Castro's Bomb by Robert Conroy

confirmed."
    The dead were still waiting to be buried.   They performed that unpleasant task with grim haste.   They tried to make sure that each body they buried had one head, two legs and two arms, and largely succeeded.   Hopefully, they got the right parts to the right body.   Wooden stakes pounded in the ground identified the site as a graveyard.  
    It was gruesome work.   Still, they managed to bury each Marine with as much dignity as they could, and with one of his two dog tags firmly planted in each body's teeth or as close as possible to where the jaw might have been.   Everyone hoped they got the right tag on the right body.   Andrew thought it really didn't matter.   Dead was dead.   Sergeant Cullen kept the other set of tags.   Hopefully they could be used to inform next of kin what had happened to their loved one.
    Along with himself and Cullen, Ross had only a handful of men and he knew them only by their name tags.   They were Hollis and Ward, the two men who'd manned the outpost, along with Williams, Anders, and Groth.   Ward was the only black man, still a rarity in the Corps.  
    Now they would have to make plans if they were to survive.   They were uncomfortably aware that the sound of firing was receding and slackening in the distance, which meant that there was a lot of distance and Cubans between themselves and the American lines.   That is, if there were any American lines.
     
     
    Cathy and Alice huddled and hugged each other tightly as explosions ripped through what had once been their quiet neighborhood.   They were confused and frightened.   They didn't know what to do.   The fighting was now all around them and they had missed any opportunity to make it to the Bay and any ships that might take them to safety.  
    Sometimes they could hear voices from the outside.   Terrifyingly, they seemed to be speaking Spanish.
    The two women had dressed in rugged clothes suited for hiking or camping, acknowledging that dressing for style was useless in time of war.   Alice had imitated Cathy by preparing an overnight bag stuffed with what each thought were necessities.   They accepted that they had no idea just what might be a necessity in the hours and days ahead.
    A shell landed nearby and cracked plaster, showering them with dust.   A picture fell from a wall and the glass shattered.   "I can't handle this," Alice said.   "You can stay if you want, but I am getting out of here."
    Alice grabbed her bag and ran out the back door.   Cathy was numb with indecision.   Should she follow Alice out into the battle that sounded increasingly like an inferno, or should she stay where she was and wait for the fighting to subside?   Or wait where she was for someone to rescue her?   She didn't know, she simply didn't know.   Surely some American marines would come by and rescue her.  
    She sat on the couch and hugged her knees to her chest and tried not to give in to the panic that was clutching at her.   What was happening to her world?   Just yesterday she had a good job as a teacher helping young men who wanted to be helped, and yesterday was the beginning of the Christmas holiday, a time of peace and brotherhood.   Today, Christmas Day, there was the strong possibility that she would die violently.   She numbly hoped that her family would somehow find out what happened to her.
    The door crashed open and three Cuban soldiers rushed in.   They were dirty and angry, and one, a large swarthy man, had blood running down his forehead from a gash in his scalp.   Cathy cowered as they leveled what looked like submachine guns at her.   The larger man was first to determine that she was harmless.   He laughed and signaled the others to check out the rest of the building.   A moment later, they came back and told their leader that the place was empty.
    Like little children, they looted the kitchen of what food was left in the cupboards and in the refrigerator, smashing and breaking what