Neighborhood Summer War, 1958. Marianao, Havana – Cuba.
Our squad came from 62nd street through about 72nd, from Colegio de Belen to 31st avenue and north about three streets. The dozen or so of us were 12 through 14 years old. I was 12.
The enemy came from well north of 31st avenue and west. I don’t remember how old they were, but some appeared quite a bit older than we were. I don’t know how many of them there were.
Side Bar: We did not call ourselves gangs (pandillas) because there were real gangs whose members were 15 to 18 years old and up. These were the ‘older’ guys and their fights were bloody. No firearms, mind you, but just about everything else. Yet, the most common fights were fistfights. Later, the gangs became more bellicose and the use of knives, brass knuckles, chains, and such became more prominent.
Back to my story - There were no restrictions on weapons, but no firearms were ever used. Most common were Red Ryder BB guns and bottle-cap rubber band powered launchers. I had a Falke-50 pellet rifle; one of only two pellet rifles known to be used. We also used firecrackers as ‘grenades’; the red ones, about 1/4" diameter and two inches long that came in packs of 80.
The ‘Northern’ guys just dared us to fight them. We accepted. The battle was primarily around our turf and along the railroad tracks next to the Belen school. It lasted all day Saturday and Sunday until about noon. We scored more hits than they did, so they gave up and went home. I fired the last shot. Pure luck:
Close to Sunday noon, two of my friends and I were pursuing the ‘leader’ of the other group. We were running north on 64th. As we reached 31st, he hid behind a truck parked on the corner on the opposite side of 64th. I saw him run behind the truck, and told my two friends to cross 64th and run towards him. When he saw my two friends, he took off across 31st. By then, I was standing behind a steel light post on the opposite corner, and he never saw me.
I remember trying to aim at the knee of his front leg when I pulled the trigger. He went down, rolled, got up and continued running. When he reached the other side of 31st avenue, he stopped. He bent over, raised his pant leg, and appeared to look at his ankle. “¡Me tiraste con un pellet en la pierna!†he yelled at me. (You shot me on the leg with a pellet.) I got scared. That guy was big and probably about 16 or 17 years old. I thought he was going to come after me, so I loaded another pellet as fast as I could on my break-barrel Falke rifle.
Even though I don’t think he even saw that I had reloaded, he just took two steps towards us (my two friends were now standing next to me) and yelled, “Ustedes ganaron esta vez; pero no la próxima.†(You won this time; but not next time.) and he went on his way – what a relief! By the way, there was no next time.
I got hit once, Saturday, just under my chest on my right side. I still have the pea-sized (flat) scar. My closest call was after picking up five firecrackers and throwing them back at them. When I approached the sixth firecracker, I saw that it was about to go off, so instead of bending over to pick it up, I tried to step on it. It went off when my shoe was just above it. This happened on Saturday as well.
I remember a lot more incidents of this ‘summer war’, but don’t want to bore you anymore.
Alex
P.S. My mom and dad never knew about any of this, or I would have been grounded for life.
Anyway, three years later, during the Bay of Pigs, while working with the underground against Castro, the G2 secret police captured me and I became a political prisioner. The interrogation sessions were not fun at all. Being 15 years old saved my life.
In July 1961 I was able to 'leave' Cuba and was sent to Saint Vincent's Villa, an orphanage in Fort Wayne, IN... and this is a whole another story.
We were flying low down a dirt road, when my brother took a sharp turn. My cousin and I fell out, with him riding me into the dirt road. Landed on my face, literally. Emergency room, stitches, road rash down one side of my face and head. Ended the BB gun wars. Still have the scars. My IQ doubled in the few milliseconds between dislodging from the truck, watching the gravel flying up toward me, and plowing the road with my face.
