by Stan Hayes
Pete returned Dulles’ smile. “Thank you, sir. This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Believe me, the pleasure is mine. Well. You’ll be flying out of here before too long, so we shan’t offer you cocktails; save that for another time. I’m grateful that good fortune brings us together like this; Bill had told Dick that you’d be making this run, so everybody did a little schedule-shifting to make it work. I thought it important that I tell you personally that, although our future plans for this lovely island are not entirely fleshed out, we consider you, your capabilities and your aircraft as possessing great potential in helping us execute them. Dick?”
“The decision’s been made that Castro must go,” said Bissell. “Ideally, it’ll be a quick, clean exit, in which he’ll be assisted by one or more of his anti-Communist countrymen who have the skills and opportunity to do so. You bring unique qualifications to the table with respect to our resolve to help them do it.”
“We like the idea of that happening, too, without it happening to us in the process of assisting you in the- ah- exit,” Linda said. “How much leeway will we have in carrying out our part of the deal?”
Bissell took a moment to respond. “Not a great deal, I’m afraid. The team, or teams, that you’d be delivering will necessarily be sent on the basis of the best available intelligence, so that rules out much leeway on when. Same would be true of the location of the drop, except to say that it will be, again of necessity, inside Cuba’s territorial waters, which is to say well within the three-mile limit. So no flexibility on where. It’ll be a straightforward water landing and debarking of the team, so the how’s limited to a safe landing and expeditious takeoff, except in the event of your being discovered and attacked, in which case the Navy jets already sitting at the end of a Guantánamo runway would be launched, with luck in time to take the heat off you. All we can do, really, is to try to compensate you for the risks that you’d be taking.”
“Can you tell us today what sort of compensation that you have in mind?”
“We thought six times your normal day rate, which is $2500, right? That would be $15,000 per trip.”
“Does that figure apply to team drops only?”
“It applies to any flight that requires you to operate in Cuban waters,” Bissell said.
23 November 1959
Dear Ranger Dogface:
By the time you get this, we’ll already be drunk! In Bisque, goddammit, but it beats Pensacola and Bragg by some distance. I’m going down the hall to call you as soon as I finish this and shove it in the mail. You may well wonder, if I’m going to be talking to you in just a few minutes, why I’m writing you a letter, particularly since I’ll be shoving my feet under your folks’ table in less than three days time.
Lest you wonder too long, I wanted to tell you what a fucking incredible flight I had today. Save this letter, because I want to get it photostated and put it in my so-far-very-thin file of important papers. Because, my boy, I had more fucking fun today than the law should really allow. And I’m going to repeat the process on Wednesday, weather permitting.
The deal is this; I only have four flights left in primary flight training. After 12 dual hops (instructor in the back seat), if you haven’t had any “downs,” you solo this little sweetheart, the T-34, which is fun of its own kind. The little rascal is so forgiving that you have to work at fucking things up. Did I tell you that it’s pretty much a Beechcraft Bonanza with out the V-tail, and beefed up somewhat for aerobatics? As I say, when you say “sweetheart” you’ve said it all. It’s the only aircraft in the Navy’s inventory that’s certificated for inverted spins, for God’s sake! Anyway, after you solo the fun really begins, in that only every OTHER flight is a dual hop. The others are just for you, the fledgling bird man, to go off and practice the procedures that the instructor demonstrates to you when he’s tagging along.
Well, as you might imagine things go a little slowly at first. Not wanting to get yourself into something that you can’t get out of, you tiptoe into the world of loops, barrel rolls, half Cuban eights, Immelmans and such trickery. Hell, I didn’t try a loop until my third solo. But now- oh my, my boy, confidence came over me like a coat of paint soon after that! There are 15 flights in what I’m now in, B-stage, the last one being your checkride and your ticket to go and play with a much bigger toy, the T-28.
I flew B-12 today, and bub, I was all over the sky. Under control, that is. I wrung that little bastard’s neck for 1.3 hours, and came back wet as a dishrag. Hell, I even spun the damn thing, which is an outright no-no for solo students. Wednesday, Jesus, I get to do it again! Tomorrow, the requisite dual hop, during which I hope to amaze my instructor, a hot-dog full Lieutenant with a tour in A4D’s under his belt, and soon the checkride, which won’t come until we’re back from Thanksgiving.
