DAVID FERRIE: MAFIA PILOT, PARTICIPANT IN ANTI-CASTRO
BIO-WEAPON PLOT, FRIEND OF LEE HARVEY OSWALD AND
KEY TO THE JFK ASSASSINATION
by Judyth Vary Baker
Foreword by Jesse Ventura
review by Hugh Murray
Why read a
500-page biography of David Ferrie? Was he involved in a conspiracy to kill
President John Kennedy? He clearly made
statements in the early 1960s expressing his hatred of the President who he
believed betrayed the anti-Communist cause by failing to provide air and other
support to the Bay of Pigs invasion of Castro’s Cuba in spring 1961; Kennedy betrayed the cause again when he
closed the missile crisis of 1962 with compromise rather than crushing Castro; and
finally, the Kennedy Administration raided and closed training camps in 1963
where men were preparing for another invasion of the island. So did Ferrie join a conspiracy?
The author,
Judyth Vary Baker, claims to have been a friend of Ferrie, beginning in spring
1963. She also claims to have been Lee
Oswald’s secret lover beginning in April 1963 when they met in New
Orleans. Moreover, she claims that she,
along with Oswald, Ferrie, and Dr. Mary Sherman were all engaged in secret
research to hasten the growth of cancer in mice, then in monkeys, and finally
in humans – to be used as a bio-weapon that could be used to kill Fidel Castro. Her view is that Oswald and Ferrie only
pretended to be Kennedy haters. She also
maintains they were both pro-integration (in a city where integration was often
conflated with communism). Both Ferrie
and Oswald liked JFK, but they had to pretend to despise him to learn about the
mechanisms of those who really hated the President. After all, Oswald had pretended to be a
Soviet sympathizer, a “defector,” who had lived in Minsk and married a Soviet
woman there. In New Orleans, Oswald had
pretended to be pro-Communist, distributing leaflets on behalf of the Fair Play
for Cuba Committee that he created, an organization with no members, and whose
office was in that of Guy Banister, who was vehemently anti-Communist and who
had greeted George Lincoln Rockwell when he arrived in New Orleans to picket
the pro-Israeli film “Exodus” with Rockwell’s Nazi followers.
Yet, Baker
is honest enough to include material in her book that contradicts her position
(for example, her exposition of the sightings of David Ferrie at the Winnipeg
airport in Canada). Indeed, there is an
air of honesty about this book – she does include a number of disputes between
her and more establishment academics, including citations, so one can always
refer to their works and websites to assess their arguments. On a personal note, she quotes me fairly (and
I still fume about the way one “historian,” not Joan Mellen, interviewed me for hours by phone about civil rights in New Orleans, but
when I indicated I now opposed the politically correct crowd, she deleted all
mention of me.) Judyth Baker provides a
breadth of fresh air sometimes needed to stir the dust of accepted academic accretions.
My view of
Baker’s book is influenced by my personal history. Born in New Orleans, I attended public
schools when Oswald was also a pupil. By
high school, I had joined the Unitarian Church and had become an
integrationist. In September 1956 I
enrolled at Tulane University on a scholarship; in 1958 I sat-in some classes
at Dillard U. (an historically Black university) and befriended some students
on the Black campus. By 1958-59, there
were small interracial Bible study groups between Dillard and the Tulane Wesley
(Methodist) organizations, which I also attended. By 1959 the ICIC was formed, the
Intercollegiate Conference for Interracial Cooperation, which met at Loyola U.
of the South and included members from Xavier U. (the Black Catholic college),
Dillard, and Tulane.
In February
1960 national television news showed the early lunch-counter sit-ins of the
modern era in North Carolina. Television
favorably portrayed the movement as it spread to various areas of the South. In the spring a white Tulanian, Lanny
Goldfinch, told me there would be a meeting on Dillard’s campus to organize a
sit-in in New Orleans. This would be
important symbolically for New Orleans was still, as it had been for over a century,
the largest city in the South (ahead of Houston, Dallas, Atlanta, Miami). In the student cafeteria of Dillard, a mass
meeting was underway when I arrived. It
appeared as if most of the student body was in attendance, and they were
excited and determined to act, enthusiastically applauding the speakers who
called for action. Of course, everyone
was aware, that to sit-in, to violate the laws of segregation, would probably
result in arrest and possible physical harm.
Then the very popular Dean of Chapel, Dean Gandy rose to the
rostrum. All awaited his words. “We want to act. We have to act. We have to do something to oppose
segregation.” Massive applause. But we don’t want to just imitate
others. Sit-ins have been occurring for
weeks, for months now. They are good,
but they are old hat. We should do
something new. Something that is unique
to Dillard. More applause. And then he announced that they should have a
march for civil rights on campus and on the sidewalks in front of campus that
would be seen by all on the major thoroughfare, Gentilly Blvd. I had gone to the meeting intending to
volunteer for a sit-in, but saw no purpose in joining a Dillard U. march on its
campus. I left both disappointed, and
relieved, at the same time.
