"I suppose so."
"You would have to be dead to receive an award higher than this. Where is the medal for the Penkovsky operation?"
"Rather than another medal, I was awarded a Certificate of Merit with Distinction. I received that and a thousand dollars. Ferdi said, `Take the money, George.' A thousand dollars was a good bit of money in 1961. We bought a new refrigerator."
"This is a picture of you and Richard Helms; what's happening here?"
"This was my retirement ceremony. It was on the eighth of April 1970, in the conference room on the seventh floor of the headquarters building."
"This then is your Bronze Retirement Medallion: `For Honorable Service, 1952 to 1970.' And here we have the Trailblazers Award: `18 September 1997, the 50th Anniversary' of the CIA. You were one of only fifty people in the history of the Agency to be selected, and you were the only one selected for activities as a case officer. That is something, George; you have to be proud."
"Thank you."
"Are you getting tired?"
"No, no; we can go on."
"Would you like to lie down while we finish?"
"That would be good. If you could help me to my bed, then we can continue. That would be better."
I helped George up, slowly walked him into his bedroom, and gingerly eased him into his bed. Just as we were completing the move, Eva entered the apartment. She came to the bedside, said hello to her father, kissed him, and mentioned that she was going to buy some things from the grocery store. She went into the kitchen. Moments later she returned with some pills in her hand and began a conversation with her dad.
"Why haven't you taken your pills, Dad?"
"I don't want them."
"You must take them. It looks like you have not eaten anything since yesterday. Is that right?"
"That is correct."
"You have to eat! You have to take your medicine!"
"I do not. It is time; I want to go."
"Do you want to suffer?"
"I want to end the suffering. I've suffered long enough."
"We're just trying to help you!"
"Everybody wants to help. Help is torture. I don't want your help. If you want to help, bring shovels."
"Won't you help yourself?"
"The only help that I want will have to come from above."
"Please, take these pills and drink some juice!"
"I won't do it."
"If you won't do it for yourself, will you please do it for me?"
"No."
"Please! Just do it for me! Do this for me!"
"I wouldn't do it for Jesus Christ."
At that point I intervened and suggested to Eva, "That means he's not going to do it, at least not now. Please leave them here. Maybe I can get him to cooperate while you're out getting the groceries. Try not to get too upset."
She left. George and I continued.
"She gets to you, doesn't she?"
"Yes."
"She and Ferdi are the only ones I have ever known who could get to you."
"You are so right. You have observed correctly. You are very observant. I never knew that you were so perceptive. But you weren't Ivy League; you went to the University of South Carolina."
"Eva said that she had never met Velma. But Eva wound up with all of Velma's clothes. Velma's niece and nephew just wanted to get rid of them?"
"Right. When Velma's family came to bury her there was a slight surplus of clothing, about seven hundred dresses. She was like Imelda Marcos and she never threw anything away. Some of those clothes go back to the twenties. Eva filled up a sixteen-foot truck with them and took it to Athens, Georgia, where she had a store."
"How about this one pill?"
"Okay, but that is it."
"You're getting kind of tired."
"No."
"Yes you are. Is there anything else that you want to tell me?"
"No."
"Okay. We'll put an end to this right now." I propped George up in his bed to make him as comfortable as I could. His eyes promptly flickered shut and he seemed to drift off into a fitful, troubled sleep. I couldn't tell if his rest was comfortable or painful. It certainly was not peaceful. Perhaps, I thought, he was having conversations with Popov, Penkovsky, Cherepanov, or the like.
Eva returned and we put away George's mementos. Together we went to the front desk to photocopy some of the documents that her father had shared with me. Understanding what we were doing, everyone who passed by inquired about George. They all were anxious as to his condition. I went home. Three hours later, at nine o'clock that evening, Eva's good friend, Annie Snyder, called. George had passed away.
When the news gets to you that a good friend has died, it's always a shock-even though you already knew that the word was on its way. I was close to him. Many times he had said that I was like a son to him. I'm sure that he said that to many others. He meant it to all of us. I know.
