Lukewarm: A Novel of the Early Cold War

By Orin Parker

In 1951, on the outer lukewarm edges of the Cold War, Stanley Warren becomes a PsyWar operative in the just-organized CIA. He is sent to Greece to organize a Black Radio station, calling for resistance inside communist Bulgaria. His close friend John Preston directs covert missions in Albania. Their adventures and failures teach them what can and cannotwin in the U.S./Soviet battle for third-world peoples. And that freedom and democracy cant be imposed. They must be earned and accepted by the citizens of any country.
LUKEWARM is an adventure novel. Set in the 1950s, it pulls the reader into a time when CIAs primitive covert operations wasted resources and often seriously damaged Americas reputation. The incidents are now history and LUKEWARM has received clearance from CIA.

* * *
Now retired in Oceanside, CA, Orin Parker had an early first career with the CIA. Following that he worked as executive of an educational services organization, serving in the Middle East area for over twenty years. His two earlier novels are centered on the Palestinian problem: BURIAL IN BEIRUT in 1998 and RAJAOUN - WE WILL RETURN in 2000. Both are available at Barnes & Noble, IUniverse.com, and Amazon.com.

Cover design by David C. Parker

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 20, 2005
• ISBN: 9781465315359

Orin Parker

n/a

Book preview

L U K E W A R M

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a novel of the early cold war

Orin Parker

LUKEWARM IN THE COLD WAR

Copyright © 2005 by Orin Parker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a fictionalized account of CIA activities in Greece, Bulgaria and Albania in the 1950s when America was trying to stimulate anti-communist resistance in the Balkans. The story is set in authentic incidents and circumstances, as observed or experienced in the author’s early years with the agency. The characters are not intended to portray any actual persons. The incidents are now history and the novel has received clearance from the Central Intelligence Agency.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

O N E

TWO

T H R E E

F O U R

F I V E

S I X

S E V E N

E I G H T

N I N E

T E N

E L E V E N

T W E L V E

T H I R T E E N

F O U R T E E N

F I F T E E N

S I X T E E N

S E V E N T E E N

E I G H T E E N

N I N E T E E N

T W E N T Y

T W E N T Y - O N E

T W E N T Y - T W O

T W E N T Y - T H R E E

T W E N T Y - F O U R

T W E N T Y - F I V E

T W E N T Y - S I X

T W E N T Y - S E V E N

T W E N T Y - E I G H T

T W E N T Y - N I N E

T H I R T Y

T H I R T Y - O N E

T H I R T Y - T W O

T H I R T Y - T H R E E

T H I R T Y - F O U R

T H I R T Y - F I V E

T H I R T Y - S I X

T H I R T Y - S E V E N

T H I R T Y - E I G H T

T H I R T Y - N I N E

F O R T Y

F O R T Y - O N E

F O R T Y - T W O

F O R T Y - T H R E E

F O R T Y - F O U R

F O R T Y - F I V E

F O R T Y - S I X

F O R T Y - S E V E N

F O R T Y - E I G H T

F O R T Y - N I N E

F I F T Y

F I F T Y - O N E

F I F T Y - T W O

F I F T Y - T H R E E

F I F T Y - F O U R

F I F T Y - F I V E

F I F T Y - S I X

F I F T Y - S E V E N

F I F T Y - E I G H T

F I F T Y - N I N E

S I X T Y

S I X T Y - O N E

S I X T Y - T W O

S I X T Y - T H R E E

S I X T Y - F O U R

S I X T Y - F I V E

"I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot:

I would that thou were cold or hot. So then because thou are lukewarm,

and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth."

Revelations: 4: 15 & 16

*     *     *

D E D I C A T I O N   &   A P P R E C I A T I O N

To my wife, children and grandchildren,

toward whom I have too often been lukewarm.

My wife, Rita, has, as always, been helpful, creative and

supportive of this effort to write about my earlier work.

