A Sergeant Named Batista

Chapter 15

The outbreak came at one-thirty on the morning of November 8, 1933.

The long-threatened, long-expected revolution against the Grau-Batista government struck Cuba full force and the whole island--from one end to the other--became a bedlam. Rebel pilots from the Camp Columbia air base, flying stolen fighter planes, swooped low over the city of Havana, spraying 50-caliber machine gun bullets into the streets, across the roof tops, and into the streets again. Men shouted and women screamed as they scampered from the streets and sidewalks, taking shelter in doorways and behind colonnades. Automobiles raced through the streets, their lights out and their occupants firing rifles and submachine guns at anything that moved. It seemed as if all Cuba had gone mad.

This was it! The negotiators, the mediators, could do nothing now to save Cuba from another bloody revolution. This was a fight to the death, a fight for survival. All the talk of the politicians, the maneuvering of friendly diplomats, all reason, had been thrown aside and Cubans were killing Cubans in the streets of Havana, in the streets of Santiago, at the other end of the island, and in the smallest villages. This was no minor public disorder. It was a real revolution, well planned and excellently coordinated throughout the island.

We at the Associated Press office had been warned four hours earlier that the revolution would break before dawn. But we had heard that story before and nothing had happened. In Cuba a newspaperman can't ignore rumors and keep his job. Starting rumors is a great pastime in Cuba, and although most of them are baseless, a reporter has to check and check against the one chance out of a thousand that the rumor has some basis of truth to it. The first tip came to the AP at nine-thirty on the night of the outbreak. Weeks before, we bad worked out a plan for covering what we had been told would be the biggest and most violent of all revolutions. When the tip came to us it sounded a little more reliable than the ones we had been getting over a period of weeks. So the AP staff was called together and we had a conference. Buck Canel, one of our best reporters, volunteered to go out and do a little checking. He made a few telephone calls and left, under instructions to report anything he saw. In half an hour Canel called in. He confirmed the information our tipster had given us. Canel was at a hideout of the revolutionaries. They were issuing rifles, machine guns, and ammunition, he reported, and the shooting would start in the madrugada, that is, in the period between midnight and dawn. Canel stayed with the insurgents until they strapped their bandoleers over their shoulders, stacked their weapons, and settled down to await the zero hour. By the time Canel returned to the office, the whole AP staff was there. José Arroyo, one of the greatest rough-and-tumble reporters in any country, was walking the floor, trying to control his desire to get things moving. Ekin Birch, an old soldier himself, was ready for anything. Pepe García, the AP photographer, put a fresh supply of film and flash bulbs in his shoulder bag, and George Kaufman, the anchor man on the AP team, got things ready for the fast movement of the news to New York. By that time we were so sure that the big night had arrived, we sent our first story to New York giving the background of the revolutionary movement and establishing the fact that the big story was about to break. The AP operated a leased wire between Havana and New York, but the leased wire closing time was at midnight. We checked with New York and it was decided to hold the wire open all night.

The hours wore on and our nerves wore thin. When would the break come? And where? Then we began to wonder. Aside from the information Canel had picked up, we had no real confirmation that the shooting would start before dawn. Finally I decided to talk to some of the other reporters about the situation, to do some more checking. None of the opposition correspondents seemed to have any information and that worried us. It's great to be ahead of the opposition, to have a jump on the other fellow, but when the story doesn't develop, it isn't so comfortable to be alone, even though you are out in front. At midnight I walked over to the favorite cafe' of the American reporters. There was no excitement among them and that worried me. So I dropped a hint that something might happen before daybreak. Two of the reporters agreed they ought to drive out to Camp Columbia to see what things looked like. They were on their way back to Havana when the revolution started. The first firing came from a truckload of revolutionaries speeding along the Prado, the beautiful promenade in the center of Havana. And before our operator could get to the office teletype, the shooting was general-in the street in front of our office-over our heads-everywhere. Bullets struck the iron grating on the office balcony and we closed and barricaded the wooden doors. Arroyo, who had stationed himself on the outskirts of Havana, telephoned in. The revolt was in full swing there and the shooting was increasing. Melón Ramos called in from Marianao, adjacent to Havana, to report similar developments. He was close to Camp Columbia and he said there was heavy firing in that area. Our correspondents in nearby towns and cities were calling in with almost identical reports-‘the revolt was island-wide and fighting was intense in all sectors. The estimates of the dead began to pile up and there was no sign of a letup. The civilian revolutionary groups, we learned, were supported by a number of officers and men of the Air Force and by large sections of troops from the other branches of service. The troops at Atarés and San Ambrosio rebelled, as was expected, and they were soon reinforced by the Dragones Garrison and by a number of strategically important police stations in Havana.

