Guantanamo
1145 Hours, October 14, 1947
Bob Weicha enjoyed being Officer-of-the Day.
It was a good change of pace, being treated like an admiral. Trouble was, it happened only on the days he wore the black armband bearing those two white letters, “OD.” At that moment, he was officially the highest ranking officer on the base and he liked the importance. Even his fellow officers at the McCalla Field Mess deferred to him, insisting that he go to the head of the serving line. He barely got comfortable when a pair of Marine Military Police came into the hall and looked in his direction.
The staff sergeant threaded his way through the room to the OD’s table, the crispness of his uniform and presence alerting everyone in the place to the fact that something serious had happened. He stood before Weicha, snapped to attention, saluted and said, “Commander, Sir! Begging your pardon, Sir! There’s been an off base accident with casualties. You’re needed at headquarters.”
Weicha knew he had to look calm and poised in front of the other officers. But he instinctively knew that it had to be the same kind of problem that he had been dealing with for the last few months; reckless Sailors and Marines. They were compulsive fools who were never content unless they found trouble; making him wonder how America ever won the War.
His mind raced about the possibilities, but he couldn’t ask any questions in front of the officers. Off base situations could be difficult, very difficult. Accidents involving civilian casualties were the most difficult. Just a few injured and a fresh outburst of anti-Americanism could sweep the island. If there were any dead, there was no telling what would happen.
Rising from the table, he began to think about the July incident. After a night of whoring in Santiago, five drunks from the cruiser Salem pissed on a statue of Jose Marti; the Cuban national hero. The idiots turned a bad situation into a catastrophe when one of them climbed on the statue’s head and defecated. If a sailor had hurt any Cubans, the situation could get nasty.
With a sinking feeling forming in the pit of his stomach he said to the Sergeant, “We better go to the scene. Do you have a radio?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’ll call headquarters from there.”
While getting his hat from the rack, he began to think about the Navy’s supposed friends, the Santiago police would react. Once they were off-base, Swabbies and Jug-heads were completely out of control. With them not showing any respect for the locals, relationships with the locals were deteriorating. Even a jump in the usual bribes weren’t enough to hush up problems. After taking his seat, Weicha mulled over the recent problems, barely hearing the siren as the jeep raced towards a dock near the McCalla Field hospital.
Santiago officials were keenly aware of all the good things the Americans on Guantanamo Bay did, such as providing surplus trucks and jeeps so their patrolmen didn’t have to walk. Of late they had trouble keeping their men in line. It used to be that whenever Sailors or Marines got into some sort of fracas, the locals were more than willing to call the Military Police and let the Navy deal with their own. That understanding was ending. Because they dropped a big part of their pay in town, it used to be that the people living in Santiago tolerated American Sailors and Marines, letting them blow off steam in any way they wanted, that is, as long as they paid. Now the locals expected the men to behave, even the whores.
Sitting in silence as the jeep blared its way towards the harbor, Weicha had time to think about the Jose Marti statue incident. Even though the sailors caused the trouble in the middle of the night, locals heard their ruckus with the police and came out of their homes. When they found out what happened, they exploded. The crowd would have lynched the sailors. Fortunately enough Shore Patrol arrived to help the police haul the Sailors to the local jail. Word spread and by early morning reporters from Havana sat in courtroom; political agitators filling the room. Fearing for his safety, the judge couldn’t let them pay the normal fines.
The men had to stand trial and it was a nasty affair. Loving the opening for publicity, student activists from Havana turned the trial into an anti-American circus, their vitriol whipping emotions to a fever pitch. They made a commotion every time the defense made a point, by doing this telling the judge that any form of clemency was unacceptable. The judge was a practical person who lived in Santiago and understood what was expected of him. Not wanting to be a pariah and to assure his safety, he sentenced the sailors to six months of hard labor.
After taking a few minutes to work his way out of the jeep and into a waiting launch for a dash across the bay, Weicha had time to again think about the trial’s outcome. Knowing the jailers were sure to mistreat the sailors and not wanting to see their men get hurt, the Navy authorized him to take money from the Sailor’s Relief Fund to bribe the judge and local officials as needed. This tried and true Cuban practice failed. The political pressure was so great, even reliable contacts wouldn’t accept money. To get the situation under control, they had to go all the way to the U. S. Embassy in Havana. After they paid a huge bribe to one of President Grau’s high level Justice Ministers, to get their men released, the Navy had to give written guarantees that the sailors would serve six months in the base brig.
The black smoke from the accident made Wiecha uneasy. This time a Marine driver hurt or possibly killed locals. If he couldn’t control this situation, the Navy’s relationship with the Cubans could turn foul. Whatever he did, he had to prevent this one from spinning out of control.
The accident site was filled with activity, forcing the driver to weave his way past the ambulances, MP jeeps and fire engines. Two trucks were spraying water on the burning truck while a third washed gasoline away from the wrecked car. A steaming hulk filled the road, stopping traffic in both directions. The noise had attracted a good sized group of cane workers who were agitated.