Soon after,
Lanny told me there was a boycott of stores in the Dryades St. area, a
neighborhood that had a large Black clientele.
He was going to volunteer as a picketer, and I decided to do so also. Because our Tulane class schedules differed,
we went to picket on different days. At
that time in New Orleans, only two picketers were legally allowed in front of a
store, and when my co-picketer, a Black man realized he was to picket with me,
he became quite nervous. He said his
shoes hurt, and left me holding 2 picket signs.
I was suddenly harassed by two young whites with a can of black paint
and a brush seeking to paint me black.
Then a new, second picketer arrived, a large Black longshoreman, and the
kids quickly ran away. The picketing was
organized by the Consumers’ League, a Black organization. Some of its members would soon be involved in
the organization of NO CORE, the Congress of Racial Equality, which hoped to
train for and organize many of the new, non-violent protests against
segregation, like the sit-ins. CORE was preparing
a 3-week training institute to be held in August 1960 in Miami, and I
desperately wanted to go. I was living
with my parents, who were unenthusiastic.
They argued, I would be the only white, or the only white from New
Orleans, it would be dangerous, etc. I
argued that it would be a national gathering, people from all over the nation,
perhaps thousands, Blacks and whites.
So, who else was going from New Orleans?
Any other whites? I was so happy
when I discovered that a Loyola student, Oliver St. Pe would indeed be
going. I would not be the only white,
and used this to finally win approval of my parents.
I was truly
shocked upon our arrival in Miami to find that there were only about 50
participants, eight from New Orleans. We
stayed in a Black Motel, the Prince ?George?, and held training sessions during
the day in the motel’s cocktail lounge.
One day, we had a talk by Jackie Robinson, who had been the first Black
to integrate major league baseball at the Brooklyn Dodgers. Another day, our teacher was Martin Luther
King, who had led the successful bus boycott movement in Montgomery,
Alabama. Other days, it was learning
about Gandhi, non-violence, and acting as protestors or as hostile
segregationists. One day we tested an
eatery inside Shell’s City supermarket.
We generally sat in mixed groups at numerous tables. The police were called and arrested all our
attendees who were seated at integrated tables.
Or almost. I was seated at a
table with a young Black woman, Ruth Dispenza; we were not arrested because
Ruth was light-skinned, and the officials assumed we were a white couple. Oliver was among those arrested.
When we
returned to New Orleans, rumors floated that we were planning a sit-in for the
Crescent City. The Dean of Tulane sent
some students to speak with me and a few others, warning us of university
policy: if arrested we would be expelled from the university until proven not
guilty. Moreover, because we were
consciously violating the state’s segregation laws, we would certainly be found
guilty on the local and state levels. So
we might not be found innocent until our case had been appealed to the United
States Supreme Court, which might take several years, assuming the high court
would consider our case and rule in our favor.
Even if it so ruled, we could not expect to re-enroll at Tulane until
after years of litigation.
Ruth
Dispenza would be the spokesperson for the sit-in, the first in New Orleans,
held at the large Woolworths at the corner of Canal and North Rampart Streets
(I stress this because the politically correct often cite the 2nd
sit-in, which occurred a week later at McCrory’s, as the first.) We arrived in the morning around 9 or 10 am
and sat for several hours; the then New Orleans District Attorney, Richard
Dowling came into the lunch counter area and literally read us the law on
segregation. When we refused to leave,
we were arrested.
That night
we were released on bail, and because we had been shifted between different
jails, we had not eaten since before our protest. We were hungry. Archie Allen (a Black student at Dillard, and
one of the 7 arrested at Woolworth’s), Carlos Zervigon (a fellow Tulane
student, member of CORE, whose parents were of Mexican and Cuban heritage) and
I went to Whitey’s on near St, Charles Ave. to get a late bite. Whitey’s was a Black restaurant. We took seats at a small, round table, and
the waiter approached us and announced, “I can serve you (to Archie), but I
can’t serve you two.” For a moment, we
sat in disbelief. Then he revised,
“Well, I can serve you two, but not you (to me).” Archie and I had just been released from jail
for trying to integrate the white counter at Woolworths; we had no desire to be
arrested twice in the same day, now at a Black restaurant. I was so stunned; I do not now recall how we
finally ate that night.
I could not
return home, as this would endanger my parents.
Even with my absence, my parents had troubles with threats following
each telephone ring throughout that night.
My father would soon borrow a pistol and bullets to protect the home. Meanwhile, I was staying with different
friends each night after the arrest.
Tulane
backed down, changing its policy regarding student arrests. Our sit-in was now judged by the board of the
university to be a political rather than a criminal offense, so neither Bill
Harrell (a white grad student in sociology) nor I was expelled. Tulane was then a segregated institution, but
the board was beginning its shift away from supporting the laws of segregation. And not being expelled was of crucial
importance to me because now I could retain my part-time job working weekends
at the Tulane U. library and thus maintain a small income.
