1969

When this blog began, the thought was to provide a forum for individual posting of Ferriter Family histories, anecdotes, and tales that might prove meaningful or entertaining for the rest of the family to read. I’m placing this little piece into the entertainment category, although it is good history as well.

Note: The essay was originally written in 1993, fifteen years ago, but already then nearly 25 years after the fact. Most of the memories remain sharp in my mind to this day, but I’m thinking that back in ’93, these same memories were just a bit clearer.

In Which Young George Goes to Woodstock

March, 1993 Beloit Wisconsin.

In memory, the passage of time often becomes blurred, compressed, or accelerated. In my case, the distance between the Now of 1993 and the eventful summer of 1969 scarcely seems like nearly a quarter of a century. The purpose of this affidavit becomes the documentation of my impressions, perceptions, and memories of what seem even today like such recent activities.

1969 was a pivotal year in the history of the 20th century United States: Richard Nixon was inaugurated as president, men arrived on the moon, troop levels in Viet Nam reached the high water mark, the Draft Lottery was implemented, and what even then was referred to as the “Counter-Culture” was in high gear.

Rock and Roll as a stand-alone musical art form was scarcely 15 years old, yet in those few years had traversed a range extending from Buddy Holly to Jimi Hendrix. What seemd then like a sea change was underway: Rock and Roll music had come to be both a symbol and the voice of a wildly free youth – the youth of children who lived in what was by far the wealthiest nation on earth, children of the Victors of World War II, Children who were blessed by time and circumstance like no others before or since. Children blessed by time, free to attend school, to be creative, and to have fun like no one ever had fun before.

The Counter-Culture was a manifestation of this freedom, coupled with a sometimes violent reaction to the mainstream politics of the time, and and even more violent reaction to the prosecution of the War in Viet Nam. Music, dress, hairstyle, and for some, use of mind-altering drugs were all Counter-Culture related.

I graduated from High School in 1969. Having been born in December 1951, I was still 17 at graduation. My future plans were hazy: I knew that I would be attending the University of New Hampshire in the Fall, but that was then, and Summer was Now!

After High School, my buddy Dave Hislop and I had planned a motorcycle trip to California. We departed late in June, over the protests of my father, who was convinced that we would be killed. We did survive – out and back on Route 66 and partly on the new Interstates still being built in the west. We had many adventures that are not part of this tale, and all the while, whenever we connected with anyone else of our age group, we kept hearing about the big outdoor Rock and Roll concert that would be happening later that summer.

That was Woodstock, and I first heard about in El Paso Texas, about the same time as the lunar landing, which we watched at a Laundromat there.

The word of mouth communication of Woodstock seems to be one of the most remarkable aspects of the event: I do not believe that it was advertised much outside of New York City, and possibly San Francisco, and then only in specialty newspapers , but it seemed as if everyone knew about it, at least by mid-summer. Mostly by word of mouth, it seems.

Man, I knew that I was going! Advance tickets were expensive, but word was, the gates would be open to all. All of the great music groups of the day were going to play – all of them! The concert would last as long as necessary for all of the bands to play. What a scene!

So, I went off to Woodstock – myself and my cool pals from High School. My friend Frankie Drove – his father owned a Ford dealership, and somehow he obtained the use of a brand-new LTD, loaded, which fit the five of us, plus our camping gear: Frankie, Mike, Bill, John, and myself.

We drove westward from the New Hampshire seacoast, across southern New Hampshire and southern Vermont, into New York State. The driving time would have been about five hours, but we stopped for supplies across the line in NY State. Arriving within a few miles of the concert site by early afternoon, we found all of the roads, side-roads, driveways, lawns, and available fields jammed with vehicles. We parked and walked in those last few miles, leaving Frankie, who was fearful of leaving the mint LTD unattended.

As we approached the concert, the world became a crowd, and the crowd became the dominant feature of awareness: The landscape was a sea of people, and the quietest moment filled with a vast ululation of voices.

The first act that I recall was the great Indian sitar master, Ravi Shankar. What time on the first day he played, I do not know, but it may have been late in the afternoon, or early evening. I remeber slipping through the remains of a chain link fence, and moving into the crowd, listening.
The concert was not comfortable. That first night, rain came, and mud quickly became the salient feature of the land surface for the rest of our stay.