Shortly before the outbreak, Batista had held an urgent meeting at his home in Camp Columbia with Secretary of War Antonio Guiteras and the Chief of the National Police. The meeting had hardly adjourned when the revolutionaries struck. The rebel planes at Camp Columbia airfield moved over the main section of the camp and, with the aid of flares, began dropping bombs. Batista and two aides, Major Jaime Mariné and Captain Manuel Benítez, had left the Batista residence on foot and were on their way to District Headquarters when the planes appeared overhead. As the officers crossed the parade grounds, a bomb struck the schoolhouse next to the Batista home and blew it to bits. The bright flares lighted the camp, and Batista and his companions, caught in the middle of the parade grounds, were conspicuous targets for the attackers. They fell to the ground, covered their heads with their jackets, and remained still until the attack subsided. As Batista and his aides moved toward the headquarters building, they noticed that a sergeant in charge of the antiaircraft position there was standing by, his weapons unused. Batista believed the sergeant was sympathetic to the revolt and he ordered one of his aides to force the sergeant to fire against the attacking airplanes. Captain Benítez jumped behind the sergeant, placed a pistol to his back, and ordered him to fire. The sergeant complied and fought on through the night. He told Benítez that he was so bewildered by the attack of the planes that he had forgotten to fire the antiaircraft guns.

Batista and a small group of aides knew that the heart of the revolution was the Air Corps. If the Batista forces could prevent the rebellious airmen from taking the planes off the ground, they could, perhaps, break the back of the insurrection. As they neared the airfield, Batista ordered Major Ignacio Galíndez to open fire. It was a delicate problem because an orphanage was situated very close to the airfield and could very easily fall into the line of fire. The Batista party was not heavily armed and Batista told his men to keep the fire low in order to create the impression that a large force was attacking. Galíndez fired his submachine gun for five minutes and moved closer to the runways. Suddenly he leaped on to the field, followed by the small band of supporters, and the rebel airmen became panicked. They surrendered to Galíndez and were taken prisoners. It was an important break for the Batista forces, but the revolution was still going full force in other areas.

The night of November 7 was a night of terror, and there were no signs of a slowdown as day broke.

We had called Ambassador Welles at his home a few minutes after the revolution started and be asked us to keep him advised. United States Marine Captain Creasy, who had been stationed in Havana as an observer, showed up at the AP office about two in the morning, after running through gunfire to get there. He reported to Welles throughout the night.

Early on the morning of November 8, the Batista forces were consolidated for a concerted drive against the rebels. One of the first objectives was to recapture the Tenth Precinct Police Station in Havana, where one of Batista's top men, Captain García Pedroso, was held captive, along with Rubén de León, one of the leading revolutionary leaders in the campaign against the Machado dictatorship. The rebels bad sent word that both men would be executed and Batista knew he had to act quickly. The Batista forces attacked the station, laying down a heavy fire from hand weapons, and the rebels surrendered. García Pedroso and de León were saved.

Meanwhile, the first contingent of rebel prisoners were brought to Camp Columbia. Batista ordered that they be lined up before his headquarters so that he could talk to them. There were several hundred in the group and Batista, after pointing out the absurdity of their actions, told them that they would be given every protection while in the custody of the Army. As he talked, a young girl stepped out of the ranks of the prisoners and spoke: "If you give me a pistol and my freedom I'll go right back into the streets and fight

for my cause." Batista was amazed, first, to see the young girl among this group of misfit rebels, and secondly, at the girl's audacity. Batista answered: "Young lady," he said, "I'm not your judge. I’m merely your custodian. But since you are a woman and no formal charges have been placed against you I'm going to make you an offer. I will not give you the pistol but I will give you your freedom."

This dialogue between a rebellious young lady and the Chief of the Army at such a tense moment seemed a bit incongruous, but Batista, who could have ordered the girl locked in the guardhouse, secretly admired her grit. The young rebel replied with the same defiance: "if you free me, I'll join my friends. All I want from you is security, in the form of a safe-conduct pass.” Batista had difficulty suppressing a smile as he explained to the girl that he could offer her security only while she was in his custody in Camp Columbia. "Don't forget," he said, "that the streets are full of people over whom I have no control. While you're in this camp you are safe. Once you leave it, you'll have to depend on your luck." The girl accepted her freedom and went back to her friends. As a matter of fact, she showed up again among the last batch of prisoners captured--at Atarés Fortress the next afternoon. She had carried out her threat to get back into the fight.

