, provided by the American advisors, our
headquarters staff or myself, was conducted as professionally
as in any other regular conventional army structure. In
my battalion, military discipline and courtesy was no only
expected but enforced. The brigadistas who occupied officer
positions fully exercised their authority throughout the
chain of
command.
Base Trax was getting crowded with daily new arrivals,
therefore, late in January, Alejandro del Valle, the young
and charismatic commander
of the Brigade First Battalion of Paratroopers, our elite
unit, was instructed by Frank, the American base commander,
to move his unit to La Suiza Farm, a training site near
the Guatemalan town of San José de Buenavista, approximately
25 miles from Base Trax, where our headquarters was
located. The
advisors had already selected areas that could be used
as drop zones by our paratroopers. A few days later, Frank
called me at his quarters and pointing to a big Guatemalan
map hanging on one of the walls, he showed me the new training
site selected for the Bon-Blin. My new site was located
about half a mile from the paratrooper's area.
Since
the brigade was organized, the Bon-Blin had been conducting
solely infantry training. However, the battalion had been
organized to fill up two motorized companies, a heavy weapons
company and a tank company that, in the future, would have
assigned five medium U.S.-made M-41 tanks with a high velocity
76 mm gun. Each tank would have a four-man crew. Of course,
we did not have any heavy equipment at Trax, but I was assured
by Frank that, once the battalion had landed in Cuba, it
would be provided with all motorized equipment and tanks
established on our table of organization and equipment (TOE).
In one of our meetings, classified as "SECRET,"
Frank told me and
the Brigade commander, Jose (Pepe) Pérez San Roman, that some of the Bon-Blin infantry personnel
would be fully transported throughout the future area of
operations in heavy armored trucks equipped with .50 caliber
machine guns. Reviewing the personnel records, Pepe and I had selected
from my battalion the tank commander and crew. According to the plans discussed,
they would depart shortly to receive armored training in
military bases in the United States...
"THE
CATTLE TICK BASE" -- "Garrapatenango"
he
tropical vegetation we found at the new training site,
near San José, was full of poisonous snakes,
some resembling cobras and one very dangerous which the Indians
called "yellow whiskers." At night, before "hitting
the sack," the brigadistas had to violently shake out
their sleeping bags, blankets and pillows to ensure that they
did not contain snakes, reptiles, or any other unwelcome "visitors."
In the mornings, we could not put our boots on without carefully
checking them since during the night, large black tarantulas
and scorpions used to hide inside, looking for a "warm
home."
As it ended up, mite-like cattle ticks became our major
problem at this training camp. A few yards from the new training
field ran a long and narrow stream with warm blue waters that
looked very peaceful, beautiful and extremely clean, at least
that was what our eyes saw. It is a nice place to meditate,
I thought.
At the end of the first day at the new base, after
ten hours of machete work some members of my battalion asked
their company commanders authorization to jump into the stream
to swim and, at the same time, get a obviously necessary bath. When I received
the request, I thought it was a good idea to give the exhausted
men some type of recreation and decided that not only a few, but
the whole battalion should take a deep in the beautiful
river.
I had the battalion assembled and directed each company commander
to take his unit to the blue and clean waters. When the units arrived
at the river bank, each commander dismissed his troops and
most of the brigadistas, some even still wearing their uniforms,
jumped happily into the waters. Most
of the men, who had carefully placed on the bank their soaps,
towels and some clean uniforms, began swimming, bathing or
playing with each other in the water. Suddenly, the screaming
of Antonio Curbelo, my S-1 (battalion personnel staff officer)
who was seated on top of a huge rock under a giant tree after
finishing his bath, made me come out from the water faster
that I had gone in.
When several brigadistas and I reached
the officer, he showed us his body full of cattle ticks.
Soon I realized that my body was also partially full of ticks.
We started calling the troops that were still swimming,
to come out from the river. It took us almost two days and nights to get rid
of those blood-sucking creatures from our bodies. In order
to pull the insects' remains off from our skin, we had to
use heat. In my case, I used several of my big Cuban cigars
to "evict" those parasites from their "new homes." We were
told by one of the few "guajiros" (Cuban countryman)
that I had in my battalion, that if the tick heads stayed
inside our body, the wound produced by it would be infected.
Their words immediately created a well-founded panic among the
bon-blin's tough fighters.
When, the following day, with
the expert assistance of Martín Loriga Sanchez, one
of the brigade physicians who luckily was at that time inspecting
the sanitary conditions of the camp, I finished the tedious
and painful work of getting rid of the ugly ticks, my entire
body was full of cigar burn marks. Unfortunately, my small
supply of delicious Havanos from Miami was also gone. Our
experiences with the cattle ticks led to our new base being
officially named by the brigadistas "Garrapatenango"
or "Cattle Tick Base" ...
In the Bon-Blin, I had selected most of the company commanders,
platoon and squad leaders from the ranks of the professional
soldiers although some were former police officers, as Batlle
and Mujica, who had some military training and discipline.
However, a couple of civilians who had learned fast and showed
leadership potentials, as Curbelo, were also given battalion
staff positions. My philosophy was that we were going to battle,
not to a parade field, therefore, above all the leaders of
my battalion needed to be trained and
disciplined soldiers.