But where
would I live? Oliver, the Loyola student
in CORE, had been arrested in Miami, and so was not a notorious as I was. He was still living with his parents in a
suburb an hour away from Loyola. We
decided to look for an apartment together and found one near Touro Infirmary,
where I had been born. Oliver was two
years older than I, but only a senior in sociology at Loyola. He had a slightly annoying habit when
speaking to you – he rarely looked you in the eye, his gaze was
off-center. Only after rooming with him
did I discover the cause: Oliver was legally blind. To read, he would insert the old-fashioned,
hard contact lenses and then put on extremely thick eyeglasses (Normally, he
wore none, so people were unaware of his disability.). Even with the props, he probably could not
see an entire word. The government sent
him recordings of books, and he would arrange to have people read his text books to him, for which they were
paid. I suddenly acquired a supplemental
job reading sociology texts to him.
Oliver was
a year or two behind because he had dropped out of school when he was
younger. He was on the path to becoming
a juvenile delinquent and permanent drop-out.
But his life took a different course when he joined the Civil Air Patrol
and was influenced, - for the better - by David Ferrie. Oliver was Roman Catholic and got on well
with Rudy Lombard, the NO CORE Coordinator who studied at Xavier U. in NO (a
Black Catholic college). Oliver
supported President Kennedy. He taught
catechism at a nearby Catholic church, and was a staunch heterosexual. He was skeptical of socialism and was not at
all pro-Communist. A slightly older
woman also read to him, and when I met her, I was surprised to hear her stories
of the Soviet Union. She must have
worked for the American government, and I think she had met Oliver at the VA
Hospital, where he went occasionally. I
was shocked when she told that women who came from the countryside to the big
cities of Moscow and Leningrad in the big train stations, were so unfamiliar
with modern devises, that when they went to the rest rooms, often did their
business on the floor.
Other than
CORE meetings, Oliver and I tended to maintain separate social lives. I worked in the library from Friday night
through late Sunday, we were too poor for luxuries like a telephone, so I met
only one or two of his old friends. He
would speak of one, David Ferrie, who had helped change his life. He also spoke of Father Fichter at Loyola and
a few others, but Ferrie seemed to have been the catalyst in changing him. On several occasions Larry Anderson, a CAP
chum came by the flat to pick up Oliver to go somewhere. I remember after we had roomed together about
six months, Oliver spoke of how his old mentor, Ferrie, was going to have a
party one weekend. He looked forward to
it, as he had not seen David for awhile.
When I next saw Oliver, I asked, “How was the big party?” Oliver seemed disappointed, “Oh, David was
playing soldier.” I did not understand,
and he added many were dressed in military-type fatigues. That would have been in spring 1961. It was not until much later that I realized
that this was about the time of the Bay of Pigs invasion.
At the end
of May 1961 our lease on the apartment ended, Oliver graduated from Loyola with
his BA, but after a year, I still did not receive my MA from Tulane in
history. Oliver and I now saw each other
rarely, and soon he would be working with the International Voluntary Service
in Laos, a new country since the French withdrawal from Indo-China following
their defeat at Dien Bien Phu. Oliver
must have been in Laos for some time because I recall reading in one of the
local newspapers a tiny article in November 1963 reporting that David Ferrie
had been arrested or questioned in connection with the assassination of
President Kennedy. How many David
Ferries could there be? It must have been
the man who had helped Oliver. I clipped
the item and sent it to Oliver in Laos.
The article was only a few sentences, but must have revealed more than
that Ferrie had been questioned, because in the days following the
assassination, many New Orleanians were questioned. Indeed, I too was questioned by the FBI on
Tuesday 26 November.
After
rooming with Oliver for the school year 1960-61, I had lost enthusiasm for grad
school. I moved back in with my parents
(who very kindly took me back), and got my first full-time job – teaching at a high
school. I must concede my liberal
notions of letting the students express themselves proved impractical. I was teaching outside my field, but my real
problem was that I failed to establish and maintain discipline. It was the only time I failed as a
teacher. Other issues arose too. I was a pacifist, and one reason I was so
drawn to the civil rights movement was its emphasis on non-violent protest and
the attempt to change society for the better through non-violence. But there were already chinks in my
non-violent armor. Beginning with the
day of my arrest, 9 September 1960, my parents began to receive threatening
telephone calls. My dad borrowed a
weapon and bullets to protect the place.
The threats subsided in November 1960 as court-ordered integration of
two schools in New Orleans swerved the spotlight from CORE sit-ins to trying to
keep the schools open, protecting the few Black students and the white family
that defied the boycott (the white family that broke the boycott soon had to
flee to the North). As the schools took
the heat, threats to my parents ceased. When
my dad returned the pistol to his co-worker, the man remarked, “Why did you
borrow so many bullets? Only one would
have done the job!” I was not popular in
NO at that time. Oliver and I were then sharing
a flat, and we received no threatening calls because we had no phone. Oliver brought me his Ruger (like the German
Luger), and he wanted me to learn how to use it. I was a pacifist, but how could I ask a
legally blind guy to defend us if we came under attack. So I let him teach me how to use the
Ruger. Reality was ruining my faith in
non-violence.