Though my experiences were largely unknown to our

five children, each of them has read the early draft and

offered advice. In addition, I thank friends such as Bruce Carter, Gary Gunther and Kay Bowen. As with earlier novels,

I have depended on the invaluable computer expertise of

my friend Brian Hervey to bring the words out of the computer

in the way I wanted. For their weekly input on the writing process,

I owe much to my Writers Group, led by novelist Carol Saylor.

Lastly, I thank my son David for the cover design.

O N E

Walter Reed Hospital, Washington—1950

Well, are you going to help me up or not? Pete was one of the fortunate ones. He had one arm. But it wasn’t able to move his paralyzed body out of the aisle where he had fallen from the Stryker Frame. This strange metal hammock apparatus had been his home since the plane from Japan had disgorged its cargo of paraplegics in the city where the war had been ordered. Now a second ward was filled with amputees and paralyzed young men, the worst of the Korean War casualties. Let’s do something here, Stan. I’m gettin’ cold. I’m even cold in my legs and I don’t have any. What are you gonna do, wait for Hell?

Stan knelt down and tried to cover his truncated form with the sheet. No legs, one arm and partial paralysis. How was this poor guy going to live out his life? What could Stan do? He was an Information Officer. But there was no orderly or nurse. Just relax, Pete. I can get you back up there. Pushed one arm under Pete’s butt and the other around his shoulders, Stan picked him up like a baby. Amazing how much lighter you can be without your limbs.

Pete must have been about six feet, Stan thought, same height and probably about my same slim build. He carefully eased him into the narrow Stryker bed. No wider than a gurney. A long row of casualties lay in these steel racks like they were in coffins. To prevent bedsores, a second padded frame would be fastened on top so they could be turned every few hours to lie face down for an hour or two.

Stan adjusted Pete’s head and covered his exposed and bandaged lower body. His privates, or danglies as the Aussies had called them in the Pacific war years, were luckily undamaged. Half the men in the ward were dealing with the loss of their manhood. Testicles blasted away, mostly by land mines. Why didn’t the Army develop some kind of metal jock-strap for combat soldiers?

Pete had been a tough platoon sergeant. Now he weakly sighed and turned his head away. Stan could never get him to talk about himself. His record said he was from Topeka. Stan was supposed to arrange an interview with his hometown newspaper, but Pete wouldn’t agree. He wouldn’t even let the Public Information Office get his family on the phone. Stan was beginning to hate this impossible job? Waiting for security clearance to join the CIA, he’d had enough of the hot wars. CIA, with its secret new role in the Cold War, that’s where he wanted to be.

Stan put a hand on the amputee’s shoulder. He had to get Pete and the others psyched up for the mass Purple Heart ceremony in the gymnasium. President Truman would pin awards on what remained of over a hundred quadriplegic or paralyzed casualties of this bitter war that Washington called a police action. Pete, I’ll be back in about an hour to make sure you’re ready to see the President. Okay? No answer. He leaned closer to make sure he heard. A powerful arm wrapped around Stan’s neck, holding him in a vise. Pete whispered, What do you want? A kiss? Then he released Stan, turning his head away again.

Pete, it’s my job to see you guys show up for Truman. I’m going to get you there if I have to undo this machinery and drag you there in the frame.

Still turned away, Pete rasped with deep anger and bitterness. I’ll go. I just want to see him face all of us. You say there’ll be a hundred? Hell, I saw that many blown up at Inchon. I’m going to thank him personally. Now go to Hell and tell her to worry about the others. She’s your real boss, isn’t she?

Hell was the Head nurse, Mary Ellen Hale, and, yes, Stan thought, she is my boss. She’s everybody’s boss around here, even the doctors’. No one could tell Nurse Hale about bloody wounds or torn bodies. She’d seen them all from the Pacific island battles.

Orderlies were already wheeling gurneys into the 40-bed ward to take the paraplegics to the ceremony. But first there was lunch. Nurse Hale’s quiet orders hurried the complicated process. Most guys had to be hand-fed. Ambulatory patients came from other wards to help. Mealtimes were pandemonium. Today’s rush brought more noise and confusion. Stan wasn’t much help.

