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Che returned to the centre of the camp, looking despondent. Typically, the Argentine was either talking eccentrically amongst the rest of the comrades, writing down his thoughts and experiences in a journal, trying to find things to volunteer for, or doing all three at once. Che's attitude was obviously different and even troubling for Fidel, who had grown accustomed to his animated personality. Fidel had put Che in charge of a column and just returned from another attack against Batista's army, and no battle was a pretty one. There had been injuries on both sides, and these injuries allowed both sides to take prisoners. Che had managed to round up nineteen prisoners, one of whom was the lieutenant commanding the barracks, putting them at a great advantage with negotiations. The first of the prisoners that Che's troop had collected was a young man from Batista's army that they had plucked off the battlefield. His leg was very obviously broken and had been broken badly. Che had of course taken off to assist him as soon as his band of soldiers had finally returned and settled at camp; he was among many who had been incredibly roughed up, but Che still cared for all of them. Fidel was simply amazed by Che's sensitivity.
Batista's army took eight of their men, but the mediation between the two armies went well. Fidel led the negotiation and ended up seizing forty-five rifles: twenty-four Garand semi-automatics, twenty Springfield rifles, and a Browning submachine gun—and about 6,000 rounds of ammunition—plus some other equipment: pistols, uniforms, boots, packs, cartridge belts, helmets, and bayonets. Using the captive lieutenant, they had gained back a hefty number of their men, not just including the ones that had been taken captive today, but men going as far as months back; however, almost all of them were injured, severely or otherwise. Two were so injured that they could not get up from their cots. Che had stayed with them through the negotiations to ensure they were not being mistreated and to inform them of what was going on outside the medical tent.
Che bitterly returned to Fidel and everyone else just after the negotiations had ended and did not say a word as they marched back to their campsite.
Once their wounded were settled, Che would find himself irritably flying from comrade to comrade trying to stitch wounds shut and disinfect them while finding a way to set a broken bone and a dislocated finger. While doing so, he was instructing some less experienced doctors on how to properly sanitize cuts and deal with minor injuries, and yelling at them when they made a mistake. If someone tried to talk with him, he would grunt and ignore them, insisting that he had to get to work. Whenever he managed to stand still, he was bouncing his leg irritably and visibly fighting the urge to bite his nails; if there wasn’t blood on them from dealing with the wounded and if it wasn’t just generally a bad idea to bite one’s nails in an unsanitary area, Che would have been chewing his nails to the quick. So every time he found himself bringing his nails anywhere near his mouth, he cursed himself under his breath and continued rushing from patient to patient.
The number of injuries was incredibly high, but not all injuries resulted in death, and despite being put in a bad situation, they would recover. Fidel heard of eighteen deaths that day; eleven of the deaths were from Batista's army, and the remaining seven were their own men, of course. The only man to have died post-battle was a young man who had presumably joined their rebellion in Santiago; he died at the enemy camp after the severity of his injury finally revealed itself after masquerading as a simple laceration on his leg. Fidel assumed that this was one of the two who were too injured to return with the rest of their men. Fidel had connected the dots, recognizing that Che was probably with that man at the enemy barracks, so if his foul mood had been a result of this one loss or even anything else involving today's events, it greatly confused Fidel. He supposed he knew how awful it felt to lose men, but he knew that in order to succeed in this war against the odds, he had to view each battle through a lens of revolutionary optimism. Fidel understood perfectly that Che was stressed, yet even when he was, he managed to find a way to laugh and joke. Whatever had happened had thrown him completely off course and, by extension, thrown himself off trail as well.
The sky had begun to darken; Che idly walked around the camp, looking tired and pissed. He wasn’t trying to make conversation with anyone, and no one was trying to make conversation with him. It was more like he ambled around and inspected what people were doing, seeing if he could try to wordlessly assist before he drifted off to some other group. Fidel watched him from the comfort of his open tent, where he hosted meetings and kept maps of Cuba where he had drawn out where they had seen Batista’s army and where they were planning to attack next. Che was looking down at his feet rather than at what was in front of him. If Che looked up, he likely would have noticed that Fidel was watching him flutter about the camp.