So, after I
decided not to pursue my MA, probably in the summer of 1961, I volunteered for
the navy. I recall only one test – I was
naked and had to walk down a long dark, narrow hall until I could read what was
on a screen at the other end. I must
have traversed 2/3s of the hall before I could recognize a large letter E. I was surprised at how poor my eyesight seemed
to be. Yet, that proved not to be the
problem. The hitch was the sit-in – I
had been convicted of a felony, and felons could be drafted but were not
allowed to volunteer for service, I was informed.
After
teaching for about half the school year, I received my draft notice, probably
in early 1962. I quit the teaching job
and waited to be inducted. I went to the
old Customs House on Canal St. near the Mississippi River, and a large number
of us took seats and awaited our fate. I
was nervous, as I suspect was true of most.
There seemed to be no loud chatter, but one person stood and moved about
addressing the young Blacks scattered among those seated. He was urging them not to go in, not to be
inducted , that America was racist, and they should follow the example of the
Black Muslims and reject the draft. The
officer must have ordered him to stop, but he continued preaching and urging
others to join him. Then the officers
ordered all the rest of us to move to an adjacent, large room. The Black Muslim was barred from entering
this room.
We were
handed forms to fill out. Most completed
them quickly. I stumbled. I had no trouble checking the box to indicate
that I was not now nor had ever been a member of the Communist Part, the
KuKluxKlan, etc. But then there was a
list of front groups, and the question was quite broad; had we ever even
socialized with these groups. Oh
oh. At the Miami CORE conclave we did
more than hear lectures by Robinson and King.
Half our group had been arrested at the Shell’s City sit-in in August
1960, and we also went to the beach to integrate the sands. CORE organizers had arranged that the picnic
tables beside ours would be occupied by a friendly white group, the Jewish Culture
Club in Miami. There group was about as
large as ours, but whereas most in our group were in their 20s, members of the
JCC were in their 60s and 70s. I spoke to one about the famous 1948
election, in which Harry Truman won to the astonishment of the pollsters, the
nation, and especially the Chicago Tribune.
The old gent on the bench told me he had voted for Henry Wallace and the
Progressive Party that year. They were
on the Left, and they were for integration.
The JCC
also had a club house, and they allowed us to stage a dance on their premises. I danced the one-step with Pat and Priscilla
Stephens, Black twins who had been active in CORE in Tallahassee. Also, for the first time I tried the new
dance, the twist, with Ruth Dispenza, among others. Those dancing were almost all young, from our
group. Members of the JCC sat around the
periphery of the dance floor at small tables and nibbled, chatted, and
generally watched us. It was relaxing to
have a place where we could dance in a large hall. Pictures were taken of our fun gathering. That was important.
Seated at
the Customs House I pondered how to fill out the form. Should I mention the dance at the JCC? It seemed so inconsequential. But the penalties for lying were enormous
(though I no longer remember the specifics).
Should I lie and not mention this event?
Then I remembered, pictures had been taken, so I mentioned it.
Another
question on the form concerned any previous arrests. Not only had pictures been taken of the
sit-in, we had been shown on national television nightly news programs, though
we could not see these because we were still in jail at the time. I mentioned the previous arrest.
The officer
collected the forms and then called me up.
“JCC? But you aren’t even
Jewish.” I tried to explain. Then he mentioned the arrest. I told him I had been informed that I could
not volunteer, but I could be drafted.
He told me I would first have to speak with the FBI agent, but I would
have to wait as he was at that moment interviewing the Black Nationalist in the
other room. I returned to my seat. We were all give a fried chicken lunch in a
box like KFC, and told we would be going to Ft. Chafee in Arkansas for basic
training.
The FBI
agent got to me and I told him of the arrest at the lunch counter. He said that conviction was a felony, and he
would have to speak with the NO District Attorney to ask if he would drop the
charges before I could be drafted.
Meanwhile, I was told to keep the chicken lunch, go home, and await the
decision. I am unsure if the DA at that
time was still Richard Dowling, or a newly elected Jim Garrison. The charges were NOT dropped, but my draft
classification remained 1-A. This made
it difficult to get a new job because employers were reluctant to hire someone
who could be called up at any moment. I
found a low-pay job at another library to have some money while waiting.
I could not
wait forever. In September 1962 I
returned to Tulane to try to earn my MA.
I now changed my thesis topic – I would write about the Scottsboro rape
cases of the 1930s in Alabama and the role of the Communist Party. Nine young Blacks were accused of raping two
white women on a train in Alabama, and defended by Communists. Nothing controversial there!
In October
the world experienced “The Missile Crisis.”