I became separated from my friends, and explored a lot, wanting to see it all, and to know where everything was. As darkness became night, I was stupefied by a sea of lights, as the crowd lit matches and lighters during a long and humorous monolog by Arlo Guthrie. This sea of lights was repeated a number of times during the show.

That night, I slept on the ground in the woods, in the rain. Most amazingly, I was found by my friends the next morning, as the literally stumbled over me while cutting through the trees, around dawn of the second day.

Frankie had somehow contrived to bring his LTD in very close to one of the fenceline gates. The car then became our base. Since our sleeping bags were all soaked, we draped them over the car to dry, (the second day began much nicer, weather-wise), where they were stolen as we slept inside, catching up on sleep missed the night before.

During the second day, I once again spent a lot of time wandering. Two of my pals were imagined or genuine victims of the “brown acid”, and went to the medical tent, which was nearby. This was not for me, so I hiked over to the playground ( I recall a giant tripod with a flat rock suspended by ropes being used as a swing, checked out the craft fair (macrame), and finally ended up by a small pond. Throughout this odyssey, the air was alive with music as the Day Two lineup performed. Periodically, I’d just sit down and listen. (Somehow, Mountain’s “Theme From an Imaginary Western” has been embedded in my mind ever since that day).

The little pond was a refuge for a few male and female swimmers, who swam nude. It was at this pond, as I dozed under a tree, that I experienced what remains in my memory as the perfect icon of the entire event: two lovely young women came down to the shore and casually disrobed in the unselfconscious manner of children, and took a dip.

The second night had great music, (hell, all of the music was great, although the Grateful Dead had some trouble ). Creedence Clearwater, and The Who put on great shows, with young George sitting in the crowd, crouched on the mud, enjoying it all.

The third day started with Grace Slick and the Jefferson Airplane, exhorting us all to rise up and endure, and enjoy…Yet by the end of the Airplane’s set, we were talking about leaving. This was Sunday, Frankie needed to get the LTD back on the lot,, we had run out of supplies and money, and were exhausted. People were starting to leave, so we decided to go too. It looked like more rain, so we piled into the LTD, damp and filthy, and headed east.

I believe that I slept the entire way home.


When the Wagons Leave the City
For the Forest and Further On
Painted Wagons of the Morning
Dusty Roads Where They’ve Gone
Sometimes Travelin´ Through the Darkness
At the Summer Comin´ Home
Foreign Faces By the Wayside
Look As If They Hadn´t Known
All the Sad Was in Their Eyes
And the Desert That´s Dry
In a Country Town
Where the Map Was Found…

(Theme From an Imaginary Western, Leslie West/Mountain, c1969)

Afternotes, January, 2009.

In 1993, I drew a map from memory of what I recalled. Last year, I held this against an actual map of the Woodstock Concert site, and was pleased to see that my 1993 recollections had been pretty close. I’d like to think that this extends to my memories of the event in general.

I do not recall all of the music that was played while we were there. Sometimes I was walking around looking at things, sometimes I was asleep. That’s just how it was. We did not have the stamina to stay until Monday, which is when Jimi Hendrix, the last act, played.

The pictures posted are typical. I may be in them, or maybe not. I will say that they are what I saw. Aside from the professionals, there weren't mant cameras visible at Woodstock.

There were drugs and alcohol at Woodstock: Mostly marijuana, LSD and wine. Aside from the misadventures experienced by two of my friends and some others, drug use was pretty low key, albeit pervasive.

Frankie’s driving, and his getting the car to within a couple of hundred yards of the stage by the second day was amazing. Just driving through the crowds must have been an incredible hassle. I don’t think we ever thanked him for that, but walking out that third day, as beat as we were, would have been a challenge. Thanks Frankie.

Final note: As we have discussed before, members of this family whether they be Farritors, Feirtears, Ferritors, et al, are often found near the heart of things, and where the action is. I've posted this little tale as another case in point.

