Manolo always compared his unit to mosquitos. They’d surround you, each diving in, taking a little blood until you were overwhelmed. Hit and run. The basics of guerrilla tactics. Back then there were twenty of them.

There are only eight of them left, sweating it out in the mountains, dying of thirst and hunger, doing their best to liberate the fatherland from that criminal fuck Batista. Manolo led this unit for the better part of a year. He was given this honor from Fidel himself. He promised he wouldn’t let him down.

Twelve of them are gone now, most of them during an ambush one day. He thought that was it for him but they fought valiantly, taking many of Batista’s men out with them. They were forced to retreat further into the mountains and Batista’s men are still prowling around out there in search of them. They’re low on food, drink, first aid, and ammunition. Things are getting desperate.

He’d been with Fidel since the beginning. Manolo thinks very highly of him, as do all their compeñeros, those who remain are fiercely loyal to Fidel and to the cause. There’s no turning back. Looking around at his fellow guerrillas, he can’t help think how beaten and downtrodden they look but looks can be deceiving. They may seem like a rag tag group of peasants but they are far from it. Many of them went to the university, are well educated, and well read. Don’t let the long hair, beards and dirty faces fool you. Don’t think they don’t know how to handle themselves in combat. So far they’ve taken out more of Batista’s men than they have of them. It’s only a matter of time, as Fidel said. Manolo takes pride in leading this little band of fighters and they look up to him, respect him, and would follow him into the fires of hell if asked.

He fears Osvaldo, who took a bullet in the shoulder and now seems badly infected, may wind up losing his arm. There isn’t much anyone can do for him at the moment but they hang tight until more supplies are sent to them.

Yesterday they entered a small village and came upon a house occupied by an old man and an old woman who took them in and fed them, helped tend to their wounds. They support them. They’re tired of Batista’s planes dropping bombs all over the place. They don’t care where those bombs fall. If they hit the house of this old man and old woman, so be it. They care nothing for life nor do they care for those who need the most help — the poorest of the poor who struggle every day just to make ends meet.

Fidel will change that.

They now take refuge on a ridge near the old couple’s home. Occasionally, the old man will come out and bring them water, food, and whatever else he can provide. For the Revolution, the old man tells them, handing over a meagre portion of bread to split between everyone. It’s all the poor old man can spare but he has no problem giving it to them. This is why they’ll win. Batista has no idea how many people out there are against him.

For three days they remained hunkered down on the ridge, then move on. They received word over the radio, which by some miracle is still working, that they were to move north and rendezvous with another group who had been holding down a position there.

Supplied with some bread and meat from the old man, they move on, being careful not to be seen or heard. Osvaldo seems to be getting worse and Manolo fears he wouldn’t make it. He’s slowing them down, sometimes needing to rest, other times passing out from the pain. Manolo feels for him but there isn’t anything anyone can do until they meet up with the other group. Word is they have the supplies they need, and most importantly, the medicine. If Osvaldo can hold out for a little while longer, Manolo thought, he’d make it. It doesn’t look good and it’s getting to the point where he has to make a decision about what to do with him.

Tara, the only woman in the group, is doing her best to keep Osvaldo up and on his feet. Lucky bastard. Every one of them wishes they could get the attention she was giving him.

Tara is a beautiful compeñera. More Spaniard in appearance — dark hair, dark eyes, olive skinned, unlike the rest of them who are more dark, more African. Some of the guys, and Manolo himself always talk about her, wonder what it would be like to fuck her. What an animal she must be, they surmise. One of their fallen comrades, Sixto, who was killed in the ambush, tried very hard to get with her on a number of occasions, but Tara wasn’t having it. She isn’t here for that, she said. She’s here for the Revolution. The Revolution is her lover, she said. So much for that. Still, they all can’t help notice how beautiful her ass looks in her fatigues, a big plump mango is how Juan referred to it. God, how many nights they had to pleasure themselves thinking of that big, beautiful ass. Although the temptation to have their way with her is always strong, they know damn well Fidel would have never stood for it. That’s the only thing that keeps any of them from trying anything. They are Revolutionaries. They are supposed to treat their women with respect, treat them as equals. They want to have their way with women, so they figure they’d do what they’d have to do with the daughters of Batista’s men. Fidel won’t go for that either. So the hand is to be their mistress.

Tara helps Osvaldo traverse the terrain. He looks worse than ever.

If they keep slowing down, Manolo is going to have to make a painful decision.