The street fighting in Havana became more violent during the daylight hours of the morning and the rebels were having considerable success. They had taken eight police stations and were prepared to move on the Presidential Palace. From time to time, squad leaders among the insurgents would call the AP office to tell us of their victories. They wanted to be certain they were getting a good press.

I posted myself near the Presidential Palace to cover the attack. The shouting rebels moved down a wide street toward the Palace, partly sheltered by a homemade tank. It was a queer-looking vehicle--a truck to which sheet steel sides had been rigged, with firing slots for the riflemen stationed inside. I stood behind a pillar a half block from the Palace and watched. As the band of rebels, firing submachine guns, rifles and pistols, moved forward, they encountered practically no resistance from the soldiers defending the Palace. Two police officers tried to cross Zayas Park, in front of the Palace, to join loyal forces inside the building. They were cut down by fire from the insurgent side. The toll of dead and wounded in the revolution had run into the hundreds by this time and it was being increased with each passing hour. As the attackers moved closer to the Palace I began to wonder if the troops inside had decided to surrender without a fight. Maybe they bad gone over to the other side. But I soon had the answer. The soldiers guarding the Palace bad been told to hold their fire until the insurgents were close enough to become easy targets. When the rebels were less than a half block from the Palace the Batista forces opened fire. They had mounted 50-caliber machine guns behind sandbags atop the Palace and they were prepared for an all-out fight. So intense was the fire from the building that the rebels were thrown into complete panic. In a few minutes they turned and ran, leaving the makeshift tank in the middle of the street. The Palace had been saved.

At the time of the attack on the Presidential Palace, furious battles were raging in several other sections of Havana, especially around El Cerro Police Station, on the outskirts of the city, where there were heavy casualties on both sides. Word was received that a large detachment of Batista's troops stationed at El Dique farm, between Havana and Matanzas, had joined the insurgents. These men had been lured to the rebel side by the false information that President Grau had been taken prisoner and that Batista had been killed in battle. When Batista heard of this disaffection be sent one of his best officers and a small detachment of the enlisted men to El Dique for the purpose of trying to win the detachment back to the Batista side. Once the officer explained that the information about Batista's death and Grau's capture was false, the detachment at El Dique realigned itself with the Batista forces.

During the afternoon of November 8, many of the insurgents had moved into Atarés Castle, a famous old fortress to the southeast of Havana. It was a solid old structure, a relic of the days of Spanish rule, and it seemed like a good place to make a stand. The rebels at Atarés were led by Juan Blas Hernández, half-rebel, half-bandit, who bad been a troublemaker for Cuban governments for years. Blas was one of the most colorful figures in Cuba. A guajiro--a countryman from the hinterland--he had always done his fighting in the open country. He was accustomed to leading hit-and-run raids on small villages or isolated Rural Guard posts, and the thick walls surrounding him in Atarés must have seemed strange to him. He was not accustomed to such a restricted fighting area.

Throughout the afternoon the Batista forces hammered away at the fortress from land and from sea. A gunboat bad been brought deep into Havana Bay and was scoring direct hits on the fortress. The land troops were blasting the building with small mortars and the rebels were feeling the full power of Batista's Army.

All noncombatants, except newspapermen and newsreel cameramen, bad been moved out of the Atarés area, but rifle and machine-gun fire from inside the fortress was reaching into the thickly populated business and residential area west of Atarés. The sound of the screaming shells, the booming of the mortars and the quick chatter of machine-gun fire created a din which was as awful and nerve-racking as only the sounds of war can be.

As night came on, the streets of Havana were dark and deserted. The city lights were never turned on and the only occupants of the streets were the participants in the revolution and a few newspaper reporters. An hour or so before midnight the firing gradually died down, and it seemed as though an army of dogs had taken over. The pitiful wails of the frightened animals and the hysterical howling and barking added to the terror of the night.

Soon reporters brought in the news that other rebel detachments were moving into Atarés for a consolidated stand against the Batista forces. And when they did that, it developed later, they played right into the hands of Batista and his men. Although Batista's Army was all around Atarés, the loyal troops allowed the rebels to go into the fortress without the slightest interference. Some of the rebels even walked out of the fortress to carry messages to their companions in other parts of the city, inviting them into Atarés. We learned later that Batista actually wanted all the rebels to go into Atarés. It was better, be decided, to fight on one front instead of a dozen. Once the rebels bad themselves bottled up inside the fortress, the Batista forces demanded their surrender. Each time the offer was made it was just as quickly rejected by the insurgent forces.