This is featured in Baker’s book, as Pres. Kennedy’s failure to invade
Castro’s Cuba would further incense anti-Castro elements in New Orleans and
Miami. Soon after the crisis, I wrote an
article for the Tulane leftist alternative to the official university Hullaballoo. The alternative was mimeographed and was
published sporadically. My article in The Reed was titled, “The Munich of the
60s,” in which I condemned Khrushchev for yielding to the demands of Kennedy to
withdraw the missiles from Cuba. The
analogy was Khrushchev to Chamberlain, and Kennedy to a German leader. To say that my article was unpopular is an
understatement. I walked into one
classroom and copies of the Reed were
not simply torn in half, or into quarter, or into…down to the size of a fingernail. Interestingly, my article would be attacked
early the next year in Political Affairs,
a journal of the CPUSA. Herbert Aptheker
placed the Reed article along with
various Trotskyist and Ultra Left analyses that failed to understand
Khrushchev’s wisdom in compromise and in getting Kennedy to pledge not to
invade Cuba.
At that
time, I was pro-Castro (not now). I
personally knew several members of the staff of The Reed, most especially my thesis advisor Prof. Robert Reinders,
who had studied at Notre Dame and was a liberal Roman Catholic. I was also acquainted with Bob Hoffman and
others. But I was also working hard to
research and write my MA thesis, so I may have been less social than
usual. Vereen Alexander would allege
that she had met Oswald at a party at Bob Hoffman’s and other Reed people in 1963. She later changed her story thinking she was
mistaken. I was so busy, I could not
even recall Vereen Alexander.
Although I
had attended Beauregard Jr. High and then Easton Sr. High in New Orleans about
the same time as Oswald, I never met him.
And again, although I was pro-Castro in New Orleans in 1963 and indeed
picked up one of Oswald’s FPCC leaflets that had been laid on a small table in
the foyer of Tulane U. Library, there was no one in the entrance area with whom
to inquire about the flyers to discuss the organization. I took one of the leaflets and brought it to
another grad student who had been active in FPCC in another city. I had assumed he had produced the flyer. But Harold Alderman knew nothing about it. We wondered if we should write to the post
office box on the leaflet, but we were cautious as it might be a trap (we
didn’t write, and it was). I was unable
to complete my thesis for the May graduation, and had to keep working on it
during the summer of 1963. Finally, in
August I received my MA. My thesis, 270
pages, generally defended the Communist approach to defending the Blacks
accused of rape, using both top-notch attorneys in court while simultaneously
mobilizing mass support for the cause outside the courts. Several chapters of my thesis were
subsequently published in academic journals.
But defending the CP did not make me popular with the establishment
historians at Tulane. I was informed
that the chair of the department did not want me to continue for a
doctorate. I now had to find a job.
A new,
private school had opened in NO, and I was offered a post teaching 5th
grade at a higher salary than I had earned in the public schools. The school opened in a building formerly
owned by the Dept. of Agriculture, and was in the process of being
renovated. I think it was k-12, or possibly
1-12. Three of us taught 5th
grade, another young guy, and an older woman who had taught in public school
for many years. I quite enjoyed the
teaching. I was larger than my pupils,
which helps with discipline. Some were
quite smart and around 10 years old; a few had had troubles in school and were
up to 14, but they were caught up in the spirit of the younger pupils. That spirit was most important – when I asked
a question, all who knew the answer raised their hands and wanted to be called
upon. Often, when they are a few years
older, the dreadful peer spirit warns all not answer, and condemns those who
do. I enjoyed teaching them, and I think
they were learning and enjoyed me teach them.
It was fun.
I could
begin to relax after the pressure of Tulane, and occasionally played tennis
after school with colleagues or old friends.
I was still residing with my parents after a very “poor” year. In early October 1963, after school, after
tennis, I returned home late one afternoon.
My mother greeted me at the front door, “Hmmph, why are you so
late? I thought they had rounded you up
too?” I had no idea what she was
referring to, but rushed to the TV, as the news was about to come on. The Louisiana Un-American Activities
Committee (LUAC) along with DA Jim Garrison had staged raids on local
Communists, using axes to break down their doors. The offices of SCEF (the Southern Conference
Education Fund), an integrationist organization were raided and files
confiscated. Its director, who was
elderly and crippled, was arrested.
Also, attorneys Ben Smith and Bruce Walzer, who shared a law firm, were
arrested in the raid. Both lawyers
defended dissidents. During the raid of
Walzer’s home, as the axes smashed in the front door, his wife hovered in fear
with her baby. She had been born in
Germany, half-Jewish, and had survived by being taken in by a Roman Catholic
organization. The axe action terrorized
her. The raid on the home of Ben Smith
was probably just as frightening, and his wife filed for divorce soon after.
The Chair
of the LUAC lived a few houses down the street from my parent’s home; his wife
was my mother’s Avon lady. This raid
occurred 3 October 1963. Later, I would
wonder why they had not raided the home of a defector to the USSR, a
self-professed Marxist who had expounded his radical views on WDSU radio, and a
man who had been arrested for distributing FPCC leaflets? (In Me
& Lee, Baker provides information on why there was a delay in raiding
the SCEF, Smith and Walzer, but why did the LUAC display no interest in Oswald?