What happened with Pete, Lieutenant? Somehow Nurse Hale wouldn’t get it into her graying head that Stan was now a civilian. She was stout, like Stan’s mother. Her worn white-gray uniforms showed faint bleached-out bloodstains. She inspected Pete’s covering and checked the catheter that emptied his bladder. Are you ready to eat some lunch, soldier? Pete’s answering smile was a surprise. Stan wanted to hug this bossy nurse at times like this when she was so personal and loving. But most of the time he dreaded the confrontations with her. She had no conception of Stan’s temporary status or what his job was. When she argued Stan was not sure, either. He hated this new war. The way to defeat communists was to see that the people got information, got educated. The truth would make them free.

After assuring herself that Pete was alright, she turned to Stan, widening her eyes for an explanation, I don’t know how he fell out. I just picked him up and plopped him back in. Amazing how light he is. I didn’t disconnect that thing, did I? The catheter hung from his penis.

No, Lieutenant, he’s hooked up. Turning to Pete, she patted his chest, smiled with a gentle optimism in her voice. We’ve got a nice lunch for you now, Pete. I’ll help you if you like. Where did she get this always hopeful attitude? Especially after her years with hundreds of wounded from the bloody island battles in the Pacific? She turned to Stan. I still don’t see why the President couldn’t come to the wards to pin on the medals. It would be much nicer. And, she murmured, a hell of a lot easier.

Stan left the ward. He knew why the big show was in the spacious gym. It was better PR. Good propaganda. Spread those 105 wounded soldiers across the wide expanse, 70 or so on gurneys and the rest in wheelchairs. Made for a great camera shoot, the President moving down the lines. If he were Truman, he wouldn’t want to share the spotlight with these poor torn-up guys, their lives ruined by the fighting in Korea.

On Stan’s desk was a slew of accumulated notes about the TV show. He dialed the number of the WNBW-TV producer, thinking "Why did I leave NBC for this impossible job? The answer, strangely, had been money. NBC hadn’t yet accepted the union. Beginning salaries were pitiful, based on the plethora of young professionals who’d work for pennies to get a network job.

The familiar voice of NBC’s Marvin Edelman, came on. Stan, did you hear the news?. NBC has gone union. I just got a major salary boost, about 70%. That was all Stan needed to make his day. His NBC salary would now be more than Walter Reed was paying. Great, Marvin, for all you guys, Stan tried to sound convincing. Marvin wanted to tell more about the raise, but Stan cut him off. We’ve got some problems here on your show this afternoon. As they worked out the details, Stan worried how Pete and the others would handle the afternoon. If he was going to make a fuss, would the others? After talking about camera placements, Stan hung up and settled back in the oversized government-issue chair.

Outside, a dusting of snow decorated the hospital’s trees and grounds. But Stan’s mind wouldn’t focus. He didn’t feel like lunch. He didn’t feel like anything. What the hell was he doing in this temporary job? He wanted to be in on the Cold War action, not the disasters of another failed hot war. Like most of the nomads who seek their fortune in the nation’s capital, he had applied with the government, hoping to get overseas again. Taking the mandated tests, he was surprised at his high ranking. So he interviewed to work with the mysterious new Central Intelligence Agency. The security clearance would take from six months to a year. It was closer to the year, ten months so far.

Meanwhile the TV job was new and exciting. As an Assistant Director, he’d managed a Korean casualties segment on NBC’s Armed Forces Hour. The Public Information Officer at Walter Reed liked his work and offered Stan a much higher salary as Assistant PIO. The FBI was already checking the family out west. The security clearance should come through in a few months. The Hospital job would provide more money while he waited.

