Escambray Mountains, Cuba
August 5, 1896
The rain, the constant rain, the unforgiving rain; how it falls so gracefully from the sky, yet seems so much like the tears of God. Are you weeping over what we are about to do? Not a sparrow can fall from the sky without you noticing it, so these things must weigh heavily upon your heart. Are you there, God? It is I, your son, your faithful servant, your humble and discreet slave. Do you remember me, God? I am your Angel.
The distraught poet looked at the paper with disgust. "I can not write a poem to save my life, can I?" he mumbled to himself. Not wanting an answer (especially because his life would need saving sooner or later due to the situations such as this one that he put himself in), he crumpled up the paper and tossed it out of the tent into the cold rain that he had written so passionately about.
At that moment, another rebel walked by outside the tent. His boot crushed the already crumpled sheet, yet when he noticed that he’d stepped on something, he lifted his foot to pry it off of the bottom, and attempted to unfold it. It was a miracle that it was still legible. The other man quietly but surely read it out loud, and then chuckled, not so much at the poem as at the poet.
He peeked his head inside the tent and looked straight at said poet. "Still writing this junk, eh? At least stop trying to make a play on your name, Ángel."
Ángel Castro snatched the wet sheet from his hands. "It wasn’t that bad, Jesús"
"Yes it was!" he jeered, spicing it up with a laugh afterwards. "And my name would fit better in this poem than yours would."Ángel almost let out a laugh of his own, for it was conveniently true, not to mention ironic.
Instead of giving his gloating opponent the satisfaction, Ángel simply said "Vaya al infierno!"
Jesús shrugged, turned, and left at that. Ángel looked back at his paper (which was now almost completely destroyed), but decided to give up before even attempting it again, and he tossed it once more. He then looked to the clock, and saw that it was about time for him to be leaving as well. Before he departed, Castro tightened the laces on his boots, made certain he was buttoned all the way, checked the ammunition for his gun (full, which was extremely rare), and then secured it in his hands. It was a dirty, but otherwise good, M1895 Mauser Rifle. The bayonet he equipped to it completed the deadly picture. After lifting himself from a sitting position to a kneeling one– the tent was not high enough to allow him to stand– he hobbled out of the tent to the world beyond.
The rain was the first thing he noticed. The torrential downpour beat upon his head. All around him were men scampering from one end of the camp to the other. As time wore on, more men disappeared down the slopes to the south. As Ángel had already taken care of his duties, he moved in that direction as well. After a difficult hike on which he was joined by a number of other men with the same destination, Castro reached the hills which surrounded a road cut through the Escambray Mountains. It was there that he and his fellow irregulars prepared for yet another battle.
Their leader, Second-in-Command of the Cuban Rebels against Spanish Rule in the whole of the island, was a charismatic and skilled fellow named Antonio de la Caridad Maceo (or as the soldiers loved to call him, the "Bronze Titan", a play on his skin color). According to him, the Cuban Revolutionaries had endured the bad terrain and even worse weather to ambush a Spanish force that was to move from Trinidad to Cienfuegos. It seemed like a sound plan, especially when compared to some of the crazier things they had tried. Now, they were briefed once more. In approximately one hour, the Spanish soldiers should, by all calculations and information derived from spies, pass by their position. It was then that the ambush would begin.
Castro looked around. The men who would fight numbered fewer than 200, and by all calculations, the enemy would have around 5 times that number. It would have been suicide, if not for the extensive planning that had gone into this operation. He still wasn’t sure that it was the wisest action, but then, he was just a lowly Private.
Much of the next hour was spent making final preparations, the highlight being a speech by Maceo. He didn’t bother spicing it up with any profound concepts or complicated words. He just stated the facts. "Soldiers of Cuba, heed my words. The Spaniards come marching in this direction as we speak. Even now, they are but a short ways away." How he knew that was beyond Castro. "As they pass, we must be absolutely silent, ducking below the cover of the rocks that surround us. The only one permitted to peek is me. I shall give the signal to attack, yet you will know what to listen for in case you do not hear me. Our brilliant and brave engineers have planted dynamite along the sides of the road, hidden amongst the rocks. It was in short supply, so there should only be enough to destroy a few sections, but that will be a huge help."
"If you look over there," he said, indicating the spot he was discussing on the other side of the road with his pointer finger, "you will see something spectacular during the battle." Then, as if realizing his mistake, he added, "But I better not see you looking away from your targets, even if only for a quick glance." The soldiers passed the rest of time in silence. There was little else to do but sit in the cold rain, so they decided that they might as well enter cover now. I wonder what’s over there, thought Castro of the spot which Maceo had indicated. Probably nothing special, he decided, and set his mind to other things.