John's Story - One of the Frozen Chosin

John's Story: One of the Frozen Chosin

The background doesn’t matter so much anymore. Let it be known that soldiers and Marines found themselves battling a nearly defeated enemy in Korea, as winter, 1950 descended upon them. As the frigid cold descended from Siberia, enormous armies of Chinese also poured into the Korean mountains, intent upon destroying all of the American Forces, be they Army or Marine Corps. On the Western side of the peninsula, the U.S 8th Army was smashed, and sent reeling southward in defeat. On the eastern side of the country, a combined force of USMC and U.S. Army infantry had closed in around a large reservoir, high in the mountains. This place was called the Chosin Reservoir.

The fighting retreat by the U.S. Marines from the Chosin Reservoir back down to the sea is now understood to have been one of the greatest feats of arms of all history.

Master Sergeant John Farritor, professional marine, veteran of Guadalcanal and Iwo Jima in WWII, was serving in the force that had moved up the winding mountain road to the Chosin Reservoir, when the Chinese assault hit. The following history is his history, in his words:

An Epic Journey

Yudam-Ni to Hagaru-Ri

November/December 1950



We arrived in Yudam-Ni on November 25. Every one of the 70 miles from the sea to Yudam-Ni was washed with Marine blood, spilled by fighting Chinese.

That same night the Yudam-Ni perimeter defenses were hit and nearly overrun by wave after wave of bugle-blowing Chinese. They were repelled but at a terrible price. There were 200 dead Marines and the snow was littered with enemy dead. At 0400 in the morning the Chinese left as suddenly as they had come.

The wind blowing off the frozen reservoir had a “wind chill” factor of -75°F. As a 14-year-old on the plains of Nebraska, I remember the big storm of the winter of 1934. The snow was deep and temperature was -21°F. I rode my horse Midget with a sack of cotton seed pellets to feed isolated cows lost in the snowstorm. Here the temperature was about the same but the wind chill was the killer.

For the next three days, they held the line against repeated assaults. The cost in lives was high on both sides. The Chinese had replacements, but we didn’t. We put up tents for the wounded but there weren’t enough tents; only the most seriously wounded were tented.

In this kind of cold, the best treatment was no treatment. By cutting their clothes open, the wounded would freeze to death. Most wounds froze over and sealed themselves. The blood bubbled up as it froze, looking like pink cotton candy. The corpsmen had to wear gloves to keep their hands from freezing.

While all this was going on, the U.S. Army had its running shoes on and were heading south. They had their backs to the enemy; we Marines were facing our enemy who were all around us.

When the word went out that we were surrounded, a correspondent asked Col. “Chesty” Puller his thoughts on the matter. He replied, “We got the bastards right where we want them and they’re not going to get away.” And damn few of them did!





As the battle raged, there was no escape from the incessant mélange of bugles blaring, cries of the wounded, and calls for corpsmen, all mingled with the sounds of our weapons and the rapid fire of the Chinese machine guns.

On the 29th we started lining up for our journey to the sea. Tanks and artillery would be placed on the point and spotted at intervals throughout the convoy. My three trucks would be #16, #17, and #18 in line of march.

My trucks were loaded to the top of the bed with rations. (There were no canvas tops.) This flat space was for the wounded and frostbitten patients who were unable to walk. The battalion corpsman was assigned to my first truck.

My three trailers were for dead bodies; we started the trip with three dead Marines. One of them was from my section. He had told me one time, “If anything happens to me, I hope you will write to my mom.”

I promised him that I would. However, as we loaded his frozen body in the trailer, I thought to myself: I’ll write to his mom if I get out of here alive. I did get out and I did write to his mother.

Now back to Yudam-Ni…We had infantry in front on the sides and to the rear. Hagaru-Ri was just 14 miles away as the crow flies; however, within that 14 miles were 100,000 well-trained Chinese who had been sent here with a special mission – to wipe out the 1st Marine Division. Toktong Pass was the halfway point. On the way into Yudam-Ni, a company of Marines was left at Toktong Pass. This pass had to be held at all costs. If we lost Toktong Pass, it could very well mean that all were lost. Another battalion was ordered overland to reinforce the company at Toktong. This cross-mountain move over extremely difficult terrain, ploughing through deep snow, plus having to fight Chinese, was in itself an epic. The leader Lt. Col. Davis, received the Congressional Medal of Honor. He earned it. This “fortress” in the sky was so important that they made air drops of food and ammunition.

