Justification For Killing

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  FORTY YEARS EARLIER

  Sack time usually came late for the men of the “Screaming Eagles” – Company A, 3rd Battalion, 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, of the One Oh One (101st) Airborne Division, stationed at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, but on this night sleep would not come at all. Billeted in old two story wooden barracks constructed in WW II the troopers were hard at work preparing their combat equipment for an ordered combat mission. Mission? Mission to where, the U.S. was not at war?

  The time was 2200 hours, April 17, 1961.

  Earlier in the evening, at 1800 hours, Lieutenant Colonel (LTC) Brad Fleming Commander of the Third Battalion had called all his company commanders together. He instructed them to assembly the Battalion for the posting of an important announcement of a General Alert Order. His instructions to the Captains commanding each company were to have all the companies assemble at 1900 hours on the Main Post parade field (or Pike Field as it is known at Bragg). At exactly 7 p.m., LTC Fleming had his Adjutant Major Nick James read General Alert Order Number 009. After the Major finished reading the General Order announcing the Five-Oh-Five Regiment was going to war, Staff Sergeant Johnny “Red” Walker (yeah he got the humor, but he didn’t care for it either) turned to his best friend Corporal William Winston, better known to all his friends as “Smokes”. “Did the adjutant say ‘Prepare for a combat jump,’ Smokes? Didn’t he say we are to be dropped in advance of an invasion force, and our mission is to disrupt transportation lines and repel defenders? When did we declare war Smokes? Who are we going to war with?

  “Red, you askin’ me? You’re the Squad Leader!”

  The screen door to the barracks slammed hard against the wall as the First Sergeant opened it with a kick from his spit-shined, combat boot. Stepping into the barracks he blew hard on the whistle that hung from his dog tag chain. Once... twice... three times...”Listen up ladies!! Get your gear together; we have to be at the airfield no later than 0300. That’s 3 a.m. for you brain-dead killers. Let’s get a move on; it’s now 2205 hours for you scumbags that don’t have a watch!! You’ve got less than five hours!! Move it! This ain’t no drill!! Move it! We got us a war to go to!!”

  “Top!” Some trooper in the back of the barracks yelled to the 1st Sergeant, “Where we goin’ Sarge?”

  “Can’t say just yet! It has to stay on the QT for now – you’ll all get a sitrep (situation report) on the plane... now get your head out of your asses, get those weapons cleaned and ready for action. I want to see your gear standing tall for equipment check at 0245 hours!!”

  Standing on the tarmac, faces painted with green, tan and black camouflage paint, weighed down with nearly one-hundred pounds of equipment including parachutes, reserve parachutes, weapons, C-rats (canned food) and ammo the entire 2nd Battalion nervously waited to board the giant, army green, Hercules C-130 transports. Smokes said above the roar of the four 4,500 horsepower turboprop engines on the aircraft they were prepared to board, “Red, I’m scared!”

  Quietly, the Staff Sergeant replied, “Me too Smokes.”

  The time was 0400 hours, April 17, 1961.

  Pope Army Airfield, Ft. Bragg, North Carolina – Paratroopers Staff Sergeant Johnny Walker and Corporal William Winston were shuffling toward one of the waiting transport aircraft of the 464th Troop Carrier Wing. They faintly could see the official tail marking on their C-130 Hercules had been sprayed over with green camouflage paint. The large, white, Air Force stars on the wings and fuselage had been obliterated too. “Red, look at those marking on our plane – are we still in the U.S. Army?”

  “Yeah, but someone don’t want us to be recognized in this war we’re goin’ to.”

  Taking a step with his spit-shined, Corcoran, jump boot onto the steel, rear ramp leading into his huge military cargo plane Sergeant Walker hesitated for a moment and took one final look over his shoulder. As far as he could see across the dark tarmac were bright landing lights of dozens and dozens of C-130s. C-130s just like the one he was boarding, brakes locked, and all four engines wound up and roaring to their maximum rpms ready for takeoff.

  The paratroopers had numbered off on the edge of the tarmac – odd numbers were on the starboard side, even numbers on the port. As the troopers were finding their red, web backed, canvas seats, the rear ramp raised and closed shut, and down the runway one after the other the planes rolled. From somewhere in the middle of one of the sticks of paratroopers one of them could be heard above the roar of the engines singing the refrain:

  “♪High Ho, High Ho, it’s off to war we go.♪”

  One after the other the C-130s with their massive rubber tires separated from the asphalt and swiftly gained flight altitude. Eastward they flew until they were out over the deep-green Atlantic Ocean. Off toward the eastern horizon the sky was dark, sunrise was still a couple of hours away.

  Smokes remarked, “We’re going east, must be headed to Europe or Africa, what you think?”

