Invasion

A GREAT DEAL HAS BEEN SAID AND WRITTEN ABOUT the ill‑fated Bay of Pigs invasion of April 1961. The planning and preparation, the last‑minute crippling of the attack by the cancellation of further air raids on airfields, the lack of sufficient logistical support and air cover over the beachhead ‑ all these are now history. The politicians have told their stories, the invaders have told theirs, but not much has ever been said by the foot sloggers on the government side who fought the invaders toe to toe. I was one of those infantrymen.

Early in 1961 it was public knowledge that Cuban exiles were building a military force in Central America. Whether these would be infiltrated into Cuba to carry out guerrilla operations, or whether a full‑blown invasion was planned, was not clear. Cuba prepared for an attack. Completing its work in the Escambray Mountains, the police company to which I was attached was moved to Ganuza Beach in Matanzas Province to await a possible invasion. After several weeks, the unit was again transferred, this time to a camp known as El Esperon, near Caimito de Guayabal in Pinar del Rio Province.

Early in the morning of April 15 air raids were carried out on several Cuban airfields. At El Esperon the alarma de combate was given, and we were told that the raids undoubtedly were the prelude to an invasion. The following day warships were seen off the coast of Pinar del Rio (actually, this was a feint by the U.S. Navy to distract attention from the main landing point on the south coast of Matanzas).

On the morning of April 17, Monday, the camp loudspeakers sounded reveille at Esperon and we were quickly summoned into formation. We were told that enemy forces had carried out landings, and we must be prepared for battle. All leaves had been canceled following the Saturday air raids, and this cancellation remained in effect. Rumors flashed through the camp: a tremendous attack was coming, the Americans were going to land, heavy air raids were in prospect.

That afternoon the entire Police Combat Battalion was ordered to march to the nearby coast. (The battalion consisted of five companies of about ninety men each. I belonged to the Fifth Platoon of the Fourth Company. I led a seven‑man squad.) We were set to work digging trenches. Five feet deep and zigzag in design, the trenches extended (although not continuously) for dozens of miles along the coast and the base of hills close by. Army and militia units also participated in the task. The trench‑digging continued through most of the night, but the enemy did not appear.

When the digging was completed, we camouflaged the trenches with leaves and branches. We slept in the trenches as best we could, sleep occasionally interrupted by false combat alarms sounded by sergeants who wanted to test their men.

At noon of April 18 we were called into formation and were informed we would be transported to the theater of operations, where the enemy had landed. Late that afternoon huge trucks arrived at the camp, and we climbed aboard. The ride lasted about four hours. We knew the general area in which we were heading, although not the precise point. We wondered and worried about what lay ahead for us, and thought of our families and sweethearts. Some took photographs of loved ones from their wallets and stared at them. Regrets were voiced, and there were complaints and occasional jokes, and some singing, too.

I was in an open truck and was able to recognize areas I knew, as we drove through. Then, as we approached the south coast, we began passing ambulances and small trucks converted to ambulances.

From our trucks we could see that these vehicles were carrying wounded militiamen and soldiers of the regular Army, but we saw no one in any other uniform, no members of the invading force. This impressed us; we realized the significance of what we saw: the invaders must indeed be fighting hard in order to be causing these casualties.

The trucks slowed to a stop by the road, and we jumped out. Sporadic firing could be heard in the distance. An airplane was heard overhead, and antiaircraft guns opened fire. The tracer bullets streaming through the dark sky were our first sight of combat.

We were warned to be on the alert for mines reportedly placed in the ground. The men gathered to get into formation, and as I stepped through sand, I felt a solid object under one of my booted feet. The foot suddenly developed a mind of its own; it refused to move further. I leaned over slowly and began to brush the sand away from my foot. Men near me noticed what was happening, and they stiffened, staring. My fingers felt hard, smooth matter. My heart beat rapidly, and I was close to panic. I gingerly continued brushing away the sand, and to my vast relief I was able to discern that what I was stepping on was only a large conch shell. The breath I exhaled was equaled by those of the men standing nearby.