I said before that I had three trucks. That did not mean I rode. I walked every step of the way and I saw to it that there were no freeloaders on my trucks.

At high noon on the first of December, the first units moved out from Yudam-Ni. Three hundred yards out they were heavily engaged. This was the way it would be all the way. It took 49 hours of bloody fighting to make contact with the Marines on Toktong Pass. As many as 120 Marines were killed in that 49 hours and the distance traveled was only six miles. A convoy 14 miles long is hard to protect from small suicide squads.

Our convoy speed was about three miles an hour. There were a lot of interruptions by enemy attacks. The enemy would try to plug the road with blown-up vehicles. There were bulldozers spotted all through the convoy for the purpose of shoving broken or shot-up trucks over the side of the mountain.

At five that afternoon my section arrived in Hagaru-Ri. The end of the convoy was still 10 miles out.

The troops at Koto-Ri had set up warming tents for us new arrivals from Yudam-Ni – our first warm air in many days. It was standing room only but I didn’t hear anyone complain. Come daylight the heat goes off and we move on. The outside temperature had warmed up to -20°F.

When we arrived at Hagaru-Ri we had not slept for 10 days. If one should fall asleep in this cold he could very well freeze to death. We had to keep moving. The warming tents at Hagaru-Ri were a needed break, and in spite of the crowded conditions, our exhausted bodies demanded and got a few hours of much needed sleep.

At the crack of dawn we dragged our cold, battered bodies out to the road. Koto-Ri was next. Koto-Ri was controlled and occupied by Red Chinese. As we moved out we passed through the roadblock that had kept the Reds out of Hagaru-Ri. There were literally piles of dead Chinese. Many of them had been run over by tanks. It was a grizzly sight; it showed how hard the Marines at Hagaru-Ri had fought so that we from Yudam-Ni would have a haven to which to come.

When my part of the convoy arrived in Koto-Ri, a blinding snowstorm hit. It was so bad everything had to stop. Even the Chinese had to try to survive its onslaught. For two days we endured the blizzard. Then it cleared and the weather turned colder, which is normal. At 20 below, 15 degrees up or down rally didn’t matter.

Then we reached  Sudong-Ni. This town was a welcome sight; it was at the end of the mountains  and the start of the Hungnam Plain. It also meant we were only 35 miles from the sea. As we traveled along we could see the lights of Hamhung/Hungnam. We could see the lights of ships at sea. It was a beautiful sight. Seeing it meant we had survived.

We couldn’t help but think about MacArthur’s remark that the 1st Marine Division was lost and there was no way they could be rescued. We made a liar out of him. Our fighting withdrawal meant that 22,000 Marines would live to fight another day.

Is é Seo Mo Scéal Agus Táim Ag Fanúint Leis

For the Feirtears, no doubt those years of famine, and the longer decades of poverty and degradation came enshrouded in grief and loss. Beyond that there was the family. For twenty generations perched at the tip of the peninsula, itself on the edge of the island, on a windswept and sometimes harsh landscape, a landscape possessed of a raw grandeur and sweeping beauty. Home.

Home. From Mount Brandon, westward down to the sea, along the rocky shore, with the small coves and harbors, and for some centuries the abandoned fortress, once the family’s seat and symbol of power. All lost, yet lingering in memory as an echo, replete with names and memories of some small greatness – Eoghan, Muiris, Eamon - names of vanished Feirtearaigh, or Ferriter chieftains, yet still given to the babies of the family at birth, generation to generation. And then the glory of Piaras Feirtear, the last Irish Chieftain to surrender to the English, martyred at the hands of the Cromwellians – only memories.

What do we know now of the lives of these people – tenants of Lord Ossory and of Lord Ventry going into the period of the Great Famine? While the 15th century may have been a time of prosperity and even of joy for the Irish of Corca Dhuibhne, the times thereafter offer a spectacle of gradual and sometimes sudden decline – for the area, and for the fortunes of the Feirtear family.