Now, after six weeks of hourly contact with the human wrecks that were pouring into army hospitals from the Korean police action, Stan knew he couldn’t take much more. The job seemed an easy routine at first. He had to screen the most disabled casualties to make sure they were able to handle interviews by the ever-pressing newshawks that collected in Washington. Every small-town newspaper or radio station has its Washington Correspondent. Many of them work for as many as ten or fifteen different media outlets. They were paid for the stories that were accepted. So the PIO office was flooded with requests to talk with and photograph the most damaged patients, the ones that would make the most dramatic news story. Now it was TV coverage as well.

Only a few of these war-damaged men would agree to give interviews. What they had to say didn’t always make very good copy. We’ve got every kind of psychosis there is in my ward. Your reporters aren’t helping, Nurse Hale would tell Stan as she resisted the efforts of the Information Office. It was a constant push-pull. Was this PR pressure hurting their recovery? Lieutenant, Nurse Hale would say. Leave these poor guys alone. You tell the reporters what war is all about. You were in the Pacific.

Yes, he was in the Pacific, overseas for over two years and he’d seen his buddies maimed for life. Better to be killed, like his best friend. He shook off the memory of the Kamikaze attack, tried to concentrate on the view of fresh snow outside. This was no way to face the coming Christmas season. Stan wanted something positive in his life. Someone to come home to, someone to help him forget the day’s miseries. And there was that someone, but she was in California, about to be married to some other guy.

The Purple Heart ceremony was spectacular enough to please NBC and Stan’s boss, who handled the Secret Service while Stan set up the coverage. Positioning the paraplegics in their gurneys in the middle of the cavernous gym and the patients in wheelchairs at the two sides, it was a dramatic scene. There were a few who insisted on standing with crutches.

The President, suitably somber, assumed a sort of military stance. When he came in one of the amputees pushed his wheelchair in front and the next guy whacked him at the side of the head. Luckily Truman didn’t notice and it happened too fast for the cameras. Stan pulled the guy back and he didn’t make any more ruckus.

Stan’s old boss, Marvin, was directing for NBC. He suddenly decided that Stan was the one to take the President around. The uniformed commander of the hospital was there, of course, next to Truman. The PIO pushed Stan into the camera coverage, whispering Marvin wants somebody young and handsome on camera, said you’re the right guy to take the President around for the pinning on. It was not enjoyable for Stan. And, he suspected, for the President either.

Even the big TV role didn’t bring Stan out of his funk as he walked all the way home. His mind was reaching. Should he try to get back into NBC? In the mailbox was a large brown envelope. The CIA clearance, after eleven months. They wanted Stan for a placement interview on December 5. Great. He could get back on track. But now, what about this California problem?

TWO

I can’t ask you to come all the way to Washington, Stan was so groggy he wasn’t sure if it was a dream. Her call got him out of bed at 1 a.m. Slowly, hearing her velvety voice, his whole body came alive. Well, I could. I’d probably be able to find a job. Her voice was warm. It had curves. Her words were telling Stan his wish you well letter made her realize she didn’t want a life with Richard. All his senses came together. Could he just push ahead and propose now? He hadn’t thought things out. He didn’t have the money to get married. But that was clearly what every part of him wanted.

The Agency interview had gone well. Stan didn’t know how they could consider him qualified for the psychological warfare position. But they did. He would start processing on the 12th. Suddenly he realized she wasn’t speaking. She was waiting for his response. His mind produced her face, like one of those new Color TV cameras, brown hair and deeper brown eyes, that permanent smile of her lips, every lovely feature. He looked into the phone, feeling as if her wide warm eyes were gazing straight into his. He’d never expected to propose this soon, and certainly not on the telephone. Wasn’t she still engaged to this guy Richard? But she’d called. Stan couldn’t lose her now. I want to marry you, Carrie. A few seconds of silence. I’m pretty much broke but we can work things out. The new job has a great salary. I know we can make it.

I’ll come. Richard won’t understand but I’ve prayed about it. Your letter. It said something to me between the lines. I had to call you.

I know. It said things I didn’t intend to write, that I didn’t think I had a right to say.

I’ll come to Washington. We’ll see how things work out, Stan. I won’t say yes ’til I’m really sure. But I think I am.