CHAPTER 22
Taps
Both doors of the vestibule are opened. The two soldiers march forward to retrieve the casket. Click, click, click; the taps on the shoes again reverberate against that hard floor. Grasping the casket handles with strong hands at each end of the bier, they sharply sidestep eight times in unison, rotating the casket 180 degrees. The man at the head of the casket does an about-face. Then, reverently, they follow the chaplain down the aisle with their cargo all the way to the rear of the nave. Click, click, click, then silence. One of the soldiers returns to Eva, again hammering those steel mallets into the ceramic tiles. He escorts her down the aisle to the chaplain, who awaits her at the stationary casket.
I sit and reflect. His life began in tsarist Russia and was abruptly turned upside down with the violent destruction of that dynasty. His family life was tragically altered during the period of the First World War and the years immediately following, as the Communist regime in the Soviet Socialist Republics was being formed. During the Second World War and the ensuing Cold War, he continued to be concerned with the affairs of the Soviet Union. Most of his life's work was dedicated to bringing about the demise of the Soviet regime, the "evil empire." Eventually, he could look back at its collapse and gather great satisfaction in the realization that the focus of most of his life, the task of defeating that corrupt government, was successful. Accordingly, the prospect of our peoples warring with one another was greatly lessened. Thus, George, the antiwar man, could confidently conclude that his life was spent doing something worthwhile.
In a sense, George just happened to be in the right place at the right time; and as Adm. "Bull" Halsey once said, "there are no great men; there are only great challenges that ordinary men are forced by circumstances to meet." This, however, implies luck and does not do justice to the merit that should be accorded for one's preparation. Frederick Douglass spoke more to my idea of George: "What we call luck is that moment in life where preparation and opportunity converge." Few men prepare themselves for life the way that George did. He was poised and ready for his challenges and opportunities when they appeared, his unique abilities exquisitely honed to perfection. George was not an ordinary man and he would not rely on luck. He was a most extraordinary man, masterfully prepared for life.
George's basic, innate humility stemmed from his inability to take himself too seriously. But this did not prevent him from being quite self-confident. He was absolutely confident in himself, and this confidence came from his always being prepared. In every situation he always knew that he had paid his dues and was ready. Moreover, he intuitively knew, from his own history, no doubt, that no matter how difficult the task at hand might be, he would persevere until its successful completion. That is the only way that he knew to live. He kept himself alive, through extreme pain, just long enough to give me, through his stories, a reasonably complete picture of himself. In doing so, he demonstrated that there is more to dying than just waiting for the end; he was creative until his last breath.
One feature of George's character that stoo
d out more prominently than others was his untempered demand for integrity. He not only expected it of others, but he absolutely demanded it of himself. He had no patience with those who tended to be less than honest with themselves or with those around them. I believe that this obsession with truth gave rise to his love for mathematics. To him, if the facts in a given situation of life are properly processed, they will add up to the truth, just as in any mathematical exercise. He intuitively knew that things had to be that way.
Eva had noted George's incredible memory, a characteristic that he repeatedly and dramatically demonstrated. But to me, his best trait was the value that he placed on human associations. He loved and enjoyed being with people. After all, the central feature of George's makeup was one of warmth. Indeed, he could have instant empathy with a stranger, a trait so rare yet one so valuable. It was easy for him because he loved people. Almost no one could offend him enough to prevent him from finding a way to recognize that individual's good features and to forgive him. It was all but impossible for George to hold a grudge. There were a few scoundrels that he cursed to his death, but he insisted that even these had positive qualities that he admired. This unusual capacity for forgiveness, especially in light of his incredible memory, makes him a rare individual. I thank God that I knew the man.
Outside the chapel, the sunny bright courtyard provides stark contrast to the somber array of soldiers and funeral implements. Two additional elements have joined the funeral escort: a caisson drawn by six horses and a caparisoned (riderless) horse. The caisson horses are matched in their dark brown color and aligned into two columns of three; soldiers are mounted on the left three. The caparisoned horse is stygian black. A sword is strapped to its English riding saddle; a pair of boots are reversed and fitted into the saddle's stirrups. This horse is one of only three such horses at Arlington. All are black; all are specifically trained for this task and perform no other.