Eventually, Che disappeared into a tent. Chatter soon erupted from within, and the chatter quickly revealed bitterness in all the voices involved, escalating into an argument before five men walked out of the tent with angry expressions on their faces, all cursing at one another about Che. As they dispersed, Fidel saw the opportunity to confront Che and did not hesitate to take it. He swiftly made his way out of his tent, waving an almost dismissive hand to anyone in the camp who may have begun to approach him or look at him. He paused outside the tent, contemplating whether it was actually a good idea to go inside, but he was already there, and there was no point in turning around.
He bowed his head and moved the flaps of the tent with his forearm as he stepped into it. Lifting his head, he saw Che laying on his side atop a cot with his back to Fidel. He visibly tensed with anger he could barely keep beneath his skin. "I told you forros to leave me alone!" He snapped as he pushed himself upright from the cot. He turned his head over his shoulder and immediately went pale at the sight of Fidel, his eyes wide with alarm as he stood up, nearly falling over. "Fidel!" He exclaimed, "Forgive me—I didn't realize it was you—" he began to sputter obviously embarrassed apologies.
Fidel stared suspiciously at Che, waving him off. He wasn't familiar with Argentine slang, but regardless of what Che had just called him, it didn't bother him all that much. "I’ve heard worse things; you don’t need to worry about it," Fidel told him dismissively, sounding oddly generous despite staying so stoic. He came to a halt about a meter away from Che, who averted his gaze from Fidel and stared awkwardly off to the side; Fidel lightly scoffed at him, making Che return his gaze as he appeared to shrink uncomfortably in his presence.
Fidel crossed his arms and gave Che a questioning look as he furrowed his brow. "So what happened today?" He asked in a hushed, softer tone, trying to make the conversation less professional for once. Che sighed heavily, and the tension in his shoulders dropped, but his jaw clenched tightly as he gave Fidel an indignant and bitter look.
He drew a breath like he was about to speak, then sighed again, shaking his head. Finally, he began to talk: "Typically, I’m not so... affected by these incidents," Che admitted with a sneer, "but this... he was a kid , Fidel." He spat out, gesticulating his confusion and distress as he spoke. Fidel could see the tears welling in his eyes. "I…" Che‘s voice trailed off. As he blinked his eyes, the tears forming in them smudged against his face and clung to his eyelashes, making him wipe his eyes, desperately trying to hide it from Fidel, though there was no chance he could.
"He was younger than me; I don’t know by how much. I didn’t even know his name; no one did, not even the other man in the tent with him." Che rambled bitterly, and Fidel quickly began to feel sorrow begin to tug at his heart, his stoic expression faltering as Che narrated. "I don’t know why he didn’t say anything. He only showed me the laceration on his thigh and told me that his back hurt, but he insisted I work on his thigh before anything else—arteries and whatever." Che went on. Fidel could almost see the moment playback through Che’s eyes.
Che nodded his head downward with a tilt as he began to explain the events that led up to everything: "Well, I brought an anti-tank mine; Camilo always tells me I overpack, but I find that nine times out of ten, when I 'overpack' it ends up being used." Che had begun to defend himself, but clearly he got embarrassed due to the context of the situation, so he gritted his teeth and shook his head. "I handed off the mine, and when it came into use, it blew up one of the tanks and knocked another out of commission." Che paused again, very bitter; a sad and confused grimace twisted his face.
"The kid was afraid to die; everyone is." He paused, shaking his head like he should have known. "I guess he was more afraid that if I paid attention to him, I'd end up killing the other man in the tent with him." He added grievously and aghast, drying his eyes once more with a single finger.
"I'm not sure how it wasn't so obvious... the tank exploded and a piece of the tank flew as it does." Che was seeing through Fidel now; he traced a non-existent diagonal scar in the air. "A piece of metal cut him from his shoulder blade to his waist, and it couldn't have been that bad at first if he was limping up the cliffside like he told me," Che explained quickly, trying to justify himself. "But he had to have ripped it open at some point." He tried to articulate much slower; there was a second long gap between almost every word; not even he necessarily understood how it happened, and it was obvious. He held the sides of his head in his hands and sighed. "I learned of the cut because blood was dripping out his back in such volume that it was leaking onto the ground through the cot he was lying on," Che explained out of breath. His arms were crossed, and he placed his hand at the junction of his neck and shoulder, palm over collarbone, as he breathed heavily, prompting Fidel to notice that Che still had blood stains on his wrists, which he had mistakenly never washed off.