Back to
work. One day around lunchtime, Mrs.
Flagg, the older 5th grade teacher whose class was directly across
the hall from mine, came to my door, and asked me to come to her class for a
few minutes. Telling my class I would be
right back, I left them for hers.
Because of the many renovations, we still had no cafeteria, so kids ate
lunch in the class rooms, and her class was having free time during their
lunch, so there was much talk, an occasional shout, etc. Mrs. Flagg led me to the seat of a pupil who
had brought a rather new invention to class, a small, transistor radio. He was listening as Mrs. Flagg and I craned
our necks over the youngster, trying to hear the news above the din of the
class at play. After a few minutes, I
heard the main point, and had to return to my unattended class.
I entered
and closed the door behind me, and they quickly quieted down. “I just heard on the radio that Pres. Kennedy
was shot in Dallas.” They cheered and
applauded! I was shocked by their
response. Then I noticed that one girl
had placed her head on her table and was silently crying. The others were elated. Suddenly, the normal lessons seemed
trite. These kids, whom I normally
liked, had angered me. I began with an
impromptu history lesson. “You think
that if Kennedy dies, that will mean the end of integration, that segregation
will be saved. Well, others had similar
views. At the end of the Civil War, some
believed that the South would be restored, that slavery would continue, if only
Lincoln could be eliminated. John Wilkes
Booth did kill Lincoln. But that did not
bring about the restoration of the Confederacy.
Nor did it bring back slavery.
Instead, it made the North even more determined to destroy slavery and
the power of the South. And if Kennedy
dies, it will make the North of today even more determined to destroy
segregation, more determined to force integration upon the South.” I may have elaborated here or there, but the
point of my lecture was clear, even to 10-year-olds. Of course, all of us assumed that Kennedy had
been shot by a segregationist. The
school dismissed classes early that Friday.
I was home when I received a phone call from Shelly
Zervigon, wife of Carlos my old buddy in CORE.
“Did you hear the news?” she asked.
“Of course, Kennedy is dead.”
“Did you hear the guy who did it was a Communist, from New
Orleans?” I could hardly believe her
words. A shock wave followed by one of
fear. If they were rounding up
Communists in New Orleans in October for being integrationists, what will they
do now? I knew the history of what had
happened in Paris in 1938, when a young Jew entered the German Embassy there
and shot and killed the Ambassador. In
retaliation, a few days later in Germany, many synagogues were burnt, many
Jewish shop windows broken (so it was called Kristall Nacht because of the
broken glass), thousands of Jews were rounded up, some sent to camps, and
Jewish funds in banks confiscated. It
was the beginning of the end for Jews in Germany. And that was for the murder of an
ambassador. What would happen with the
murder of a President? When would there
be the next round-up of “Communists in New Orleans? How much time would I have? I decided to go out that Friday night and get
drunk, as it might be my last chance to do so.
I went out
to the Blue Note, a bar on Rampart St., and perhaps some others. I ran into a few liberals and asked the same
question, who the hell is Lee Oswald? No
one seemed to have known him.
Back to
work. At the end of November 1963 the
school gave us checks as usual, but this time many bounced. After some negotiations with the school
administrators, by mid-month many teachers, myself included, filed a law-suit
against the school, which made the newspapers.
Soon other creditors were also filing suits. Some pupils suddenly dropped out, most
teachers decided not to continue teaching until paid for past work, and the
school was in a downward spiral. To
protect the school from the Commie agitator teachers, the school hired someone
responsible to protect the institution, Guy Banister. I was told by a teacher who remained that
Banister would roam the halls with his pistol in his belt. By the end of January 1964, that school had
closed.
I was
suddenly unemployed, again. About this
time, my uncle was visiting my parents when I was there. Uncle Jim liked to tease me. Politically, we were opposites. After he found out I had been arrested in the
first sit-in, he had sent a small sum to George Lincoln Rockwell and the
American Nazi Party to restore honor to the family. I did not see him often, but his usual greeting
to me was, “How are the burr heads doing?”
This would rile me up and a few minutes later I would leave to visit
friends. When Pres. and Mrs. Kennedy
lost a baby while they were in the White House, Uncle Jim explained to me what
had happened, “They killed it because it was Black.” I would roll my eyes and leave. Sometimes he would say, “Oh, that Bobby. They gonna get that Bobby!” Attorney General Robert Kennedy was often
sending representatives of the Justice Dept. to the South to try to promote
integration. “Oh, that Bobby,” he said
many times in the early 1960s. It was
probably in January 1964 when I next saw Uncle Jim. “What did I tell you, huh? What did I tell you? Didn’t I tell you they were gonna get him?” It took me a few moments to figure out what
he was referring to. Then I realized in
a horrified flash. This time I responded
– “But you said they were going to get Bobby.”
