A germ a plan was forming in Andrew's mind and he knew it didn't involve caring for wounded, especially when he didn't have the facilities or the skill to do anything.
Maybe they could take care of treating Levin, but Stillman had taken shrapnel to the skull and at least one bullet to the chest.
The man needed a hospital and soon.
Ross spoke quietly with Levin who paled and then reluctantly agreed.
They carried Stillman to the side of the road and rigged a shelter for him and Levin.
Andrew gave Levin a pole with part of a reasonably white sheet tied to it.
He wished him luck and told Levin they'd be watching and would protect the two of them as best they could if his idea turned bad.
"Trucks are coming from outside the base, from Cuba, sir."
They were coming down the same route as the tanks.
He ordered his men back and out of sight and told them not to fire unless he gave the order.
Andrew realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale.
He smiled grimly.
"Ambulances," he announced unnecessarily.
The Red Cross was clearly visible on each of the half dozen vehicles.
As they approached the two wounded Marines, Levin stood and waved the white flag.
The trucks stopped.
After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, men carrying stretchers got out of the last truck and approached the two wounded Marines.
They placed a motionless Stillman on one and aided Levin on to the other. Once loaded, they continued on their way.
Cullen moved beside Andrew.
"Good to know the Cubans aren't savages, lieutenant.
Chinese Communists in Korea wouldn't have done that.
I heard they bayoneted American wounded."
"I didn't think the Cubans were savages, gunny.
Every Cuban I ever met was a good person.
Still, it was good to see it confirmed."
The dead were still waiting to be buried.
They performed that unpleasant task with grim haste.
They tried to make sure that each body they buried had one head, two legs and two arms, and largely succeeded.
Hopefully, they got the right parts to the right body.
Wooden stakes pounded in the ground identified the site as a graveyard.
It was gruesome work.
Still, they managed to bury each Marine with as much dignity as they could, and with one of his two dog tags firmly planted in each body's teeth or as close as possible to where the jaw might have been.
Everyone hoped they got the right tag on the right body.
Andrew thought it really didn't matter.
Dead was dead.
Sergeant Cullen kept the other set of tags.
Hopefully they could be used to inform next of kin what had happened to their loved one.
Along with himself and Cullen, Ross had only a handful of men and he knew them only by their name tags.
They were Hollis and Ward, the two men who'd manned the outpost, along with Williams, Anders, and Groth.
Ward was the only black man, still a rarity in the Corps.
Now they would have to make plans if they were to survive.
They were uncomfortably aware that the sound of firing was receding and slackening in the distance, which meant that there was a lot of distance and Cubans between themselves and the American lines.
That is, if there were any American lines.
Cathy and Alice huddled and hugged each other tightly as explosions ripped through what had once been their quiet neighborhood.
They were confused and frightened.
They didn't know what to do.
The fighting was now all around them and they had missed any opportunity to make it to the Bay and any ships that might take them to safety.
Sometimes they could hear voices from the outside.
Terrifyingly, they seemed to be speaking Spanish.
The two women had dressed in rugged clothes suited for hiking or camping, acknowledging that dressing for style was useless in time of war.
Alice had imitated Cathy by preparing an overnight bag stuffed with what each thought were necessities.
They accepted that they had no idea just what might be a necessity in the hours and days ahead.
A shell landed nearby and cracked plaster, showering them with dust.
A picture fell from a wall and the glass shattered.
"I can't handle this," Alice said.
"You can stay if you want, but I am getting out of here."
Alice grabbed her bag and ran out the back door.
Cathy was numb with indecision.
Should she follow Alice out into the battle that sounded increasingly like an inferno, or should she stay where she was and wait for the fighting to subside?
Or wait where she was for someone to rescue her?
She didn't know, she simply didn't know.
Surely some American marines would come by and rescue her.
She sat on the couch and hugged her knees to her chest and tried not to give in to the panic that was clutching at her.
What was happening to her world?
Just yesterday she had a good job as a teacher helping young men who wanted to be helped, and yesterday was the beginning of the Christmas holiday, a time of peace and brotherhood.
Today, Christmas Day, there was the strong possibility that she would die violently.
She numbly hoped that her family would somehow find out what happened to her.
The door crashed open and three Cuban soldiers rushed in.
They were dirty and angry, and one, a large swarthy man, had blood running down his forehead from a gash in his scalp.
Cathy cowered as they leveled what looked like submachine guns at her.
The larger man was first to determine that she was harmless.
He laughed and signaled the others to check out the rest of the building.
A moment later, they came back and told their leader that the place was empty.
Like little children, they looted the kitchen of what food was left in the cupboards and in the refrigerator, smashing and breaking what they didn’t want.
One of them kicked Cathy’s small television across the room.
Cathy thought of bolting out the back door, but they never quite left her alone, and at least one gun was trained on her, however loosely.
The threat was clear – she was to stay put or get shot.