The following morning, some time after daybreak, the fighting broke out again all over Havana and elsewhere on the island. Reports from the interior indicated, however, that the rebels were being beaten in almost every section.

The fighting at Atarés was terrific but it became apparent that the rebels would have to surrender sooner or later. The Batista Army was closing in, inch by inch, yard by yard, on all four sides of the fortress. But the rebels were no quitters. They fought back with all their force, although they were fighting a losing battle.

Finally, during the afternoon of November 9, the fortress fell into the hands of the Batista forces and the revolution was over. At the end, there was a great deal of hand-to-hand fighting at the gates of the fortress and Blas Hernández fell dead, a bullet through his chest. Old Blas bad fought one too many battles. One report from Atarés was to the effect that Blas had been killed by an army officer after the surrender. It was one of those reports which could neither be confirmed nor denied because the confusion following the surrender was so great. The death toll for the two days of fighting was greater than in any uprising in the republican history of Cuba--over five hundred dead and hundreds wounded.

The revolution against the Grau regime failed because Grau was able to hold the support of Batista and his Armed Forces. Batista, who was conscious of Grau's weaknesses, had gone along with Grau during the numerous attempts to find a peaceful way of forcing the Provisional President's resignation and he continued to support Grau when the opposition groups took up arms. Batista bad insisted throughout the negotiations that any plan which provided for the ousting of the Provisional President must include a means of naming a successor quickly, in order to avoid further chaos. None of the plans offered contained such a provision.

The story of Cuba on those two days--November 8 and 9, 1933--was written in blood, the blood of Cubans, brothers, who, unable to settle their differences at the conference table, bad resorted to violence, to bloody revolution.

After his victories in the November revolution and in the Battle of the Hotel Nacional a month before, even Batista's foes abandoned the idea that he was just a transitory figure on the Cuban political scene. Although they criticized his strong stand against the revolutionary movements, they were willing to admit that he was a leader of great ability, that he had won and held the loyal support of the Armed Forces and that when he spoke, he spoke with authority. There was no evidence to indicate that Batista, in putting down the two uprisings, had resorted to anything other than the usual weapons of defense. He was stem, of course, and had he not been, be could never have achieved victory. I know of several instances, one of which may be worth repeating here, where Batista showed great compassion for the men and boys who had tried to destroy him. The incident is not based on rumor or hearsay, and it happened immediately after the close of the November revolution.

Some weeks before the revolution of November 8, 1933, I had engaged a young student from Havana University to help me with my Spanish. He was a bright lad, with a great deal of charm, the son of a well-known educator. Those were busy days for a newspaper reporter and I arranged with my teacher to give me a few lessons between big news stories. On November 8 and 9, the days of the revolution, I had no time for Spanish lessons and during the excitement of reporting the revolution for AP I heard nothing from my young tutor. About a week after the uprising was put down, the youngster showed up to resume his teaching. Naturally, our first conversation was about the recent revolution. "And where were you?" I asked him. "I was in it," he said, "and I'm lucky to be alive now." He wanted to tell his story, so I made myself comfortable.

"You see," be said, "I've always been a member of the anti-Batista block at the university. We were all set to kick Batista out when the revolution started and we thought we had a foolproof plan. I joined up and was assigned to drop bombs on Camp Columbia and particularly the home of Batista. It was quite an honor. So I got into an old training plane with an armload of various-sized bombs and, with a rebellious pilot, headed for Camp Columbia. We zoomed low over the home of Batista and I dropped a couple of the bombs. I saw that we had at least damaged a house alongside of the Batista place and I felt like a great revolutionary hero. After dropping our bombs we beaded back for the army airfield for a new supply. We landed all right, but right in the arms of the Batista forces, who had taken the airport while we were in the air and we didn't know it. We were captured, and I was the fellow who tossed bombs at Batista's house. I was sure I would die before a firing squad as a martyr to the cause of the revolution, but I wasn't ready to die. The soldiers searched us and hauled us off to the prison at Camp Columbia. I stayed there all that day and night and all of the next day. Sometime after midnight of the second day a guard came to my cell and told me to step out. This was the end, I told myself, and I called upon all my courage to see me through the ordeal. I prayed and I cried and I tried to look brave. I was taken on foot to a large house in Camp Columbia, which I recognized as the office of the Chief of the Army -Batista. Would I be given a court-martial? Would I be shot summarily, without a chance to see my parents or my fellow students? Would the generations of Cubans to come appreciate the heroism which led me to death before an army firing squad? I was sure I faced certain death.

