The Craft We Chose: My Life in the CIA

Richard L. Holm

Description

Many books, fiction and nonfiction alike, purport to probe the inner workings of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. Many attempt to create spine-tingling suspense or allege that America's civilian spy operation has run amok and been infested with rogues and criminals. Not that The Craft We Chose lacks suspense, harrowing encounters or its
own share of villains.

But this book is different. In fact it's unique–a straightforward, honest, surprisingly captivating memoir by one of the CIA's most well-known and honored career officers.

For more than three decades, Richard L. Holm worked in the agency's Directorate of Operations–now the National Clandestine Service–the component directly responsible for collecting human intelligence. His assignments took him to seven countries on three continents, and his travels added many more destinations. At almost every turn Holm encountered his share of dangerous characters and situations, including one that nearly ended his life before he turned 30.

The Craft We Chose is more than a chronicle of those episodes. It also reveals Holm's private life, his roots and family, his courtship and marriage, and his four daughters, whom he affectionately calls his "platoon."

Webster's Dictionary defines the word "holm" as an island in a stream. That is an appropriate analogy. The Craft We Chose reveals Richard Holm as an island of steadfastness in a stream of chaos. He served his country with distinction, in good times and bad, displaying extreme courage under the direst of circumstances and a sense of honor that can only be considered unshakeable. And he describes it all with a keen eye and a distinctive wit. His is a classic American story that conveys, vividly and unforgettably, a life in the CIA.

Sujets

• Historical
• Lettres et linguistique
• Biography
• Autobiography

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 05 juillet 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780981477381
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE
CRAFT
WE
CHOSE

My Life
in the CIA
 
 
Richard L. Holm
 
Mountain Lake Press
Mountain Lake Park, Maryland


 
 
The Craft We Chose: My Life in the CIA
Copyright © 2011 Richard L. Holm
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by
Mountain Lake Press
www.mountainlakepress.com
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-0-9814-773-8-1
Cover design by Michael Hentges
 
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
 


 
To Judy, my inspiration
 


AUTHOR’S NOTE
 
In this text I have identified some people only by their first names or sometimes with just an initial for their surnames. For others I’ve changed their true names. In these cases I did so to preserve their privacy or security.
I submitted the draft manuscript of this book to the agency’s Publications Review Board. I freely accept this requirement, including the disclaimer displayed below. The board functions solely to identify any information that might remain classified. Otherwise it cannot censor or alter the text in any way.
 
This is my story—my life in the CIA.
 
Richard L. Holm
Virginia , May 2011
 
All statements of fact, opinion, or analysis expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official positions or views of the CIA or any other U.S. Government agency. Nothing in the contents should be construed as asserting or implying U.S. Government authentication of information or Agency endorsement of the author’s views. This material has been reviewed by the CIA to prevent the disclosure of classified information.
 