  Before Sergeant Walker could reply the C-130 began a steep right-hand banked turn. “What the...? Red we’re turning south... south! What is south - Florida? Nah, we ain’t gonna invade Florida, we must be headed to South America - Columbia, I’ll bet. I wonder what war we are gettin’ ourselves into?”

  One thousand four hundred kilometers or roughly 900 miles south-southwest of Pope Field and the roar of the flight of C-130s, the war to which the paratroopers were headed had already begun – it was in Cuba and it had already been given a name – The Bay of Pigs.

  Earlier during the night of 14 and 15 April, a diversionary landing was planned by over one hundred Cuban exiles. Their mother ship had sailed from Key West under a Costa Rican flag. Several US Navy ships, included one destroyer, were stationed offshore on the southeastern end of Cuba near the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, or “Gitmo” as it is called. They wanted to give the appearance of an impending invasion fleet.

  On 15 April 1961, at about 0600 local Cuban time, eight Douglas B-26 bombers, flying in groups of three, simultaneously attacked Cuban airfields near Havana, including the International Airport. The B-26s had been procured, prepared and piloted by the CIA on behalf of Cuban Exile Brigade 2506. They had been painted with the markings of the air force of the Cuban government.

  About an hour and a half after the B-26s had taken off to attack Cuban fortifications, another plane on a deception flight approached the shore of Cuba, but at the last minute, changed course and headed north towards the coast of Florida. Like the rest of the group of B-26s, it carried false markings and the fuselage number 933. That same number was painted on at least two of the other bombers to confuse the Cuban pilots. Before the B-26 diversionary plane took off, the covering of one of the aircraft's two engines was removed by CIA personnel, shot full of bullet holes, then replaced on the airplane to appear as though the aircraft had taken ground fire at some point during its flight. Once the pilot got far enough from Cuba the pilot radioed the Miami International airport, “Mayday!! Mayday!! Taking small arms fire and being attacked by a T-33 fighter – request immediate permission to land!!” After his fake Mayday broadcast the pilot feathered the engine with the CIA supplied bullet holes in the engine cowling. The pilot, formerly of the Cuban Air Force, claimed three other colleagues had also defected. The next day he was granted political asylum, but when night came, as prearranged, he slipped out of the U.S. and returned to Cuba.

  Later on in the evening of April 16, the CIA, and the now numbered Brigade 2506 invasion fleet come together at the code named 'Rendezvous Point Zulu', about forty miles south of Cuba. Earlier the ships had sailed from Nicaragua loaded with troops and other materiel, making only one other stop at New Orleans to obtain more arms, ammunition and other supplies. ‘Rough Road’ was the U.S. Navy’s operational code name. The fleet, now named the 'Cuban Expeditionary Force' included six 2,600-ton freighter ships that had been procured and chartered by the CIA from the Hernandez Line. After taking possession, the CIA installed forty- millimeter anti
-aircraft guns on their decks and camouflaged them as large wooden crates.

  During the night of the 16th and into the early morning of April 17th, a fake diversionary landing was organized by the CIA near the Province of Pinar del Rio.

  At midnight on April 16, 1961, the two CIA ships the Badger and Willow J, each with a CIA operations officer and five, what would now be called Navy Seals, entered the Bay of Pigs on the southern coast of Cuba.

  At 0100, the Badger, as the battlefield command ship, directed the principal landing at the Bay of Pigs, code-named Blue Beach, led by Underwater Demolition Teams (frogmen/SEALs) in rubber boats followed by members of the Cuban Expeditionary Force in small aluminum boats, followed by bigger landing crafts. The Willow J, was landing troops at the same time approximately thirty miles to the northwest at Playa Largo, code-named Red Beach, using small fiberglass boats.

  Settling into the orange web seats of the C-130 the two sticks of sixty-four men of the 101st Airborne were apprehensive. No, apprehensive wasn’t right - some were just downright scared, and even more were terrified. They had only been in the aircraft for a few minutes, but sweat was beginning to form on their brows and run down their cheeks. Black, leather, jump boots were tapping nervously against the steel floor. They all had the same thought - why are we headed south?

  A number of Army and Air Force sergeants were at the doors. Sergeant Walker knew two had to be the Jumpmaster and the Assistant Jumpmaster, a couple more were safety guys and of course the C-130 loadmaster. The Jumpmaster stood up - “Troopers,” he yelled above the roar of the four Allison turboprop engines, “I know you have been wondering where we are headed. Now I can tell you - we are going to Cuba!!”

  The troopers could not have been more shocked... each turned with a surprised, unbelievable expression on their faces and glanced around the compartment to see the same look on each man’s face.