I know I am. Stan paused. Did he really know? Yes. Yes, he did. I’d fly out there, Carrie, and bring you back to DC, but I’m starting the new job tomorrow morning. I can’t possibly get time off this soon.

Where is the job? Who are you working for? The government? Dad is certainly curious. The FBI man spent a whole afternoon with him and Mom, asking all kinds of questions, even about me. Here I thought you had a career with NBC. Is the new job in radio?

It’s the government, the Cold War. Something I really want. I’ll explain later. That seemed to satisfy her for now. The details took over the dialogue: how and when she’d come, where she could stay, how she was going to tell Richard, how Stan was going to resign at the hospital. It would be so great not to be facing those dismembered guys every morning. But what was ahead for in this secret new job?

Stan’s brain was operating on too many different levels. He tried to partition off the details. There were new worries. But the burden of indecision was gone. Now he could get on course. Carrie, I’ve got to get ready for my first workday and I haven’t the least idea of what they expect of me. I’ll call you this evening. I love you. I’ll always love you.

Stan, I’m so happy. I almost don’t know why. There’s so much to do here. But I’ll come before Christmas. The click on her phone dropped Stan into a slurry of anxieties. Muddled, he was trying to organize his thinking, half exulting about Carrie, half worrying about his involvement in the new secret Agency that was so much in the Washington headlights. They told him he’d be front line in the war against communism. Exactly what Stan wanted. And it would get him overseas. The Korean war was now a disaster, just a killing field. Stan’s own hot war in the Pacific had been a great adventure. But war wasn’t the answer, not any more. Maybe this new job would get him closer to the answer. Anyway, the pay was sure a lot better.

T H R E E

Agency Headquarters, Washington

You mean, not even our wives? The balding guy in the Orientation session was asking most of the questions. I don’t see how we can conceal our employer from someone we live with. My wife keeps track of everything I do. His remark came across as whiny.

Wives will, of course, know. But not anyone else, even relatives or children. You will always, of course, have an ostensible employer other than the Agency, with appropriate backup documentation. Your identity or true name will never be used in Agency correspondence or mail. Today I’m providing to each of you your agency pseudonyms. From now on the names I’m handing out will always be used. Always. For any written communication, including memos, payroll, field reports and correspondence. Looking at his slip of paper Stan wondered who was choosing these strange names. The trainer droned on, Remember this, which is my best advice to you. Don’t volunteer anything. Anything at all about your work. You don’t work for CIA. If you’re asked, tell people you work for the government."

At the break, Stan approached the bald guy. Doesn’t everyone in Washington work for the government? What do we say to friends… family? The guy shrugged. If I tell people I can’t talk about it, they’ll know I’m working for CIA. Why not just admit it? There were others taking the break, but no one wanted to discuss this initial briefing. This was secrecy?

There were other cover problems, too: Most of CIA was working in wooden temporary buildings left over from the war, partially hidden in the trees between the Reflecting Pool and the Potomac. No one was supposed to know these crude numbered buildings were CIA, but word was getting out. So where was Stan going to park? If he drove in early enough, he could park along the winding streets in the riverside park. Could he carpool? Only with other Agency people, he realized. So at first Stan depended on the bus, got off at Independence, crossed the Mall and entered the tree-shaded area where he was given a large wooden desk in Temporary Building A-23. This private office was half-filled with locked file cabinets.

It was new and strange and a little exciting. And the pay was better than Stan ever made. He’d been surprised when the personnel officer classified him GS-12 for his high scores and experience. Exhilarated, he was now part of something secret, maybe dangerous, even romantic. Espionage. Wasn’t this what he really wanted out of life? Adventure? His grandfather had sailed around the horn on a two-year whaling expedition and his ancestors were pioneers who pushed west with the Mormon exodus. He’d pictured himself as an explorer and enjoyed roaming the Pacific islands in the war. But a spy?

