The nights could be lovely in Cuba, or they could feel like the inside of a furnace, with no air and the heat escaping upwards from the dry ground. The night of the 16th of July was one of the latter, with men struggling to sleep, despite their exhaustion, and sentries emptying their water bottles and thirsting for more. MacKim found it a novel experience when British soldiers hunted for water rather than something with more of an alcoholic bite. However, there was no humour when the sweat dried on every uniform, leaving a white film of human salt.
“Where are you going, sergeant?” Kennedy asked.
“I can’t sleep, and I can’t settle,” MacKim replied.
“Don’t wander too close to the Spanish lines,” Kennedy warned. “Those Cuban militiamen could be out there.”
“I’ll be careful,” MacKim promis