Cathy's knowledge of Spanish was a long ways from perfect, but she understood that they'd been separated from their unit by the stubborn resistance put up by a handful of Marines down the street and that some of their friends had been killed or wounded, which angered them.
She further gathered that they weren't regulars, whom they despised, but militia, people of the country, and proud of their independence.
She also felt that they weren’t terribly upset that they’d been separated from their unit and were missing the fighting.
The large one stood before her.
"I am Carlos Gomez," he said, "and I speak English a little.
I learned it from the yanquis bosses who used to kick the shit out of me if I didn't do my work just right.
I hated them and I am glad they are all gone.
They used to beat me, cheat me, all the time they were fucking the Cuban women and turning them into whores."
He grabbed Cathy's short hair in his fist and pulled her to her feet.
She yelped from the pain and they laughed.
The two other men held onto her arms while Carlos surveyed her.
He grinned and pulled her blouse over her head and followed with her bra.
"Small tits," Gomez said laughing as he pawed her roughly.
"But they'll do."
He unbuttoned her jeans and slid them and her panties down over her ankles.
Except for tennis shoes and socks, she was naked.
She was too stunned to even try to wrestle away from the two men who were holding her.
Carlos now had his hand between her thighs and began probing her with his finger.
It hurt and she screamed.
“A real tight pussy,” he laughed.
“She might be a virgin.”
Gomez punched Cathy on the side of her head and followed with a hard backhand across her face.
She felt pain as a large ring he was wearing sliced her cheek.
She saw flashes of light and nearly passed out.
Gomez continued groping and probing her.
"Yanquis pricks always made our women fuck and suck them, but we never got fucked and sucked by Yanqui women.
They took my sister to a casino in Havana and made her a whore after killing her brain with drugs.
Now you're gonna be our whore.
You're gonna fuck us until you're full and suck us until we're dry, and you are gonna have a lot of time to learn to like it."
Carlos exposed himself.
She couldn't help but stare at his erection.
"Now this is a real man, a Cuban man, not a dickless American."
He laughed hugely and the others joined in.
They dragged her into her bedroom and threw her on the bed.
She tried to get up, but Gomez pushed her back on the bed and forced her legs apart.
He laughed and took out a large knife and held it against her face.
"You will not resist.
If you do, I will take my knife and cut your ears and nose off so no one will ever look at you without wanting to vomit.
Understand?"
She nodded.
He climbed on top of her and pushed himself inside her.
She tried hard not to resist but couldn't help writhing.
Carlos didn't seem to mind as he thrust deeper inside her.
She bit her lip and tried not to scream.
She would endure the pain, the shame, and the anger.
The other two cheered and said they were next.
An explosion ripped through the house, sending debris flying.
One of the men who’d been holding her howled and grabbed at an arm that was broken, with a piece of bone sticking out through the skin.
Carlos had been thrown to the floor and got up, puzzled and angry.
He’d ejaculated, but on her leg.
Small arms fire echoed from outside.
Carlos again slapped her hard alongside her head, knocking her to the bedroom floor.
"You stay here, bitch.
We'll be back and we’ll finish this."
He zipped his fly and grabbed his weapon.
The two men helped their wounded comrade out the front.
Cathy was naked and covered with dust.
She tried to control her breathing, her fear, and the pain.
Had he ejaculated inside her as well as on her leg?
She didn't know and right now it didn't matter.
Wait for them to come back?
Not a chance, she thought.
She grabbed her clothing and overnight bag and, still wearing only her tennis shoes ran out the back door of the apartment.
There was smoke everywhere and it was hard to see, even though it was daylight.
She stumbled over something and stared in horror.
It was Alice.
No, it was half of Alice.
She was lying on her back and her eyes were glassy and dead.
Her legs had been blown off at the hip.
Cathy screamed and ran.
One part of her mind said she could not head towards the Bay because that's where Gomez and people like him would be.
She ran as fast and as hard as she could, anywhere, but away from Gitmo.
"They're coming again!" someone yelled.
Cuban infantry in company strength and one T34 tank had been sitting in front of the back-up command bunker for several minutes.
Major Sam Hartford moved to the firing slit as fast as his sore feet would let him.
He estimated nearly a hundred Cuban soldiers running towards his bunker and the trenches that his men had hurriedly dug in front of it.
The T34's engine roared to life and the tank moved with the infantry.
"Fire, damn it.
What the hell are you waiting for?
An invitation?" Sam yelled furiously.
The fifty or so rifles and BARs that covered that area of the front opened up.
Cubans were hit and fell, but others still kept coming.
One man waved a pistol and urged his men onward.
He was obviously their leader
"Get the guy with the pistol," he urged, and a score of weapons converged on the man.
The Cuban shuddered, convulsed and dropped to the ground as bullets ripped him apart.
The remainder of the attackers faltered on seeing their leader drop, but the tank kept on coming.
"Keep shooting!" Hartford yelled and his men complied, dropping another half dozen before the survivors decided they'd had enough and pulled back.