When the great Lord FizGerald, Earl of Desmond, went to war against the crown in defense of his prerogatives as the Palatine Lord of South Munster, the Feirtear Family must have been in his service, at least at the beginning. That the Feirtears would bear arms in Desmond’s service extends from the enfiefment granted by the FitzGeralds of the lands inhabited by the family since the Norman incursion. As the fortunes of the FitzGeralds of Munster waned, so did the fortunes of the Feirtears. Despite efforts to remain aloof from the final act of Desmond’s fall, at the close of the 16th the family was of much reduced circumstances.

The two great wars fought in Ireland during the 1600s, first the Cromwellian War, and finally the Jacobean War completed the denouement of the old Irish, and of the Hiberno-Norman families who did not renounce Catholicism. In each of these conflicts, Feirtears fought on the Irish Catholic side and lost both times. How many male members of the family left with the 10,000 who followed Sarsfield to Europe after the Treaty of Limerick was signed, we do not know. That any Feirtears who remained on what had been family lands were poverty stricken and largely dispossessed is certain.

The Catholic tenant population in Ireland following the Jacobean defeat lived lives of grinding poverty and unrelenting misery, this we know. Introduction of the potato as a food staple allowed population to increase, as the amount of land required to support life diminished with this crop. Tenant plots became smaller and smaller with each succeeding generation.

Excerpt from a description of his tour in Ireland by Gustave de Beaumont (1830s):

"Imagine four walls of dried mud (which the rain, as it falls, easily restores to its primitive condition) having for its roof a little straw or some sods, for its chimney a hole cut in the roof, or very frequently the door through which alone the smoke finds an issue. A single apartment contains father, mother, children and sometimes a grandfather and a grandmother; there is no furniture in the wretched hovel; a single bed of straw serves the entire family.
Five or six half-naked children may be seen crouched near a miserable fire, the ashes of which cover a few potatoes, the sole nourishment of the family. In the midst of all lies a dirty pig, the only thriving inhabitant of the place, for he lives in filth. The presence of a pig in an Irish hovel may at first seem an indication of misery; on the contrary, it is a sign of comparative comfort. Indigence is still more extreme in a hovel where no pig is found... I have just described the dwelling of the Irish farmer or agricultural laborer."

And one might wonder why anyone stayed. Home. So, many did leave, in singles and in small groups. Fathers hoping to later bring their wives and children, bereft wives with children, in search of men since departed, since vanished. Men, women and children – across Ireland, in their millions, and of these millions, some dozens of Feirtears. Lost from home, forever.
Some came to Boston, some to New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, and New Orleans. All great entry points for the Irish. Some were sent to Quebec, and some died in the coffin ships outside Grosse Isle, at the port of Quebec. The Ferriter name is there, carved into the memorial along with thousands of others..

The Gaelic inscription reads: "Children of the Gael died in their thousands on this island having fled from the laws of the foreign tyrants and an artificial famine in the years 1847-48. God's loyal blessing upon them. Let this monument be a token to their name and honour from the Gaels of America. God Save Ireland."

At that time, and for decades thereafter, Irish Ferriters left their homeland for America. Once ashore, and recovered from travel, these men and women struck out, in the manner of the times, to establish themselves in the new land. During the early years, from the 1830s to the 1860s, most were barely literate, if literate at all, and most spoke Irish as their first language. So off they went, in the company of other immigrants, at least some of whom spoke their language. If not family, at least countrymen. Off to the mills of New England and New York, to the mines of Pennsylvania, to the docks of Baltimore, Charleston, and New Orleans.

We – that would be us, the followers in time, the successors, have pieced together some of the travels, some of the pathways taken by our lost and scattered ancestors. From the forests of Maine, the mills of Massachusetts, the dark and dangerous coal mines of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Illinois, some found safe have westward on farmlands in Illinois, Iowa, and Nebraska. Onward - westward to the mines of Montana, and to the shimmering possibilities of California. Within a succeeding generation or two, Ferriters are appearing in positions with the railroads, as lawyers, as politicians, and as people of property, on the land.