  “The Hundred and First is going to provide backup support to the Cuban Liberation Force. They are going to overthrow the Castro government with our help. Our mission is to parachute behind the beachhead and secure the area for the Cuban exile fighters coming ashore, it is now 0445, we jump at 0600. We’re going in at 650 feet, so no time for mistakes – after the four count if main chute has not deployed initiate reserve immediately – double-check your equipment – good luck to you all... see you on the ground.”

  For the next hour or so the men sat on the C-130 staring at the man across from him listening to the roar of the engines. They were packed in so close their knees were actually touching each other. They were not thinking ‘if that trooper will make it’, they were thinking ‘if THEY would make it. ‘Would the ‘chute open? Would they do their duty? Would they get killed?’ And they were thinking, ‘am I acting afraid? I can’t let the others know I’m afraid.’ Some were not thinking about the others at all – they were too busy saying silent prayers, some had their Rosary beads in their hand, teeth clenched staring across the way at the trooper facing him but not really seeing him. The time was 0550, ten minutes to that dreaded place – the drop zone. Six hundred short seconds were possibly separating them from a life on this earth to an eternal one in the hereafter. Were they nervous? No... they had passed the point of nervousness... they were into a totally new state now. The adrenaline had kicked in, and their training was beginning to take over. They were the ‘best of the best’ – American paratroopers of the 101st Airborne Division, and they knew it! But their hearts were beating so hard some thought their chests were about to explode. Breathing was rapid and shallow; the blood vessels in their faces were tight and constricted, their jaws were clenched. They were ready...

  The Jumpmaster stood to his feet and turned to the two sticks of paratroopers – giving the commands and arm signals “GET READY”...; “OUTBOARD PERSONNEL STANDUP”...; “INBOARD PERSONNEL STANDUP”...; “HOOK UP”...

  At this command, each parachutist detached the static line snap hook from the top carrying handle of the reserve parachute and hooked up to the anchor line cable. ‘This is it’, thought Sergeant Walker. ‘We’re REALLY going to do this!!’

  The Jumpmaster hollered and gestured with his arms, “CHECK STATIC LINES”..., “CHECK EQUIPMENT”... The paratroopers in the two sticks immediately shouted back the Jumpmaster’s commands: CHECK STATIC LINES... CHECK EQUIPMENT.

  ‘Damn we can’t be more than five minutes to the jump... We’re actually going to do this!! Before the Jumpmaster had a chance to say ‘SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK’ and ‘STANDBY’ someone began the song:

  “♪Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die,

  With a rifle on his back as he’s falling from the sky♪”

  Half way through the second refrain the paratroopers, all sixty four, had joined in stomping their feet between each word. ‘Hell,’ thought the Jumpmaster, ‘this singing and foot stomping isn’t in the Army airborne manual,’ then he realized dying wasn’t in the manual either, and let them continue.

  Opening the doors on both sides of the aircraft the roaring wind obliterated the sound of the paratrooper’s song. The ‘red’ and ‘green’ lights on the right bulkhead next to the exit door were still ‘red’. Sergeant Walker knew once the ‘red’ turned to ‘green’ it was ‘all she wrote’. The Jumpmaster would give the ‘GO’ signal and then they would shuffle down the aisle, hand their static line to the safety and step out the door into the nothingness of the cool Cuban morning air...‘Oh my God, this is IT’, Sergeant Walker thought as drops of nervous sweat dripped from the end of his nose onto his reserve ‘chute on his chest.

  Suddenly a slight perceivable change could be heard in the roar of the engines, ‘Darn!! Darn!! Darn!! That green light is fixin’ to light up’, thought Sergeant Johnny Walker. Breathe, breathe, he said to himself, I’m holding my breath. The ‘red’ light did not change; however, their course did. The C-130 began a slow lumbering left turn eastward toward the direction of the rising sun. The sun, which was just beginning to emerge from the spot where the black and blue morning sky meets the wide expanse of the green Atlanta Ocean, was beginning to lighten the eastern sky. “East Smokes, we’re headed east,” the Staff Sergeant said to his friend in front of him in the starboard stick. From their eastward direction, the fleet of airplanes carrying the one oh one Airborne Division continued to turn until they were headed back in the direction of Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. Their ‘war’ was officially over.

  The time was 05:55 a.m. April 17, 1961.