Che tittered as he looked Fidel in the eye for the first time during this entire explanation. "I was outside speaking with their doctor, and we both became acutely aware of hearing a dripping sound," he said, his voice shaking slightly. He paused, placing his hand across his face and shifting his weight as he put one foot forward. "We saw him as pale as paper, and his blood had soaked into the ground beneath him." Che looked away again, licking his chapped lips uncomfortably before continuing. "The doctor and I flipped him onto his stomach, where we found his jacket and shirt were drenched with blood. We had to cut them off because peeling it all off at once would have hurt him too much."
Che cringed as he opened his mouth to speak again, "His back was... completely split open...Parts of it-" Che had to pause, choking at the image of the wound and the thought of describing it to Fidel, who had a look of aversion on his face. "I’ve... performed and seen surgeries, and I’ve seen some of the worst of war... His back was torn open completely; I don’t know how he wasn’t wailing in agony just laying on that cot. I've seen men twice his size scream over a broken finger or a missing fingernail. Perhaps he numbed out because of all the blood loss, but I don’t believe that." He paused, once more looking through Fidel. "It was ripped to the bone... The other doctor had to leave." Che muttered incoherently.
Fidel, who this whole time had been staring back in disbelief, took two steps towards Che, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as he looked down at him sadly. Che’s eyes met Fidel's, and just the simple look of sympathy in his eyes seemed to do Che in. His face twisted with torment as he bowed his head, resting on Fidel’s shoulder. The action was unexpected to him, leaving him dumbfounded for a moment. He slowly inched his hand in stuttering movements from his shoulder to his hair, eventually gaining enough confidence to make the jump; he gently stroked Che’s hair as he groaned at the floor. "I couldn’t stitch it up. My needles wouldn’t handle that, and the thread I had couldn’t deal with a wound of that magnitude." He continued, his arms dangling at his sides. "I wasted so many fucking painkillers on him." He laughed hysterically, and the shaky inhale that followed sounded like the prelude to a sob. Che practically shrugged as he tossed his hands up, shaking his head again. "Wasted," he bemoaned, echoing his own words.
Che erratically pushed himself away from Fidel, placing both hands on his shoulders as he backed off. "I knew he wasn't going to make it." He cheerlessly remarked. "I turned him onto his back so he wouldn't spend his last few moments gasping for air, and I sat beside him to keep him company... I talked to him about whatever, but I never got any actual verbal response." He uttered. "He would squeeze my hand to talk with me, and he smiled often, so I guess I was doing something right," he said, sniveling as he wiped tears from his eyes. "I knew he didn't have even a minute when he stopped responding," Che sobbed as he dug his fingers into Fidel's shoulders.
"I got on my knees and gave that dying boy a kiss on the forehead, and just like that, he was gone." Che mournfully divulged with a snap of his fingers. He took a shaky breath as the story concluded. Fidel stood there, dumbfounded and horror-struck, as he thought of how he should comfort Che. Fidel felt that even he could cry over the boy; the story brought tears to his eyes and made his heart sink. "I fucking did more for Batista's damn soldiers than our own!" He lamented hysterically. Fidel moved towards Che, but then he went pale again, looking like he had been struck by vertigo or nausea.
Che clasped his hand over his mouth, stumbling backwards before he turned around, then staggered to the back of the tent where the exit was. He quickly pushed it open and disappeared behind it. Fidel quickly followed after him, "Che!" He called, hurrying after him. Fidel reached the back and flipped the tent's exit open, only to find Che on his knees and hyperventilating with his hand still clasped over his mouth, which only made it harder for himself. His hyperventilating came to an abrupt stop as he made an uncomfortable choking noise, which was then followed by dry heaving as he clutched his stomach. Fidel recognized the prelude to vomiting. He stood behind Che, ready to console him. He had managed to get a glimpse of his eyes; he looked lost, confused, and violently sick. He keeled over as his jaw snapped open, and he retched up streams of vomit. He would pause to briefly catch his breath before it would hitch in his throat and he’d vomit again.