For most of these people, up until the dawn of the next century, the 20th, there would be little contact with other Ferriter family groups, save for when by chance there might have been settlement in the same town. Many Ferriters settled in the factory areas of the Connecticut River Valley, from Hartford up through Springfield, and Brattleboro Vermont. Surely some of these people knew of one another, and as successive waves of immigrants arrived, renewed a certain familial sense. Not so for most, scattered afar, and out of touch, clinging to their Catholic faith, and with a sense of their past, but with no knowledge of their lost kin.

For six generations, the earliest Ferriter Immigrants have lived this way. Sometimes in the same cities with cousins they knew nothing of. The tiny families and small kinship groups that formed after the Diaspora, grew, and in a few case became extended families in their own right: witness the Farritors of the Nebraska Prairies, who struggled and prospered, now numbering in some dozens of families, or the famous Butte Ferriters, hardrock miners who have been a feature of the Montana landscape now for generations.

With each wave of emigration, a greater possibility of retaining contact with extended families existed, sometimes seized, sometimes not. With the coming of the 20th century, the means for reliable and consistent communication with the homeland came to be, and at last the terror and grief of immigration was relieved. Irish Ferriters arriving after 1900 often kept in touch with those back in Ireland, and brought over relatives when circumstances permitted. For these people, an active contact with Kerry and the villages of the Dingle Peninsula has often been sustained.

The 21st Century has arrived, and with it, easy and commonly accessible means to communicate across vast distance and to locate people virtually anywhere have come into being. Seven generations after the first great wave of emigration, and after the first exodus from the family’s Irish Homeland, Ferriter Family members have the ability to consider where the collective experience of their ancestors have taken them, and to take sure and certain steps to understand the relationships that have all along existed between their families, and other families who share the same name.

The fact that we have Farritors, Ferreters, Ferritors and Ferriters is incidental. These spelling variants are accidents of translation, bureaucratic mistakes, and pronunciation – nothing more. Like some Irish who use the Irish spelling, Feirtear or Feiritear, and the Anglicized version Ferriter interchangeably, the choice exists to honor the past by sustaining the spelling that has been given, but also to freely accept that this is, in fact one family.

That the past not be forgotten, for the summary of the lives of all of those who have gone before us sums up to form the ground of experience upon which we tread. From Sybil Head to Grand Isle, to the mines, the mills, and the factories of the Americas, and thence to where the Ferriter Family stands today. All a part of one thing.

Caislean an Fheirtearaigh

During the 1950s and 1960s, my family lived in a house with a formal sitting room, across an entry hall from a formal dining room. The sitting room was something of a repository for certain heirloom items, and a number of family portraits hung upon the walls. In the far corner of the room stood a walnut étagère, with graduated display shelves, largest on the bottom, getting smaller higher – five shelves total. The middle shelf was the most prominent, and upon this shelf were several items of family historical importance: a small flat stone, a chunk of peat with a green silk ribbon tied around it, and a black and white photograph of a stone ruin, taken across a foggy expanse of grass. Ferriter’s Castle.

As a child, that shelf seemed to me to hold the keys to and the evidence of a secret history: the history of my family from a far distant point in time. This history seemed secret, because there were no encyclopedia entries to describe it and no textbooks that mentioned it, yet people who had my last name all knew about it. A family secret. Our family had once held title to large tracts of land, and great offshore islands. Our family had resisted the onslaught of alien invaders, and had produced a great hero, who not only held out against the enemy for longer than the other Irish, but who wrote great poetry, and played the harp with unsurpassed mastery. Pierce Ferriter.

This history, (a history that I gave up trying to explain to anyone outside the family because I could never quite explain why it was not in any book that could easily be found), was central to my sense of family, as I grew up. My father could tell tales of Pierce’s greatness, and of his deeds. As my father was a man who at times seemed embued with his own qualities of greatness, and who seemed to have vast and certain knowledge of all manner of things, I never doubted any portion of any story that he told regarding our family. Underwriting all of this was the picture of the ruin, and the stone, (a Castle fragment), and the peat, (from the sacred ground). Real things, supporting the otherwise ephemeral stories of the distant past.