The days sped by. It was surreal to leave the intense and disciplined atmosphere of Agency training and re-enter his life with Carrie. Now that she had arrived it was harder to concentrate. The Agency work made his love life part-time. We’ve got to get married. I don’t want to wait, he told her. She’d said ‘yes’ the night she arrived, but she wanted to wait and go west so her family could attend the wedding. Walking to the bus stop, Stan was into planning.

It confused him that he could compartmentalize this physical desire, delay it for after work. In the training they were talking a lot about compartmentation, which was presented as absolutely necessary in intelligence. Stan figured he must already have a gift for it.

But not for long. He couldn’t settle into his job until he’d married this auburn-haired beauty who held him captive. Jammed into the S-2 rush-hour bus, standing all the way up 16th street, he recapped the past week. Carrie was formidable. To save money, she’d spent four days on Greyhound busses from Los Angeles to Washington, arriving on a Saturday morning. Stan wanted to make it a special day and had filled it to the brim. A quick lunch and then he drove her to the Embassy to meet the roommates.

The Embassy was located on Tremonton Street just off 16th. A group of guys from the West who were working on the Hill and going to law school had rented it a year before. The brick row-house served as an in-and-out transient home for a whole variety of single guys. Currently there were six sharing the rent. One was a resident at GW Hospital, two at the FBI, one at Agriculture and Stan’s college roommate who was in Georgetown Law School. Then there was Stan. He’d been employed all over the place, it seemed.

Anxious to make a good impression on Carrie, Stan bought tickets to a matinee of The Consul by Gian Carlo-Menotti. Now he wondered why he thought she’d want to go to the theatre hours after arriving? Well, she’d left a successful acting career in Hollywood, had left the cast of a play in one of the city’s many theatres. He wanted to show her theatre in Washington. It was a mistake. The Consul was deep, somber and lasted forever. Then dinner at a fancy French restaurant Stan couldn’t afford. Afterward, he wanted her to meet more friends, who were partying at the Embassy.

There was snow and it was cold. When he asked this California girl to take a walk before going in, she looked at him with the first negative expression he’d ever seen on her lovely face. But he had to insist, taking her by the arm. After maybe twenty steps, he dug into his pocket, extracted the ring with its small diamond and asked her: Will you marry me? I’ll take you in out of the cold if you do.

She laughed. The ring hastily slipped onto her finger. He kissed her long and hungrily. Stan wasn’t at all cold but she shivered. Yes, I guess I’m yours. It was his turn to shiver. They raced back into the comfortable heat of the Embassy. A dozen friends crowded around. Introductions were interrupted when somebody discovered the ring. Then the gushing females took over. Suddenly Stan was confronted with fixing the wedding date.

F O U R

The Company Office, Washington

Let’s see now, Warren. You’ve been with us for three weeks and you’d like to take a week off?

Yes, sir. I really need…

Please, Warren, don’t ever call me ‘sir’. We’re all in this hell-hole outfit together.

Well, uh, Mr. Tomlinson, I…

Just call me Tom. and don’t ever use my first name. I have just permanently classified it secret. Top Secret.

Stan was puzzled. Everyone knew this was Dwight Tomlinson, noted editor and writer. He’d been amazed to meet others in the department who had important reputations outside as they termed it. It had taken him all morning to convince himself he could confront the boss about taking a week’s leave without pay. I need to drive out West to get married.

Tomlinson dropped the report he had in hand and glared at Stan. He didn’t know this young man yet and his surprised expression told Stan he thought he’d gotten a girl pregnant. Stan started to explain but Tomlinson cut in. What in hell did you do? You know you have to be careful, especially now that big brother is looking over your shoulder, probably even as we speak. I don’t know how the Agency…

Oh no, uh. Tom. It isn’t that. How could he think I’d gotten into trouble, Stan wondered. It’s just that my fiancee—uh, Carrie, insists that we have to be married in Utah. No, sir,—Tom, we don’t—uh, have to get married. I can drive out and back in a week. Without pay, of course.

The new boss relaxed and smiled.

"Oh, well hey; if you need a week off, just set the date. We’ll