The Unforgiving

By Ernesto Uribe

THE UNFORGIVING is set in the Dominican Republic during the heyday of
direct U.S. military intervention in the Caribbean. There are military actions,
betrayals, intrigue, good humor and romantic encounters between an American
Marine captain and the beautiful daughter of the wealthiest Dominican on the
island.

The novel takes place immediately after the end of the First World War and
depicts the impact of an occupying military force of Americans in the affairs of
a small nation. At issue is the conflict between the rights of small farmers and
powerful landowners. Marine officers and men find themselves in a critical
position between peasants lending support to guerrilla insurgents and ruthless
sugar barons.

This insightful book examines the unwelcome and unexpected role of American
Marines trying to resolve an age-old problem of exploitation of the weak and
helpless by the rich and powerful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465395610

Ernesto Uribe

Ernesto Uribe entered the USIA Foreign Service at age of twenty-four in 1962. He had graduated from Texas A&M College, where he earned two undergraduate degrees and a master’s degree. He started his career with USIA as a student affairs grantee in the foreign service for thirty-three years, serving full tours in seven different Latin America countries. He rose in the ranks of the foreign service, coming from a lowly hired-hand grantee to being a minister counselor in the senior foreign service.

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Copyright © 2011 by Ernesto Uribe.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011960448

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-9560-3

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-9559-7

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-9561-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Other books by Ernesto Uribe

TLALCOYOTE

RUMORS OF A COUP

This book is for my grandparents Carlos B. Ortiz and Trinidad Almaraz Ortiz who took my mother and me into their home in Laredo when I was only five-years old. As my guardian Carlos Ortiz became my most influential person during my formative years. He introduced me to sweat-soaking manual labor at the business end of a posthole digger and at the same time to an appreciation of the joy in working on a cattle ranch. Born in 1888, Carlos Ortiz was very much a man of the 19th century and he instilled in me the morals and values of that period, usually in our conversations in his old red Ford pickup on our way to and from the ranch. To this day I have retained those values of honesty, honor, courage, and respect for a man’s word and handshake.

Cover photo: Marines searching a native hut for weapons (Nat Arch RG 127-G

Photo 515012)

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Forward

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks go to Fernando H. Ramirez for his expert advice in all publishing matters, especially for his graphic arts expertise in designing the book cover for THE UNFORGIVING.

A very special acknowledgement goes to my trusted English and Spanish specialist Olga E. Sanz for her editing of the English version of this novel as well as for simultaneously undertaking the painstaking work of translating THE UNFORGIVING into a Spanish language manuscript for publication in the Dominican Republic.

My thanks go also to my old friend and Foreign Service colleague Lillian Tagle for her meticulous line-editing of both the English and Spanish language manuscripts and for her many helpful suggestions while we were working with both languages.

Good friends and old colleagues like Fred Becchetti, Jazz De Cou, Ed Franco, Neo Gutierrez, Roy Lykes, Luis Ramirez and Norma Salinas were always there for a quick edit and advice and I thank them.

This book is also lovingly dedicated to my wife Sarah with my thanks for sticking by me these many years through good times and bad.

FORWARD

In May 1916 a force of United States Marines landed in Santo

Domingo to supposedly quell a rebellion by

Dominican General Desiderio Arias against elected

President Juan Isidro Jimenez. When Arias retreated into the

interior of the country, the Marines remained to apparently

protect the U.S. Legation, but soon became the military force

behind the United States Government of

Occupation that would remain in the country for eight years.

This Marine presence was opposed by many patriotic

Dominican citizens who fought the invaders until the

occupation ended in 1924. This guerrilla war does not appear

in U.S. history books because the real nature of events was

disguised by the occupying forces by simply calling the

insurgents bandits.

PROLOGUE

August 1917

You sure that’s the place? Still gasping from the climb, the stocky American pointed to a shack at the base of the opposite slope of the hill they had just scaled.

"Si, mi sargento, this is where our informant said the man is hiding," The guardia corporal confirmed with a nod.

The American sergeant gave the hurry-up clenched fist hand signal to the men in his patrol as they clambered up the wooded hillside and slid into position along the opposite ridge. Once all were in place, he sat on a tree stump and pulled a sweat-stained pigskin pouch from his hip pocket, scooped a bowlful of tobacco into his corncob pipe, and studied the lone hut and surroundings.

A dangling bell followed the lethargic grazing of a single cow feeding on short grass just beyond the flimsy shack. Scrawny chickens scurried after bugs in the yard, and a pair of unattended nanny goats nibbled thorny bushes along the edge of the clearing hacked out for subsistence farming. It was a pastoral scene that begged not to be disturbed.