So all of my life, I have carried the image of that fragmentary ruin in my memory, an icon of familial faith - faith in the reality of the stories that my father recounted, and faith in the kernel of greatness that always seemed nearby, somehow.


Lately, I have been conducting some topical investigations into Ferriter’s Castle. At some point, I’ll try and produce a more or less thorough write-up of what I have learned. My purpose here is not to describe the Castle in terms of it’s likely date of origin, orginal function, likely size, strength, or what it might have been like to live inside it, but simply to state what the image and notion of Castle Ferriter has meant to me, in this life.

I’d also like to thank all of the people who have visited the Castle in the digital age, and who have taken so many wonderful photographs. These images are proving very valuable in my researches, and promise to hold even more value, as I work on a special project for the All Ferriter Family Gathering. I’d also like to give a special nod to my daughter Angela, who during her semester abroad in Ireland in 1998 not only trudged out to Castle Ferriter, but took away a nice sized stone, to replace that much smaller one, so important to my sense of “Ferriterness” as a child.


George Ferriter, USA

Capt. John Ferriter's Martian Mystery

A few months ago, I posted a piece that focused upon certain events early in the life of my grandfather, John Patrick Ferriter, (1873 – 1957). In that first story, I described his early military service, as a Private in the U.S. Army on the high plains during the early 1890s. Subsequent to that experience, “Pop” as my cousins called him, took advantage of his skills with codes and electrical devices and became a telegraph operator. By account, his abilities were “first rate”, and he made his career working as a telegrapher during the two decades leading up to the U.S. involvement in WWI.

When wartime came, John Patrick Ferriter, although now in his forties, joined the U.S.Army. Review of his military files suggests that he may have taken certain liberties with his educational background, claiming several years of study as a student of law. To our knowledge Grandfather Ferriter had benefited from little formal education, but was a man of powerful intellect, and was self-educated to a considerable extent. No doubt he had studied some law also, but not at law school. At any rate, in 1917 he was commissioned into the Army Signal Corps as a lieutenant, and sent to the battle front in France.

After returning from the War, John Patrick was given the opportunity to retain his commission, and stay on active service, which he did, not retiring until the mandatory age of 60, in 1933, as a Major. During his Army career, my grandfather travelled widely, being stationed at various times in the Philippines, in China, as well as at several domestic postings. He was also an expert in signal transmission, and codes. He held several early patents involving telegraphy and signal handling, and during the early 1930s pushed unsuccessfully for deciphering of the codes used by Japanese forces in China.

In 1924, as a Captain, John P. Ferriter became involved in what may have been the very first serious and concerted effort to receive information from intelligent life forms extraterrestrial in nature. Eighty-four years ago, the first serious attempt to listen to “off planet” voices was made by a few imaginative Americans using the new technology of radio.

Today, whenever someone hears a radio station, it is safe to assume the signals originated on Earth. However, in the summer of 1924 there wasn't the same certainty. In 1924, Mars was in opposition, not in a strategic sense, but in an astronomical one. It was opposite to the sun in the sky, thus placing the Red Planet substantially closer to Earth than is usually the case: approximately 45 million miles away.

So, in the summer and early Fall of 1924 some experts and amateurs as well were carefully making last minute adjustments to their radio sets, hoping to hear signals from Mars. A day of world-wide radio silence was declared for that day when Mars and Earth would be in closest proximity to one another.

It was a fortuitous time to get in touch, and there was motivation to try. Since the end of the 18th century, Mars had beguiled astronomers with its clear atmosphere, dark markings, and icy polar caps. It was a world thought to be not only habitable, but inhabited. If so, then radio waves broadcast by sophisticated Martians could be traversing the empty spaces of the solar system and, if detected, would bring us proof of their existence and information regarding their situation.

Interpretation of the signals merited high level attention. A Martian broadcast might be in the form of a speech delivered in an alien tongue, or Earth might be serenaded by a harmonious Martian tune! Most serious investigators expected any transmissions to use a code based on some mathematical key, and some expected information of an advanced civilization. This had military significance.

