Narration of being shot at by B-26

[Larry Daley]

Is there any use here of a narration of being shot at by a B-26 in Cuba 1958 ... dunno how they missed... something about worn gun barrels I have heard.

Will post excerpt if anybody is interested

take care and be well

Larry Daley

[Franek Grabowski]

Always!

[Larry Daley]

To all:

This is from the a chapter (24. SHE LAY DEAD IN THE CRUSHED GUINEA GRASS, BUT SHE SEEMED SO YOUNG AND UNHARMED) of my book of memories Narrations of War in Cuba (manuscript in progress)

Any and all comments are appreciated

We all rise and go north across the highway in lost pursuit, in failed attempt to cut off the Casquitos. We hear the exchange of fire of the pursued and the pursuers. The Casquitos who killed our machine gunners are now moving fast further to the north of us. Then we hear the gunfire change direction as they try to escape to the northwest. We, are further west, and must try to cut the Batista forces off by crossing the Central Highway, and going due north.


One thing the Batista planes did well was to make us take cover. The first low whine of the armed spotter planes or the much heavier drone of the B-26s makes us seek shelter to hide; and thus the noise the planes were passing over was sufficient to immobilize us.


Our greatest terror now is to be caught in the middle of a great pasture far from trees or bushes. There, caught the feared open country, our only recourse is to stand straight up. Standing so very straight up, by the fences pretending to be a fence-post, or worse far from the fence to roll up in a ball and pretend to be a boulder, is the only way to avoid detection.


But we are no longer in the open, for moving to cut the Batista forces off, we have hit wet swampy ground. Here we have the great trees of the plains of Cuba to hide behind.

We cannot move forward because the planes begin to fire. The best we can do is take shelter. We are so lucky to be by such large trees. We in groups chose gigantic trees walking around to the bullet shade--the other side of the great, smooth, gray tree trunks-- as the planes circle and shoots at us.

The bursts of .50 caliber fire boom like thunder. I and the other rebels spend time circling around a giant spreading tree, it was not a rain-tree, the rough barked algarrobo, for it has smooth bark, it must have been some kind of Ficus, some kind of great fig tree. What ever it was it is stopping 0.50 caliber bullets.


It is a matter of honor not to push others out of the way, to avoid the error of making it a kind of potentially lethal game of musical chairs each vying and pushing to get the most protected spot. Such a game would have soon attracted the lethal attention of those keen eyed pilots and gunners selected for their excellent vision.


Airplane attacks always warn the Casquitos to be ready for us. In the immediate future at the sugar mill Central America this will allow the Batista soldiers, the "Casquitos, " to ambush us and cause us a number of casualties.


Here on plains of the Cauto near Santa Rita, the two B-26 bombers strafing our group do not allow us to block the escape of a convoy the Casquitos. They do not kill us, but they do hold us in place.


As the pair of B-26 fighter-bombers delays us, we find their fire to be withering, They normally have eight 0.50 caliber machine guns. Rafaelito my cousin the pilot, will in the future tell me that the B-26s only had four machine guns. That is plenty. Now occupied by the shooting we do not count.


When we are both old, Rafaelito will tell me that at that time, because the U.S. had embargoed weapons supply to Batista worn machine gun barrels were not being replaced. That must have helped us.


We do not panic. We are safe, having expended their ammunition the planes leave their job done. We have been kept pinned down for a while. None of us are hit.


As our ears recover we hear the lessening drone of the planes going away returning to base. The sky is now quiet. But not so the ground, although I do not remember hearing them there are trucks moving to the north of us.


We continue to push north and try to cross a swampy area of head high cortadera, razor edged, saw-grass. Two others and I are sent ahead. We are taking heavy ground fire from small arms, San Cristobals, it seems. We cannot not locate where the heavy incoming fire is coming from. It is all hitting around us, coming from the north chopping down the grass.


My two friends and I do not fire, for that would give our position away. We cannot stay there in the grass, for here the bullets will eventually find us. With some speed, we withdraw, report the situation and wait behind cover. There is nothing more we can do.