Even the young students and civilian professionals
who had not been selected for positions of responsibility
in the Bon-Blin, had agreed with my concept. They had expressed
their desire to be trained and led by men who could be trusted
when D-Day arrived...
During those days at Garrapatenango, I often remembered
the words written by General George Patton: "To be a good
soldier a man must have discipline, self-respect, pride in
his unit and his country, a high sense of duty, and
obligation to his comrades and his superior, and
self-confidence born of demonstrated ability." To me, all
members of the Bon-Blin truly possessed these qualities...
"THE
HANGED MAN"
he
only incident that came close to creating a big rebellion
in my Bon-Blin happened during a February weekend. Frank
had been very impressed by the high accuracy attained by
my battalion units in a firing qualification. He wanted
me to recognize the members of my Bon-Blin command for their efforts
and he informed me that he would be given several pigs and
cases of beer to celebrate our exceptional training achievement.
I was very, very proud of the results of the firing training
because most of the members of my battalion, most of them
young men without any prior military experience, had
qualified as experts firing with pistols, M-l Garands, carbines
and machine-guns. The numbers of experts were higher than
of any other battalion in the brigade (including the paratropers).
Following Frank's instructions, I authorized a big
cookout. Beer had been "officially" authorized
only once since the training began the previous year. During
the 1960 Christmas Eve night we had a very good Cuban
style dinner -- of course it was an excellent meal because
it was cooked by Cubans, not by the CIA American cooks assigned
to the brigade. That experience, however, did not end pleasantly
because at midnight I had a heck of a problem trying to
confiscate a few pistols from those who were so happy, and
drunk, that they created a shooting gallery close to the
cliffs over the Nilo River. Their aims were so erratic that
the following morning, I saw the roofs of some of our barracks
filled with bullet
holes.
In the early morning of the authorized party at Garrapatenango,
every company was assigned a small picnic area, with rustic
benches made by our "engineers," where the unit
"chefs" could dig the holes for the drills.
Each unit commander received three 100-pound pigs. Some
of our "tougher" soldiers killed the huge pigs
with knives to demonstrate how efficient they were in hand-to-hand
combat. One even tried unsuccessfully to suffocate a pig
with his bare hands. After a few tries, the frustrated brigadista,
observing the sarcastic looks of his buddies, pulled
his .45 pistol and shot the animal in the head. Every one
started laughing. Others used their carbines to consummate
the ritual.
By three o'clock that afternoon, I was sitting on the grass in front of my command post, drinking
a cold beer and tasting a piece of a Cuban-style roasted
pig, when, unexpectedly, the peaceful atmosphere and my
serene thoughs were disrupted.
Looking very upset a young, shouting brigadista, came running
toward me. After taking a deep breath, he told me that one
of the new recruits had hanged himself from a tall tree.
I immediately asked a staff officer who was standing
near my tent enjoying a cold Guatemalan beers to
bring some ropes and machetes. We all rushed to the location
of the unfortunate incident. There, hanging from a huge
old oak tree was a brigadista. He was so high, between the
branches at the top of that two-hundred-year tree, that
no one around me could identify him from the ground. Pedro
Gonzalez, my aggressive, loyal and resourceful personal
assistant, who was always prepared for any emergency, brought
out a pair of binoculars but he was not able to identify
the dead man. "His face is not familiar to me, sir," he
said.
Since we could not recognize the hanged man, I began
wondering how in the heck the brigadista who first saw him knew that
he was a new recruit from my battalion. He could have been
anyone, even a poor desperate Indian worker. Nevertheless, I
thought, that man had gone through a lot of trouble to hang
himself. It was very difficult to reach the location
of his demise in that old gigantic tree. "He was really
crazy, I thought. If he wanted to die, he should have shot himself
down here, or selected a smaller tree," one of the
dozens onlookers, who had already drank a few beers, said
jokingly.
In a few minutes, the word reached the other picnic
areas and dozens of brigadistas came rushing to the site
where I was standing. Even some of our security guards had
left their posts and joined us to witness the heartbreaking
happening. We all momentarily forgot about our well-deserved
time-off, the cold beers, the yucas, black beens and the roasting pigs.
The glee shown by my men only moments before had been overcome
by despondency. How terrible, one of our compatriots had
committed suicide! and we were not able to stop him, Pedro
said. Some brigadistas recalled that we had three recruits
who were killed in accidents before but none had committed
suicide yet.
I instructed two of my best-trained
soldiers, famous for their palm tree climbing abilities,
to bring the man down.
Three of my medics were already there on site with
their firs-aid equipment, ready
to apply CPR if it was needed. It took the two "tree climbing
experts" ten long minutes to reach the hanged man. When
they touch him, the man who until that point was considered
dead with his head falling on his right shoulder, his mouth
slightly open and half of his tongue hanging outside, suddenly
revived. He
began laughing, trying jokingly to evade the two men already
at his side. I should have known better, he was a member
of the First Battalion of Paratroopers that was conducting
a scout exercise nearby.