When the moment they were all waiting for finally came, he and the other Cubans sat patiently. The only sound that was to be heard was the rain, and the booming noise of the footsteps carrying the Spaniards down the road towards their doom. It almost seemed impossible that he could have heard that march, in excellent order though it be, but sure enough, Castro’s ears did not deceive him.
The leading Spaniards passed by the Cuban’s hidden position (they were on the ground, whereas the rebels were a ways higher, in the hills) without noticing anything. If the dynamite was where Maceo had said it was, the detonation should come any moment. But it didn’t. Castro waited and waited, thinking the anxiety itself would tear him apart. Is this attack even going through? Little did he, or anyone know, that the first box of dynamite was a dud. But just when he resigned himself to a day without fighting, he heard a great cacophony. On the road, near the rear of the Spanish column arose a great conflagration, an orgy of reds and yellows the likes of which Castro had never seen before. The explosion was both beautiful and terrible. Down below, he saw men screaming, but could not hear them over the clangor of the blast. It was deafening. But when his ears began to recover, the first thing he (barely) heard, was the sound of a whistle blowing, which told him he now had to abandon the safety of his rock. He and the other Cubans jumped from their hiding spots and raised their guns to their shoulders. The all-too-familiar process of shoot, reload, repeat came into play for him and a number of other Cubans that dotted the hill, but for most (including the brave Maceo) it was a matter of running down the hill under their allies’ covering fire, issuing a deafening war cry, breaking the Spanish lines, and trying your best not to get killed.
From the Spanish position, a confused and haphazard one after the dynamite, it must have looked like they were being descended upon by a
deluge of enemies, but as the flow trickled to a stop, and all that was left were men who were either standing upon the hill firing or those bayonet-rushing the Spanish, it became a far less impressive display. As ordered, the charging Cubans converged on the rear of the Spanish column, that
which had been damaged by the dynamite. It was a slaughter at first, but Castro didn’t see how they could hope to win if the Spanish from the
undamaged front kept running to the back to reinforce their faltering compatriots.
All of the sudden, he saw a gleam from the hills opposite him. Sure enough, something did rise from the area Maceo had pointed to, but it was too far to be identified. Just a few seconds after it emerged, it belched fire and death. What looked like sparks emerged from its mouth, and back on the road, the Spaniards took notice. In fact, everyone on both sides looked up, mesmerized by the horror they now faced. In the middle of the formation, the Spanish began dropping like flies. Castro had no idea what was happening, but it both pleased and scared him. Oh, how he pitied those Spaniards! Even they didn’t deserve this.
While the fighting on the ground resumed, albeit in a more disorderly manner, Castro remained mesmerized with the weapon which seemed to be on his side. He was so enthralled by the bullets and sparks, he didn’t even notice the emergence of a second weapon– that is, until it began shooting as well.
The fight could not have lasted for a long time after that. The Spanish lines were torn apart by the two fearsome weapons, and they could not continue to fight a regular battle under those conditions, even if they still held a large numerical advantage. Castro wasn’t certain how long the battle had lasted, but that was unimportant now. They had won! The Cubans rarely won. As the Spanish soldiers either ran or surrendered (about half the former and half the latter), the men on the ground celebrated and Ángel walked down to meet Maceo.
"General Maceo, sir, may I ask a question?" he accosted.
"Private...Castro, correct. Very well then, ask away." The general replied with genuine concern, which was just one of the tiny things that strengthened the bond between officer and enlisted man.
"Sir, what were those things?" He did not bother using any form of indication. It was all- too-clear what he meant.
"Ah, I thought someone might ask. That, private, was a machine gun."
"A machine gun?" The word tasted foreign in his mouth, although he was certain he was speaking Spanish. The combination of those two words didn’t sound quite right. "What?" was all he could muster.
"A Maxim Machine Gun, to be precise; British design."
"British? How did we get it? It looked to me like those Spaniards hadn’t even seen it before."
"They probably hadn’t," he reasoned. "Those are likely the only two on this island. They fire 600 rounds a minute."
That reached Castro. He had been a soldier in the Spanish Army until 1 year ago, when he had defected to Cuba.
"600 ROUNDS! That’s unbelievable, sir. How on Earth did we get it?"
"Smuggled it from British Guyana. Traded with a corrupt official. The guns were there because of the new war. We’ll probably hear about the Americans getting slaughtered by these things, but that is unimportant. It cost us a pretty penny, so we may not get anymore for a very long time, but as you saw, it was worth it."
"The technology these days! Sheesh!" he said, as if that sufficed to summarize all of his thoughts. After Maceo had departed, he spoke again. "I can’t wait to see it again."
