Freedom Fighters

22. Baptism

The moment Camilo heard the strafing of low-flying planes overhead, he covered his ears, bracing for the bombs' impact. His heart pumped with a desperate hope that this nightmare would end. 

Hell descended upon the revolutionaries in a rapid volley, striking across their decimated positions. The very air around Camilo itself jerked violently, shattering the fabric of reality as he wondered if hell had not come up from its dark abyss to swallow the world in its entirety.

One of the shells landed not far away, the explosion spewing mud and shrapnel in all directions. Camilo felt a few sharp pricks on his back and a shower of grainy soil splatter all over him. Still dazed from the impact, he looked up, spitting out the mud in his mouth.

To his dismay, it landed near Dario's position and his friend was nowhere to be found. All that could be seen was a large hole in the earth. 

Before anxiety could set in, a shrill war cry sounded from Batista's henchmen. A quick look ahead filled Camilo with dread. Masses of brown shirts filed into the thick jungle, charging at their positions in an unstoppable wave.

"Dario! Dario! Can you hear me!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, wishing that his friend could somehow hear him above the chaos.

No reply.

Instinct screamed at him to flee before the enemy came to gut him to death. Gritting his teeth, he suppressed the panic whirring inside and turned to run, hoping that Dario was still alive.

Following a few survivors, Camilo bolted towards the right, braving the spray of bullets from the enemy. As he sprinted from cover to cover, his heart beat ferociously with the knowledge that any second might stand to be his last.

He yelped as a bullet hit his left shoulder. Ignoring the pain, Camilo kept on running, allowing adrenaline to mask the searing agony. 

Finally, after crashing through thick vegetation, he stumbled into a clearing on the periphery of the cane field. Feeling exhaustion creep into the edges of his mind, he stopped, wanting to catch a breath. A sudden wave of nausea hit him and he bent over, his stomach muscles contracting to expel its contents.

"Get up, Camilo!" a voice urged him.

He looked up to see Che's face, overwrought with a restless fear. A few other comrades stood beside the doctor, perhaps the only few that survived the ordeal. Footsteps and voices could still be heard behind them and only growing louder by the second. It seemed to be a matter of time before the soldiers found them again. 

"Come on, we have to go!" a comrade known as Faustino said. He carried a box of ammunition in one hand and a sub-machine gun slung around his neck in another. "Across the cane field! Fidel and Raul with a few others are making their way across!"

As Camilo glanced at the cane field, he could see the path to safety. Ashes floated through the air above darkened patches of sugarcane lit by flickering embers. It seemed that Batista's forces had committed its entirety into ousting them out of the jungle and unwittingly given them an escape route. Barely a brown shirt could be seen, from where they stood. 

"Let's go!" Che commanded.

The group burst out into the cane field, sprinting across the wasteland as fast as their fatigued legs could carry them. As his boot sank into the charred stalks with every step, Camilo's heart raced with a laden terror that gave his legs a frantic energy he did not know existed. His mind was clouded with the fear of death. Any second a bullet would hit him, and it would all be over. The name of Camilo Cienfuegos would be trampled onto the ashes of a sugarcane field as if he never existed. He had always believed that, deep inside, that he was destined for greatness, however ill-defined that was. But now, he was not so sure. A blind hope for survival was all that was left.