The two rescuers, like the rest
of us, didn't like the joke and wanted to
throw the paratrooper down from the top of the tree. But, they,
reluctantly, followed my instructions and brought the joker
down in one piece. Once on the ground, with the rope still
hanging from the back of his neck, the culprit was brought
before me. He refused to tell me the reason behind the fake
hanging. But did tell me how it had been done. Early in
the morning, three paratroopers of his team that were involved
in the practical joke had climbed with him the huge tree. They selected a strong branch and tied him with
a heavy rope at his waist that had been pulled it up under
his shirt. "It is not funny," one of my men angrily shouted.
"I'm sure there is something rotten about this," another
cried. However, once the prank was uncovered, most of my
men, very happy to know that we had not have to change the
picnic for a wake, quickly ran to their respective picnic
areas. Some were laughing about the incident, others cursing
at the paratrooper for wasting their "precious" time.
Most were amazed by that paratrooper's "immaturity."
On further "tough interrogation"
by my intelligence officers inside the battalion headquarters
tent, the joker repeatedly said that neither he nor his
accomplices had received any instruction from Alejandro,
his tough battalion commander. The paratrooper
then started accusing the Bon-Blin intelligence officer
of retaining him against his will (he had provided only
his name, rank and serial number because he considered himself
a "prisoner of war").
My patience was really wearing
thin with our "prisoner" when suddenly about fifty men came running toward my CP
(command post). One of them cursing and screaming loudly
said he was glad to see that SOB was still in our hands,
in the battalion area, because he wanted to kill him. Holding
a Garand rifle in his right hand and looking very upset
and hostile, the brigadista told me that two of his
company's three pigs had disappeared from the grills while
they had gone to help the "hanged man." They demanded that
the "prisoner" be immediately handed over to them to be
"thoroughly interrogated, and tortured if necessary," until
he had confessed who had taken the animals and where they
had been hidden. Of course, I did not let them take the
paratrooper away because I was really afraid that those very
agitated guys could badly hurt the young man.
I fully realized that the Bon-Blin men felt very
disappointed
and were not joking--they wanted their three pigs back or
blood was going to be spilled. The well-trained and aggressive
"prisoner," remained very relaxed throughout the entire
ruckus episode and calmly and "respectfully" asked me
for a cigarette. I offered him one of my big Cuban cigars
but he said "No, Sir, thank your famous cigars are
too strong for me."
My loyal and disciplined men clearly
disapproved my benevolence toward the "captured enemy."
Everyone in the camps was aware that the paratroopers were
well known for stealing whatever they could put their hands
on: food, ammunition, weapons, blankets, sleeping bags,
anything. My company commanders had always instructed the outpost
security guards to watch carefully for paratroopers' infiltrations
through their units' perimeters. The aggressiveness
of Alejandro's youngsters was viewed by all of us,
throughout the chain of
command (including our advisors), as an integral part of their learning experience
to survive in a hostile environment. They had been taught
to be very tough, to do whatever it was necessary to stay
alive in order to accomplish their assigned missions. All
of us were actually quite proud of Alejandro's paratroopers.
A few minutes after learning of the unacceptable prank,
I immediately called my counterpart through the field
"private hot line" telephone that we had installed
in each of our headquarters tent to keep ourselves informed of
whatever happened in our respective area of operation.
At
my request, Alejandro promptly came to my battalion headquarters
tent with a bright smile. However, this time, I did not
receive him with the same enthusiasm I had always welcomed
him. After twenty minutes of "unfriendly" talk,
we reached an amicable compromise. I would not report the
incident to neither to Frank or Pepe, my battalion would not
retaliate in any way, shape or form, and his men would return
immediately the two
pigs with a couple of beer cases as a compensation. He agreed with my demands.
Reluctantly, the "thieves" (fifteen paratroopers)
brought back one full pig; the other pig had already been "devoured"
by the members of the raid team. The two beer
cases never arrived, the paratroopers had already consumed
their assigned quota.
The Bon-Blin men never forgave the
paratroopers for stealing their food and ruining their well-deserved
holiday. From that day on, a fierce rivalry and competition
developed between the two battalions, without questions,
the best two units of the brigade. I and the battalion American
advisers, actually welcomed the competition since it gave
the members of my Bon-Blin a new incentive to excel in their
preparation for battle.
I used to run at the head of my
battalion every evening, at the end of every training day,
and always took a route that passed close or inside the
paratroopers' battalion area to give my men the opportunity
to yell and curse at their new and "dangerous enemies."
Alejandro and his men always responded in kind...
******************
THE FOLLOWING
SEGMENTS HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED HERE TO HONOR THE REQUESTS MADE BY MANY CAMCOCUBA READERS.
SINCE THE E-MAIL REQUESTS
KEEP COMING, I DECIDED TO PUBLISH THE FOLLOWING
UNEDITED SEGMENTS OF MY
NOTES.
CHAPTER XII
-- 'BATTLE OF 'THE LOST BATTALION'
75.
BATTLE AT "LA ROTONDA"
y 4:45 a.m. the long
battle that had begun the previous evening was beginning to
abate.
Fighting continued, but now more subdued, with only sporadic
fire being heard coming from our left flank. The Brigade
tanks had such a busy night that they all had run out of
ammunition in the process of finally repelling the enemy
infantry’s assaults. One of the tanks attached to my Task
Force, commanded by Elio Alemán, came back to my command
post to report to me that no ammunition was left. I ordered
him to move to a close location where he could use his
machine gun against any new infantry assault that might be
launched against our North or West flanks. Fifteen minutes
later, González Carmenati's tank also came back to my
location without a single shell left for his 76 mm cannon.