  A little past dawn on the 17th at the very minute the 101st was returning back to their home base 1,300 Cuban freedom fighters trudged through the surf at the Bay of Pigs where they were very quickly attacked and marooned on the beach by T-33 Cuban fighter planes. The eight American B-26s provided less than an hour of air cover for the Cuban freedom fighter on the beach then, on orders from the White House, the B-26s pulled out. Backed up with the sea at their rear there was no means of retreat, and no chance of advancing into the jungles of Cuba, the brigade was in a dire situation. Most of the one thousand CIA-trained and American armed Cuban freedom fighters believed they were just the first assault of Cuban exiles coming to wrestle their homeland, at the point of a bayonet, from Castro. They had been told as they stormed the beach they would be supported overhead by some of America’s finest fighter pilots of the U.S. Air Force, and once on shore and advancing into Cuba, the U.S. Marines would bring up the rear and provide support. Sad to say, these men had been fed a lie. Most of these freedom fighters would be killed, wounded or captured. Many of the captured and wounded would be later executed by the Fidel Castro regime.

  In Washington the CIA and the Kennedy administration had already come to the conclusion, the invasion was doomed. A statement by President Kennedy had him saying, "How could I have been so naive to trust the people advising me?” Groups such as the CIA and the Joint Chiefs of Staff were his chief advisors on the Bay of Pigs invasion. Even more alarming to the CIA was a quote, believed reliable, and uttered by President Kennedy st
ating he wanted to "splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces and scatter it into the winds."

  Aircrews killed in action totaled ten Cuban exiles and four American airmen. The American airmen shot down were Rayburn Thomas, Mark Holmes, Rian Almond and Scott Willis. A count, only a guess, 114 Cuban exiles from Brigade 2506 were killed in action.

  Only recently, has it been learned the CIA transferred funds from the invasion budget to pay the Mafiosos for an assassination plot against Castro. This was so secret the chief of planning for the invasion, Colonel Terry Martin, did not even know what the money was being used for.

  President Kennedy put a bold spin on the Bay of Pig fiasco, and, as President, he would say he alone was responsible. But when he was with brother Robert, he struggled to make sense of the mess in Cuba, “How could you and I have been so deceived and so gullible to let them proceed?” he repeatedly asked. He was furious at the CIA for having misled him. The President waited a few months then he forced CIA Director Allen Spiegel to tender his resignation. Kennedy explained to the Director, “Under a different system of government it is I who would be leaving. But the system we are now under it is you who must go.”

  At the fifty-year reunion of the Bay of Pigs survivors: “To find yourself on the beach of your native land with the sea at your back and the enemy to your front, and nowhere to hide and no air cover, I’ll never forget it,” said Elcer de Pedaltia, 75. “I’ll never forget how we were betrayed by Kennedy. But we got even.”

  “I also remember coming ashore that day,” said Bay of Pigs veteran Francisco “Franco” Hernando, 71, who cofounded and now heads the Florida-based Free Cuba National Foundation, one of the most powerful Cuban exile groups in Miami. “They are not good memories, but sad and bitter ones. Many brave young men died needlessly because of the cowardice of the Kennedys in Washington. All we needed to succeed was some help from the Americans. We took a terrible toll, but them Kennedys later got theirs too...”

  Finishing the rehash of the Bay of Pigs invasion the group around the table sat speechless. “Well,” said the Captain, “See what I mean? The CIA is not as pure as the wind driven snow. We know from Sam Lin and Si Lei the CIA was totally involved with a black-ops program called MK-ULTRA. I know, for a fact, the word MK-ULTRA was written on a napkin in Jack Ruby’s place by one of the Cosa Nostra guys. How are the CIA and the Mafia connected? That is what we need to find out.

  “We now know from Dr. Rusnak’s own secret CIA papers Lee Harvey Oswald was one of the MK-ULTRA guinea pigs. Was he under mind control on November 22, 1963?”

  “Captain you’re saying you think Lee Harvey Oswald might not have been the assassin of President John Kennedy. Is this right?”

  “No, no, don’t get me wrong, he was probably guilty, but today he might have been found ‘not guilty’ based on mental incompetence. He may have been ‘brainwashed’ into believing what he was doing was the right thing.”

  “So the CIA was responsible for messing with his mind, but why would they want Oswald to kill Kennedy?”

  “The Kennedy administration and the CIA did not see eye to eye. In fact, Kennedy wanted to dismantle the entire organization. Was his plan enough grounds for them to get rid of him? Another key factor was the payments to the Mafia... to assassinate Castro! Why was the Mafia involved? Again, we must find out.

  “It’s almost 2 p.m... I’m starved, and I know you all are too so let’s adjourn and go grab some chow. We’ll meet back here and devise a plan of attack for our investigation of the President John F. Kennedy assassination.”

  “Lonnie Joe”, chimed up, “you’re buying lunch again, right Captain?”

  Laughing, as he was leaving the podium, “You bet LJ, come on let’s go eat.”

  The time was 1:45 p.m., Monday, December 5, 2012.