Then- ah, then. It’s off to Whiting Field and the T-28, the Peterbilt to the T-34’s MG TC. We see them every day here at Saufley Field, being flown by students in the carrier qualification phase. 1425 horsepower against the ’34’s modest 225; almost in the same league as the bird Gene Debs flew in the Pacific, the Grumman F4F. some of them, later on in the war, were actually built by GM with the exact same engine, the Wright R-1820. Called them FM-2s, I think. Anyway, it seems like the T-28 doesn’t so much taxi as jump ahead about a foot-and-a-half with each power stroke of that nine-cylinder radial. Also, can you believe it, that old F3F-2 that Mose and Gene Debs brought home from Texas had nearly the same engine, minus the turbo blower.
That there aircraft, old son, promises to take the true measure of a man. I’m sure I’m up to it, but a deal ain’t done till it’s done. The day we checked into Saufley, my next-door neighbor in the BOQ was a CQ student. We went down to the bar, had a few beers while he told me about his wife and the baby that’s coming in March. Well, the next day was his demo ride, with instructor, out to the carrier Antietam for arrested landings and takeoffs. Next day they do it themselves, solo, but for that old boy and his instructor there was no next day; according to the grapevine, they launched from the carrier and flew into the drink at takeoff power. I had the dubious distinction of inventorying my neighbor’s gear before I ever put my ass in an airplane. So, that bad boy will bite you...
Hey! Didn’t mean to go negative, but you and I are both now in the life and death business. We’ll hoist one to old Dave, my late neighbor, and go on about the business that we’ve sworn to do. Funny, seems like about day before yesterday we were on Smoky’s bench grinder, scraping down our Whizzers’ cylinder heads and trying to figure out how to get laid! Tempus fugit, Ranger.
Smilin’ (Literally) Jack
The Director, Central Intelligence and the Deputy Director, Plans trailed a butler’s gray coattails to the rear of the Kennedy Palm Beach residence, into a large, sunlit room. “Excuse my not standing to meet you, gentlemen; campaigning’s taken a lot out of my back, and it wasn’t in all that good shape to begin with,” the President-elect said, flashing the ironic smile that his visitors, from other briefings, had come to recognize as characteristic of his pre-conference posture. “And by the way, since I won’t be President until next January, I’d appreciate it if, until then, you’d just make it Jack.” Handshakes done, Kennedy gestured from his seat in the omnipresent rocking chair toward a compactly-built, fortyish man, graying brown hair cut quite short, who regarded the visitors with keen interest through large, plastic-rimmed glasses. “You both know Mac Bundy, soon to be my National Security Advisor...”
“Of course,” Allen Dulles said, smiling as he extended his hand to grasp Bundy’s. “It’s been a while, Mac.”
“Since the Marshall Plan project. Where does the time go, anyway? Hi, Dick,” Bundy said, shaking hands with Bissell, looking up at him with pink-cheeked enthusiasm. “You guys must be putting in lots of overtime these days.”
“No question about it,” said Dulles. “And we’d like to share the results of some of that overtime with you gentlemen this morning. Dick’s people have craf
ted a plan to deal with the worsening problem of Mr. Castro. I’ll have a comment to make every so often as we go through the plan, but other then my saying at the outset that it has my unqualified approval, this will be Dick’s show. Dick...”
Taking care to keep his distance to avoid towering over his audience, Bissell produced a thick deck of green index cards, each filled with notes done on a large-font typewriter. His professorial style, erect posture and nearly six-and-a-half-foot stature would have lent impact to the most mundane information, but what he would have to say to the men soon to be in charge of the world’s most powerful government was explosive. “Our objective,” he said, “is to replace the Castro regime with one more devoted to the true interests of the Cuban people, and one that is more acceptable to the United States.”