Che leaned back and took a deep breath after an uncomfortable cycle before coughing and wincing at the unmistakably sour taste and smell of vomit. He spat into the dirt, presumably trying to remove the sour taste from his mouth. Fidel walked up beside him and kneeled. He pulled a handkerchief from one of the overstuffed pockets on his olive-colored jacket. "Cmere," Fidel beckoning him forward with a nod of his head; Che looked at him, clearly dazed.
Fidel extended a hand to hold Che's head still, practically cupping his cheek as he lifted the handkerchief to his mouth, wiping away brown smears of vomit that clung to his beard and lips. Che recoiled at first, looking like he was going to protest against Fidel cleaning his face for him, but he was ultimately too disoriented to argue. Still, after Fidel had cleaned off his face, he held the handkerchief out in front of Che so that he could take it himself and get what he may have missed. Che nodded his thanks, looking greatly embarrassed with a flush over his face. Fidel stood upright and unattached a water canister hung from his belt, offering it to Che, who eagerly took it from him and poured the water into his mouth, spitting it out seconds later to flush out the rest—or perhaps just the taste—of the vomit in his mouth.
He threw his head back and drank greedily, finishing the canister in seconds. He handed it back to Fidel as he wiped his mouth with the cleanest part of the handkerchief. Fidel took back the canister and looped it back onto his belt. They both remained there for a few awkward moments before Che cleared his throat. "Uh... thank you very much, Fidel." He shyly but appreciatively told him.
Fidel nodded his head at him, "Anything for you, Che." He replied with a light smile as Che began to bring himself to his feet once more; Fidel offered him a hand, which Che gladly took, hauling himself upright. Unexpectedly, Fidel pulled Che towards him, making him falter as Fidel wrapped his arm around Che in an embrace. Che was stunned, to say the least, but Fidel could tell by the way he melded with him that it was comforting.
Fidel rubbed Che’s back reassuringly and turned his head to whisper to him. "I’m sorry," he told him, "It wasn't your fault. You did everything that you could." Che didn’t say anything in response, but he did return the embrace by wrapping his arms around Fidel’s back. He could feel Che breathing heavily as his fingers dug into his jacket, burying his face in Fidel’s shoulder as he whimpered. Fidel ran his fingers through Che’s hair, trying to soothe him, which only caused him to begin quivering. Che’s feeble whimpers quickly turned into choked sobs, making Fidel hold him even closer. He didn’t know what to say, but it seemed that words weren’t necessary at this moment in time.
They stood together like that for minutes—maybe seconds; no one was keeping track. Che eventually regained control of himself and slowly slipped from the embrace; the two still had a grip on one another’s arms as some sort of last embrace before they resumed to normal. It was expected that it would be the next motion. However, Fidel instead leaned forward, his heart pounding at the idea he’d been toying with in his head. He cupped Che’s face with both hands and gently kissed his forehead, leaving him bewildered. Che, who had seemingly recovered from recalling the death of the poor boy, was done in as tears welled in his eyes and quickly spilled over. His fingers dug into Fidel’s arms as Che buried his face in his jacket again. Fidel hugged him tightly again as Che wept into him, looking like more of a mess than he already did. Sobs tore from his throat as he clung to Fidel like a lost child. He rambled incoherently about the kid, how he should have known better, and that he could have done more for him.
