Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) Page 11

  The following day the sergeant major announced that Manny Cadiz, “Lazo” Lazaro, and I had been assigned to a military base in Santa Maria, a town located on the outskirts of Guanabacoa. I knew these soldiers from our time at boot camp, but only slightly.

  Lazo was a well-educated, sophisticated mulatto from Guanabacoa—tall, handsome, and crazy about his girlfriend. He was a well-muscled sportsman who used his cultured voice to teach me about classical music.

  Manny was just the opposite. A brilliant young man from Regla, he could figure out the most difficult theoretical problems. He was an abstract thinker and a whiz at math, which greatly impressed Lieutenant Pino.

  A high school junior, he was also frail and sickly. Although he was very good with his hands, he had difficulty doing anything physical. He didn’t have a girlfriend and, as far as I could see, had little prospect of getting one. I was amazed he had survived boot camp.

  Although this base was less than ten miles from my home, I had had no idea it existed. It was located on approximately seventy-five acres and screened by heavy foliage. Fidel had ordered this facility—and others like it—to be built in densely populated areas to protect it from bombing by the Americans. He figured they would not dare bomb a camp in an area with a high civilian population.

  The camp housed ten barracks. It had paved roads and parking lots, housing facilities, and a state-of-the-art command center. A columned rotunda with the feel of an old Spanish mansion served as the officers’ quarters. A large obstacle course occupied the center of the facility and guards regularly patrolled the perimeter. “Do Not Enter” signs were ubiquitous.

  Manny, Lazo, and I looked at each other, astonished. It was clear this was a highly classified operation, and we would be required to do something important. But we had no idea what. We showered and were issued starched, pressed uniforms. We never looked so good.

  Around one p.m. Lieutenant Pino introduced himself to the group in a polished, eloquent voice. He informed us that he was the political commissioner, and explained that he would be very active in the political life of the unit.

  After welcoming us to the base, he told us that we had been hand-picked to join one of the most prestigious military units in all of Cuba’s Revolutionary Armed Forces: the Elite Counterattack Force. We were about to become the most highly trained and skilled military personnel in Cuba. The soldiers’ voices buzzed with excitement.

  The lieutenant told us that their military intelligence indicated that it was likely that the United States would invade Cuba the way it had invaded Vietnam. With the help of the Russians, a careful plan had been drawn up for the country’s defense. Our job was to protect Havana, the nation’s capital, against an American attack at the city’s six most vulnerable points. We would undergo a long and difficult training process and, for the sake of our country, we must give it our all.

  The lieutenant apologized to us for the brutality of boot camp, but said it was necessary to instill discipline into the troops. Then he did something surprising. He told us we would be immediately issued our six-pesos-per-month military allotment and given a seventy-two-hour leave. We were elated.

  We were trucked to the outskirts of the base, and I grabbed a bus home from there. My first priority was to see Magda. As I walked down her street, one of her neighbors approached me, telling me how lonely Magda had been and how much she had missed me. The middle-aged woman accompanied me to my girlfriend’s house and stood beside me when I knocked on the door. Magda was home alone, wearing a white eyelet blouse, a delicate gold cross, and a red satin ribbon that tied back her hair. She was so surprised to see me she broke down in tears.

  “I can hardly believe my eyes. Is it really you?”

  She was literally jumping for joy. I took her hand in mine and noticed she was still wearing the ring I had given her. I wanted to hug her but was hesitant to do so in front of her neighbor. Finally, the woman said, “Go ahead, young man, and give your lady a proper kiss.”

  After I kissed Magda for a while, she said, “I didn’t mean for it to go on that long. I can’t be responsible for this.” We all laughed merrily.

  CHAPTER 18

  During the Missile Crisis of 1962, all nuclear weapons had been removed from Cuba. The country now relied on high-caliber 57-millimeter cannons and Anti-Tank Guided Missiles (ATGMs) for defense. This expensive, high-tech equipment was supplied by the Russians and housed in top-secret locations in each of Cuba’s six provinces. As part of the Elite Counterattack Force, we were told we would be trained on this equipment—and we must die to protect it.