Nevertheless, I sent him to support the company commanded by
Pedro Avila with whatever ammunition he had left for his
tank machine gun, Ten minutes later, Alvarez “El Huevito”
also arrived yelling that his tank gunner had spent his last
ammunition a few minutes before after scoring a direct hit
on a Staling tank.
Without tanks to defend our beachhead, I thought
that it would be easy for the enemy to penetrate our
positions during the anticipated next attack since we could
still hear the rumblings of enemy tanks operating nearby.
They were trying to clear or pass over the wreckage formed
by their own destroyed tanks and move toward our positions.
Three of them, one after the other, in a single column, were
able to enter La Rotonda, which was like a traffic circle at
the entrance of Playa Larga. However, our men were waiting
for them. A bazooka man knocked out the first tank that
appeared only 100 meters from his position but a second one
advanced unable to be detected in the darkness. Máximo Cruz,
who had spent the entire time on the front line leading his
company, was the first to identify the Russian tank that had
sneaked through. He stood up from his foxhole and began
firing tracing bullets to mark the outline of the tank so
his rocket launchers or 30-caliber machine gunners could
locate it, already inside the company’s defense positions,
and try to knock it out. Beside Cruz was Adalberto Sánchez,
a very young man who had left his family and his job as a
designer in New York to join the Brigade. He had been
working with Cruz as his radio operator. Earlier, Sánchez
had been wounded and slightly burned. He had asked Cruz
permission to go back to the rear to have his wounds
treated. Cruz had replied: There is no rear Adalberto, there
is only water at our backs ...we stay here and fight, this
is the rear. It was after that brief exchange that Cruz
stood up again and began firing frenetically his weapon at
the enemy tank. Only a second later, the tank fired back at
them and the shell exploded only a few feet from their
location. Both Cruz and Sánchez fell to the ground. Cruz
was knocked down bleeding profusely from his back and having
been severely wounded severely in four different areas of
his body. Two brigadistas jumped out from their trenches and
helped to carry the unconscious company commander back to
the Task Force’s first aid station where Dr. René Lamar, the
Chief of my medical section, took care of him. Sánchez died
immediately as his body was torn apart by the explosion. The
enemy tank was finally destroyed by another alert brigadista
with a bazooka. The day before, our units had made good use
of the unusual high number of bazookas that we were able to
bring ashore from the Houston during our hasty landing. The
Bon-Blin, with its heavily armored trucks had also brought
from Girón additional anti-tanks weapons that had been
supplied to the other units of my Task Force.
Around five o'clock, when the sky was beginning to brighten,
and dawn spread across the sandy beach, the battlefield
became relatively quite. The shapes that in the darkness had
assumed unreal forms, turned out to be trees and
construction materials. The empty houses where the enemy had
found protection against our fire the night before were now
clear to our view. For the members of the Second Battalion,
the area was already familiar. After they had landed under
the assertive command of Hugo Sueiro, they were deployed to
different positions of the established beachhead. They had
been shown the terrain, their respective fields of fire, and
the locations of the other members of my Task Force.
However, the Fourth Battalion, the Bon Blin that I had
proudly commanded for a few months at Trax and
Garrapatenango Bases, now led by Valentín Bacallao, had been
sent by Pepe San Roman, the Brigade Commander, to reinforce
my forces late the previous evening, just before the night
battle. Valentín’s battalion had been deployed in complete
darkness to the portion of the beach area that I had
assigned them. The disoriented brigadistas were instructed
by their unit commanders and platoon leaders to dig in and
prepare, as well as they could, to defend the swampy area in
front of them. They only knew the general direction of the
expected enemy attack. Since they had had arrived so late,
Valentín had not been able to reconnoiter the dangerous
terrain that his troops were supposed to defend. As a
result, his men were shooting all night long at whatever
seemed to be moving in front of their poorly protected
positions.
In the morning, the men from the Bon-Blin looked
for the first time to the ground where they had been
repelling, without interruption, waves of enemy attacks.
Since eleven o'clock the night before, more than 2,000
artillery shells had been fired against our positions. We
were very lucky that the inexperienced artillery men of
Fidel Castro had not been able to pinpoint our positions.
Over a dozen shells had landed inside my area of operations,
one very close to my tent in which three brigadistas were
wounded and Juan Figueras, a mortar gunner, lost one of his
legs. Fortunately, he survived his wounds. The other shells
fell short or over our heads into the dark sea. It was
difficult for me to understand their failure to conduct an
effective “fire for effect” on our beachhead, even if they
did not have the excellent Cuban maps that the Americans had
furnished us. They must have known that terrain like the
palm of their hands. Besides, their artillery commander was
a recognized expert in the matter. I already knew that the
enemy artillery batteries were commanded by “el Gallego”
Fernández, my former artillery professor at the Military
Academy where later, after he was jailed for conspiring
against President Batista, I had been appointed to the same
position that he had occupied as a professor.