"You did everything you could for him. It wasn’t your fault." Fidel reassured him. "It wasn’t your fault." He repeated, to which Che continued with his hysterical sobs into Fidel’s jacket, trying to mutter out words that he simply couldn’t manage to choke out; after several minutes of incoherent cries, hushes, and reassurances, Che finally managed to speak again. "It was so fucking awful." Che sobbed, hugging Fidel tightly as his chest heaved and his body shook. "It was so awful..." He would repeat it over and over again, his constricting grip growing tighter with each passing second. His knuckles were surely white with intensity as he wept and leaned into him. Fidel was practically the only reason that Che was still standing, if you could even call it that. Every time Che began to calm down, another sob would tear from his throat, followed by mostly incoherent ramblings about how terrible the experience was and how he wished he could have done something more for the kid. The amount of distress Che was so obviously in was disheartening to Fidel.
Che's hysterical howls had begun to slow, and his cries had been reduced to hyperventilating, which had quickly settled into heavy breaths. He was loosely wrapping his arms around Fidel's neck, trying to keep himself upright. It was astounding to Fidel that they had not attracted the attention of some concerned soldier or that his brother Raul had not come looking for him. He always loved to scamper to Fidel whenever he found that he wasn't hiding out in his military tent. Knock on wood; he didn't want to jinx it. Fidel was torn from his thoughts as Che sank further into him, clearly exhausted. "I just want to lay down." He pleaded with a sigh.
Fidel nodded his head, letting go of Che slowly so that he wouldn't tumble over as soon as he wasn't supported. Fidel moved to the right of Che, wrapping an arm around Che's back, while Che let his left arm hang at his side and wrapped his right arm over Fidel's shoulder. Fidel cleared his throat, "Do you... need your inhaler..?" He asked shyly and was given no response aside from Che looking away from him as if he didn't want to answer. "Did you... lose your inhaler again?" Fidel asked, sounding amused.
Che snorted a small laugh, which made Fidel smile, knowing that Che felt a little better. "This isn't asthma," he clarified, pausing to take a breath. "You don't hyperventilate with asthma—at least I don't." Che told him with a bit of a grimace. "I did lose my inhaler though, yes." He smiled, looking back at Fidel, who stared back, feigning an unamused look, before he sighed in defeat. "Come on, I want to lay down," Che said, laughing. Fidel playfully rolled his eyes and began walking slowly forward to the back of the tent they had initially met in. As they pushed through and ducked under the flap, Che hurriedly dried the rest of his tears off his face, and thankfully the tent was still empty; apparently no one had dared to go in without seeing Che and Fidel leave.
Gradually, they walked more steadily and therefore faster. "Aye," Che spoke up, "just let me lay down here." Che told him as they neared the exit of the tent.
"I'm afraid that if I leave you alone with the rest of the men, you'll get worked up all over again and then some... What did you say... forros?" Fidel laughed lightly. He began, hilariously perplexed.
Che laughed and exhaled heavily. "Forros, yes." He chittered as they walked out of the tent together, drawing the attention of many in the camp who were presumably concerned about Fidel's whereabouts. He paid it no mind, but Che seemed a little embarrassed to be seen in such a state; he clearly could not walk upright without stumbling as he still appeared pale and lightheaded. Fidel nudged him encouragingly, attempting to divert his attention away from everyone else. It worked rather well as Che began to talk again, unusually confident too: "Y'know, in Argentina it's also a term of endearment, forro." Che tried convincing him with a laugh.
Fidel rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I don't buy that." He said in a tone that suggested that his opinion wasn't going to change. "Anyways, you can stay in my tent for the time being. I feel that if you sit near anyone else, you'll either kill someone or get killed, and then I'd be down a medic and a soldier, or just a soldier." He tried to say it stoically, but his voice betrayed him and revealed his amusement along with a small smirk.
"When have I ever lied to you, forro?" Che asked, playfully resting his head on Fidel's shoulder, to which Fidel's face contorted into an almost offended look, which made Che straighten out immediately as he snorted an uncomfortable and nervous laugh as he gave an almost unnoticeable shake of his head, "Worth a shot." He muttered beneath his breath.
"Right now is one example of you lying to me." Fidel sighed: "Don't get too cocky, monga." He bit back, Che stared blankly with a furrowed brow, and Fidel could almost see the cogs turning in his head before it clicked.
"Hey! I've been around Cubans long enough to know what that means," he grumbled, to which Fidel laughed.
Fidel echoed Che with a shrug: "Worth a shot."