They still have three kilometers to go and Osvaldo has collapsed again. Tara does her best to get him up on his feet but he looks worse than ever, his face drenched in sweat, his teeth gnashing in pain. It doesn’t look good at all.

He’s burning up with fever, Tara says, placing a wet rag on his forehead to provide some relief.

We can’t slow down, Manolo says, squatting down beside his fallen comrade. We can’t keep stopping, brother. Get to your feet. Try. We only have a little further to go. Find the strength, compeñero.

It’s no use.

Tara looks at Manolo, questions him with her eyes.

I don’t know, Manolo says, considering what to do. We can’t stay here. Batista’s men are all over the place. We’re not safe here.

We can’t just leave him here, Tara says and she continues to wipe Osvaldo’s face with the wet cloth.

What choice do we have? He’s endangering all of us.

Manolo, you can’t. It’s not right.

He considers it a moment. Tara’s right. They couldn’t just leave him there to suffer.

Let me see his wound, Manolo says.

Tara peels back the bandage. It had gotten much worse. There’s no way in hell to save his arm. Manolo had never seen anything look so foul. And the smell. What is that smell?

Not good, he says. Not good at all.

Tara looks at him. She knows what he’s thinking.

Manolo…

What choice to we have?

Tara turns away.

Go on, Manolo says. Go with the others. I’ll be right with you.

Tara runs off, not looking back.

Manolo tries to get Osvaldo’s attention but he’s clearly out of it, babbling incoherently now. Manolo removes the pistol from its holster, thinks about what he’s going to do. If there’s only some way to get him on his feet and get him to the rendezvous point.

You have to try, Manolo tells him. Here, take my hand.

Manolo holds out his hand. Osvaldo no longer has the strength to lift his own.

Manolo had to come to a decision, for the good of the group.

He levels the pistol at Osvaldo’s forehead and fires.

Osvaldo never saw it coming.

It’s the first time someone in the group had gotten angry with him, particularly Tara, but what was he going to do?

What Tara seemed to not understand is the Revolution isn’t about any one of them individually. It’s about all of them. It’s about the fatherland. Osvaldo died a hero, something Tara fully doesn’t understand yet. Her emotions are getting the better of her. Osvaldo sacrificed himself for the greater good. When it’s over, future generations will be reading about him in their textbooks. Fidel would see to that.

This is not the first time something like this happened. They are all compeñeros, yes, but the Revolution comes first.

They arrive at the rendezvous point just before nightfall.

A group of men are sitting around in a circle, listening to a man Manolo had never seen before. The man has them all captivated, spinning tales about his exploits with Fidel himself, how he personally took part in the initial invasion of the island aboard the Granma. He holds a maté gourd, and he keeps pausing from his dialogue in order to sip it. His hair is long and he has a patchy beard.

The man stops talking and looked over at them.

Comrades, he says with a smile and waves them over.

He doesn’t formally introduce himself but Manolo can tell by his accent, and the presence of the maté, that he isn’t Cuban but perhaps Uruguayan or Argentinian. The group of men who sit at his feet are also a mixed group — Mexicans, Bolivians, Peruvians, and others from around Latin America who decided to join the cause. He’s very charismatic but there’s something about him that Manolo can’t quite put his finger on.

I thought there were eight of you, the man says. What happened?

One of our comrades didn’t make it, Manolo says, looking at Tara, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the man since the moment they arrived.

The man nods, sips his maté.

Sorry to hear that, the man says. He will be remembered, Comrade.

He takes hold of Manolo’s shoulders and gently squeezes. He then looks at Tara.

Who might you be?

Tara, she answers.

The man takes her hand in his, raises it to his lips and kisses it.

A pleasure to meet you, the man says.

Manolo never seen Tara react that way to anyone before, giggling like a schoolgirl and blushing.

Who is in command here?

I am, Manolo says.

The man again nods, takes Manolo by the shoulder. Come, the man says. We need to talk.

The man waves his hand toward the rest of his group and walks off towards his tent. He carries himself with a confidence Manolo never seen among his own compeñeros. The man sits down on his cot, invites Manolo to sit beside him. The man reaches into his rucksack and removes two cigars, offers Manolo one of them. He takes something else out of his bag — a small plastic inhaler.

Asthma, the man says, before inhaling on it.

Are you sure you should be smoking that cigar?

The man shrugs, lights the cigar.

I’m a doctor, he says. Besides, I don’t inhale.

What did you want to talk to be about?

