Deadly Deceits (3 page)

I grew up in the lower middle class all-white South Side neighborhood and after graduating from grammar school attended Tilden Technical High School, located several miles away in a racially and ethnically mixed area. A serious student, I earned membership in the honor society and was elected class president. I also won All State and All City awards as a tackle on our city championship football team. Though I remained an ardent Baptist, two of my teammates persuaded me to go to college at Notre Dame with them. We roomed together and played on four undefeated football teams that won three national championships in the years from 1946 to 1949. I won an award one year as the best blocking tackle and played in the North-South All Star game another year. In 1950 I graduated cum laude in Business Administration.

I was raised to believe in the American dream—the Protestant work ethic, truth, justice, freedom. I had lived through World War II with its clear black-and-white heroes and villains
and the stirring messages of fighting for God, country, and democracy in the world. I and my whole generation shared an innate feeling of accomplishment. The satisfaction in victory, the reawakening economy, the Marshall Plan for Europe, and our government's attempts to rebuild a world made safe for mankind had made all of us proud, patriotic and, I suppose, a little smug.

I believed in the basic lessons of life that my legendary Notre Dame football coach, Frank Leahy, had drilled into us—work hard, do your best, and victory in the game and in the larger game of life will be yours. “Oh, lads,” I can still hear him saying, “you have to pay the price, but if you do, you can only win.” My proudest, happiest, most patriotic moments came before the games as the starting teams lined up in the kick-off formation in the center of the stadium, surrounded by Notre Dame's loyal fans. Standing there in the crisp bright sun, gazing fervently at the flag as the national anthem resounded, I was filled with emotion. Each time I dedicated myself to do my best for myself, my family, my school, and my country.

After college I failed a try-out with the Green Bay Packers. A one-year stint as line coach at the University of Dayton convinced me I needed to change fields. I moved to Chicago and got a job with Montgomery Ward as a management trainee. After all of the glory days, this job seemed unendurably prosaic. But as if out of a chapter of the American dream as taught to me by my parents and Coach Leahy, a telegram arrived: “Would you be interested in an important government position? The duties include foreign travel and involve procedures similar to those of the Department of State.…” Suddenly the adrenaline was pumping and I could hear the crowds cheering again.

In mid-January 1952, after a brief interview with a quiet man in the Chicago courthouse, and after several well-dressed young men had invaded my neighborhood asking questions about me (the local druggist stopped my father and asked if I were in trouble with the government), I was called to
Washington, D.C. The man in the courthouse had made vague references to fighting communism but had imparted little additional information. He didn't tell me what I would be doing or what agency I would be working for, but I assumed it would have something to do with foreign diplomacy. Intrigue, danger, adventure, travel to exotic places, and possibly even a mysterious Mata Hari or two might be in my future. I visualized myself at a sidewalk cafe in Paris, sipping Pernod while discussing important foreign affairs with a diplomat.

I boarded the afternoon train for Washington. To prepare for a possible test of my knowledge of world events, I brought with me
Time
magazine and several copies of
The New York Times
. As soon as the berths were made up and after a quick sandwich, I retired to digest the latest news.

The headlines reflected the atmosphere of the time in which I was setting out on my new career. Our courts were processing cases against domestic Communists, and to keep track of all of them it was necessary to designate the cases by city and group number. The Senate Subcommittee on Internal Security was holding hearings as yet another person denied Senator Joseph McCarthy's charges that he was a Communist. Indeed, this was the second anniversary of Senator McCarthy's announcement that he had the names of 205 card-carrying Communists who were working in the State Department. The House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) was continuing its attack on the reds in Hollywood. The Soviet foreign minister accused the United States of transporting Chinese Nationalist troops to Thailand and Burma. In Korea the fighting raged, while the peace talks at Panmunjom stalled. President Truman in his State of the Union message before Congress warned that the “world still walks in the shadow of another world war.”

These realities were a part of me. My professors at Notre Dame, the news media, public officials, and my friends all discussed the danger and viciousness of communism and the despair behind the Iron Curtain. No one doubted or questioned our government's statements; we all believed. It was obvious to me that the monolithic international communist conspiracy was attacking our way of life, our religion, and our allies overseas. Ralph W. McGehee, Jr. was proud and happy to be on his way to help his government.

I arrived at Washington's Union Station mid-morning. It was a sunny, bright, cold, invigorating day. A recent snowfall had laid a blanket of pure, virginal snow over the capital. I took a cab from the station up Constitution Avenue. On the right stood the National Archives building with its towering Corinthian columns and its huge bronze doors. On the left the glorious Capitol dominated its hilltop site and that tall proud obelisk, the Washington Monument, aimed its adoration straight at God. He, in His infinite loving wisdom, I was sure, pointed His benevolence back at this great country. It was truly an emotional moment for me. I thought back to my history class where I learned of Nathan Hale regretting that he had but one life to give to his country. Sir Walter Scott said it best: “Breathes there a man with soul so dead who never to himself hath said, this is my own, my native land.…”

The cab pulled up at the circle at the Washington end of the Arlington Memorial Bridge. I had been told to report to K Building, one of four dirty, gray, wooden structures that had been erected near the Lincoln Memorial during World War II. They looked as if they had not been painted since that time. A formidable eight-foot-high steel mesh fence surrounded the buildings, broken only by a couple of entrance gates. There were no signs to give me any clue about what organization was working inside. I entered at the second gate and the guard directed me to a poorly furnished, rundown waiting room. In about 10 minutes a harried, bespectacled man somberly greeted me, had me fill out some travel forms, and advised me to report the next day to the 9th Street personnel pool. He helpfully suggested that I might find acceptable lodging at the 17th Street YMCA.

