6

Sunday night, Oct. 29

Dear Kittredge,

Last night Lansdale spent a small but definite portion of dinner instructing me in how circumspect I must become. “You will be handling material that originates in the National Security Council,” he said, underlining the gravity of the source. Hugh then fixed me with one of those looks that pin you to your own guilt. I, of course, nodded to both of them.

You are right. I feel an absolute exhilaration at linking up with you. And I will adhere to my part of the bargain (save for an occasional betrayal for prophylactic purposes).

To business. It was an odd evening. I could see it had pretty much been decided in advance that my job was in place. Lansdale, given his declared affection for my father, was hardly about to join us for dinner in order to declare at the end of the meal, “Sorry, young man, you won’t do.” I will confess I enjoyed myself.

Part of the interest for me was in how Hugh and Ed Lansdale sized each other up. I suppose Hugh’s GS rating has to be about as high as Brigadier General, which is Lansdale’s rank, so they met in that manner as equals. Though Lansdale has been in OSS, and was CIA, I gather, in Vietnam, he is not at all an Agency man. Not in manner. Indeed, as you warned me, he is sui generis.

In any event, your husband and Lansdale looked to get some measure of each other by comparing war stories. Hugh only told one and I wondered at that until I recognized that he was comporting himself as a judge. Let Lansdale be the one to show his wares. For that matter, it was only after Lansdale had narrated four or five good tales that Hugh decided it was time for one of his, and then entertained us with a hilarious if minor episode concerning the Nasser government. It seems Hugh was in Cairo trying to convince Nasser to accept some Agency program, but he couldn’t even obtain an audience with the great man. Hugh, therefore, typed out a detailed memo laying out his project, stamped it TOP SECRET, and left it on the top of his chifferobe. He knew it would be photographed by the security people the moment he stepped out of the hotel. “Next day, Nasser called me in to discuss the matter.”

Kittredge, do you know, I recollect a dinner guest at the Stable, one tricky gentleman named Miles Copeland, telling the same anecdote. This gave me an insight on Hugh. Since war stories, I am sure he would argue, are an inferior form of discourse, use any one that serves your purpose, and don’t look back. You can even make them up. I think he did not want to blow Lansdale out of the water with any of his real stuff.

The General is another matter. He delivers each one of his presentations with all the sincerity of an inspired salesman. He’s an odd, tall man, who does not, but for his crew cut, look in the least like an Army general. In his fifties, he is mild, pleasant, soft-spoken, and not bad-looking—a long, straight nose, good dimpled chin, full mustache—but he has hollow eyes. I don’t know quite what I wish to say here. They are not weak eyes, but they do not have any light in them. It’s as if he is inviting you to enter some private hollow. I suppose I wish to say that he is the next thing to a hypnotist and seems to suck you right into the center of his concentration. Yet he is full of contradictions. He has to be sophisticated, but it doesn’t show. He even seems innocent. When it came my turn to produce a war story, I told the tale of Libertad La Lengua and that produced some very high-pitched giggles from Lansdale.

I would guess that sexual matters are strange to him. He presents himself as sweet, idealistic, and possessed of a puckish sense of humor. Once, on a military tour of the Ryukyu Islands in 1946, surrounded by local children, he instructed them to shout at the Americans who would be following, “My papa is Major Lansdale. Major Lansdale!”

That story was the opening gun. Next, he showed a more curious side of himself. “I had once,” he said, “early on, to deal with a Luzon official who was a truly corrupt fellow, and when the showdown came, he locked himself in his room and brandished a pistol at the window. I had to establish myself with the local folk, so I called out, ‘Sir, take a shot at me. It will be a pleasure to cut you down.’ Do you know? He surrendered.

“Afterward, one of my people asked if I was that good a shot. I confessed to him that I did not know anyone who took longer to whip his pistol out of a shoulder holster.”

“Weren’t you taking a risk with such a confession?” asked Hugh.