Orders, the man says, puffing on his cigar. We are to make our way towards Santa Clara. Our forces will combine to take the city.

Santa Clara? We’re still a long way off.

True, the man says, his cigar clenched between his teeth. There’s something else, he continues.

Manolo waits as the man sizes him up, his eyes playing about his face.

Our units are to combine as well. I, of course, will be taking command.

Excuse me, but…

These orders come from Fidel himself, the man says, looking Manolo directly in the eye. Word is out about what happened to you out there, the losses you incurred. Fidel thought it would be best that you link up with us and that I take command of the unit. I have to say, considering how things turned out for you, it makes sense.

But...

The man shakes his head. No arguments, he says. These are direct orders.

Manolo doesn’t like it one bit but there’s nothing he can do about it.

Let me ask you something else, the man says. The man you lost. What happened?

Manolo explains it to him. The man just listens, nodding and puffing on his cigar.

It’s a tough decision to make, I assure you, the man says. I’ve had to make that one myself a couple of times. How did the rest of the group take it?

Not well, I’m afraid. Especially Tara.

Tara, the man says, again nodding, smiling. Yes, Tara. How is that coming along? She’s very beautiful.

She is.

Has there ever been any...

Never, Manolo says. She wouldn’t have it.

The man smiles, places his hand on Manolo’s shoulder and draws his face closer.

Understand compeñero — we are all in this together. I hope this change in command doesn’t make things uncomfortable for you and the rest of your group.

They’ll do whatever they have to do.

Good, the man says, smiling, puffing on his cigar. This is no place for petty rivalries. We have a war to win.

The man rises from the cot and walks out of the tent. Manolo follows him out, feeling a little undermined. This is his unit. If Fidel says this is how things are to be, who was he to argue, but he doesn’t like it one bit. Who is this foreigner and why is he given such special treatment from Fidel?

The man stands in the middle of the camp, lecturing the rest of the group about Marx, Socialism, and the international nature of their Revolution. Soon, he says, after their victory, they will be ready to export it throughout Latin America and shake off the Yankee chokehold forever.

The group listens intently, every eye focused on this charismatic new leader.

Manolo watches from the entrance of the tent.

He doesn’t like the way Tara is looking at him.

Over the next few days they proceed towards Santa Clara as planned.

The rest of Manolo’s unit has acclimated itself to their new leader, who now calls himself Comandante. Hardly any one of them pays Manolo much mind anymore, which is starting to irritate him. Was it because of his decision about Osvaldo? What did they expect him to do?

He also doesn’t like that Tara is spending an awful lot of time with their new leader. Sometimes they disappear into the Comandante’s tent, and he emerging some hours later, relaxed and wearing a smug, satisfied grin. Everyone knows what’s going on but no one dares say anything. No one ever dares challenge the Comandante on anything, not even his political diatribes, which are sometimes confusing to the rest of them. What’s all this talk about Marx and Communism anyway? Fidel didn’t speak of such things. Manolo isn’t a communist and neither were any of his men.

Every night the Comandante lectures them on socialism, Marxism, the ideas of Lenin and Mao, and often tries to explain the differences between Russian and Chinese communism, how they are prepared to implement their own version of the Revolution throughout Latin America. None of them ever talked about things such as this. All they talked about was getting rid of Batista and turning the country into the democracy it deserved to be. Much of what the Comandante talks about is a little over Manolo’s head. To him, this isn’t about Marx, Lenin or communism. It’s about freedom, to live their lives with dignity. The Comandante speaks with an almost religious fervor, his eyes blazing, his arms flailing about, his voice passionate. Here’s a man who’s very serious about what he wants to achieve. The problem is, Manolo isn’t sure if it’s the same thing he wants to achieve — and there isn’t anything he can do about it.

They came upon one of Batista’s patrols and a firefight ensues.

They all fight bravely, though sadly, one of the Comandante’s men falls.

The Comandante proves himself worthy in combat, and it isn’t hard to see why Fidel had put so much faith in him. He inspires the other men with his bravery, the way Manolo used to. Manolo feels like just another fighter now and all eyes are on the Comandante. Manolo has to keep reminding himself that this isn’t about anyone individually.

It’s about the Revolution.