  Captain Martinez commanded the operation in Santa Maria. He made all military decisions up to the point where they became strategic and political. Then he relinquished control to Lieutenant Pino, giving the lieutenant considerable power. Pino was very knowledgeable about political issues in Cuba and in other countries. But he had limited knowledge of military operations and tactics. That was the purview of Lieutenant Brown.

  During our first few days of service, we were assigned to a unit and issued an instruction manual on military rules and regulations, the proper way to address officers, and so forth.

  There were two barracks of infantry, a brigade of one hundred seventy-five troops who guarded territory up to a mile from our position. They served as the first line of defense against the enemy.

  Serving as the second line of defense were four batteries of 57-millimeter cannons that could shoot down low-flying aircraft. They consisted of units of sixty men each.

  The most important, expensive, and lethal weapons were the ATGMs, which cost upward of one million dollars each and could hit targets two miles out—ships, aircraft, helicopters, tanks—just about anything the enemy could throw at us short of a nuclear bomb.

  The ATGMs required a driver, a trained operator to fire the rockets, and personnel to supply food, ammunition, and other support services. Manny, Lazo, and I were to be trained as ATGM operators.

  Lieutenant Brown, a black Haitian graduate of the Military Academy of Cuba, was in charge of our thirty-man unit, which included fourteen ATGM drivers, fourteen ATGM operators, and two support personnel. The lieutenant was an excellent instructor, hell-bent on turning us into superb “killing machines.” He drilled us early, often, and relentlessly. The word “failure” never parted his lips.

  Our focus was defeating the American marines, the finest fighters in the history of man. The good lieutenant taught us to anticipate and overcome any move a marine might make by engaging in hand-to-hand combat with other platoons. We practiced how to kill with a kick, a punch, or a knife to the throat. We mastered how to snuff out life with our own bare hands.

  We were instructed on how to track the enemy by studying footprints, the lay of the grass, and the breakage of twigs. We became expert in escape tactics in case we were captured by the Americans. We studied the best practices of other armies. “Learn this or die,” was the lieutenant’s constant refrain.

  Brown also oversaw the daily rigors of the obstacle course, draining us of our last ounce of energy. Navigating the course was easier for me than for some other men because so many exercises were similar to things I had done as a kid.

  Climbing rope ladders was akin to scaling mango and banana trees. Maintaining balance required the same skills as skipping from rock to rock on the Rio Lajas.

  Long marches were similar to climbing the hills of the Sierra Maestra. My muscles were already well developed from lifting weights with Gilbert and my other cousins, which made the course easier to complete.

  Brown watched my every move, liked what he saw, and used me as an example for others to emulate. He soon made me leader of the platoon.

  Every morning, Pino—or one of his four minions—provided us with political instruction and indoctrination. Those with any issues regarding their personal or army life were individually counseled.

  We were all required to read the daily newspapers, including the Cuban and foreign press. We were taught about economic
and social problems in the United States, about injustices inherent in the capitalist system, and about the suffering the American Negroes experienced under segregation. We were repeatedly told that Cubans enjoyed more equality and freedoms than people living in Europe and the United States.

  Current events in Russia, China, and Vietnam were dissected and discussed at length. Occasionally, a consultant from Vietnam instructed us on military tactics the Americans had employed in his country—and how to combat them.

  We saw films of burned-out villages, napalmed children, and other atrocities perpetrated by the Americans on the Vietnamese. I found them fascinating, but I was also very aware that they were propaganda tools to gain more support for Fidel.

  With the help of a translator, a Russian commander named Mikhail trained the operators on various aspects of the equipment—how to fix our target in the crosshairs, how to operate the radio at frequencies that wouldn’t be intercepted by the enemy, and how to use the joystick to launch the three 150-pound rockets that sat atop each tank.