The battle at Playa Larga had begun in complete
darkness and it ended the moment that the first hint of new
day swept into the east. More than eight hours of continuous
fighting. I was moving all night long with Eric Fernández,
my radio operator, and Pedro González, my security escort,
often jumping inside the brigadistas’ foxholes sharing with
them the information that my staff had gathered from the
enemy’s radio transmission. At the beginning of the combat
phase, I had ordered radio silence within the Task Force to
avoid possible enemy detection of our communications. All my
instructions to Hugo and Valentín were sent by foot
messengers. I was not aware at that time of the operational
situation at Blue Beach or in any of the areas already
occupied by Brigade forces. I had completely lost
communication with the Pepe San Roman since the previous
evening.
When I was able to clearly see all of our positions, I
asked Eric and Pedro to follow me to inspect the defensive
perimeter. At that time, only sporadic fire could be heard
from different directions. I assumed that a few snipers had
been left behind by the enemy main force commander to harass
us or facilitate the withdrawal of his troops which were
already retreating from Playa Larga at a fairly good clip. I
wanted to talk to every man who I had not seen during the
night battle, to assure them of my presence in the
battlefield, and, at the same time, make my own assessment
of the situation.
We had walked for a while when we found ourselves very far
from my command post. Suddenly, I heard someone yelling at
me by my call sign from a hidden foxhole. “Maceo, Maceo,
what are you doing here? This is the most forward position
in my sector. There are a few snipers on top of those trees
down there.” The caller said pointing to several trees about
five hundred meters from our positions. The brigadista was a
good old friend from the training camps, Juan Montolla, who
was there with his weapon ready and alert for whatever was
moving in front of him. He was happy to see me and gave me
a big bear hug. I was amazed to see the conspicuous
coolness, and energy showed by that man and the other
members I had seen of the two battalions under my command.
Not many weeks before, those men had been laborers, college
students, businessmen, or office workers, but there, at
Playa Larga, they had fought as courageously as any
professional soldier could have done under the
circumstances.
When I arrived at La Rotonda, I called Hugo, advised him of
my location, and asked him to join me as soon as possible.
I looked at my wristwatch, it was 5:30 a.m. Throughout my
inspection, I had seen the brigadistas scattered in
different directions, seated or lying on the curves or
around the circle at La Rotonda, taking a well-deserved
break from the previous tough combat. They seemed to be in a
very bad physical shape, tired, hungry but with their morale
very high. Many asked me when the new supply of ammunition
would arrive and showed me the few ammo cases they had
inside their improvised foxholes. However, the great
majority showed concerned about the unconfirmed news of
friends who had been killed or wounded. Many asked what had
happened to their brave commander, Máximo Cruz. On my way
back to my command post, I found several men dead inside
their trenches, others wounded and bleeding without the
required medical assistance, the rest simply terribly tired.
Our fighters had no water, no food, and no ammunition; most
were down to their last pistol rounds. It was a desperate
situation very difficult to describe; worst than I really
thought when I began my inspection. Then Hugo arrived. He
informed me that he had received a message from Oscar
Acevedo who commanded the company protecting our Western
front. He said that his company commander had reported that
he could not resist another enemy attack because he was
lacking ammunition and his men were mentally and physically
exhausted. Hugo instructed him to pull back his company
inside the Task Force command area of operations, closer to
his CP located near the Tourist Center.
After I finished my quick assessment of the situation, I
asked Hugo to walk with me to my command post which was
located in an unprotected site, under a few small trees that
Juan Santamarina had found south of the highway leading to
Blue Beach (Playa Girón). There, the experienced Juan had
positioned our radios and heavy equipment. With his staff
officers, he had been working continuously since the
landing, only 24 hours before but what seemed now to be an
eternity. Juan and his staff, still inside the command post
area, had also been involved in the fighting. Without
question, every brigadistas at Red Beach, including myself,
had fired their assigned weapons many times during the
previous night.
76. TUESDAY MORNING OPERATIONS
hile walking with Hugo,
we
discussed the enemy’s strength, capabilities and possible
future scenarios, checking notes, without any immediate
pressure for the first time after that long, long day and
night. Suddenly, the peaceful atmosphere was broken. Hearing
yelling and cursing behind our backs we turned around to see
six members of Hugos’s Second Battalion running toward our
location without their assigned weapons. After fighting
valiantly and with extreme heroism against a numerically
superior army, those men had finally lost their nerve. They
had abruptly abandoned their positions at La Rotonda,
screaming that a Stalin tank had penetrated their forward
positions and that it was coming behind them at high speed.
The men looked desperate and fearful. I thought they had not
recognized us because they ran towards the rear past Hugo
and me without even a passing glance. We began
cursing and yelling at them, ordering to return to their
positions. But our commands were ignored. Honestly, I could
not blame those men for their actions; after all that they
had gone through during their first combat exposure of the
last eleven hours, any human being would have reacted in
similar fashion. None of them had ever killed a man or
themselves had felt the threat of death, I thought.