“No, sir. My strategy does not depend on gun handling but on psychological warfare. In our battles with the Hukbalahap we used to maneuver our helicopter into position over them, and assail their ears with a bullhorn. One of my best Filipinos would harangue the poor souls below. The guerrillas knew it was a helicopter, but hell, it was also a voice from above. Since we had good intelligence, we knew the names of some of the Hukbalahap. They were all out of the local barrios, and our people knew their people. My fellow spoke to them with material such as this: ‘We see you hiding down there, Platoon 3. We see you, Commander Miguel, and you as well, José Campos. Yes, we can also see you, Norzagaray Boy, and you, Chichi, and Pedro, and Emilio. Don’t try to hide, Carabao Kid, because we see you, and Cuño, and Baby. We have heard all about you. Believe us, we are coming back to kill you tonight. Our soldiers are approaching. So, to our friends among you, we say, “Run.” To our private ally who told us all your names, we say, “Muchas gracias, amigo.” Now, save yourselves. Escape from this platoon.’

“Well,” said Lansdale, “after we’d flown off, half of those fellows down there wanted to flee. Of course, the hardcore began to wonder who our friends were, and soon held a kangaroo court. A few platoon members were executed by morning. That bullhorn killed more guerrillas than any mortar.

“We also trained our best scouts in the Philippine Army to work at night. The Communist boast in the Far East has always been that the Americans can drive along the roads by day, but the Communists own the night. To win the war, we had to appropriate the powers of darkness.

“I decided to take advantage of the local demons. Anthropology is worth as much as firepower. In one area that we were trying to wrest from the Huks, there was intense belief in a hideous vampire called an asuang. I decided to employ this demon.”

“Fascinating,” said Hugh.

“I thought so. We saturated the area with stories that the asuang was stirring. Then, on a given night, one of our crack patrols set themselves up near a trail the Huks were known to use. We did not trigger the ambush until the last man passed. To our good fortune, he was a straggler and my people were able to overpower him, then drag him off the trail. Quick as you could say Jack Robinson, one of my boys spiked two holes in his throat. Then the poor victim was held up by his heels until all his blood drained out. After which, we put him back on the trail. We knew that when the Huks returned to look for their missing fellow, they would find a bloodless specimen with two small holes in his throat. Be certain that the news went around the Huk encampments that the asuang was on the prowl. Defections, as expected, were numerous. The Filipinos believe, you see, that the asuang will only attack those who have enlisted on the wrong side.”

“How are you going to apply these intense principles to Cuba?” asked Hugh.

“The real need is to go out in the field and get to know the people you are dealing with. The Bay of Pigs was a classic study in aloofness. Officers sitting at desks reading so-called objective reports. Written by specialists who were as remote from the reality as themselves. You cannot learn the scene at second-hand. Lazy intelligence always calls for more firepower.”

“Hear, hear,” said Hugh.

“The key is to take Communist precepts and convert them to our use. The harder the Communists attack some weak point in a country’s social fabric, the more honest we have to be in strengthening that weak point. It’s what I’ve been trying to get across to Diem and Nhu in Vietnam. Work with the people. Let them run the show. Policymakers in the military are too much in love with brute force. The only real defense against Communism is ‘of the people, by the people, for the people.’”

Hugh, by now, had lit his first cigar. “Yes,” he said, “it’s apparent to me, Ed Lansdale. Your heart is in the Far East, not the Caribbean.”

“So it is.”

“May I ask why you agreed to take on this job?”

“Well, sir, you don’t argue with the President of the United States. He did ask me.”

“One can’t say no at such times,” agreed Hugh. “I do, however, foresee a problem.”

“I’m here to listen,” said Lansdale.

“The problem, as I see it, is that you are placed between Bobby Kennedy and William Harvey. Both, you will soon discover, are eager for results.”

“No more than I am,” said Lansdale.

“Yes. But your method, as I comprehend it, is to develop rapport with the people. In this case, the Cuban people. Unfortunately, they are not going to be as available to you as the Filipinos, nor the Vietnamese. You will not be stationed among them. You will not be free to mingle with the denizens of Sancti Spíritus, or Matanzas, or Santiago de Cuba, or Cienfuegos, or, for that matter, Havana. You will be restricted to a corps of Miami exiles who have already failed because of their specific vices.”

“Which are?”

“Unbridled license. To a Cuban, a valuable secret is a flag to dazzle his friends, or to wave in the face of his enemy.”