Manolo sits in a little clearing a few yards away from the rest of the group, smoking the cigar the Comandante had given him. Again, the Comandante lectures, reads passages from a book written by a Peruvian many years ago. Manolo never heard of him but there’s much talk about Machu Picchu and the Inca and their once powerful civilization and how colonialism decimated it. He has to admit this Argentine is very persuasive with his arguments and with the other points he’s trying to make, but Manolo can’t help feel he’s now left out of things. Even his mosquitos seem to take to the Comandante in a way they never took to their former leader. Was he feeling a little resentful? Yes, how could he not? It’s the look on Tara’s face that bothers him most. One would think she’s listening to Christ and his Sermon on the Mount. He respects this man that Fidel apparently thinks very highly of, but he can’t help feel he’s setting himself up to be that very Christ figure and the others, are treating him as. He sort of looks the part with his long hair and his beard, the way he exerts his influence with so little effort.

Manolo’s men, especially Juan and Miguel, hadn’t said a word to him in days. What was going on, he wonders? Who is this guy who seems to hold such sway over everyone? Where the hell did he come from? He seems to be able to do everything with such ease, and not only in combat. He has an air of confidence which is very infectious and inspiring. It’s good for the Revolution but it isn’t all that good for him. His mosquitos are no longer interested in what he has to say — his ideas, his suggestions — and everyone defers to the Comandante. Manolo fears his mosquitos are becoming sheep, hanging on the Comandante’s every word.

Tara swoons as the Comandante pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and reads the poem that was written on it. It’s a very good poem, very inspiring, but to what end? He reminds Manolo of those guys he used to see around the university, the one’s who always tried to sway the women with their sensitive ways. One would think the other men would begin to resent him a little as well, being that much of what he’s doing appears to be focused on impressing Tara more than it is tactical.

Manolo continues to watch them for a little while, then decides to rejoin them. When he sits down, the Comandante pauses, looks at him as if he were fully aware what he is thinking and resents him not taking part in his own version of the Sermon on the Mount. Manolo tries his best to keep up appearances but he knows the Argentine is intelligent enough to know when someone resents him. The Comandante keeps looking at him, smiling, but his eyes are saying something else.

They continue on towards Santa Clara, thankfully not running into any of Batista’s men, though a couple of times they had to hunker down as his planes circled overhead.

They enter a small village and the Comandante begins to lecture its inhabitants, convincing some of the young men to leave their families and join their cause. They don’t hesitate. They are merely boys but there they are, following along, hanging on the Argentine’s every word. The messiah was gathering his disciples, one by one.

Manolo does his best to keep the peace, though he’s growing increasingly irritated with the Comandante’s pretensions.

One night, the Comandante approaches Manolo.

Is everything all right?

Everything is fine, Manolo tells him.

You don’t seem to be all right, the Comandante says. I hope you aren’t taking any of this personally, compñero. I understand what you must be thinking but remember, this isn’t about any one of us individually.

Right, Manolo tells himself. It’s not about any of them individually. The problem is that it all seemed to be about the Comandante. He’s growing increasingly intolerant of any position other than his own, especially when it came to the politics of the Revolution. A few of Manolo’s men debate him now and again and one would think he’s ready to pull out his pistol and shoot them because they dared to question him.

Tara walks over, sits down beside the Comandante and puts her arm around his shoulder. He puts his arm around Tara’s shoulders and looks at Manolo in a way which irritates him. Manolo looks at Tara, tries communicate with his eyes but the Comandante is a very perceptive man.

The Comandante places a hand on Manolo’s shoulder, says, Comrade, you have to remain focused on the task at hand. When this is over, there will be plenty spoils of war, believe me. What Fidel has in mind will change everything, not only for us, but for everyone. You have to have faith, compeñero. A little sacrifice now and we’ll soon have a world to win.

The trouble is Manolo isn’t interested in the world. He’s only interested in his homeland, to rid that butcher Batista and live the life of a free man.

Tara accompanies the Comandante to his tent. It seemed his men are not the only thing he’s interested in taking control of.

The heat is unbearable and Manolo can’t sleep. Ants and other bugs cling to his sweaty neck, biting into him. Meanwhile the Comandante is comfortable in his tent while the rest of them suffer outside, fighting the insects, finding it hard to breathe in the stifling humidity as they listen to Tara’s passionate moans inside the tent. Manolo can tell that it’s killing some of the men, many of whom dance around Tara day in and day out just to get her to take notice of them, but her attention had been solely focused on their new leader, who seems to take pleasure in the fact Tara submitted to him so easily and willingly.