The place at which we had arrived was near Larga Beach, although we could not see the ocean from where we were. This was a sandy area, spotted with rocks, clumps of shrubs, and mangrove trees. Burnt shrubbery and overturned buses gave evidence of recent combat. The buses had been transporting militia from the city of Cienfuegos and had been spotted and attacked by the invaders' aircraft.

We were told to make ourselves as comfortable as possible while awaiting further orders. We sprawled along the side of the road, our eyes warily searching the ground for signs of mines. Several men used their knapsacks as makeshift pillows.

We wore olive‑green fatigues and kepis of the same color. We were equipped with Belgian rifles and Czech submachine guns, more than 200 rounds of ammunition each, and Soviet‑made shovels and pickaxes. These were found to break easily, and most were discarded.

We remained in the area the rest of the night and until seven-thirty in the morning. Reports that were received indicated that there had been heavy fighting and that the invaders were in possession of some territory. We heard that the main damage to the invaders had been inflicted by government planes attacking the landing ships. We got little sleep that night. We listened to occasional firing in the distance, and talked among ourselves, knowing we would soon be in combat.

In the morning we were told we would march toward the enemy positions at Giron. Two lines were formed, on either side of the road, with about six feet between each man. We watched the skies: earlier a B‑26 had skimmed in low, firing its machine guns, but had been driven off by antiaircraft fire. I had thought bullets were striking near me, but found that these were only the expended shells of the AA guns.

In titular command of the police battalion was the chief of police, Major Efigenio Ameijeiras, who arrived that morning. In actual command was Major Samuel Rodiles, a veteran of the 1956‑1958 guerrilla war. Ameijeiras said he would lead his men into combat. Later, however, when contact with the enemy was established and firing began, he was seen heading toward the rear. We heard that he had been summoned by Fidel Castro.

The precise location of the invaders was unknown, and we therefore did not know just when we would go into battle. At nine o'clock in the morning we scrambled off the road when a B‑26 came in on a strafing run. Two men in my company were hit.

That morning, before we had set out on our march, an Army officer had warned Ameijeiras not to try to advance. The officer reported that the invaders were fighting well, that probably they were made up of veterans of Korea and World War II, and that they had inflicted heavy casualties on the government forces, suffering few themselves. Whenever the government troops attempted to advance, he said, they were thrown back. Despite this news and advice, Ameijeiras declared that we would move forward, even if this were to be a suicidal advance.

As we marched ahead, it appeared that we might very well be involved in a suicidal attack. We passed militiamen seated by the side of the road, who, although they did not seem to be retreating, were not moving forward either. We noted considerable numbers of casualties not yet picked up by the ambulances. Questioned as to what the general situation was, the militia replied: "Every time we have gone into battle, we have been repulsed. Many of our men have been killed." Asked to join our advance, the militia answered that they were awaiting their superiors, but these were nowhere to be seen.

We found one militia leader, but he refused to advance. He was promptly relieved of his command. The second‑in‑command of our police battalion, Captain Ricardo Carbo, took charge of the militia unit and got the men to move forward with us.

The road led over the beach, the ocean to the right of the men and swampland to their left. At around ten in the morning we received the first indications that we were entering combat: mortar shells fell into the ocean offshore, sending up great geysers of spray. Someone said that this was the Army carrying out target practice, and with this explanation we continued marching ahead. (Actually, these were shells from the invaders. Captured later on, their mortar men mentioned that they had been disconcerted when, upon dropping their shells near the advancing lines, they had seen the police unconcernedly continue to move forward.)

We came under enemy infantry fire, and our advance was now slow and exceedingly dangerous. I moved forward as best I could, at times running in a low crouch, sometimes slithering ahead on my stomach, going from shelter to shelter, a rock here, a hole in the sand there. The enemy mortar fire improved its aim, and the police casualties mounted. A member of my squad stood up to run forward, and at that precise moment was killed by the nearby explosion of a mortar shell. And then another man in the squad was killed. The company as a whole suffered some ten dead and a considerable number of wounded.

The invaders were fighting well. Nevertheless, we were able to advance. We pushed beyond Larga Beach, the enemy pulling back slowly, while maintaining heavy fire on the government forces.