The sergeant struck a match on the buckle of his cartridge belt and lit the tamped tobacco in his pipe. He could see no visible guerrilla signs. No posted guards, no staked out horses, no saddles hanging under the shade trees, no rifles leaning against the shack wall by the doorway.

The only person the guardias could see from the ridge was a campesino woman washing clothes in a wooden tub. She stopped the sloshing and rubbing of rags on a scrub board long enough to scold a naked toddler playing roughly with a scrawny little dog in the patio. The American sergeant was close enough to see the woman’s nagging expression turn to a smile when the child ignored her threats and continued pestering the playful puppy. She rubbed sweat off her brow with the back of her hand, slapped another soapy rag onto the wooden scrub board and went on with her washing.

Don’t see any men down there. The hefty American whispered with the pipe stem clenched between his teeth.

"It’s siesta time, jefe. He is probably sleeping in the hut." The Dominican corporal gave the ruddy-faced sergeant a sly smile.

"Bueno, then you better get three men to cover that trail yonder, by the creek, the American pointed to a path directly behind the hut, and let’s you and me set up right over there in the bushes, just below the crest of this hill."

At the other end of the clearing and out of sight of where the guardia patrol was setting up, a lone peasant farmer chopped weeds in his cornfield. He squinted up at the sun and noted it was almost noon. Leaning on his hoe, he took a minute to reflect. It always gave him a wonderful feeling to see the tiny bean plants sprouting between the corn stalks. Beyond the cornfield, his green-leafed tobacco plants grew tall and healthy, and it looked as if this year his forty-two cacao trees would give the largest crop ever. He was indeed a happy man with a good wife and three healthy children who would soon be helping in the fields. Things were finally looking up for Gregorio Garcia.

The corporal crawled to where the American lay prone behind the thick trunk of a downed tree. "Private Gomez just saw movement in the hut, sargento."

"You sure the bandido is in that shack?"

"Si, mi sargento, he has to be in there."

"Bueno, tell the men not to shoot until I give the command. ¿Entiende?" The American aimed his rifle at the dark hole that was the only entrance to the split-bamboo hut. He would now have the patrol wait until they could see who would step out of the shack.

Garcia’s six-year-old son and four-year-old daughter had awakened from their nap and were playing a game with a string and two long sticks inside the little house. When the children pointed the play-sticks out the doorway, a panicky guardia soldier mistook the round broomsticks for rifle barrels aimed at the hillside and opened fire.

That single shot from the nervous guardia’s rifle started a fusillade that riddled the flimsy shack with bullets that killed the boy instantly. It was only by some miracle that the little girl remained unharmed as a barrage of bullets pierced the bamboo walls and struck all around the frightened child.

The wooden washtub splintered to pieces as flying bullets caused it to exploded right in front of the surprised woman. Terrified, she dropped the rag in her hand, and in a single movement scooped up her child and ran toward the woods beyond the hut.

Don’t let anyone escape! the sergeant yelled and shot the woman square between her shoulder blades as she ran. Both mother and toddler were raked by an onslaught of bullets before they could reach the safety of the forest. Fuming, because his men had not waited for his order to shoot, the American stood and ordered the patrol to advance immediately down the slope.

With rifles at a ready, the Dominican soldiers rushed down the steep hill and assaulted the hut in the military manner taught them by their American sergeant.

The first guardia to rush inside the shack immediately stuck his head back out the doorway, "Only two kids in here, sargento. Boy and a girl."

Bring’em out, let’s see them. The American had followed behind his men at a safe distance and waited until the hut was secured before he waddled out into the clearing.

Boy’s dead. The girl doesn’t seem to be hurt. The guardia private said.

Then bring the girl out and torch the shack. The sergeant yelled.

You want me to drag the boy out before we burn it?

Hell no, burn the son of a whore. The sergeant took a peek inside the hut and saw the twisted body of a small boy splayed on the dirt floor. One less little bastard to grow up to bear arms against us. Now, do as I say, and burn the goddamned shack!

Gregorio Garcia dropped his hoe and started running toward the commotion at the first sound of gunfire. As he rushed around a bend in the woods, he saw his home engulfed in flames and guardias standing over his fallen wife and baby. His tiny daughter was on hands and knees, staring blankly at the burning shack with the fear-filled eyes and open mouth that cried the silent cry of a child in shock.

When they saw the frenzied farmer running toward them, several guardias quickly grabbed Garcia and wrestled him to the ground before he could reach his family.

"Oye, sargento, the corporal said, this man is not the bandit we are looking for."

What do you mean, this is not the bandit? Anger flushed the rotund sergeant’s greasy face. It has to be him.

