UNITED STATES—Fidel Castro told the Soviet Leader; “Go ahead, fire the nuclear warheads,” Castro advised. He was ready to go for it; first strike for the weapons that the Soviets had planted on Cuban soil, convinced yanquis invasion was imminent.
The Russian premier, Khruschev, broadcast willingness to deal. The Jupiter missiles would go from Italy. Castro and U.S. Military pushed for war. Dismantled missiles to ship home. Kennedy and Krushchev did it together. The White House installed a hotline, goodbye hand-written letters and radio broadcasts. They had to go for the kill, all the way.
“Guatemala taught me go to the roots of the situation and decapitate in one fell swoop, those in power and their thugs. Moderation is a term used by colonial agents, they like to use it,” he told a group of students, in one ear and out the other, but he was like from another planet, a time traveler and pleasant company. “All those who are afraid, or who are considering some form of treason; they are moderates.”
Che Guevara was arrested in the final hours of the Guatemalan coup, thrown in with all the rabble-rousers and Gascón loyalists. The CIA man on the ground in the capital had no reason to mention Guevara because he was years from being Che Guevara. In fact, the CIA man dissuaded Col. Guerra from action that could easily have turned into a bloodbath. Stripped and searched at the airport, they were permitted to board airplanes into exile. Guevara was granted political asylum in Mexico where he joined the partisans of a young Cuban rabble-rouser, and they succeeded in taking Cuba on New Year’s Eve 1960.
The everlasting regret of that CIA man, Jimmy Egan, that he showed the group of prisoners on the tarmac, including Che Guevara, a show of mercy. As a good CIA man and cold warrior, Egan had an index card with salient details of Guevara. This coupled with Guevara’s later role in Cuba, the Congo and Bolivia hatched a fierce regret (regret is too tame a word) it was truly a sharp and unrelenting pain; he would trade his ulcers any day to get rid of the pain in not having put a bullet in Guevara’s head that day at the airport. No more mercy shown again ever. Compassion is weakness, mercy is cowardice.
Che Guevara, of course, became a revolutionary rock star. He spoke at the United Nations, walked around New York and stayed at the Hotel Theresa in Harlem, was photographed wearing a beret. The thing was to be photographed, and he was a grunge tourist in a way, like Miller was in this capital of the money worshippers—which he was not. In 1966, having grown restless with being a Cuban bureaucrat, Che decided to go to Bolivia and the Andes to rejoin the universal war. He believed the liberation of South America was close at hand. Castro hosted a drunken goodbye dinner. Castro being a power junkie was quite happy and, like they say in Spanish, he threw the house out the windows for the goodbye party. They drank beer and ate roasted pig.
“That doesn’t sound like a very fancy party to me,” say you, my dear reader.
“Well,” I retort, “the Revolution was not going so hot. And beer and roasted pig were quite frankly luxuries that ordinary citizens were already having trouble with.”
“I see. . .” you say.