“We encountered something of the sort in the Philippines.”

“You were on the ground there. The first move belonged to you. Your troops could travel faster than your secrets be exposed. Now you need time to build an underground.”

“Yes. I want it to be composed of Cubans fighting for their principles rather than for ours. I plan to zero in on those exiles who were against Batista and originally for Castro. We will work with them within Cuba, and select our points of attack most carefully, so as not to bring down unholy reprisals on the locals.”

“Do you believe you will have that luxury? Two months ago, our redoubtable young Attorney General, Robert F. Kennedy, openly scourged Richard Bissell in the Cabinet Room at the White House. Bissell is a man of some dignity and twice Bobby’s size, ‘but,’ said Bobby to Bissell, ‘you are sitting on your ass.’”

“Now Mr. Bissell is on his way out,” said Lansdale.

“Certainly is. Dick Helms is in. Smaller, meaner, and much more to the point.”

“I don’t know if I follow you,” said Lansdale.

“You claim anthropology is more useful than firepower. Admire the metaphor, but take warning: There is not much anthropology left to Cuba. The original natives were wiped out three centuries ago. Then came the slave ships. Cuba’s culture, you may find, is equal to its economy: uprooted Spaniards and ex-slaves, sugar, rum, coffee, tobacco, rumbas, mambos, tourists, sex shows, and santería.”

“I,” said Lansdale, “might add two words. Sin, and Catholicism. Both—may I underline this?—are highly motivational. When you are short on anthropology, try motivational research.”

“I know you are thinking of more than an advertising campaign to rid Cuba of Mr. Castro.”

“Yes, sir, I plan to get in a little deeper than that. The Vietnamese have a beautiful axiom. ‘No man,’ they say, ‘can govern a nation without the mandate of heaven.’ So, in Cuba, we’ll try to take away the mandate.”

“Which is?”

“One of Castro’s key supports, in my opinion, is the identification he so cleverly cultivates between Jesus Christ and himself. To his advantage is the spelling. Castro and Cristo. You may notice that the consonants are the same, C, S, T, R. Only the A and the I differ, and they are vowels. It is an advertising principle,” said Lansdale, “that consonants repeated in two words produce subliminal link-up.”

Kittredge, I took a chance and tested the waters. “In addition,” I broke in, “there is Hernando Cortés and Castro. C, S, T, R appear again.”

“Yes,” said Lansdale, “a good point. Castro/Cristo can also be seen as Castro/Cortés, a great general.”

“To the degree that this concept is full of merit, you have taken on more difficulties,” said Hugh. “How will motivational research obviate these mystical links?”

“We will find our route,” said Lansdale. “It’s never the way it looks. For example, the depilatory powder that was discussed for possible use on Castro’s beard?”

“Of course,” said Hugh.

“I gather that discarded attempt is now a subject of some hilarity in the top echelons of the Agency.”

“There’s been a grimace or two.”

“Too bad I wasn’t in on it. I might have convinced a few. It sounds foolish, but I would have looked at the depilatory as a viable option.”

“If I may say so,” I said, “I don’t understand why. Even if the attempt worked, and Castro’s weak chin was revealed, wouldn’t he have been able to conceal the loss with a false beard and wait until his hair grew back?”

“I can’t agree,” said Lansdale. “If a beautiful woman loses her locks and has to wear a wig, golly, you can count on it—word will get out. Word always gets out. Secret knowledge carried in whispers from person to person has more power to convince than active denunciations. Besides, a false beard can always come loose by accident. Castro would certainly have been ill at ease in anticipation of such an event.”

“Do you know, it’s been fascinating to dine with you, General,” said Hugh. “I anticipate with interest your task ahead with Bill Harvey. It will go well, doubtless.”

“I hope so,” said Lansdale.

“If,” said Hugh, “he gets too Bolshy, call on me. I won’t promise the moon, but I am able, occasionally, to muscle Wild Bill over a millimeter or two.”

We all laughed somewhat cautiously, I thought. I didn’t know whether to be in awe of General Lansdale or to feel sorry for him.

He surprised me, however, by his next remark, which was in my direction. “As liaison,” he said, “you will have to be a translator and a diplomat. Explain to me: What is your friend Hugh Montague trying to tell me?”