"No señor, this man is no bandit. He is Gregorio Garcia, a simple campesino. I know him. I was just not aware he was farming out here in these woods."

"Well, then maybe this son of a bitch will tell us where the bandidos are. The American lifted Gregorio to his feet by his shirt collar. All right, you! Where are your guerrilla friends? He smashed him in the face with a clenched fist. Tell me before I kill you, you stupid bastard."

When Garcia saw the fury in the eyes of this foreigner, he was certain he had fallen into the hands of Satan himself, for this raging man staring at him had one eye that was dark brown, while his other eye was watery blue. He remembered once seeing a dog with different colored eyes, but never a man.

Garcia turned to where his wife lay on the ground clutching her child, and saw his daughter still down on her knees paralyzed with fear. He sensed his son was in the burning shack and wanted to get him out. He struggled to break loose, but the guardias held him with an iron grip. He tasted the blood that was trickling down his throat from his smashed nose and gave the foreign sergeant a look as if he wanted to whisper something to him. As the American approached, Gregorio spat in his face.

"God damn you, you stinking campesino son of a bitch," the sergeant yelled in English and wiped the bloody spittle from his face with his shirt sleeve. He balled his fists and again struck Garcia with all his strength. He kept beating on him until the holding guardias let him drop to the ground and all started kicking him.

Only the strength of a half-crazed man allowed Garcia to break loose from his assailants and dash to where his wife and baby lay. He fell to his knees beside their lifeless bodies; mesmerized, he watched the crimson pool expand beneath the woman who still clung to her dead child. As he reached out to them, he was struck repeatedly with rifle butts. Before he lost consciousness, Garcia noticed the large globe-and-anchor brass insignia on the foreign sergeant’s olive-green hat. He would remember this.

Chapter 1

Coffee, captain? It’s four-thirty, sir. The white-jacketed Filipino touched his shoulder lightly.

Thanks, Alfredo. He swung his feet onto the gray metal deck and took the steaming cup from the smiling little man. He hated Navy cups without handles. Looks like we get off this tub today. The liquid’s warmth had already reached his hand.

Yes sir, blue jackets already lowering the boat.

A naked bulb in a wire cage lit the tiny cabin occupied by four Marine officers. The only moving object in their quarters was a soot-stained overhead fan turning so slowly a fly rode a blade as if it were a merry-go-round.

A naked Simms walked in with one hand clutching a towel around his waist; the other held his folded straight-edged razor and soap mug. The head’s all yours if you hustle, Walter. He stuffed his shaving gear in his kit and attacked his military-cropped hair with a stiff brush. What time we heading ashore?

All troops on deck by oh-five-thirty. We got forty-three men and four officers coming as replacements, so the motor launch will have to make two trips. The first group shoves off at oh-six-hundred if it’s all right with you, Captain Simms, aviator, and gentleman only by act of Congress, sir, He made a mock bow.

That’s all right by me, captain. How about those two jokers? Simms shifted his eyes toward the two men asleep on the top bunks—a couple of college boys-turned-second-lieutenants who enlisted to participate in the Great War in France, only to have the conflict end before the ink on their commissions was dry.

Those dumb shavetails lost their shirt playing poker with the Navy last night. They won’t like it, but wake’em anyhow.

Captain Walter Hart, ranking Marine aboard the USS Prairie by only a few months seniority, had a high regard for his fellow captain, Mike Simms. They had a good deal of shared history in their country’s service.

You speak Spanish, don’t you Mike? Hart blew into his heavy porcelain mug.

"Nope. Just the little I picked up in Vera Cruz. But you’re fluent, right?

Yea, grew up in New Mexico territory.

It’s a state of the union now, Walter.

Still can’t get used to the idea. When I left Hachita we were still a territory and I haven’t been back since ninety-eight when I joined the Corps. Hart pulled off the sweat-soaked skivy shirt sticking to his back and tossed it on the bunk. He peered up at a wall calendar with the days meticulously crossed off—today was 13 March 1919.

By the time the Navy bugler sounded mess-call most Marines were already lined up in front of the ship’s galley with tin trays in hand waiting for breakfast to be served.

Chow down good, lads! The sergeant-in-charge yelled, This here may be your last meal ’till you report to your unit in Santo Domingo.

Morning, captain. Ready to go ashore, sir?

Morning, Sergeant Ramirez. Yep, guess I’m ready.

Hart gave the grizzled Marine the once over. Deeply tanned skin, watery green eyes, olive-drab campaign hat secured by its leather chinstrap. All in order there. Light combat pack, Colt .45 pistol strapped to the cartridge belt on his right side, Springfield rifle slung over his shoulder. Everything as it should be there too.