The lieutenant commands, "Escort, atten-hun. Present arms." He strikes downward with his saber, all members of the escort raise their rifles, in salute and the band begins to play. The casket team carries its burden to the waiting caisson. The band completes its hymn.
The lieutenant again commands, "Escort, atten-hun. Right face. Right shoulder arms. In slow cadence, forward march." The two rifle platoons snap to attention. All in the formation briskly spin to the right and shoulder their weapons. The assembled train, including the mourners, commences its sorrowful motion and passes through the cemetery gate. A muffled drum metes out a slow ceremonial cadence. Near the end of the train come the six horses pulling the caisson. It is flanked, four on each side, by the members of the casket team. Trailing last is the caparisoned horse and its guide.
The band strikes up the first notes of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Down Garfield Drive, crossing Farragut Drive, onto McPherson Drive we progress. Jackson Circle is on our right. There, we see the Confederate Monument, a bronze female figure looking south and holding a plow stock. The statue symbolizes a sentiment that I often heard expressed by George, the biblical passage in Isaiah: "They shall beat their swords into plow shares." Around the monument lie a number of Rebel soldiers. Their tombstones, unlike the others at Arlington National Cemetery, which are rounded on top, are pointed; this is to ensure that "damnyankees would not deem to sit upon them." Next, on our left, is the Rough Riders Monument. Now the procession bears left onto Porter Drive and we can see the Nurses Memorial. Prominently just beyond it is the mast of the battleship Maine, the monument to the SpanishAmerican War. The remains of 215 martyred sailors from that ship are here, marking the first time in history that the United States exhumed and brought home for re-interment the remains of servicemen stationed abroad. Immediately beyond the mast is the unassuming grave of Audie Murphy, the most highly decorated soldier of World War H. Modestly, and so fittingly, the grave of this hero who thought of himself as just another soldier is indistinguishable from the vast majority of others at Arlington.
The band begins "The Army Song," formerly known as "The Caissons Go Rolling Along" when it was the song of the Field Artillery.
Down the hill we continue. Many in the gathering are walking, as if taking advantage of the magnificent fall day and appreciating all that it offers. We smell the acrid aroma of the autumn leaves.
The sky is absolutely, perfectly azure. The maples are at their peak: bright yellow, brilliant red, and rust brown. The dogwoods have already advanced beyond magenta and are a deep garnet in color. The red oaks have completely turned to various hues of crimson, but the white oaks are mottled, with some of their leaves brown, some crimson, some yellow, and some still green. Their complete transformation will come later. They are tough, like George was; they do not die easily. Off to the left, placed upon a hillside, flying high and set against that beautiful sky is a magnificent American flag. It is one of only two permanent flags in Arlington Cemetery. Both are always raised to half-mast one-half hour before the first scheduled funeral of each day and lowered one-half hour after the last one of the day is completed. Although this one soars about sixty feet above the ground, at that moment it seems to be higher than its ten-story mast could allow. Beyond the flag can be seen the amphitheater, where services are held each year on Memorial Day, usually with the president. I remember taking my boys to the service early one Memorial Day, and I recall reading of the origin of the touching ceremony. The first commemorative celebration was on 30 May 1868; Generals Grant and Garfield, both later to be presidents, attended. Set next to the amphitheater is the Tomb of the Unknowns, where the Third U.S. Infantry maintains an around-theclock vigil. Just below that is the tomb of Joe Louis (Barrow), the heavyweight champion boxer. On up to the top is Arlington House, the former "Custis-Lee Mansion," where the other permanent flag at Arlington flies and where tourists are viewing the skyline of the nation's capital city.
