Guest columnist James Parsons, TCC instructor
James Parsons, a biology professor at TCC and an Army Reserve Officer, was one of the group of medical services staff at Fort Chaffee during the time of the Cuban riots. In the summer of 1980, he, Jody, his wife, and his daughter were caught in the turmoil that unfolded in that memorable week.
Sporadic gunfire, strange noises, and black smoke erupted from the Cuban side of the Post. It was June 1, 1981, the day the Cuban refugees rioted at Fort Chaffee, Arkansas.
My day began about noon on that Sunday. Most of the men on Post Staff had been putting in 16 to 20 hour days ever since the Cubans had been scheduled to come to Fort Chaffee. Lieutenant Murphy, army pharmacist on Fort Still, had been on his feet for 72 hours trying to stock a pharmacy that would take care of the needs of 20 thousand Cubans. The endless amounts of emergency work on Post was tremendous. On this hot afternoon an earthwork mishap had us and our military when it had a real mission to perform. Major Wilson had really believed that we were on duty was taking a giant step for freedom — a hope in a symbol of hope to people in bondage all over the world.
I had worked long hard hours. At that time all I wanted to do was get something to sleep late that Saturday evening and not for a brief time and a short distance.
My wife, Jody, and I decided to take a leisurely drive. Our apartment was in Barling, a small town outside the main gate of Fort Chaffee. We headed East on Highway 22. As we passed the main gate, about a hundred young Cuban men were moving over the wall, and others jumped the fence, rushing the guards at the gate.
The young National Guardsmen were standing upright at their posts at port arms, and we heard one of them say, “Ah, come on Buddy, you don’t really want to do this, do you?”
The guards were unarmed. President Carter had not given permission for the military to use force on Post where the Cubans were legal aliens. But, as the Cuban mob merged toward Barling, they were illegal aliens, and State and State Marshals did have the authority to use force to get the Cubans to retreat.
Jody and I were defenseless. Not till this affect our plans. We stopped a few little truck stop a few miles up the road where we watched the crowd of the Cubans who were out of the compound. Several were there and we one local another. “Let’s go this one,” after having a cup of coffee and a sandwich, I decided we must return. I was off the chain-of-command Medical Services. Our teenage son Randy was on call as Charge-of-Medical at the 47th Field Hospital. The doctor on duty in his clinic (set) Two Provo Medical Chief was Lieutenant Colonel Mary Strange.
As we approached the post we saw the two rednecks who had been at the cafe. They were out of their pick-up and with rifles in hand; they were intently looking off down a hedgerow. Down the road, I found a Federal Marshal. I pointed out the two rednecks and told him that they wanted to shoot a Cuban. The Marshal said that he would take care of it.
We got back to our apartment. I was putting something in the uniform when Randy came in and announced that he had been released from duty and sent him to get out of the rest. We turned on the radio. The newscaster said that the Cubans were burning the barracks, that all gates to Fort Chaffee were sealed and that some Cubans were out of the compound.
I thought it would have to call one of my helicopters to come off to get to me, but then I thought I would first try one of the back gates. As I stepped out of my apartment, I could see smoke bellowing in the street. Teenage kids in a festive mood, were brandishing guns and beer bottles out the windows of their cars as they raced up and down the streets. Men in pickups wore serious expressions of determination or whatever they were about to do.
When I arrived at my Clinic, I found out that the Cubans had overrun and sacked our other two clinics on Post. Both were located on the street that divided the Cuban compound from the American side of the post. Fourteen wounded Cubans, gunshot wounds, stab wounds, skull fractures and the like, commandeered one of the ambulances and made one of the doctors, Captain Latour, drive. They forced a nurse, in uniform, to ride to the 47th General Hospital emergency room. The fourteen were stacked on the hood, fenders, bumpers and the nurse’s uniform was red with blood.
She was hysterical with fear when they reached their destination. The trauma had to be taken to a cart.
The Cubans had plundered and pilfered two clinics of drugs and medical supplies. I assumed they would come for ours next. I was especially concerned because we had more women on our staff, and because we had more narcotics and controlled drugs in our safe. I sent a runner over to our various sleeping quarters to gather all of our personnel with the idea that we would barricade ourselves inside the clinic for our own defense and to guard our supplies.
I called the Military Police to ask them for steel helmets, rifles and ammunition, and a squad of MP’s to help us guard the clinic. They asked if we would if we would send someone into the Cuban compound to locate a Cuban girl in delivering her baby.
Private First Class Gerald Allen said he would drive and Colonel Mary Strange volunteered to be the doctor.
I piled in the ambulance as a litter bearer, as I was the only one who knew where barracks #416 was. As we approached, we could see mobs of Cubans swinging sticks and throwing things. We broke through at the barricade which at that time was only some rope tied to heavy sawhorses. The Cubans had torn most of them down anyway. I thought the Cubans would turn our ambulance over, but to my surprise they waved us on into the compound respecting our red cross.
To get an idea of how crazy the whole thing was, picture this: Cubans were running, yelling and throwing things; buildings were burning; all around was total chaos. Yet, when we drove across a parade ground, we found ourselves in the middle of a Cuban softball game! I guess it was one of two things; either it was a group of satisfied refugees who wanted to show clearly that they wanted nothing to do with the riot, or it was just a good example of the odd kink that thing brings to a good softball game.
We arrived at barracks #416. I told Allen to turn the ambulance around. He turned and I started into the barracks and the Cubans started frantically pointing across an open area to another barracks about fifty yards away. Very few of the Cubans could speak English; I didn’t. Castro had picked the scull and many other broken bones.
In the meantime, Allen, instead of turning around in place, went down the street out of sight, therefore leaving us out from underneath the safe restriction of our red cross on the side of the ambulance. Now we were only two Americans solid with walking many more Cubans than I thought existed. They hid their hides. They didn’t want to be in view of order so much in the military. At that point, I kept telling the mother in my heart that everything was going to be all right. Later, when I got to my apartment, I told Jody the story and she never looked right through me and not understand “bambino.” She replied, “Because, you idiot, bambino is Italian, not Spanish.”