But the crude butcher knife in a non-military leather sheath hanging from the man’s belt on his left side was a thing that pulled the officer short.

Hart couldn’t take his eyes off the ugly black thing. That knife sure as hell ain’t issue. Where’d you get it?

My great grand-daddy took it off a dead Comanche, sir. My dad gave it to me when I joined Teddy Roosevelt in San Antone.

Hart was surprised, he had never seen the man’s personnel folder. Didn’t know you were a Rough Rider.

Yes sir, went to Cuba in ninety-eight, didn’t join the Corps until oh-two. I was discharged from the Army in New York, drunk as a skunk waiting for a train to Texas, when I ran into a Marine recruiting officer in a saloon. After I told him I’d served with Teddy, next thing I knew, he’d signed me up. Ramirez’s gold front tooth sparkled in the dim morning light. Hope this place has improved since we left two years ago.

Lord only knows what we’ll find. Some peace and quiet, if we’re lucky… make room for me on the first boat going ashore. Hart said.

Aye-aye, sir. Ramirez wrapped his fingers around the handle of his ugly knife, replacements look good. Most are salts coming over from France. They was mostly with the Fifth Marines and could sure use a spell of light duty.

You were here in 1916, weren’t you, sergeant? Hart asked.

Yes, sir, landed in Monte Cristi with Uncle Joe Pendleton’s Fourth Marines and was with him all the way to Santiago.

I was there. My company went ashore in Puerto Plata.

I know sir, Ramirez smiled, I remember seeing you. A buck sergeant back then, he knew the captain wouldn’t remember him, but officers like Hart stood out. A brash captain in charge of a small detachment riding commandeered horses, Hart and his men had patrolled ahead of the columns advancing on the city of Santiago de los Caballeros in the heart of the Dominican Republic, saving the Marines from certain rebel ambush. Three years wasn’t long enough to lose such a memory as that.

At 05:50 hours the first twenty-five Marines started clambering down the steep ladder on the transport’s side to a motor launch bobbing in the water. Once loaded, the boat pulled away and sputtered toward the island leaving a trail of oily blue smoke in its wake.

Hart sucked in the warm breeze, rich with the tropical smells he remembered so well. The dark outline of Santo Domingo with a few scattered lights winking like fireflies loomed against a gray morning sky as the launch chugged toward shore.

A thin smile came to Hart’s face as he thought how he had talked his way out of a War Department desk job in Washington for this assignment. He had already passed up his golden opportunity for advancement in France. He would probably be a lieutenant-colonel by now if he hadn’t turned down a regimental staff position, refusing to hand over his company to an inexperienced reserve officer who would have gotten a lot of his men killed. What the hell, the wartime opportunities were gone and he’d probably retire with the rank of captain in another eight or ten years.

Dominican dock workers swinging tin lunch pails were walking toward the shadowy wharves as the motor launch putt-putted up the mouth of the Osama River to the temporary U.S. Navy boat landing.

Hart jumped onto the wooden dock before they tied up and turned to the Marines in the boat. Off-load quick, lads! Sergeant Ramirez, form these men at the end of the pier and wait for the next bunch.

A small slope-shouldered man in khaki uniform and polished Sam Browne belt walked hurriedly out of an impermanent military building, saluted and extended a hand. Morning. I’m Captain Robert Hobstetter. You Captain Hart?

Hart returned the salute, then shook the man’s hand. Morning. Captain Walter Maximilian Hart, at your service.

I’m to take you directly to Major Peterson, Hobstetter said. The next ranking officer is to take charge of the replacements.

"That would be Captain Simms. He’s still aboard ship. Hart pulled off his campaign hat and scratched his head. Look, I’m responsible for this bunch. I’ve got two green lieutenants and a hodgepodge of replacements who’ve never drilled as a unit. Give me a minute to get everything nailed down."

Hart’s reputation as a company commander would be in serious jeopardy if these troops didn’t march into Fort San Geronimo looking like Marines.

Hobstetter was not pleased. Right away, captain. That’s what the major said, he pulled out his pocket watch. As a matter of fact, I have a motorcar waiting.

Just hold your horses. Hart turned and yelled—Sergeant Ramirez!

The first sergeant made an about-face from the men he was assembling and came quickly forward, saluting as he approached the two officers.

Yes sir, captain?

Sergeant, Captain Hobstetter here insists I go with him and report right away. When the boat brings over the rest of the men, I want you to drill them right here as long as it takes to get them looking like Marines before you march’em up to headquarters. Got that?

Yes sir, captain.

Hart wanted to make sure. When you march them in, have’em loosen the slings and carry their rifles at slung arm over their shoulder. Green troops look better that way.

