CUBAN MISSILE CRISIS

by Edward Hujsak

This month marks the 49th anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis, a time when the United States and the Soviet Union came closest to a nuclear war. Nothing compares to it during the entire period that came to be called the Cold War in the decades after WWII.

In August of 1962, following the abortive Bay of Pigs operation that was designed to overthrow the Cuban Government, a secret agreement was made between Fidel Castro and Nikita Khrushchev to build missile bases in Cuba and equip them with nuclear-tipped medium and intermediate range missiles that could reach most of continental United States. At the time, the United States had already deployed Thor and Jupiter intermediate range missiles (IRBM’s) in Europe and Turkey, which the Soviets logically considered highly provocative. In the United States, the Atlas Intercontinental Ballistic Missile (ICBM), emplaced in 76 underground silos around the country, was only partially operational.

On October 14 a U-2 overflight captured photos that confirmed that construction of missile sites in Cuba was well under way. There followed immediately a crisis situation that involved a blockade of Cuba and round-the-clock secret negotiations with the Soviets. Meantime, military personnel and contractors strained to put as many Atlas ICBMs into operational status as possible.

The confrontation ended on October 28, when secret agreements were concluded that involved a commitment by the United States not to invade Cuba and to dismantle the missile sites in Europe and Turkey. The Soviets subsequently left Cuba with their equipment and missiles.

It was a very scary time for those of us who were working in the ICBM program. Many of us felt the worst was about to happen.

The following poem tries to put a human face on a situation that should be unimaginable, given human capacity, if so inclined, to solve their problems amicably.

CUBAN MISSILE CRISIS

I had to go there, to know

the feeling at the very bottom of

a missile silo, to sight along the muzzle

of this unlikely gun that can flatten a city

continents away and fry its humanity.

We called them wheatfield silos,

so pastoral. Who would have guessed

that Kansas and Nebraska

were armed for Armageddon?

One hundred-fifty foot-deep holes

in the ground, lined with concrete,

filled with open steel structures,

work platforms every ten feet.

At the center, the missile;

silent, shining, loaded, deadly.

We take the elevator down down down.

Foreman tells me men died here,

like the fellow, married, two kids, who

stepped off the scaffolding at the top,

swore a blue streak all the way down.

Landed right here, he says,

as we reach the floor, a discoloration

etched in grave gray concrete.

A puddle of water reflects the webwork

of steel above, lit like a Christmas tree.

Compressors chattering, motors humming,

screams of high pressure gas venting.

Such a panic, getting all these silos ready

for an impending shooting war.

Looking up, I can see the rocket through

the girders, hunkered on its platform,

silent, shining, loaded, deadly.

I wonder if it will work as planned.

Will it leave marks on the planet

like the workman who landed here?