In 1861, the Union Army seized Arlington House, the home of Robert E. Lee and his wife, Mary Randolph Custis, who had inherited the estate, including 1,100 acres of land, from her father, the grandson of Martha and George Washington. In 1864, the Union completed the confiscation of the property and commenced to use about 200 acres of its land surrounding the mansion for burying Civil War dead. Those lands later were augmented with others, and now there are 612 stunning acres of green hills and vales in the cemetery. Currently, the bodies of more than a quarter of a million souls are here interred. Their common bond is service to their country. The undulating grounds, bedecked with rows and rows of white marble and gray granite stones to mark the repose of the fallen heroes, provide a fitting tribute to the sacrifices made.
As the procession enters the intersection of Grant and Jesup drives, the band begins to play another solemn march; I'm told it is "Departed Comrades." Finally, the steep hill reverts to a gentle slope. As we cross Eisenhower Drive, Porter Drive becomes Bradley Drive. The trees, mostly mature willow oaks at this point, are less frequent and thousands of the hallowed stone grave markers now come into view. We continue down Bradley Drive, passing its intersection with MacArthur Drive on the right, then we advance to section sixty of the cemetery on our left. The firing party, already in position a hundred yards into the graveyard, comes to attention when the escort approaches. The captain is standing in place on the grass just off the road. He had gone before the procession to ensure that all will be prepared for the cortege. As the caisson nears his position, he raises his hand in salute. When it reaches him he drops his hand, halting the progress of the last elements in the procession. The rest of the column ahead continues down the road a hundred feet, and then executes a left turn, leaving the pavement. As they mount the curb and advance across the grass, the members of the escort assume the "port arms" position with their rifles. The band as well as both platoons move across the plain and begin to configure the appropriate formation. The mourners remain on the pavement.
The gravesite is about two hundred feet into the rows of tombstones. Ferdi is buried here; George will be laid to rest with
her. The music stops. All elements of the cortege halt. The escort is now in place a hundred yards off among the tombstones. The casket team moves to the caisson and prepares to remove the casket.
The lieutenant strikes his saber downward and the band plays yet another old favorite. Upon hearing its first notes, the casket team removes the casket from the caisson. The chaplain faces about and leads the casket team as well as the mourners forward. The casket team gently lowers the casket in place on the elevator mechanism that hovers over the freshly dug grave. The music stops.
The lieutenant commands, "Order, arms. Parade, rest."
All of the mourners assemble on the south side the grave and face the casket. As I gaze beyond the coffin and off to the northwest I can see the escort, standing 100 feet away. To the northeast, 200 feet away, is the firing party. Two soldiers stretch taut the flag that has been draped over the wooden funeral box since the beginning of the ceremony. The air is still, save for the murmur of an airplane descending to National Airport beyond the Pentagon off to the southeast. The chaplain steps to the head of the casket, gathers himself, and begins:
All that the Father giveth me shall come to me; and him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out....
He throws a bit of dirt onto the wooden box and continues:
Unto almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
On he goes, but I find it so hard to remain completely focused at a funeral, even one so impressive and so personal to me as this one. My eyes and my thoughts wander. I see the soldiers off to my left, standing at attention. Splendid men they are, like many here, living and dead. I have children in the service. My oldest son served in the paratrooper reserves. My second son, like me, was air force, but unlike me became a career military man. My fourth son, a West Pointer, is preparing to leave for Korea and the DMZ. He might very well have been a classmate of the lieutenant who is leading the escort there before me. My third son is preparing to go into the ministry. He and the chaplain here will become brothers in the cross. Splendid men, all of them. Yet, in their military aspect they are symbolic of all nations' failure to live peacefully with one another. After all, as soldiers, they are instruments of war. Even the chaplain suggests that failure; he represents the need for order and ritual to amend the ruins of war. George had a militarily heritage, yet he so hated the wake of war. He knew all about weapons and famous battles, but he often took the opportunity to condemn those politicians he believed to be warmongers. He had seen enough war and he was unrelenting in his criticism of those who did not understand its consequences. In time, I found myself agreeing with him.
CIA Spymaster_George Kisevalter Page 32