“Well, they got the other one instead.”
After a year of listening to him talking about getting Bobby, I finally
asked him, “Who is this ‘they’ you keep talking about?” He quickly responded, “The mob out in the
Parish.” To translate: “Out in the
Parish” meant in Jefferson Parish, the county adjacent to New Orleans, and the
leading mob official would be Carlos Marcello.
No one was talking about Marcello in connection with the Kennedy
assassination in January 1964. I rolled
my eyes and chalked another one up to my crazy uncle, like the Kennedy’s
killing their child because it was Black.
Furthermore, what would my uncle know?
He had not finished elementary school, and I had an MA from Tulane. I was too arrogant to understand. Now I regret that I did not listen to him
more and question him further. I might
have learned a lot from him.
According
to researchers Alan Rogers and Larry Haapanen, Oswald said that if he and
Marina had a boy, they would name him David.
Oliver and his wife had two boys, and according to researcher Bruce Baird,
Oliver’s widow revealed that one son was indeed named David for David
Ferrie. And that would have been in the
1960s, after some of the scandals regarding Ferrie. If David Ferrie could so influence the boys
and young men of his CAP that they would consider naming their sons after him,
even following the scandals, then Ferrie was an extremely impressive man. Baker writes. Ferrie was “a man who taught
countless people how to fly, who influenced dozens to become priests or to
serve their country in the Armed Services, and whose acts of charity,
patriotism and courage were overshadowed by his sexual misbehavior, is buried
in near isolation.”(p432) Did his sexual
misbehavior “overshadow” all the rest?
Here I disagree with Baker. But
that is subordinate to the big questions – did Ferrie encourage Lee Harvey
Oswald to join the marines when he was an underage teen? Might his stories, along with TV programs
like Herb Philbrick’s “I Led Three Lives,” have encouraged the young marine to
explore less travelled paths, like defecting to the USSR?
When Oswald
returned to the US with American Embassy help, was he on the payroll of the FBI
or other agencies? Baker claims she was
working with Ferrie, Oswald, and Dr. Mary Sherman on a bio-weapon to hasten
growth of cancer so enemies like Fidel could be killed and their deaths
attributed to natural causes. Leading
this project was the internationally famous Dr. Alton Ochsner, whose hospital
moved to Jefferson Parish not far from the Beverly Country Club (Marcello’s
gambling outlet). Even if one totally
rejects Baker’s contention that she was Oswald’s lover, and her assertions
about the bio-weapon, are there still reasons to connect David Ferrie, Oswald,
and alleged conspirators to kill Castro and or Kennedy?
There were
experiments that today we might deem unwarranted, inhumane, and worse. Baker mentions a contract with the US Govt.
and prominent Tulane U. Professor Robert Heath.(75) Baker also writes that at times Ferrie was
listed on the faculty of Tulane for a 2-hour credit course workshop in
1960.(102) She has Ferrie looking for
volunteers for some of the Tulane experiments among his CAP group, and on the
other side, Ferrie rescuing some teens who had been victims of experiments at
some of the Louisiana mental facilities trying to make the teens into heterosexuals.
But there
are more areas where the reader may not rely on Baker’s personal
testimony. Ferrie did work for attorney G.
Wray Gill, a major lawyer for Marcello.
According to Marcello’s granddaughter Tricia, Ferrie had flown Marcello
to Florida from his exile in Central America.(117) Ferrie was also involved in the anti-Castro
movement in New Orleans and was probably training some of the CIA sponsored
elements for another invasion of Cuba.
Also involved in these activities was former FBI agent, former Acting
Superintendent of the New Orleans Police, Guy Banister. Banister also had an anti-Castro organization
listed in his offices. He was known to
hire young people to infiltrate the Left on NO campuses. Oswald distributed pro-Castro FPCC leaflets
in NO in the summer of 1963, some of which had the address of the same building
as Banister’s offices. There was no FPCC
located there, but if anyone had replied by mail to the flyer’s address, that
letter would have wound up in the hands of Banister. Furthermore, several witnesses asserted they
had seen Oswald in Banister’s offices.
