Entry 1

Allow me to explain myself.

There was simply no other option for me.

And I remember with crystal clarity the moment it dawned on me I just could not go on this way : Lieutenant Perez coming up towards me, sweat streaming down his face, his uniform rumpled and covered with dirt, and saying, "Trinidad is burning, Sir." It was then that something inside me snapped, although I made sure it didn't show, my mental armor showed no cracks, and I think I merely nodded and dismissed poor old Perez who couldn't possibly know what I was going through or what effect his words had had on me.

But it was then that I clamped my teeth shut, clenched my hand into a fist, and shook it at you, you goddamned sons of bitches. All of you. And cursed you.

And I haven't changed my mind ever since. And, just in case you were wondering, I doubt I ever will. No matter what the consequences might be.

You got that? I said, you got that?

Entry 2

Alright, I'll calm down and try to put down my thoughts in a more controlled manner.

Where and how to start? What about the very beginning?

I'd like to make it clear that, initially, I was a firm supporter of this whole business. I was an unswerving patriot, I was proud to be American, ready and willing to defend my country no matter what the cost. When I decided to join the army I felt I was doing something worthwhile for my country, and when, years and years later, after I had risen to the rank of Colonel, I received my orders to go to Cuba for this war, I still harbored the same feelings. Deep down I was still the same all-American boy I've always been.

Or had always been up to recently, that is.

I know, of course, that some of you will now point out that my grandmother was Cuban and so I have some Cuban blood in my veins, but let me tell you, I was born and raised in the United States and my partly Cuban roots have never been an issue, I've never had a soft spot for the values the Cuban system has represented over the years.

So if there's anyone out there who thinks I'm some crypto-revolutionary type whose cover has been blown, you're dead wrong.

I was a true American.

But that's over now.

That's the past.

I've seen too much now, I know too much. My eyes have been opened. I can no longer be fooled.

To hell with you all.

Entry 3

I guess I haven't been clear enough. So what about offering you a few snapshots, culled from my memory banks, that will illustrate my feelings and my decision more clearly.

Here's one:

A battle scene, early in the war. We're roughly in the Camagüey area. In a field where they used to grow pineapples, an activity now ground to a halt because of the war effort. The last few days have seen a series of tropical showers, none too uncommon in the Caribbean in this time of year. Dirt has been transformed into sticky mud all over the place. There's moisture everywhere, even the air we're breathing is so hot and humid it feels like some steaming liquid smothering our throats.

The Cuban armed forces have put up some fierce resistance. We didn't exactly walk all over them: consider our losses, inordinately heavy for an army equipped with state-of-the-art material, backed up by a superior logistics team, and by far outnumbering the other side. We lost some good men, a number of tanks and vehicles, even had part of our ammo supply stolen.

I won't say this was a Pyrrhic victory, but it sure hurt.

But we had won, and had set up camp for the night. And then the phone call came.

"Colonel Byford?" the tinny voice sounded in my ear.

"Yes?"

"This is Kenneth Lee. We're having a slight problem here." I knew right away this couldn't be good news. Our dear beloved CEO of WarWorks, Inc., the company running this entire show, never called to congratulate us or simply say hello. "We've just watched today's footage and we've had an emergency meeting with the production staff."

"So what seems to be the problem, Mr. Lee?"

"We need reshoots of certain scenes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You see, Colonel, it's my understanding that you've had some rough weather over there, and I'm afraid it shows on the footage. There's mud and dirt literally everywhere. We didn't spot one single image where our sponsors' logos on vehicles or uniforms could be seen clearly. I'm sure you realize these people won't be happy if these low-quality images are broadcast. They're paying serious money for advertising space, they're the people who keep this show on the road, goddammit, and they have every right to refuse material they deem unacceptable. Colonel, I realize you're not working under ideal conditions, so I'm not blaming you personally here. I just want to make it clear we need new footage of the Camagüey battle, by tomorrow night, top-notch stuff that meets all our criteria. Is that clear?"

"Understood, Mr. Lee," I said, swallowed with some difficulty, and let the phone drop into my lap. Well, I'd heard about this procedure, so this wasn't a total surprise, but this was the first time it had happened to me, and it hit me like a blow under the belt.

Sure, sure, clean up all uniforms and vehicles so the sponsors' logos can be seen sparkling in all their splendor, and happily redo the battle, granting the camera crews working at our sides marvellous opportunities to shoot footage custom-made for the Eight O'Clock News.

No problem there, Mr. Lee. Don't worry, the sponsors will be happy. We'll see to it. Count on us, Mr. Lee.

Fuck you, Mr. Lee.

Entry 4

Some historical facts.

Facts for you to ponder.