August 5, 1896
The rain, the constant rain, the unforgiving rain; how it falls so gracefully from the sky, yet seems so much like the tears of God. Are you weeping over what we are about to do? Not a sparrow can fall from the sky without you noticing it, so these things must weigh heavily upon your heart. Are you there, God? It is I, your son, your faithful servant, your humble and discreet slave. Do you remember me, God? I am your Angel.
The distraught poet looked at the paper with disgust. "I can not write a poem to save my life, can I?" he mumbled to himself. Not wanting an answer (especially because his life would need saving sooner or later due to the situations such as this one that he put himself in), he crumpled up the paper and tossed it out of the tent into the cold rain that he had written so passionately about.
At that moment, another rebel walked by outside the tent. His boot crushed the already crumpled sheet, yet when he noticed that he’d stepped on something, he lifted his foot to pry it off of the bottom, and attempted to unfold it. It was a miracle that it was still legible. The other man quietly but surely read it out loud, and then chuckled, not so much at the poem as at the poet.
He peeked his head inside the tent and looked straight at said poet. "Still writing this junk, eh? At least stop trying to make a play on your name, Ángel."
Ángel Castro snatched the wet sheet from his hands. "It wasn’t that bad, Jesús"
"Yes it was!" he jeered, spicing it up with a laugh afterwards. "And my name would fit better in this poem than yours would."Ángel almost let out a laugh of his own, for it was conveniently true, not to mention ironic.
Instead of giving his gloating opponent the satisfaction, Ángel simply said "Vaya al infierno!"
Jesús shrugged, turned, and left at that. Ángel looked back at his paper (which was now almost completely destroyed), but decided to give up before even attempting it again, and he tossed it once more. He then looked to the clock, and saw that it was about time for him to be leaving as well. Before he departed, Castro tightened the laces on his boots, made certain he was buttoned all the way, checked the ammunition for his gun (full, which was extremely rare), and then secured it in his hands. It was a dirty, but otherwise good, M1895 Mauser Rifle. The bayonet he equipped to it completed the deadly picture. After lifting himself from a sitting position to a kneeling one– the tent was not high enough to allow him to stand– he hobbled out of the tent to the world beyond.
The rain was the first thing he noticed. The torrential downpour beat upon his head. All around him were men scampering from one end of the camp to the other. As time wore on, more men disappeared down the slopes to the south. As Ángel had already taken care of his duties, he moved in that direction as well. After a difficult hike on which he was joined by a number of other men with the same destination, Castro reached the hills which surrounded a road cut through the Escambray Mountains. It was there that he and his fellow irregulars prepared for yet another battle.
Their leader, Second-in-Command of the Cuban Rebels against Spanish Rule in the whole of the island, was a charismatic and skilled fellow named Antonio de la Caridad Maceo (or as the soldiers loved to call him, the "Bronze Titan", a play on his skin color). According to him, the Cuban Revolutionaries had endured the bad terrain and even worse weather to ambush a Spanish force that was to move from Trinidad to Cienfuegos. It seemed like a sound plan, especially when compared to some of the crazier things they had tried. Now, they were briefed once more. In approximately one hour, the Spanish soldiers should, by all calculations and information derived from spies, pass by their position. It was then that the ambush would begin.
Castro looked around. The men who would fight numbered fewer than 200, and by all calculations, the enemy would have around 5 times that number. It would have been suicide, if not for the extensive planning that had gone into this operation. He still wasn’t sure that it was the wisest action, but then, he was just a lowly Private.
Much of the next hour was spent making final preparations, the highlight being a speech by Maceo. He didn’t bother spicing it up with any profound concepts or complicated words. He just stated the facts. "Soldiers of Cuba, heed my words. The Spaniards come marching in this direction as we speak. Even now, they are but a short ways away." How he knew that was beyond Castro. "As they pass, we must be absolutely silent, ducking below the cover of the rocks that surround us. The only one permitted to peek is me. I shall give the signal to attack, yet you will know what to listen for in case you do not hear me. Our brilliant and brave engineers have planted dynamite along the sides of the road, hidden amongst the rocks. It was in short supply, so there should only be enough to destroy a few sections, but that will be a huge help."
"If you look over there," he said, indicating the spot he was discussing on the other side of the road with his pointer finger, "you will see something spectacular during the battle." Then, as if realizing his mistake, he added, "But I better not see you looking away from your targets, even if only for a quick glance." The soldiers passed the rest of time in silence. There was little else to do but sit in the cold rain, so they decided that they might as well enter cover now. I wonder what’s over there, thought Castro of the spot which Maceo had indicated. Probably nothing special, he decided, and set his mind to other things.
