0930 Hours, October 14, 1947
“Watch out!”
Wolchek’s driver also saw the swerving the Marine truck.
He reacted instinctively, quickly turning the wheel to get their jeep out of the truck’s path. He overcompensated, making the front end of the jeep wobble violently for a second before losing control and sending them flying into a cane field. The jagged leaves whooshed at them like slashing razors as they bounced violently over the furrows.
In shock, the two Military Police sat for a few seconds, realizing they were lucky to be alive. Sergeant Wolchek sat numbly, doing his best to regain his composure. But the longer he sat, the brighter his face grew. When he reached a brilliant shade of crimson he exploded, “That Son-of-a-bitch! That bastard! I’ll kill him! I didn’t live through Tarawa and Iwo to let some jerk kill me. Get us out of here!”
“Yes, Sarge!” Corporal Rankin exclaimed as he struggled getting their jeep into four wheel drive to get out of the field.
After they got back on the road, Wolchek took a few deep breaths to regain his composure before picking up the radio microphone, “Unit 10 to base! Unit to base! We’re in pursuit of an out-of-control Marine truck. It’s on the Mata Abajo Road.”
“What’s your status?” a voice crackled. “Do you need assistance?”
“No! We’ll handle him.”
“Roger.” the voice answered.
Wolchek wanted to get even with the driver. Enjoying the chase, he flicked on their red lights and siren. The blare traveled through the fields and caught the attention of Cuban workers. When the jeep reached to speed, the two MPs held themselves to their seats as the jeep bounced along the rough road.
The marine driver sped up after the accident. To catch up with him, the driver floored the accelerator for over ten minutes. In the straight sections of the highway they could see the truck weaving, but somehow staying on the road.
“Look at him!” Wolchek shouted. “That bastard’s drunk. Move it!”
“Sarge, I’m going as fast as I can!”
Wolchek muttered, “Get him! We’ve got to get him!”
Their flashing red lights caught the driver’s attention. He sped-up, but began to careen, especially in the turns. In many places tall cane obscured oncoming traffic, making Wolchek mutter, “That idiot’s going to kill someone.”
When the truck turned towards Leeward Point, they could see the airfield’s tower. The truck driver drifted into the oncoming lane, but half way through the turn, a passenger car appeared. The truck driver swerved.
Wolchek could see the terror of the people in the car as the large truck headed directly towards them. Desperately trying to avoid the collision, the car’s driver wildly turned his wheel.
The move didn’t work. His left front fender hit the truck’s rear panel, spinning his car. After a quarter turn, the asphalt shredded the tires. Its rims caught on the rough surface, making the car tumble, rolling over and over. It finally came to rest upright about thirty yards into a cane field.
The impact startled the Truck Driver. Forgetting that his vehicle had a high center of gravity; he too turned his wheel wildly, making his truck spin. In seconds it rolled, but the results were different. Its heavy chassis crushed the cab as if it were little more than an empty can. Cases of beer spewed cases wildly, bottles shattered, coating the road with foam and broken glass.
Rankin jammed the brakes, stopping right in the middle of the broken glass, the shards puncturing their tires. As they dismounted, gasoline poured from the truck’s crushed fuel tank, forming a pool of liquid around the crumpled mass of metal. Instinctively helping, both men started to rush forward. An electrical snap punctuated the sound of their approach. Immediately a whoosh and ball of fire enveloped the cab!
The explosion stunned the corporal, forcing Wolchek to drag him away. When sheltered behind the jeep he had enough presence of mind to use the microphone, “Mayday! Mayday! This is Wolchek! Mayday!”
The radio crackled, “What’s going on?”
“There’s been a collision! We’re four miles north of the Leeward Point Gate. One of our trucks and civilians! The truck’s on fire! We’ve got casualties.”
The voice calmly replied, “Help the survivors. The fire brigade and medics will get on their way. ETA’s fifteen minutes.”
“Grab the first aid kit!” Wolchek shouted. “Our guy’s dead! Let’s go for the civilians!”
In less than half a minute they worked their way through the crushed cane stalks, only to again be greeted by a sour gasoline smell. Though the car was old, somehow it held together so Rankin looked in a window, quickly calling out, “Three people are inside.”
Wolchek looked through the broken windshield, seeing a middle-aged Cuban couple in the front and a young man jumbled in the rear. He tried to open the right front door, but crushed metal jammed it. He ran around the car, trying all the other doors. All were the same.
Wolckek exclaimed to Ranking, “This gas’ll go. All it’ll take is a spark.”
“Sarge,” Rankin exclaimed, “I’ll get in through the windshield and hand you these civilians. You get them out of here.”
Ignoring the danger, the slender corporal crawled over the hood and into the car. Shards of glass streaked him with a fresh set of cuts. Attracted by the explosion and smoke, field workers rushed to the scene. Seeing the Marines helping, they came closer. After Wolchek stood on the hood and got a woman’s head and shoulder out of the windshield, two of the workers helped him pull the rest of her body out of the wreck.
Once they got her free, the workers carried her to a patch of grass and then came back to help with the others. The Marines and Cubans worked together to bring out a man and then a youth.
Oblivious to their wounds, the Marines extracted needles from first aid kits and gave each of the people a shot of morphine. Next they ripped apart packages and then applied bandages and compresses. By the time they staunched the flow of blood, the fire engines and ambulances arrived.
By Kenneth Jaggers