I know what the basic idea was. And I had no problems with it at first. It all sounded okay to me. It rang true, fitted in with my frame of mind.

The post-Castro regime had abandoned the communist ideals of its much maligned predecessor, but had failed to live up to the expectations of the U.S. government. The new Cuban leaders wanted to forge their own identity, closer to their Latin American brothers, inspired by an urge towards total independence. The gates of Cuba didn't swing wide open for American businessmen or U.S.-based Cuban refugees itching to reclaim the property they still considered theirs. People were outraged. So was I. I was still with you back then, remember?

Although no longer a Communist power, Cuba was still a thorn in America's side. It was felt drastic measures had to be taken. Fair enough.

Havana will burn, they said. And I was among the ones chosen to go and light the fire. And off I went, the fervor burning inside me. Brash, high-energy military type, taking it all in his stride, going to battle intent on rooting out evil.

Havana will burn. Nice slogan. Powerful metaphor. Gripping enough to include it into the Eight O'Clock News' opening tune. At that moment I didn't yet realize how fond the powers that be were of flames, performing their deadly ballet on a TV screen.

Some more historical facts.

I'm well aware, obviously, of the whole background of current military affairs and the inevitability of the evolution that led to the situation we're faced with now.

Old-style armies had become way too expensive, they punched large holes in the country's budget, holes that kept getting deeper and wider and threatened to undermine everything. This could not go on. Something had to be done. Sure enough, brother.

So the army was turned over into private hands, sold to a conglomerate of companies called WarWorks, Inc. They had ties with the media, with advertising agencies, with all sorts of companies. Correct me if I'm wrong. What did you say? Pretty close? Well, I thought I was, yes, thank you. Allow me to continue my monologue:

Business : that was the key word.

We became a money-making operation. Sound management, profitable business. All our actions were filmed, TV rights of the footage were sold to the networks, we were given our own time slot, people's daily dose of military news at eight p.m., and our ratings went from fabulous to scarcely believable. Advertisers fell over each other to hire space on soldiers' uniforms and the sides of tanks and army vehicles. This was a fund-generating opportunity too good to waste. Of course we had nothing to say in all this. We were merely WarWorks employees, doing the dirty work, extras dancing to the director's tune. Or dying. Or, come to think of it, both.

And money came rolling in. Our jobs were secure. We all thought that was a good thing. How would you be? Of course all the tycoons involved wanted a say - understandable enough if you knew how much money these guys were sinking into it all.

But in the end I no longer felt like a soldier. I had become an actor in a game that had grown too complex for me to fully grasp. I was given orders originating from non-military and even non-political sources. People I couldn't really recognize as my superiors.

Business, indeed.

But deep down I was still a soldier. I was by no means a businessman, for chrissakes. So that's why in the end I tore off all the sponsors' logos from my uniform. Out of disgust. Out of respect for myself. Out of a refusal to be changed into something I didn't want to be. I saw what I was becoming, and I hated it. With every fiber in my body. You see? I said, you see?

Of course you don't see. And you never will.

I knew you wouldn't. I've known it all along.

Entry 5

Enough historical facts. Listen to this:

I'm not a poet, but I'll try to describe this as best I can. Call it a turning-point in my life, a milestone if ever there was one.

This is more than a week after the Camagüey episode. We've made progress, we've won battles, the crews shot good footage, the studio executives are happy, our ratings are skyrocketing. Rejoice, rejoice, would be any normal human being's reaction. We're nearing the outskirts of Trinidad, a stronghold of the resistance on Cuba's southern coast.

Early morning. Splendid sunrise. Without the war this would be idyllic. Dazzling sky, invigoratingly clean air, deceptive aura of peace and tranquillity. The alleged pockets of resistance must be well camouflaged indeed.

Our orders are : take up strategic positions in the outskirts of the city and await further instructions. In the meantime we do a reconnaissance trip around Trinidad. I'd heard about this town, but seeing it with my own eyes is something else. The open-air museum of Cuba's colonial past. Narrow, winding streets paved with cobblestones. Spanish-style buildings, squares and churches. We don't exactly run into lots of people. I guess everybody's hiding. No sign of Cuban militias either. What the hell is going on here? What the hell are we supposed to be doing here? Is this a trap? A goddamn joke? A godawful mistake?

Then : a phone call.

Mr. Lee speaking. At long last. He's in his usual no-nonsense mood. You're in deep shit there, Colonel, he says (no, I'm not quoting him verbatim, just in case you were wondering; no four letter words from clean, well-bred Mr. Lee), those resistance fighters are all over the place, like flies hovering over a rotting corpse, only you don't see them. They're hiding in every nook and cranny of this town, waiting for the proper moment to strike us the fatal blow. We must act quickly, and without mercy. Somehow the words don't ring true. But then, who's asking my opinion? So, what do we do, Mr. Lee? We smoke out the bastards, Colonel. We'll fight fire with fire. We'll burn this place to the ground, if that's what it takes to cleanse the city from this rebel scourge. That clear, Colonel? Burn it!