  We learned to make the complex calculations required to determine the rockets’ trajectory and the amount of time needed to hit both stationary and moving targets under normal and extreme weather conditions.

  To keep information from falling into enemy hands, we were required to memorize all military procedures. For security purposes, no instruction manual existed.

  All our training so far had been theoretical, simulated. No one had yet seen the ATGMs. Naturally, we wondered where they were. Many thought we would be transferred to another facility when it came time to engage in live operations.

  Meanwhile, we were being carefully watched to make sure no mistake had been made in our selection for this critical work. In addition to our loyalty to the communist cause, we were being judged on our physical prowess, our reaction under fire, our technical proficiency, and our ability to learn and to survive. Anyone giving any hint of not fully subscribing to the Party line soon disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.

  We worked for six months before we learned that the rockets were hidden in a bunker right in our own camp—smack under our noses.

  I was ordered not to discuss our assignment with anyone. Nor did I. Not with my parents, not with Magda, not with Abuelo. I did tell Gilbert and Jabao that I was working with very dangerous weapons, but that was all I said.

  My grandfather did not want to know what I was doing and advised me to keep my own counsel. He was horrified that I was even in the army, and a communist army at that. He thought it was the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. One day when we were sitting in his living room sipping coffee, he said, “You are a pawn on the chessboard of freedom, Frankie. Make no mistake about it.”

  “What do you mean?” Whenever Abuelo talked like this I paid careful attention.

  “Fidel is taunting the Americans with this military build-up. He’s saying we have Russian military equipment and support, so come and get us. The man is a born bully, and he’s playing the Americans like a fiddle. But don’t underestimate the Yanks. They’re on the side of freedom—always have been. They won’t let us down.”

  “What do you think will happen?”

  “Sooner or later the Americans will invade Cuba again. They can’t let the Bay of Pigs stand. It was a big embarrassment.”

  “So they’ll invade Cuba to save face?”

  “It’s bigger than that. America can’t allow a communist nation to remain on their doorstep. They’re afraid communism will spread like a virus through the entire continent.”

  “When do you think they’ll invade?” This talk was making me nervous.

  “I have no idea, Frankie. And neither does anyone else. But if they do invade, you will have three options: to take the side of the Americans, to fight the Americans, or to flee Cuba. You will have to choose between losing your life to the Communists by refusing to fight the Americans, or fighting the Americans, the very people who have come to liberate your country.”

  “Those are my options?”

  “Or you can try to figure out a way to leave your family, friends, and country behind.”

  “Not great choices.”

  “They’re terrible choices, Frankie. But you need to think long and hard about them because that’s what it’s likely to come down to.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Despite all their drilling, training, films, and propaganda, the army was failing to turn me into a Communist. I felt very alone in my convictions and wondered if anyone in my unit shared my views. I couldn’t imagine that everyone else was a Communist, but the problem was to figure out who was—and who wasn’t—without drawing attention to oneself.

  It was far too dangerous to openly voice anticommunist sentiments. We could face torture or an execution squad if we did. But occasionally, if you paid close attention, a soldier might provide subtle clues regarding his political views.

  I had suspected that Manny was religious and might not be sympathetic to the communist cause. When he first came to boot camp, I thought I glimpsed the cord of a brown scapular around his neck. But the next day it was gone, and I began to wonder whether I had even seen it.

  While marching with Manny one day, I complimented him on how well he could handle a knife. He lowered his voice and said, “Thanks, but I’m not sure I could slit anyone’s throat if it really came down to it.” My eyes widened in surprise. I smiled and nodded, knowing full well what he was saying.

  On Good Friday, a day Catholics were forbidden to eat meat under the threat of mortal sin, Brown got us up before dawn and took us on a long march. He worked us very hard that day, harder than ever before. We had missed eating both breakfast and lunch. By late afternoon, we were all tired and hungry, but poor Manny looked like he was about to faint. To make matters worse, we had not been given a scrap of meat to eat for weeks.