One of the Cubans attracted Weicha’s attention, a reporter from Boqueron, the town just outside the base’s main gate. He was talking heatedly with the cane workers. None of the Americans seemed to know any Spanish, so they just stood there, watching the reporter rave. Wiecha had to get involved!
As the medical teams worked on the injured, he walked up to the Cubans and began in Spanish, “Compadres, this is most unfortunate. We don’t know what happened, but we’ll work with your fine police. People are hurt, so we’ve got to get them help.”
When the workers quieted he had an opening, “Compadres, we’ve got a hospital near McCalla Field, but it’s on the other side of the bay, about a half-hour away. Another hospital is in Guantanamo City, but it’s over an hour away. If you want us to help, our ambulances will take these people to our hospital.”
He looked directly at the two police from the small post at Calmanera standing near the front of the crowd.
When no one objected he continued, “I’ll tell our medical teams to take them. If any of you saw the accident, please stay here. I’d like to talk to you.”
‘So far so good,’ he said to himself, relieved that no one objected. Aware of the urgency to get the people to the hospital, he rushed to the doctors asking, “How are they?”
After one of the doctors said the civilians were in bad shape and needed help fast, he walked to the stretchers. All three were white, but from the cut of their clothing, they didn’t look American. The woman had fair skin and long blond hair. Her husband had a slight amber complexion that sharply contrasted with streaked red hair, indicating mixed heritage, possibly Scot and Castilian. The boy had his father’s hair and his mother’s skin tones.
When he finished checking out the civilians, he walked over to two Military Police who sat on the rear of an ambulance as a doctor and a medic cleaned their wounds before wrapping them with white gauze.
He directed his question to the doctor, “How are they?”
“Superficial cuts. They’ll need stitches and a few days to heal, but they’ll be fine.”
“These are two brave men,” replied the medic doing the bandaging. “When we got here, gasoline was all over the place. Our men pulled the civilians out of the car.”
Pleased to get good news he asked, “Can they talk?”
“Yes, Sir.”
After thanking the doctor, he walked up to the two MP’s, “How are you?”
“A little sore, Sir,” replied the corporal wearing a nametag saying Rankin.
“Same here, Sir,” interjected Wolchek.
They were a little rattled, but had presence of mind, “Not bad for two guys who look like hell. You risked your life to get those people out of the wreck. Is that right?”
“Not really, Sir,” Wolchek responded. “We just got those people out. We didn’t do much.”
The conversation was unfolding the way he wanted, so he decided to ask the most important question, “Did you see the accident happen?”
“Yes, Sir!” Rankin answered. “We saw the whole thing! We were coming down the Mata Abajo Road when we saw the truck weaving. He forced us off the road. We turned around and chased after him. We saw him go into the passenger car’s lane. I think he was drunk.”
After Wolchek nodding in confirmation, Wiecha heard a fresh commotion coming from the reporter. Knowing he had to go back to the Cubans, he turned to the MP’s and said, “Don’t say a word about the accident to anyone! Understand!”
”Yes, Sir!”
“Talk to me and me alone about this! That’s an order!”
”Yes, Sir!” they snapped.
“Go to the hospital. Wait until I get there. You’ve done fine work here! Handle the rest of this situation right and there might be a medal in it.”
“Yes, Sir!” they again replied in unison.
Comfortable that the MP’s would follow his orders, but still concerned about potential complications resulting from the accident, he went back to the doctor; “The Marines look like they’ll recover. What about the civilians?”
He frowned and shook his head, “The man and woman have crushed chests and they’ve lost a lot of blood. We’re giving them plasma. It should help, but they’re in rough shape. Don’t know how long they’ll last. “
“How’s the boy?”
“Pretty rough! He’s got a chance if we can get him to the hospital.”
Wiecha took command, “Get them to the hospital.”
“We’ll get on our way, Sir.”
He next used one of the Military Police radios to call headquarters, getting a quick answer from the Duty Desk officer, Lieutenant Fellows.
“We’ve got a bad situation out her on Mata Abajo Road, not far from the Leeward Point Gate. One of our trucks rolled and burned. It’s blocking the road. Get a crane and a flat bed truck here right away. Send a platoon of Marines to police the area. There’s broken glass all over the ground, so make sure they have gloves, brooms and shovels. I want this road cleaned and all traces of the wreck removed.”
The Lieutenant responded, “I’ll have a crew there in an hour, Sir.”
“That’s not good enough!” Wiecha snapped. “We need this road open! Get those men out here in forty-five minutes”
After the sharp rebuked, Lieutenant Fellows immediately responded, “Sir, we’ll do it sooner. A platoon of men and heavy equipment is in ‘Ready Condition.’ They’ll be at your position in thirty minutes.”
“Get them moving!”
By Kenneth Jaggers