Without thinking twice, I grabbed a 57 mm
recoilless rifle that was on the ground in front of my
command post and Hugo, without any hesitation or comment,
picked up one of the shells that was resting close to where
the recoilless rifle was and joined me. We both ran side by
side to the middle of the highway to confront the Stalin
tank that now appeared at the curve. When I was in a
kneeling position facing the direction from where the tank
was coming, Hugo tapped my head to let me know that the
weapon was loaded. I aimed the rifle at the tank, which was
then only about fifty yards from our position. As I was
about to pull the trigger at the giant armored vehicle with
its long cannon aiming directly at us, the unexpected
happened. It came to an abrupt stop. Well our guardian
angels were with us that day, because suddenly the tank
turret opened and its commander’s head emerged. He
immediately jumped to the ground yelling and waving a dirty
handkerchief as he approached us with his hands held high in
the air. A moment later two members of his crew jumped out
of the tank and followed behind him. "Are you the ‘jefe’ of
these men?” The tank commander nervously asked me. "Yes", I
replied. "Mister, I congratulate you because these men are
truly heroes, they were never afraid of our tanks. We would
like to have the privilege of fighting at your side in the
future if the opportunity arises." The men of the Second
Battalion who had run past us to escape from the tank had
stopped when they had seen Hugo and me running with the
recoilless rifle to confront the tank. They had returned to
position themselves at the side of the road behind us. Other
members of the Task Force, who were manning positions around
my command post, were also there, standing close to their
trenches and watching what had happened. They were as
astonished, as Hugo and I were, of the whole unbelievable
incident. It did not take long for the men to react and
without saying a word all the brigadistas, including the six
who had originated the drama, ran again to their foxholes.
The enemy tank leader and his two “compañeros” (the gunner
and the driver) were our only prisoners during that full day
of combat. After the fight, we had found many men dead on
the curves or in the middle of the road or inside their
destroyed tanks; the others had disappeared from the
picture. From the three prisoners, we learned about the size
of the enemy forces that our Task Force had faced and
completely defeated the night before at Red Beach. They said
that Castro's troops were comprised of over 2,500 men, which
included regular soldiers, militiamen and policemen. The
infantry was supported by three or four 122 mm artillery
batteries and forty Stalin and Sherman tanks. I asked them
what had happened to the men and heavy equipment. One of
them replied: "A lot of our troops are dead as you can see,"
he answered while pointing with his finger to the spot in
the curve in front of us where a couple of militiamen lay
dead. He also looked at the hundred yards of open space
between the highway and the thicket where many enemy
soldiers were badly mauled; they rested on the ground, still
holding their personal weapons. "A lot of them are wounded,
and the rest are going back to join Fidel's forces at the
Central Australia," the tank leader said. "This is why we
decided to join you; your men have taught us how to fight."
Of the 40 enemy tanks that Fidel Castro had sent
against us, we counted nine that were completely destroyed
inside and outside La Rotonda and we could see others
resting on the main highway. Several tanks had been
abandoned by their crews when it appears that they had
developed mechanical troubles. The rest of the enemy
soldiers had left the area of operations most likely when
their leaders had decided that the battle that night was all
but lost. The prisoners also told us that they did not fire
at any of the brigadistas they clearly identified from their
tank because they realized that they were already inside our
defensive perimeter. Besides, the machine gun gunner said
that he did not have ammunition left in his weapon to open
fire; he had used all firing at our positions the night
before. The long 76 mm cannon gunner said that he recognized
that he was too close to his target, meaning Hugo and I, to
use his weapon. Well, I thought, I was happy that he had
not been there the night before to watch Torres Mena, one of
our tank leaders, fire his tank cannon against a Russian
tank that was turning around only 25 meters from him in
front of my command post. The enemy tank was still there,
almost upside down due to the impact of the explosion that
had destroyed it. So, we all were alive because they did not
have ammunition, I thought. Well, I wondered aloud if they
were really sincere when they said they wanted to join our
forces. Anyway, I had other problems at hand more important
that to consider than the motivations of those enemy
soldiers. I asked Juan to assign one of his staff officers
to keep an eye on them inside a huge crater made by one of
the shells that had fallen close to where we were standing.
I could not have sent the prisoners to join the others the
Battalion S-2, Napoleon Vilaboa, had kept in the temporary
prison he had established inside the beach Tourist Center.
They could have told the other 250 prisoners held in that
place about our deplorable military situation and the
inevitable third attack that this time, for sure, would be
led by thousands of fresh militia and regular infantry
troops in addition to and whatever new Russian heavy
hardware that they might have welcomed from
Havana.
Some rebel officers, who later defected from the
Castro revolution and fought at the Bay of Pigs, have
written stories about their experiences in the combats held
at Playa Larga. They had estimated that at Red Beach, during
the first day and morning of the second day, in particular
during the clash the previous afternoon that we had called
the “Battle of the Lost Battalion,” over five hundred
of Castro’s men lost their lives and almost one thousand
were wounded. Even 48 years after our failure to bring
democracy to Cuba and save our people of almost 50 years of
dictatorship, we do not know the exact number of dead and
casualties suffered by the Castro brothers’ troops during
the invasion. Throughout all this time, the government had
only released the information it thought would fit its
political propaganda. They never explained to their
followers or the world why so many of their troops died in
combat, facing only a few hundred Cuban exiles. As usual,
Fidel Castro wanted to diminish the effect of our military
action against his “mighty” revolutionary army, and had
tried by all means at his disposal to ridicule the Brigade
2506 as a bunch of "untrained mercenaries who were easily
defeated in seventy two hours." After the nigh combat, my
Task Force, numbering less than four hundred men, had
suffered an almost unbelievably low number of casualties:
fifty wounded and twenty five dead, excluding those killed
in the Houston the morning before. The Brigade that night at
Red Beach had demonstrated its combat readiness, which had
been recognized and praised by our civilian leaders, the
members of the Frente Executive Committee, three months
before in Guatemala, when they reviewed the training of our
Brigade at Base Trax.