  That night we were served a big, juicy steak for dinner. Nothing else. No potatoes, no vegetables, no bread. Just steak. I looked at the tantalizing slab of meat sitting like a solitary diamond on my plate. Pino was watching me intently. I made an instant decision, firmly believing the Good Lord would not punish me for what I was about to do.

  I stared back at the lieutenant, picked up my fork, shoveled a big slice of sirloin into my mouth, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed it with a gulp. I took a few sips of water to wash it down. The lieutenant nodded his approval and looked straight at Manny, who was toying with his meat.

  “Mederos, what’s going on there?” he barked. “I don’t see Cadiz eating his steak.”

  Manny looked up with alarm.

  “Nothing’s going on, sir. Everything’s under control.”

  Pino nodded. Manny severed his steak from the bone, sliced off the fat, and forked a bite into his mouth. As soon as the lieutenant walked away, he spat the steak into his napkin, placed his napkin on his lap, deftly dropped his plated steak into it, and slipped the bundle neatly into his pocket, all the while chewing a phantom piece of steak for everyone to see.

  I watched in amazement at the rapidity and dexterity of his move. Had I not been staring intently, I never would have seen it. There was more to Manny than met the eye.

  By now our military training had become both more rote and more sophisticated. We had performed our routine exercises so often they were becoming second nature. We also had the benefit of Russian, Vietnamese, and Czechoslovakian technical experts instructing us on advanced skills needed to shoot down American helicopters, blast vessels far out at sea, and conduct various nighttime maneuvers that required a complex set of skills.

  After dinner we were allowed an hour of socialization with our fellow soldiers. We got to know each other slowly, carefully, reluctant to reveal anything that could be ever held against us. At first we discussed baseball: the batting averages of men playing for the Chicago White Sox, the New York Yankees, the Detroit Tigers. We talked about Joe DiMaggio as if he lived next door. Occasionally, one of the officers allowed us to listen to part of a ga
me on the radio or simply updated us on the score.

  It was weeks before we talked about girlfriends, mothers, fathers, siblings. It was weeks more before we opened our wallets to reveal snapshots of those we held dear. I carried a picture of Magda dressed in her Sunday best. Standing next to Estel, she wore a beguiling smile, white cotton gloves, and a straw hat with a grosgrain ribbon cascading like a waterfall down her back.

  The picture was dog-eared and wrinkled because I had held it so often. But I never showed it around, thinking it would be disrespectful to Magda. She was no passing fancy, and I was afraid that that’s how she’d be viewed. I wanted to keep our relationship private.

  As I became friendlier with Lieutenant Brown, however, I revealed the nature of my feelings toward mi novia to him. Being older, he seemed to understand. He often inquired after her and occasionally granted me permission to go into town to call her from a public phone.

  Every Friday was court day, the day it was decided whether your performance warranted any demerits. Demerits were issued for dirty boots, forgetting to salute, failure to keep your quarters clean, etcetera. A soldier’s monthly leave could be cancelled or reduced by days—or hours—depending on the severity of the offense. I was sure to mind my business so I’d be able to see Magda and my family. And, while Brown might berate me for infractions, he seldom kept me from leave.

  One evening Manny, Lazo, and I were talking about him over a game of hearts.

  “That guy’s a good instructor,” I said, sorting my cards. “He drives us hard, but he seems to care.”

  Lazo lead with the deuce of clubs. “Yeah, I’ve learned to do things I never would’ve believed possible.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  Lazo laughed. “It depends on how tired I am.”

  We played out the trick, and Manny took it with the ace of clubs. He breasted his cards and squared the trick. “The good thing is he lets me slide on doing chin-ups.” He hesitated a moment. “Of course, you don’t have to be a genius to know I can’t do very many.” We all laughed.