The next day I checked in at the personnel pool located above a large store halfway between Ford's Theatre and the building that served as the FBI's headquarters. The head of the pool, whom I shall call Mr. Munson, was a middle-aged, small, thin, kindly man. He at once put me at ease and explained that there were generally about 40 people in the pool at any one time and that they were scattered in four different rooms. They and I were awaiting security clearances, while going through necessary processing. He advised that this was all he could tell me and warned that I should not discuss the tests during the processing since this would be considered a breach
of security. Later, various candidates couldn't resist talking and speculating about why we were there. One person mentioned the possibility of our working for the CIA. I had never heard of it.

Mr. Munson seemed to take an instant liking to me and asked if I would like to be his assistant. I, of course, accepted and worked in the “front” office. As his aide, I kept a daily attendance log and had the pleasant task of running occasional batches of typing over to the women in the typing pool around the corner.

About once a week we were shown training films. They puzzled me, as none depicted the lifestyle of a foreign service officer that the telegram had led me to believe would be in my future. One movie was about Navy frogmen and how they operated. Another was an FBI training film that we all quickly labeled “White Shoes” because the tyro G-man wore those conspicuous shoes on what was supposed to be a discreet surveillance mission directed against a communist spy. Another movie dealt with picking a lock.

I flunked the first test, the medical examination. The doctor discovered a small benign nodule on my thyroid. Fortunately the condition was correctable, and after an operation I went back to the processing. Some others, not so fortunate, failed the medical and were dismissed.

Everyone whispered about the dread Building 13, where the he detector test was administered. Speculation and rumor were held to a minimum by threats to fire anyone who revealed details of the tests. I am still forbidden to reveal those details, but Victor Marchetti and John D. Marks stated in their book,
The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence
, that through the lie detector test “the CIA … finds out nearly everything imaginable about the private lives of its personnel.… Questions about sex, drugs, and personal honesty are routinely asked along with security-related matters such as possible contacts with foreign agents.”
¹
One of my roommates—by this time I had moved into a small apartment with two other candidates from the pool—confessed to me that he knew his close friend had committed a murder. He had pledged to his friend he would never tell this to anyone. He agonized about what to say when questioned by the lie detector operator, but he apparently passed, for he was taken on board shortly after
his examination. Still, many other candidates were dismissed following lie detector tests.

During this period of testing and processing, a group of young people held a party and invited many of us to attend. One pleasant young man at the party seemed intent on cornering me and asking difficult questions. Whom was I working for? Why had I come to Washington? Where was my office? My intuitive sense immediately sent out warnings. I gave him all the answers prescribed in Mr. Munson's briefing or, as we later called it, our cover story; i.e., one that was plausible, but had nothing to do with the truth. However, several days after the party various other members of the pool were fired.

The most revealing test we had to take was the personality/intelligence test. The Agency used this test to identify the basic Externalized, Regulated, Adaptive individual—the ERA personality—that it prefers to hire. Years later I was able to get a copy of the test. If you read it carefully, you begin to see that the strengths and weaknesses of the CIA start with the selection of its people.

Basically, the test analyzes three different aspects of personality—intellectual, procedural, and social. In the intellectual mode the Agency is looking for an externalizer rather than an internalizer. This individual is active, more interested in doing than thinking. He must exert considerable effort when compelled to work with ideas, to be self-sufficient, or to control his natural tendencies towards activity. He is practical and works by “feel” or by trial and error. In the procedural mode, the Agency prefers a rigid (regulated) person to a flexible one. This person can react only to a limited number of specific, well-defined stimuli. Such a person learns by rote because he does not insist upon perspective. He is psychologically insulated and his awareness is restricted, making him self-centered and insensitive to others. In the social mode the Agency wants the adaptive rather than the uniform individual. He is magnetic, charming, captivating, a person who moves easily in a variety of situations. He has an awareness of and the ability to express conventional or proper feelings, whether they happen to be his true feelings or not. He is chameleon-like, for he tends to be all things to all people and has the ability to spot weaknesses in others and use these to his advantage.

According to this personality portrait, the CIA wants
active, charming, obedient people who can get things done in the social world but have limited perspective and understanding, who see things in black and white and don't like to think too much. The personnel selection process the CIA has set up has its advantages, of course, but it also has disadvantages. It tends to reject those who have perspective, those who can see subtleties, those who think before they act, those who remain true to themselves no matter what the outside social pressures. If we reflect on some of the ways the CIA has done itself in, it is clear that with more people who possess the qualities it has sought to weed out, it might have done better.

I don't believe that my profile was the type the Agency was looking for. I scored 143 on the IQ test, which was fine, but my personality test left much to be desired. It turned out I was far too flexible. This probably would have been enough to end my chances, but the hiring crush for the Korean War, my high school and collegiate academic and football credentials, plus a strong boost from Mr. Munson got me through. A few days after finishing the tests, I was told to report for the orientation course.

More than 100 of us young men and women who had completed all the processing attended the month-long orientation course designed to acquaint us with the structure of our employer, its role in the government, and its attitude toward communism. The course was held in a building not far from the Lincoln Memorial. We were tightly packed into a small auditorium, sitting four persons to a table in two long rows.

After greetings and opening remarks by a dignified older man who was the head of the training office, a man in his early thirties mounted the stage. With a flourish he lifted a cloth covering a large organizational chart. He proudly announced that we would be working for the CIA. Most of us by this time had figured that out, but few knew just where we would be placed organizationally, or just what we would be doing. The instructor explained that the Agency consisted of three directorates. One of these, the Directorate for Plans (DDP), he said, “is that element that gathers intelligence and also performs such other functions as required by the President and
the National Security Council. You here in the auditorium will be working in the DDP.”