Since my units were depleted of their ammunition and I was
expecting a new, fresh enemy assault from the north and left
flank, and possibly from the east, at 6:00 a.m. I sent a
message to Pepe San Roman with a messenger using one of the
five jeeps at my disposal. I advised my senior commander
that my situation was desperate. I could not face a new
attack without reinforcements and supplies to include
ammunition, food and medical equipment. I told him that it
seemed possible that the enemy was trying to encircle my
Task Force and hit us from all fronts except the sea.
Approximately one hour later, exactly at seven o'clock, a
jeep arrived with Jorge Fernández, the Fourth Battalion S-4
(Logistics) officer. He brought the Brigade Commander's
reply. It read: "RESIST UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE-THE MOMENT OF
DEATH. NO AMMUNITION IS AVAILABLE, OUR SUPPLIES ARE ALMOST
DEPLETED." How in the hell did he expect me to fight a war
without ammunition and supplies, I yelled at Juan who was
standing at my side, waiting for my orders. Did he really
mean that he wanted all my troops to be massacred at this
beach without having the means to defend ourselves? I again
wondered aloud. At this time, Hugo was already in his
battalion command post waiting for further instructions on
how to deploy his men for what it seemed to be an inevitable
major enemy assault.
By the time I had received the message, the
enemy had completed their retreat. However, some brigadistas
manning forward defensive positions had already detected
some snipers and scouts, who protected by the dense
vegetation, had been moving outside our perimeter. It looked
like they were trying to determine our strength or the
locations of our defensive positions. For the first time
since the landing, the small weapons fire began to increase
sharply on the eastern flank. That led me to believe that I
was correct when I assumed that Castro field commanders were
trying to encircle my forces. The snipers fired to whatever
was moving inside our beachhead. I fully realized that it
was a clear signal that the temporary brake in the fighting
was ending quickly. The enemy for sure would regroup, as
fast as they could, and would be hitting hard again at our
positions with all their newly acquired strength.
CHAPTER XIII
THE LAST STAND
87. THE LAST DESPERATE
HOURS
ilently
and undetected,
an enemy American-made Sherman tank
that had moved behind enemy burning tanks and
armored vehicles, previously knocked out at the distance by
our Brigade forces, began firing its 76 mm cannon against
our positions. One of its first rounds made a direct impact
on Alemán's tank turret.
Alemán, who was at that time standing on
top of the tank, trying to observe through his binoculars
the enemy movements, was killed instantly. That
brave and patriotic brigadista did not have time
to react. The explosion threw him from the tank
to the ground, only a few yards from my command
position.
The fatal blast sent pieces of metal flying
through the air over our heads. One fragment sliced
off Jorge Alvarez's top right ear.
Alvarez was the driver of one of the three
tanks that Pepe San Roman had sent at my request to protect the
Western Front troops now under my command. It was not my responsibility to be
there, I should have been in the Brigade CP, with the
commander and his staff. However, the commander of the Sixth Infantry Battalion, Paquito Montiel, was injured and I volunteered to take his
place and defend the Western front. Pepe and Manolo Artime
agreed with my request. At the time of the explosion, Alvarez
had his head outside his tank, talking to a brigadista
who was positioned in a near foxhole. Reacting quickly,
González Carmenati, the chief of the other tank,
fired a single round and destroyed the enemy tank.
As a result of the shell explosion, Alemán's tank began to get fire in the midst
of our defensive positions and in close proximity
of the other two tanks that I had positioned on
step formation, less than fifteen yards apart from
each other. The crew of the damaged tank miraculously
escaped from it. One of them, José Fajardo
(the father of the famous Cuban singer Gloria Estefan),
was the tank driver. He
had come out stumbling from the burning tank and
walked a few yards before falling, unconscious and
seriously wounded, inside the trench that I was using
as my new command post. Since Fajardo was bleeding profusely
from his head and face, I thought that he was dying.
I sent him immediately to the rear with the only
jeep available to be attended
by Brigade°s physicians. Fortunately, he survived
his deep wounds.
The others members of the tank crew, shocked
by the tremendous blast, were helped by members
of Hugo, the brave and coregous commander
of the Second Infantry Battalion. Two
brigadistas got fire extinguishers and began fighting
the flames of the tank, but it was not enough. I
shouted to any one who knew how to drive the tank
to move it away from our defensive positions. Jorge
Alvarez, still bleeding profusely from his right
ear, jumped out from his own tank and climbed into
the burning Sherman. After a few unsuccessful tries,
he was able to start the tank and drove it away,
down the road toward Blue Beach with flames shooting
up from the back and smoke pouring out from the
turret.
Since Alvarez did not know where to park
the burning tank,
he stopped a few hundred yards behind our forward
positions. He thought that the location was clear
and far enough from our defensive line. However, he was not aware that swampy terrain had been occupied by Hugo's mortar platoon.