Proceeding methodically through the green deck, Bissell laid out the CIA’s plan to eliminate Castro, point by point:
a. Create a responsible, appealing and unified opposition to the Castro regime, merging three acceptable opposition groups with which the CIA is already in contact. The resulting political entity will be encouraged to adopt as its slogan “Restore the Revolution.” This vocal opposition would serve as a magnet for the loyalties of the Cubans, and evolve the capability to conduct and direct various opposition activities, providing cover for other compartmented CIA-controlled operations.
b. To ensure that the opposition be heard and Castro’s basis of popular support undermined, a means of mass communication to the Cuban people must be developed. The major tool proposed for this purpose is a long- and short-wave gray broadcasting facility, to be located on Swan Island, off the coast of Honduras. Target date for the station’s completion is two months from the date of plan approval. Swan Island broadcasts will be supplemented by broadcasts from commercial facilities in the United States, paid for by private Cuban groups, and by clandestine distribution of written material inside Cuba.
c. Work is already underway to create a covert intelligence and action organization within Cuba, responsive to the orders and directions of the “exile” opposition. This network will be organized to ensure its effectiveness, and selectively manned to minimize the risk of penetration. Its role will be to provide hard intelligence, to arrange for infiltration and exfiltration of individuals, to assist in the internal distribution of propaganda, and to enable the defection of key individuals and groups.
d. Groundwork has been laid for the development of an adequate paramilitary force outside of Cuba, and for the necessary logistic support of covert military operations on the island. A carefully-screened cadre of leaders will be recruited and trained as paramilitary instructors. After that, paramilitary cadres will be trained at secure locations outside the US, so that they will be available for immediate deployment into Cuba. They will organize, train and lead resistance forces recruited there. This process will be complete within six to eight months of the plan’s approval.
Bissell closed the presentation by noting that limited air assets for resupply, infiltration and exfiltration already exist under CIA control, and that this capability would be paralleled with an air resupply capability under deep cover as a commercial operation outside the US.
Neither Kennedy nor Bundy had raised a comment or question while Bissell spoke. Kennedy’s face was impassive, while Bundy’s indicated definite interest. “That is indeed a comprehensive program, gentlemen,” Kennedy offered, a long thirty seconds after Bissell had finished. “What’s the tab?”
“Not quite four and a half million, Jack,” Dulles replied, ice-blue eyes seeking Kennedy’s. “Total, for fiscal 60 and 61. How does that break down, Dick?”
“$900,000 in 60, $3,500,000 in 61,” Bissell replied on the heels of the question. “Cost distribution between fiscal years could, of course, vary with policy decisions or other contingencies.”
“And speaking of contingencies,” Dulles observed, “That is from where, with authorization, these funds would be withdrawn at the specified times. From the Agency’s reserve for contingencies.”
Kennedy’s eyes momentarily sought a place barely above Dulles’s head, then snapped quickly to Bundy. “Mac, ask your people to get started looking at this right away.” Bissell wordlessly handed Bundy a sealed manila envelope. “Thanks for coming, gentlemen; we’ll get back to you.”
Fresh from two weeks leave, Second Lt. Richard Baker Terrell Jr. arrived on Ft. Bragg’s Smoke Bomb Hill with high expectations. He’d recovered some of the weight lost during the purgatory of Ranger school, thanks to a semi-traditional old South Thanksgiving holiday period. It was delivered in the first part by his mother’s culinary expertise, and in the second by ninety-six hours of drinking and fucking the Bishop twins in their commodious East 64th Street apartment, delivered thence by first-class air and limousine courtesy of his traveling companion, Ensign Jack Mason. The girls, Jack said, had called him out of the blue, as if they’d known- somehow- that the Army and Navy were doing without them for a few days. The girls hadn’t changed much, wearing their by-now-well-worn New York chic carelessly, as if it had always been there. Maybe that was because, Rick surmised, that they’d always known it would be.
At least he’d had a chance to decompress back in Bisque. Jack had flown directly from Idlewild to Pensacola, just in time to fly one of his last few remaining flights before starting to learn how to land that big-ass T-28 on a carrier. Better him than me, Rick thought, clearing his head as he stepped over the Receiving Center’s threshold at 7th Special Forces Group (Airborne). As he did, a gust of frigid wind jerked the door from his hand, slapping it hard against the building’s clapboard wall and lifting most of the papers from the desk nearest the door. “Hey! Get ahold of that fuckin’ thing, you goddam idiot- uh- Sir.”