After
spending such time and effort to build his FPCC, Oswald suddenly dropped
it. Baker writes: “Until I spoke up in
1999, nobody had a logical explanation for Lee’s suddenly ‘giving up’ on the
FPCC. As soon as the prisoner died – …[a
human guinea pig in the cancer research to create a bio-weapon] – Lee would
have to travel immediately. It was
important that a sudden departure would not be noticed by the media.”(294)
Baker also
presents an explanation for Ferrie’s concern about the allegation that Oswald
had Ferrie’s library card when arrested in Dallas. Ferrie was disturbed enough by the charge
that he went searching for that card in the apartment formerly rented to the
Oswalds in NO. Baker asserts, it was not
a card from the public library that Ferrie was worried about, but a card from
the Tulane Medical School that was used when they were engaged in cancer
research for the bio-weapon. When Ferrie
telephoned Baker in Florida shortly after the assassination, Baker assured him
that she had the card. Ferrie told her
to destroy it immediately. Once assured
that this possible connection of Oswald to Ferrie was removed, Ferrie then
denied even knowing Oswald when interviewed by the FBI on 27 November
1963.(363-71)
Baker’s
books (this and her earlier Me & Lee)
also provide an explanation for the events in Clinton, Louisiana and other
towns north of New Orleans. Various
witnesses identified Oswald waiting in a long line to register to vote in
summer 1963, a lone white amid a CORE voter registration drive. Having emerged from a large, black auto, it
occupants also aroused attention, and various people from opposite sides of the
political spectrum identified Oswald, Ferrie, and Clay Shaw. The role of the Louisiana mental hospitals in
Mandeville and Jackson to provide patients for human experimentation also
played a role, according to Baker.(290)
Baker may not provide the only possible explanation to these strange
sightings, but hers seems to be the best explanation so far.
Even where
she was not a participant in events with Oswald, Baker provides provocative
analysis, as in the case of journalist George Lardner, the last man to
interview David Ferrie before his death.
Indeed, Ferrie’s time of death was revised to conform to Lardner’s
claims of visiting Ferrie’s apartment that late night. Baker provides reasons to question Lardner’s
account.(430, 477)
Baker
portrays Oswald and Ferrie as pro-integration, pro-civil rights, pro-Kennedy,
anti-Communists. She believes that
Oswald and Ferrie were working to assassinate Castro, but dealing with vehement
Right-wingers who by 1963 had turned against the ‘pro-Communist’ Kennedy, and
they were joined by others who hated the President like Mafia Carlos
Marcello. While Oswald and Ferrie
pretended to be opponents of Kennedy, their objective was to infiltrate and
halt any operation against the President.
She finds it significant that a plot to kill Kennedy in Chicago in
autumn 1963 was foiled after the plot was disclosed to authorities by a
“Lee.”(263, 319) She thinks Oswald was
in Dallas to spike another plot. She
implies that the note Oswald left with the FBI office on 12 November 1963 in
Dallas was meant to expose and prevent such a new plot. That note, of course, was destroyed upon
orders of J. Edgar Hoover. Its contents,
as revealed by FBI Agent Hostie concerned Oswald threatening the FBI if it did
not lay off of his wife Marina.(320)
Baker rejects Hostie’s version of the note that he himself destroyed.
Baker
includes material showing how the NO Dist. Atty. Garrison crew was willing to
bribe a witness to join the anti-Clay Shaw team,(382, 430) but she concedes
that both sides were using bribes during the Garrison investigation, which led
to the later publicity about Ferrie and the trial of Clay Shaw.
On the
other side, perhaps Ferrie was not so innocent.
Instead of telling Baker the truth about how he was seeking to save
Kennedy while lying to others when he announced that “Kennedy should be shot,”
perhaps Ferrie’s speech about killing the President enunciated his real views,
and instead he was lying to Baker. In
this book, Baker is honest enough to include reports of a witness at a Winnipeg
airport who overheard Ferried complaining about using that ‘moron’ Oswald, and
how clearly, Ferrie was involved in the murderous plot.(374, 445, 447,
450) She also includes a supposed
confession by Ferrie to a bishop of one of the tiny, splinter Catholic churches.(440)
Not all of
Ferrie’s life may be interesting to Kennedy assassination researchers. But Ferrie was a man who influenced many, and
probably saved many lives from cruel experimentation in mental
institutions. Yet, according to Baker
herself, he too was willing to indulge in human experimentation to hasten a
cancer causing bio-weapon. Ferrie was a
whiz of o pilot who flew to help overthrow Castro and aid rebels.
There were
problems with the execution of this book, such as repetition of text and
footnotes.(45, 91, 478 & 184, 282, 283 #8 #11) There were footnote errors (118, 129)(279,
281, #28, #20) On the other hand, as one
with poor eyesight, it was easier to read footnotes that were not shrunken to
the conventional small size.
Yet,
referring to the book’s cover, Baker does show that David Ferrie was a Maria
pilot, that he participated in Anti-Castro activities, that he knew Lee Oswald,
and was deemed by many to be a key to the John Kennedy assassination. She maintains that she, Oswald, and Ferrie
were involved with Dr. Mary Sherman in research on a bio-weapon, under the
direction of world-famous and anti-Communist Dr. Alton Ochsner. There is little doubt that the weird looking
Ferrie, who was a top-notch pilot, knew various languages, experimented with
mice, hypnosis, taught military training, and debated theology, was a man who
greatly influenced teens in his Civil Air Patrol units. How much and in what manner did he influence
Oswald?
Baker
provides conflicting evidence that Ferrie was pro-Kennedy and
anti-Kennedy. He was known and worked
indirectly for Mafia leader Marcello and former NO police chief Guy
Banister. Some, in addition to Baker,
saw him with Clay Shaw. Did all this
result in a plot that culminated in Dallas on November 22, 1963?