Aye, aye, captain. Ramirez saluted and watched the two officers walk toward an automobile where the driver was already struggling with the hand-crank to get the engine started.

Welcome to Santo Domingo, captain. I’m Major Paul Peterson. A completely bald middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper moustache got up from behind a desk and returned Hart’s salute, then extended a hand in greeting. I had a hell of a time convincing Colonel Breckinridge to let us assign you to our unit.

Hart shook the hand. Probably an HQ staff officer on the lookout for rubber-stamp jockeys. And what unit might that be, major?

You’re assigned as my deputy to the regimental intelligence office with Colonel Melcher’s Thirteenth Marines over in San Pedro de Macoris. The man’s sharp black eyes took in the Navy Cross, Silver Star, Distinguished Service Medal, the French Croix de Guerre, and the campaign ribbons on Hart’s tunic, then shifted down to his expensive riding boots. I came down personally with Captain Hobstetter to grab you before Second Regiment got hold of you.

Major, I’m an infantry officer. A troop handler. I was promised command of a rifle company with the Second Marines, I have my orders right here. Hart reached for the folded paper in his shirt pocket.

Captain, the Thirteenth just landed in San Pedro with more than a thousand men. With the war over in Europe, we’re here to make a serious effort to straighten out this bandit mess once and for all.

I was stationed in Santo Domingo before the war, sir. Hart said. More troops don’t necessarily guarantee better results against these people.

That’s the reason I picked you, captain. You can be a great help to us, having served here previously, and speaking the language. Peterson tossed a brown manila envelope across the desk to land in front of Hart. Your amended orders. You’ll note they’re signed by Colonel Melcher himself. As soon as the replacements for the Thirteenth disembark, we’ll collect them and head back to San Pedro.

Do I conclude, major, that there’s no appeal?

No, captain, no appeal. Peterson rubbed the sweat off his bald head with the palm of his hand, wiping it on his khaki trousers leg. Were there any other Spanish-speaking men aboard?

One I know of, sir. First Sergeant Ramirez. He’s fluent in Spanish, plus he knows the country. Both of us were pulled out of here when the U.S. entered the war.

I’ll grab him for our unit. Anyone else?

No sir, not that I know of.

We’ll also be taking Captain Simms back with us since his squadron will be off-loading in San Pedro.

Good. Before he became an aviator, we were together in Peking during the Boxer thing, and we also served in the same regiment in Vera Cruz back in fourteen. Mike’s a hell of a good man, sir.

Peterson grinned. We’ll let Second Regiment keep the two shavetails.

The replacement Marines marched into the San Geronimo compound as if they’d drilled together for years. Hart smiled at the sight of Captain Mike Simms at the head of the column, shiny gold wings on his chest, a British officer’s swagger stick tucked under his arm. Sergeant Ramirez counted cadence as the men paraded smartly with slung rifles secured on their shoulders like they owned the world.

After the troopship docked it was late afternoon before the eleven Marines assigned to the Thirteenth Regiment were able to locate their seabags along with the officers baggage and brought up to the fort by mule cart. A brand-new olive-drab Thomas truck driven over from San Pedro was there to pick them up.

Hart was amazed by how quickly Sergeant Ramirez’s assignment to the Thirteenth Marines was arranged. Captain Hobstetter had simply filled in Ramirez’s name, rank, and unit from which he was being transferred onto a stack of blank documents previously signed by Colonel Melcher, then handed the paper work to a brigade HQ clerk. Probably precisely how Peterson and Hobstetter had pulled off the change of Hart’s own orders.

Let’s move! Major Peterson’s voice had an impatient edge. At this rate we won’t get to San Pedro till after dark.

Yes sir, Hobstetter said, The replacements are already on the motor-truck. He turned to the driver, Let’s roll, corporal.

The truck followed behind the open Ford touring car with Simms seated up front with the driver, with Hart and Major Peterson seated on either side of Hobstetter on the back bench.

After leaving the city of Santo Domingo the two vehicles drove along the edge of beautiful Boca Chica Bay and proceeded up a beachless coastline with the Caribbean Sea crashing against thirty-foot rock cliffs, salt spray kicking up into a fine mist that drifted onto the narrow gravel road.

Ever use that weapon, corporal? Simms was eyeing the rifle the driver had placed between them in the front seat.

Not since France. The corporal patted his Springfield. Thought I’d have it ready. Just in case, sir.

Good thinking, Marine.

As they traveled, the truck stayed directly behind the open Ford. Ramirez, as the ranking sergeant, seated himself on the cab bench next to the driver, sending the Marine private