The sound of Tara being fucked is starting to get to Manolo in particular, and the idea of just walking into the tent and putting a bullet into the Comandante’s head occurs to him more than once over the course of the night. That would have meant certain death for him of course, but the Comandante’s tent isn’t exactly accessible. Two men sit outside it all night, making absolutely sure no one can get to him. Another thing that bothers him, more than anything else, is how his mosquitos now essentially disregard him. No one confides in him anymore and whatever conversation they do have had been reduced to small talk.

Now he was just one of them.

He’s convinced it had everything to do with his decision about Osvaldo.

Tara’s passionate moans emanating from the Comandante’s tent…

Manolo dislikes the Comandante intensely.

A few kilometers outside of Santa Clara they attack a Batista position.

They lose many men. Even the Comandante can do nothing for them. One of them is the boy from the village who joined up with them only a few weeks ago.

Later that night, the Comandante says a few words about their fallen comrades, how they were martyrs, heroes, and how their names will always be remembered. Manolo can’t help wonder what exactly the leaders of the Revolution had in mind after our victory. Everything is changing — from liberating a people from the iron grip of a brutal dictator to talk about the workers having control, redistributing wealth, confiscating property to give to the peasants, and all these other things none of them ever thought of before. The men hang on every word, Tara especially, who clings to the Comandante like a dutiful wife, no longer the independent, strong willed woman she once was. It disgusts Manolo to see her acting in this way but he’d given up worrying about it. For all her talk about the liberation of women in the new society they hoped to build, she was more than willing to do whatever the Comandante told her to do, both in and out of bed.

His mosquitos had become sheep, worshiping at the feet of this asthmatic Argentine with his delusions of grandeur.

Manolo finally gets the chance to speak to Tara alone one night and he reveals his concerns.

You don’t understand, Tara says.

None of them do and that’s the problem. Only Fidel and the Comandante truly understand. She accuses him of being envious of the Comandante, which he vehemently denies but deep down he knows she’s right. If she picked up on it, he was certain the Comandante had as well. Tara doesn’t understand either, he tells himself. She only thinks she does. When this is all over and they march victorious into Havana as liberators, she will be just another link in the chain, a chain Manolo is beginning to fear will wrap the people as tightly as Batista’s had.

They take Santa Clara.

The rest of the units had linked up with them, everyone fighting bravely despite the massive confusion and casualties on both sides. At first, Manolo didn’t think they stood a chance but everyone rallied around the Comandante and before long, the city was theirs.

The next day, word got out Batista fled.

They head toward Havana.

The crowds are jubilant. Thousands line the roads, waving flags, shaking their hands, shouting, crying, tossing flowers, packs of cigarettes, all of them grateful to this unwashed band of bearded men who liberated them from tyranny. Manolo, caught up in the revelry, had forgotten all about his feelings toward the Comandante, who greets the crowd like Jesus entering Jerusalem on the back of a donkey.

They were all heroes now.

They were all liberators.

The Revolution had succeeded beyond their wildest imagination.

Tara sits with the Comandante, clinging to him and gazing up at him like a schoolgirl in love but Manolo no longer cares.

He’s overwhelmed with pride.

Fidel enters Havana a few days later.

The entire city turns out to hear him speak. The Comandante stands at his side.

Tears of jubilation flow. The nightmare is over.

It seems almost fitting that at the end of Fidel’s speech, a white dove lands on his shoulder, lending their cause a sense of divine providence.

Soon after, the executions begin.

Batista’s men and his collaborators are being taken to the firing squad.

Day in and day out, gunfire reigns and the bodies fall. Word is the Comandante personally orders most of them and even takes part in some of them himself. It’s also said he would sit in his office, enjoying his dinner as he simultaneously signs the execution orders, then goes back to enjoying his dinner as the firing squads continue their executions just outside his window.

There’s much criticism about the executions but Fidel and the Comandante justify them. No one is safe. If you weren’t with them, you were against them, and if you were against them, you were dead.

Now it’s Manolo’s turn.

A few days after the executions began, he is dragged out of his office and thrown into to El Morro. He’s never told why. He learns the Comandante had personally ordered it.

He spends his last week alive sitting in a cold, dank cell, along with others who hadn’t had a bite to eat or a drink of water in days. ‘Enemies of the Revolution’, they’re told.

Manolo is resigned to his fate as he watches the guard open the door to his cell and orders him and two other youths to follow him, toward the courtyard where three men had just been shot down.

He tries to make his peace with God.

He also tries to make his peace with the Comandante.

The sun casts a beam of light at the end of the cold stone hallway, and just beyond that he can almost swear he sees the Comandante enjoying his meal through a window off the courtyard.

New York City, July 2011