"Finally, after an hour of waiting in a small room with my guards, I was told to rise and enter the door leading to the next room. The guards opened the door and left me. I stepped into the room and found myself facing the man against whom I had revolted-Fulgencio Batista. The guards bad disappeared and only the two of us were in the room. He spoke to me: 'Close the door, young man, and come in. I want to talk to you.' His manner was firm but not unfriendly. I'm sure my teeth must have chattered and I know my knees were knocking as I sat on a chair in front of a desk, opposite the man I had tried to kill. Batista spoke. 'Now, young fellow, they tell me you are the one who tossed the bomb at my house. Why did you want to kill me? What have I done to you to cause you to set out to murder me? How did you get mixed up in all this?' Although his questions were slow and deliberate, I couldn't think of a single answer. I sat staring at the man. He didn't seem to be the demon my colleagues said he was. He didn't even seem to be very angry about my attempt to bomb him into eternity. He continued: 'You've caused your parents a lot of anguish. They're worried to death about you and, I think, a bit ashamed of your conduct. I know your father and I have the greatest respect for him. He has done much for Cuba. I talked to him a while ago and the old gentleman is very upset about your conduct. Now go home to your parents immediately and spend the rest of your life trying to prove to them that you're a decent boy, who just made the mistake of following a lot of other misled young fellows. Get on home now, and keep yourself out of these things in the future.'

"We ended the interview by shaking hands. That was all there was to it. No firing squad, no court-martial, no martyrs. But it felt awfully good to be alive. And from now on I am through with revolutions. I’ll stick to my classes and to my teaching."

This was the story as told to me by a young revolutionary who had, a few hours before, set out on a harebrained mission to destroy Batista because his fellow students bad convinced him that Batista was an enemy of the country.

A few days after the revolt had been put down, Batista, reviewing the events of November 8 and 9, told friends that when the final group of prisoners were brought before him at Camp Columbia he was shocked by the number of adolescents among them. "There were hundreds of boys from fourteen to sixteen and they were shaking with fear as they were brought into the camp," Batista said. “I had no desire to add further punishment," he explained, "because these youngsters had already had enough. They had suffered all the tortures of fear under fire, they had seen their comrades die in battle, and they were too young for that sort of thing. So I decided to get them back into their homes and out of the atmosphere of revolution as quickly as possible. I directed that they be incarcerated in a certain area, one from which escape was simple. In that way, they could flee to their homes, where they belonged, thus bringing to an end the days of horrible anxiety through which their parents had lived."

Nearly twenty years later Batista told me of another incident which occurred the night the revolution was put down.

“I was alone in my office,” he said, "when one of my aides came to tell me that a woman was calling on the telephone and that she insisted she had to talk to me. She refused to give her name but said it was extremely urgent that she speak to me. I was tired and troubled, as you can imagine, and I told the aide to ask the caller to telephone the following day. The aide returned to my office and said be had not been able to discourage the woman. Something caused me to break my rule of not accepting anonymous calls and answered the telephone.

"I cannot remember the exact words of the conversation I bad with this unidentified woman," Batista said, "but I will never forget the substance of what she told me. Here was her message: She was a friend of mine and one of my most profound admirers. She wanted to tell me how ashamed she was of me and the rest of the men in the government.

“I explained to her that I was as upset as she was over the events of the past few days, but she interrupted me: She could never understand, she said, why I would stand by and allow President Grau and his followers to make a national holiday out of a victory which cost so many Cuban lives. She told me that at the very moment, the lights on the capitolio were blazing into the sky and a wild celebration of victory was going on in the Presidential Palace. 'Why should Cubans celebrate the death of fellow Cubans, and in such a vulgar way?' she asked.

“I assured the lady I would check and see what was going on and the conversation ended. The lighting of the revolving searchlights in the capitol building was reserved for great days of national rejoicing. I checked and found the caller's charges were correct. The lights were shining out over the city and a big party was under way in the Palace. I made a telephone call and had the festivities stopped--the lights extinguished.

“I don't know until today who called me. But it was a great service to Cuba and I have always been grateful to that anonymous female voice."