I was on the spot, Kittredge. I knew Hugh would not take to being translated. Nonetheless, the job gets first call. “At the risk,” I said, “of speaking on my own, I would say that Bill Harvey is only ready to deal with those Cubans he can control completely.”

Hugh gave a small nod of approval as if the godson’s intelligence might be presenting a few hopeful signs.

Lansdale said, “We will see about that.”

It was the moment when I arrived at my first real insight concerning the General. He was not ready to go into detail about what he was going to do in Cuba because he suspected that his principles were never going to be applied here. I think the only reason he took this job is that it is the largest ever offered him. He has, by what I have picked up in the last day or so, been kicking around the edges of big-time military for fifteen years now. He may be a celebrated maverick, but he now wants open respect from his peers and superiors. So he is going to be engaged in what he sneers at most—running an operation from a desk. We will see. I am curious.

To end the evening, Lansdale told a pretty good tale. It seems that at their first meeting, President Kennedy said, “From what they tell me, General, you are America’s answer to James Bond.”

Lansdale shook his head. “I assure you, I got off that mark as quickly as I could. The last thing in the world to have to live up to. James Bond! I suggested to the President that a closer candidate could be found in the very fellow the CIA has put in charge of Mongoose for field operations, William King Harvey. ‘You,’ replied the President, ‘have me curious now. Could you bring this fellow, Harvey, around to the White House? I would like to meet him.’

“Well,” said Lansdale, “two days later, I transported Bill Harvey from his basement at Langley clear over to the White House. While we were sitting in the anteroom to the Oval Office waiting to be called in to the President, I had an intuition. Thank my stars! I turned to Harvey and said, ‘You are not carrying a handgun by any chance?’ to which he replied, ‘Yes. I’m armed,’ and proceeded to withdraw a particularly hefty piece of Magnum-cum-what-all from a shoulder holster. By Jesus Christ and Castro, I almost dived through the floor. How would the Secret Service react to a strange man waving his howitzer in the White House? ‘Please,’ I said to Harvey, ‘keep your thing hidden.’

“Most quietly, I assure you, I then took a stroll over to the Secret Service desk and informed the young man sitting there that my companion wondered if he could check his firearm while we were closeted with the President. Then, as if that hadn’t been a near-enough deal, just as we were about to enter the Oval Office, I suppose Harvey decided that he had better divulge the existence of what he called his ‘hole card.’ There it was, another gun in another holster belted to the small of his back. He dug under his suit coat, whipped out a .38 Special, and proferred it to a couple of most discombobulated Secret Service agents. From there, we actually reached the Oval Office. I had time to whisper, ‘Why, for God’s sake, all the ordnance?’ His reply: ‘If you knew as many secrets as I do, you too would carry a gun.’

“Well, once the meeting began, it certainly proved an odd one. Right off, the President started kidding Bill about the sexual exploits of 007, and Harvey muttered something to the effect of being a little over-weight these days. ‘As you can see,’ he said to the President, ‘I don’t fit the description anymore. I guess I was more like 007 in my salad days. Different-girl-every-night sort of thing.’

“‘Well,’ said the President, ‘General Lansdale did single you out.’

“‘Yessir,’ said Harvey. After our audience was concluded, Bill said to me on the way out, ‘I acted like an asshole, but, my God, dammit, it was the President.’”

In a couple of days, Kittredge, I’m due to report. I’ll close my desk, take the elevator down, and locate Bill Harvey in his bunker. Presumably, he will provide another desk.

Incidentally, Hugh told me on the way home from dinner that Harvey is considerably depressed these days. The Agency found out recently that the Berlin tunnel was blown even before it was completed. All the while that Harvey thought he had been on top of it, there was a British officer working for the Russians. I don’t want to think of what’s now going on in the Hosiery Mill. “The damage may be an order of magnitude worse than the Bay of Pigs,” said Hugh. “In fact, it’s so bad, I expect we will not only sweep it under the carpet, but burn the rug.”

Well, I don’t know that this letter equips you to run the Agency and the nation, but it is fun writing again. There’s nothing so good for my soul as a long letter to you.

Devotedly,

Harry