At one point around noon, we were pinned down by concentrated fire from enemy machine gun nests. The advance appeared to be halted. It was then that six Soviet‑built tanks arrived on the scene, much to our relief. The tanks blasted their way through the enemy strong points, forcing the invaders back again. We charged, following the tanks. The fast‑moving tanks pulled ahead of us.

Soon after, however, we saw tanks coming back down the road. At first we thought these were enemy vehicles, but then recognized them as the same tanks that had been leading the advance. One of our officers waved down a tank and demanded to know why the tanks were pulling back. A soldier in the tank replied that they were having difficulty with their oil. The officer angrily asked: "How come it works to retreat? Why doesn't it work to advance? "

The tank men ignored the officer's remonstrations, saying they did not have to account to him. They closed the tank hatch. The infuriated officer tried to put his rifle into a slit in the tank with the evident intention of shooting its crew. Other men seized the officer and took away his weapon.

The tank rapidly proceeded back to the rear, as did three others. Their haste was so great that they ran over and killed a wounded man lying in their path. Other soldiers had to jump out of their way in order to avoid being crushed.

The tanks were retreating because two of their number had been destroyed by an enemy Sherman tank emplaced at a curve in the road. The Soviet‑made tanks were especially vulnerable due to the fact that they carried, attached to their sides, fuel tanks which burst into flames when hit by gunfire.

There had been other instances of cowardice during the advance. At one point, an order was passed through the ranks to a certain unit telling it to move to the vanguard position. When the order reached that unit, most of the men denied belonging to it. On another occasion, a police captain hiding in a hole ordered his men to move forward, but refrained from doing so himself. A sergeant came over and wrathfully berated the officer, and followed this by socking him in the face.

The enemy tank that had forced the government tank column to retreat had situated itself among dense vegetation in a ravine, protected by rocks. The curve near which the tank was emplaced became known as the "Death Curve" because of the heavy fighting at this spot. A bazooka unit circled through the swamps on the left with the intention of striking the tank, but ran into enemy machine gun nests and had to pull back. Upon returning to the government lines, the unit's members were mistaken for enemy troops, and we opened fire on them. After a great deal of frantic yelling, the men managed to identify themselves and the firing ceased.

The Sherman was finally put out of action when a lieutenant fired a bazooka shot which scored a direct hit on it. The advance was able to continue, and we approached the town of Giron itself. (It is by the name of this town, rather than by the Bay of Pigs, that the invasion is officially known in Cuba.)

At three in the afternoon a heavy mortar attack rained down on us. There was another damaged and abandoned Sherman tank to one side of the road, and I headed toward it to find shelter from the close and continuous hail of shells.

A loud explosion close by ‑ I felt and heard it, but saw nothing. I was being wafted through the air. There was no pain ‑ I did not really know what was happening to me ‑ perhaps I was dying . . . then after a second or two I lost consciousness.

I awoke slowly. My memory returned and I recalled the explosion. I was lying on a floor somewhere. It seemed to be nighttime, and I wondered whether I was a prisoner. My head throbbed with pain; it felt as if the whole thing were inflamed. I found that there was blood in my nose and mouth, and that I had received no medical treatment. I touched the blood, tasted it, thought bleakly, "I've been destroyed." I was terrified that I had lost my sight. I realized there were other human beings about, and I touched one nearby and felt cold flesh. The man was probably dead.

I learned later that my eyesight had been temporarily impaired and that I had received a wound on my forehead.

I heard a voice that I recognized. It was that of Juan de Dios, a member of my company who had been wounded earlier. I called out to him, startling him, because he thought all those around him were dead. De Dios came over and told me that we were in an improvised hospital in Jaguey Grande. He was able to get two attendants to place me on a stretcher and bandage me. Then I was taken to a hospital in another city. Here I was X‑rayed and given necessary treatment. After a week, I was transferred to the Police Hospital in Havana, where I remained an additional three weeks.

In the meantime, the invasion had been repelled and destroyed, and Fidel Castro was in firm control of Cuba.