The mortar platoon leader began screaming and yelled
at Alvarez to "get the hell out of here, get
your burning thing away from our positions before it blows
us all to the kingdom come."
The platoon leader
was correct in his assessment of the dangerous situation.
They had more than one hundred mortar shells piled
up only a
few yards from the place where Alvarez had stopped
the tank. Justifiably enough, the brigadista was
afraid the shells could explode by the heat and
flames coming out from the tank. Alvarez, without
hesitation, jumped again into the tank, pulled
its automatic fire extinguisher,
and extinguished the threatening flames.
About fifteen minutes later, the
"Little Egg," as Alvarez was called,
soaked with blood from his wounded ear, came running back
to my positions, saluted me and asked permission
to return to his tank. I congratulated him and he began
climbing into his tank. But, before he got inside
the vehicle, I stopped him. I saluted the brave
man and told him he was promoted to captain for
the courage demonstrated in combat and possibly
saving the lives of many of his comrades in arms.
At that moment, it seemed as an illogical reaction
to a heroic performance but it was the only thing
I could do to demonstrate my appreciation and recognition
of that young man's exceptional valor and courage.
It was the only battlefield promotion given to a brigadista for a heroic action in battle during
the Bay of Pigs invasion.
Many, many more individuals could have been
acknowledged for heroism during the three days of
intense combat at the Bay of Pigs, but that was
the only opportunity that I, as the
second-in-command of the invasion, had to recognize a member
of Assault Brigade "2506."
CHAPTER XV "CAPTURED
AND IMPRISONED
101. THE TRUCK OF THE DEATH
he next day,
shouting and cursing outside my prison awakened me. I looked
through a window and saw a large group of brigadistas who
were lined up in a single file. One by one, they were
called. When a name was mentioned, the prisoner had to stand
in front of a small table where Osmani Cienfuegos was
seated, close to another rebel officer that I immediately
identified. He was Captain Fernández Vila, chief of the INRA
office of the Matanzas province. From their well guarded
chairs, both men called the brigadistas cowards, mercenaries,
war criminals, thieves, immoral, and shameless people. The
one yelling harder was Fernández Vila. I was really
surprised when I recognized that rebel officer because I
thought that he had been discharged from the FAR. In January
of the previous year, when I was still performing as an INRA
General Inspector. At that time, my teammate Lieutenant Leonel
Fuentes and I were instructed to investigate a theft in
Captain Vila’s office. Vila was under suspicion to be the
one who took $ 25,000 in cash from his desk’s drawer.
The money had disappeared overnight without a trace.
Everyone we interviewed during our investigation thought
that Vila had taken the money. However, we were not able to
review all the information gathered and reach any final conclusion because, after returning to
Havana, we were relieved of our assignment by another INRA team,
comprised of only rebel (revolutionary) officers, that took over
the investigation. We understood the Section Chief's decision,
Captain Rodolfo Villamil. Both, Leonel
and I had been members of the Constitutional Army and he thought that our findings, even if they were correct,
could be "considered biased" by the bearded men “barbudos”,
as the members of the revolutionary army were commonly
called.
The truck waiting to transport the brigadistas to a new location
had been built in the United States, a refrigeration type,
the type used on American express highways made of aluminum,
plywood stripping inside and with two big doors, one on each
side in the middle of the truck. When over one hundred
prisoners were inside the truck, four militiamen came to the
small house where I was guarded and ordered me to go with
them. As soon as I reached the small wooden table, Fernández
Vila, with a sense of importance said, "this is Oliva, the
Second-in-Command of the mercenaries."
Osmani Cienfuegos gave me a very dirty look and asked me what I
had to say. I replied, "my name is Erneido Andrés Oliva, I
am the Second-in-Command of the Brigade, my number is 2641.
Vila did not like the tone of my answer and shouted that I
was insulting Cienfuegos, “a minister of the revolution.” It
is not my intention to be disrespectful to anyone, I snapped
back. I am only providing the information I am required to
give you according to the Geneva Convention of 1864.
Besides, I added. You better keep your mouth shut because I
remember when I interrogated you for stealing money
from the INRA. In the midst of the heated argument,
Cienfuegos screaming and looking very upset, ordered the
militia guards to push me back to my improvised prison cell.
"He will be shot tonigh," he angrily shouted.
It seemed that Cienfuegos, unwillingly, had saved my
life or at least spared me from going through the rough
experience that would be lived by those brigadistas who were
already inside that truck. I later thought that Osmani never
forgave himself for pulling me from over one hundred members
of the Brigade who made
the trip to Havana in that sealed truck. No one could ever
forget the inhumane and murderous treatment he gave to those
brave men. I was later told by many of my friends
about their many horrifying experiences inside "The truck of the
death."
During the seconds I walked back to the small house,
pushed, hit and kicked by a dozen of armed rebels, I
could hear the members of the Brigade shouting and
complaining: "No more, no more, we cannot breathe." In a
moment of sanity, Fernández Vila told Osmani Cienfuegos that
the prisoners could die if he put one more man inside that
truck. Cienfuegos angrily replied: "Let them die! It will
save us ammunition when we shoot the whole Brigade later." He made a
signal to a militia officer standing besides him and ordered
" bring ten more pigs," as he called
the brigadistas.
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