FOREWORD
April 20, 2011
 
You can learn a lot about a person when you become the instrument of their pain. That’s how it began with me and Richard L. Holm.
I met Dick when I was a U.S. Army physician at the Burn Center of Brooke Army Hospital in San Antonio, Texas. He had just been brought there in an aircraft showing not a single marking of any kind. My superiors informed me that he was a “missionary” who had suffered extensive burns in Africa.
His first words to me were, “I got out of there,” spoken in a very weak voice. And then, “I have a briefcase, please take custody of it.”
Custody? What the hell could be in it?
“Someone will ask you for it,” he said next. “Give it to them if they show you proper identification.”
I wondered what kind of church asks for identification. But the answer would have to wait; I had a job to do.
I spent that night and at least another day with Dick—I really don’t recall how long. I reversed his dehydration and administered nutrition intravenously, and I balanced the two. I also began cleaning his wounds and talked with him during the brief periods when he was awake. Our friendship started then. We discovered our mutual passion for sports, particularly basketball. We found we had similar senses of humor and likeminded political views.
But no matter how friendly you become with a patient, no matter how compassionate a physician you may be, you cannot avoid hurting a burn victim on a daily basis. Most often it’s when you’re cutting away the dead skin and cleaning the wounds in “the tub”—as we refer to it. Most patients regard it, despite having substantial sedation, by various names that could be summarized as a brand of torture chamber.
Not so with Dick Holm. He was remarkably tough and used humor to cope. He dealt with pain by making jokes. And though he sometimes said things that hinted at who he really was, he never revealed then what he did for a living. But early on I had figured it out—and now, with this book, you can read about it.
Dick’s autobiography describes a man who served his country almost entirely in secret in many places in the world we will never go and perhaps we never heard of. It is Dick’s inside view of that life, that craft.
Though Dick keeps to himself much of what he accomplished—and much of it for security reasons we may never know—his story is filled with unexpected information. He helps you begin to understand the time and attention to detail required to train an agent in another country and be sure the information supplied by that agent is meaningful and reliable.
He shows you how, in the spy business, people are the currency; you must know and understand people because your job and your life depend on that judgment. He describes the deceptions and intrigue involved in uncovering a double agent as well as the cumbersome roadblocks of agency bureaucracy. He challenges today’s difficult political environment, which raises the possibility that if you’re wrong, or even perceived to be wrong, you can face prosecution.
This is not just a window into a life of secrets but a wide-open door. Employing the frankly spoken opinions that are his style, Dick reveals himself to be a dedicated, straightforward and ultimately honest man. That disarming honesty gives a unique but not always favorable view of the personalities he encountered over the years, from colleagues to guerrilla fighters and from politicians to diplomats—and even CIA directors.
But that’s only part of it. Dick had to deal with something even worse than his burns—his blindness. In the process of sustaining his injuries, Dick’s eyelids were singed shut and his eyes were so swollen we couldn’t open them. When we did we discovered that his left eye was damaged beyond repair. We had to remove it to prevent the damage from spreading to his right eye. We salvaged it, but it was injured as well, to the point that during his months in the Burn Center he never saw me.
A year later, Dick received a corneal transplant at Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington. I had flown to D.C. around that time to visit a friend and attend a party. He was there, and for the first time we saw each other.
Now, after 45 years, the friendship remains. It expanded to his late wife Judy, one of the most amazing people I have ever known, and to his wonderful daughters.
Over the years I’ve read and heard a great deal of criticism of the CIA. If you agree with that criticism, perhaps Dick Holm’s disarmingly blunt description of his career, which spanned over three decades, will motivate you to reexamine your position. You might find reassurance that there are others like Dick Holm serving this country, people who are dedicated to protecting the United States and willing to face danger routinely as part of their job. We all owe a great debt to him, and to these men and women.
Dick writes convincingly about a host of other subjects, such as geopolitics, the Vietnam War, Bill Clinton’s shameful treatment of the clandestine service, the aftermath of 9/11, the operational compromise in Paris, and the distressing incompetence of a few of the CIA directors he served. But I’ll leave them for him to reveal and you to discover. Just be assured that within these pages there’s a comprehensive narrative about how the craft of intelligence has evolved over the past 50 years.
Oh, and that briefcase? Soon after Dick arrived at Brooke, a nice-looking man approached me. He smiled, turned discreetly, and showed me his identification card. “I understand you might have a briefcase,” he said. “May I please have it?”
Even in pain and clinging to life, Dick Holm couldn’t be anything but a dedicated professional.
 
Timothy Miller M.D.
Professor of Surgery, Chief of Plastic Surgery, UCLA School of Medicine
Executive Director, Operation Mend
Los Angeles, California
PROLOGUE
February 27, 1965
 
The Boeing 707 jetliner streaked across the Atlantic. In my mostly unconscious state I had no idea where the plane was headed or that it belonged to the U.S. Air Force. I didn’t know that in its large, open compartment it carried, along with me, only a burn specialist, two nurses and a corpsman. I didn’t know that Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara had dispatched the flight at the behest of John McCone, the Director of Central Intelligence.
I also didn’t know that around my neck hung a crucifix on a silver chain, a parting gift of faith by a Belgian priest whose name I would learn later.
All I knew, vaguely, was that I was still alive. Four men had walked and ridden bicycles a hundred miles across enemy-held territory to reach help for me. A nameless Azande witch doctor had treated my wounds, protecting them from infection, dehydration and those relentless insects. Another Belgian—a doctor in Leopoldville—had refused to accept that my condition was fatal.
And somehow, some way, by my own stubbornness I had refused to die.
 
PART I. TRAINING
1. An Intangible Difference
 
Washington, D.C. 1961
 
My career with the Central Intelligence Agency began unofficially just before Thanksgiving 1960 when I drove my black Volkswagen convertible from Fort Dix, New Jersey, to the recruiting office on 16th Street, Northwest, in Washington, D.C. I had purchased the VW during my stint of nearly two years at Camp Bussac, north of Bordeaux, France, where I had worked in the Army’s Counter Intelligence Corps.
During that time, for reasons I’ll explain, I became interested in joining the CIA after my discharge. But when I mailed in an application they responded by informing me that I could not apply from overseas. So when I arrived at Fort Dix I resolved to drive down to Washington and apply in person, which I did, on an overcast morning in late November.
After I filled out the forms and took the requisite tests the interviewing officer said I could start work immediately—in the file rooms on the night shift. He added that if I performed satisfactorily I could begin advancing through the ranks. But I found the prospect of night work and a long, slow climb to a meaningful assignment disappointing. So I pushed a little, mentioning that I was a college graduat