I nod. We'll make the rebelling forces go up in smoke then. Wherever they're hiding, whatever they may be up to, there won't be anything left but ashes and cinders when we've finished. Very well then. Call this the giant campfire scene in the movie.

Beg pardon? What do you mean, I'm making a mockery of it all? I'm simply venting my feelings. I shouldn't compare this war situation to a movie? Disrespectful, you say? Then why, if I may ask, do you treat my men like actors who don't really die, why do you destroy cities as if they're movie sets where nobody really lives? Why do you view the blood that's staining the streets like red goo from the makeup department? Why... Sorry, I got carried away there. Allow me to continue the story.

I give the orders. Let flames devour this pearl of colonial architecture, I say, turn this wonderful icon of Caribbean history into a crematory, celebrate this ritual slaughter of innocent citizens with a bonanza that turns the gloom of night into glorious day. No, Mr. Lee, those weren't my exact words. Most of my men fail to appreciate great poetry, so I chose to express myself in a slightly more down-to-earth manner. I think I said something like, "Burn it, guys, burn it." But isn't that the essence of my above rendition? What are you saying, Mr. Lee? You don't appreciate good poetry either? Well, actually, I think I understand. Poetry is no megabuck business, after all, which is what counts. For some people.

So off my men went, to carry out their blessed mission. And back came Lieutenant Perez, after a while, with the good news. Mission accomplished. The rebels have been blown to kingdom come. And so has everyone else. Trinidad is a charred ghost town. Well done! Congratulations! What's next? Havana? Yes, yes! Can I light the fuse, please?

Entry 6

There's this couple of images that keeps haunting me. One is a picture I used to watch at my late grandmother's place each time I paid her a visit, when I was still an innocent kid. It was a picture, yellowed with age and dotted with dark discolorings, of La Iglesia de la Santisima Trinidad, ancient-looking stucco silhouetted against a bright blue background, marred only by a few wisps of cloud. Trinidad's most famous old church. I'm not sure why my grandmother clung to the picture, as she was from Santiago rather than Trinidad. Maybe it was her only link with Cuba, I don't know. And it's too late to ask her now.

The second image is a more recent one : the smoldering stumps of what used to be La Iglesia de la Santisima Trinidad, silhouetted against a brownish smoke-filled background, after our forces had taken care of it. Somehow my mind keeps superimposing these two images, but they don't quite match anymore. Any idea why, Mr. Lee? Surely you must have a clue?

Entry 7

So tell me, my dear Mr. Lee, why did you pick Trinidad? Oh, I see. So there's a logic behind your decision. It wasn't just a whim, a decision hastily made on the spur of the moment. I'm relieved to discover it took you some careful thinking, that there's a genuine philosophy behind this selection.

You're absolutely right, of course. Cities with a rich cultural tradition and a high artistic value are ideal for the purpose you had in mind. The images will go straight to the viewers' hearts, they will make a markedly more powerful impression than footage of the destruction of just another town. Remember Leningrad? Dresden? Sarajevo? Of course, of course, you're making perfect sense there, Mr. Lee. And the camera crews must have had a field day too, over there in Trinidad. That's an advantage the TV channels didn't have in the old days.

Oh, by the way, Mr. Lee, may I suggest Havana's old city center as your next target? The Cathedral, the Capitolio Nacional, the Bodequita del Medio where good old Hemingway used to drink his mojitos, the Granma Memorial... Think about it, Mr. Lee. If I were you I wouldn't pass this one up.

But I'm not you.

Thank God for that.

Oh, one more question before I go, Mr. Lee : Can I burn you?

Entry 8

So now you know.

The rest is up to you. No doubt I'll be court-martialled, and, frankly, I couldn't care less. (My former self would have balked at the idea - but then again, my former self is no longer around; there's just the current me, now.)

By all means continue your work, Mr. Lee and the rest of you guys. Someone has to destroy the world's cultural heritage. Why not you? You seem cut out for the job.

But my hands are clean now. My mind is at rest.

I don't care who will eventually win the Cuban war. As a matter of fact, I think I know the outcome. The TV bigwigs will be the winners, with flying colors. Everybody else will lose.

Time to quit now.

See you in court.

And, oh, one more thing before I go : don't forget to tune in to the Eight O'Clock News every night. Great show. Amazing footage. Shot on location, pure gritty reality, no special effects or studio nonsense. You'll be riveted to your screen. Day after day. It's that good.

Axxón 123 - febrero de 2003