When the moment they were all waiting for finally came, he and the other Cubans sat patiently. The only sound that was to be heard was the rain, and the booming noise of the footsteps carrying the Spaniards down the road towards their doom. It almost seemed impossible that he could have heard that march, in excellent order though it be, but sure enough, Castro’s ears did not deceive him.
The leading Spaniards passed by the Cuban’s hidden position (they were on the ground, whereas the rebels were a ways higher, in the hills) without noticing anything. If the dynamite was where Maceo had said it was, the detonation should come any moment. But it didn’t. Castro waited and waited, thinking the anxiety itself would tear him apart. Is this attack even going through? Little did he, or anyone know, that the first box of dynamite was a dud. But just when he resigned himself to a day without fighting, he heard a great cacophony. On the road, near the rear of the Spanish column arose a great conflagration, an orgy of reds and yellows the likes of which Castro had never seen before. The explosion was both beautiful and terrible. Down below, he saw men screaming, but could not hear them over the clangor of the blast. It was deafening. But when his ears began to recover, the first thing he (barely) heard, was the sound of a whistle blowing, which told him he now had to abandon the safety of his rock. He and the other Cubans jumped from their hiding spots and raised their guns to their shoulders. The all-too-familiar process of shoot, reload, repeat came into play for him and a number of other Cubans that dotted the hill, but for most (including the brave Maceo) it was a matter of running down the hill under their allies’ covering fire, issuing a deafening war cry, breaking the Spanish lines, and trying your best not to get killed.
From the Spanish position, a confused and haphazard one after the dynamite, it must have looked like they were being descended upon by a
deluge of enemies, but as the flow trickled to a stop, and all that was left were men who were either standing upon the hill firing or those bayonet-rushing the Spanish, it became a far less impressive display. As ordered, the charging Cubans converged on the rear of the Spanish column, that
which had been damaged by the dynamite. It was a slaughter at first, but Castro didn’t see how they could hope to win if the Spanish from the
undamaged front kept running to the back to reinforce their faltering compatriots.
All of the sudden, he saw a gleam from the hills opposite him. Sure enough, something did rise from the area Maceo had pointed to, but it was too far to be identified. Just a few seconds after it emerged, it belched fire and death. What looked like sparks emerged from its mouth, and back on the road, the Spaniards took notice. In fact, everyone on both sides looked up, mesmerized by the horror they now faced. In the middle of the formation, the Spanish began dropping like flies. Castro had no idea what was happening, but it both pleased and scared him. Oh, how he pitied those Spaniards! Even they didn’t deserve this.
While the fighting on the ground resumed, albeit in a more disorderly manner, Castro remained mesmerized with the weapon which seemed to be on his side. He was so enthralled by the bullets and sparks, he didn’t even notice the emergence of a second weapon– that is, until it began shooting as well.
The fight could not have lasted for a long time after that. The Spanish lines were torn apart by the two fearsome weapons, and they could not continue to fight a regular battle under those conditions, even if they still held a large numerical advantage. Castro wasn’t certain how long the battle had lasted, but that was unimportant now. They had won! The Cubans rarely won. As the Spanish soldiers either ran or surrendered (about half the former and half the latter), the men on the ground celebrated and Ángel walked down to meet Maceo.
"General Maceo, sir, may I ask a question?" he accosted.
"Private...Castro, correct. Very well then, ask away." The general replied with genuine concern, which was just one of the tiny things that strengthened the bond between officer and enlisted man.
"Sir, what were those things?" He did not bother using any form of indication. It was all- too-clear what he meant.
"Ah, I thought someone might ask. That, private, was a machine gun."
"A machine gun?" The word tasted foreign in his mouth, although he was certain he was speaking Spanish. The combination of those two words didn’t sound quite right. "What?" was all he could muster.
"A Maxim Machine Gun, to be precise; British design."
"British? How did we get it? It looked to me like those Spaniards hadn’t even seen it before."
"They probably hadn’t," he reasoned. "Those are likely the only two on this island. They fire 600 rounds a minute."
That reached Castro. He had been a soldier in the Spanish Army until 1 year ago, when he had defected to Cuba.
"600 ROUNDS! That’s unbelievable, sir. How on Earth did we get it?"
"Smuggled it from British Guyana. Traded with a corrupt official. The guns were there because of the new war. We’ll probably hear about the Americans getting slaughtered by these things, but that is unimportant. It cost us a pretty penny, so we may not get anymore for a very long time, but as you saw, it was worth it."
"The technology these days! Sheesh!" he said, as if that sufficed to summarize all of his thoughts. After Maceo had departed, he spoke again. "I can’t wait to see it again."