Having dived in the direction of the cloud of flying paper, the Specialist Third Class on duty had, presumably, not realized that the cause of his grief was an officer, albeit a specimen of what group jargon dubbed a DSSL- a Dumb Shit Second Lieutenant. “Sorry, sir,” the Specialist said, grimly squaring the edges of what had been a half dozen neat piles into one fat one that would take him an hour to resort, “What can we do for you?”
“Reporting for duty, Specialist. Second Lieutenant Terrell, Richard B.,” Rick said, handing the Specialist his original orders, plus the customary fat manila envelope containing his personnel, pay and health records, which the Specialist took from him, hefting, holding as gingerly as if he held an equal weight of nitroglycerin, while his brain crawled into top gear. The boss, Major Tomlinson, hated second lieutenants; now that 2nd Lt. Terrell, Richard B., had exhibited the bad judgment to show up for check-in, it was slowly dawning on the Specialist that here in the drab-ass Carolina winter was a chance for a bit of sickish fun.
Scanning the orders, the Specialist feigned surprise. “Well, Lieutenant, the orders say what they say. According to them, you’re in the right place and on time. Orders to report for duty to this organization on this day. But something’s bad wrong here, Sir. Truth of the matter is, you couldn’t possibly have orders to this unit. Might I suggest that the Lieutenant take these orders over to 82nd Airborne Division personnel, that way just about 150 feet from here on the other side of the road, where this strange mistake might be cleared up. Thanks for dropping in, Lieutenant,” the Specialist said, thrusting Rick’s papers at him.
The Specialist’s message, however, didn’t register with Lieutenant Terrell. “Orders, Specialist, are just that,” he said, “Just point me to Officers’ Reception so they can chew through this paperwork and get me headed toward the BOQ.”
Capitulating with a faint shrug, the Specialist responded with a deferential “Anything to oblige, sir,” and directed the Lieutenant with some precision to Major Tomlinson’s quarters, advising him that, in his absence, it was the Major’s wish for new officers to feel at home, and that Mrs. Tomlinson was, if possible, even more dedicated to this objective. A matter of several weeks would go by before the concussion waves of Major Tomlinson’s reac
tion at coming home to find Rick, and several other Dumb-Shit-Second-Lieutenants (all of whom would soon answer to the acronym, DSSL) arrayed around his quarters, swilling his booze with the delighted collaboration of the buxom and bibulous Frau Tomlinson.
22 WINGS & THINGS
3 June 1960
My Dear Dogface,
Sorry for the pun/cliché, but time does in fact fly when you’re having fun. Seems like about day before yesterday we were playing musical twats in NYC, which, you’d think, would be enough fun for awhile. Twats simply have no peer, and formation flying and air-to-air gunnery can wait till later. I write you now to report on the penultimate human delight; I’m now carrier-qualified!
A little over a month ago, I left Whiting Field to return to what now seem to be the days of my youth at Saufley Field. This time, my fellow CQ students and I would get to know the T-28 up close and personal, which is to say by flying it in a landing pattern in “dirty” configuration (gear down, flaps down, cowl flaps agape) at a scant 3 knots above the speed at which it falls out of the air, i.e. 75 knots. This happens at Barin Field, hard by metropolitan Foley, Alabama, not where you’d like to draw your last breath (but where would that be?). Surprisingly, I only thought of the late Dave Evans, the guy whose gear I inventoried after he and his instructor flew into the water last year, just every now and then. Like every one of my FCLP (Field Carrier Landing Practice) hops, hanging on the prop, chasing the “meatball” (the reflected-light glide slope indicator that replaced the Landing Signal Officer’s paddles a couple of years back), and every little upsweep/downdraft of early-summer-scalded air seems intent on denying you flying speed and/or altitude. As you’ve guessed by now, none of them did, and after thirteen (!) of these episodes, I got to feel pretty much at home with all the slow-flight shenanigans.