William Friedman, America's premier cryptographer (he would later break the Japanese Purple Code), was on standby alert, in case the messages from Mars proved enigmatic - announcing that he was available to interpret any otherworldly codes. At this time, Friedman served as Chief of the Code Section in the Office of the Chief Signal Officer of the Army, and had already gained recognition by deciphering a series of messages between two defendants in the Teapot Dome scandal. Captain John P. Ferriter served on the staff of the Chief Signal Officer.

Monitoring centered on Saturday night in October, when the two planets were at their closest. However, strange signals were reported even before the nearest approach of the planet. Radio operators in Vancouver reported on Thursday that they were receiving a series of "four groups of dashes in groups of four". Both the form and origin of the strange signals were unidentified, and a close watch was promised. In London a specially constructed 24-tube set picked up "harsh notes" of an unknown origin. WOR engineers in Newark, New Jersey reported similar sounds at nearly the same wavelength. A Bostonian reported a strange ringing, ending with an abrupt "zzip".

On the day of radio silence, C. Francis Jenkins, who had invented an experimental television system, turned a crude TV camera at Mars’ closest approach. Jenkins pointed this camera at Mars on the day of radio silence. His camera filmed a signal containing a face and symbols coming from the planet. He and astronomer David Todd sent the film to the nation’s cryptology expert, William Friedman.

As noted, William Friedman was not only a cryptologist, he was also the Chief Codes Officer, and reported to the Chief Signals Officer of the U.S. Army. So, the military was contacted. The Army also admitted that on the same day they also had received signals from Mars. The following is a quote from Captain John Ferriter of the Signal Corps:

‘The signal consisted of dashes of 6 seconds duration, with intervals of 7 seconds followed by a voice repeating words of 1-4 syllables.’

The Jenkins/Friedman film disappeared and was not discovered until a few years ago when a reporter found it in the archives of the Virginia Military Institute. The film has been reviewed by at least one avowed UFOologist, Dr. Elaine Bickle. In interviews and lectures Dr. Bickle has stated:

” I have seen the original ‘film.’ It is beyond doubt a communication from Mars.”

Unfortunately, the film has again gone missing, without explanation for the disappearance of the 1924 film or for the disappearance of papers reporting whether or not William Friedman ever deciphered the code.

Here is what I know. By any standard, John P. Ferriter was a remarkable man, of remarkable abilities. He was in the right place and at the right time to have made the statements attributed to him. I for one am secure in accepting that he may have identified signals as received during the day of radio silence as having been extraterrestrial in nature.

I also know that in today’s radio signal saturated world, the luxury of a day of radio silence will never come again. If hearing those strange voices depends upon such silence, then we will simply need to rely on John Patrick’s determination as to what he heard, remembering that no one will ever again be in a position to perfectly dispute them. That’s good enough for me.

Early photos of Ferriter family in Ballyferriter

A look into the past, from Morgan Ferriter, Donegal, Ireland. These are two shots I scanned from a book called West Kerry Camera. I am not sure exactly who the Ferriter men in the shot below are, someone else may be better able to shed light on this.

All these men but one, are from the parish of Ballyferriter.

Front roW, from left: Tomas O Fearghusa, Séan Feiritéar, Tomas Óg Feiritéar.

Back row, from left: __?, Tomás Feiritéar, Séamus Feiritéar (with son Brendan), Johnny Ó Guithín (Dunquin)

Trif ghIdin Feirtarach Thforabhin i bPariste an Fheirtaraigh 1907. (Feirtear family in Ballyferriter parish taken 1907. Three generations of the Feirtear family in this photograph.)
Chun tosaigh // front row, from left: Seamas, Brid, Murchadh and Seosamh. LaIstiar // back row, from left: Maire, Brid (grandmother), Neil (mother), Siobhan (in Neil's arms), Seainin (grandfather), Eoghan and Muiris (father).My Grandfather, Morgan, is the child in the front with the white pinafore.

Ballyferriter, 1907.

In the photo are the Fitzgeralds pictured dipping sheep with the Ferriters. 4th from the left standing, is Eoghan Feirtear, and behind him is Seainin Feirtear with the hat. The girl wth the shawl is Marie Fitzgerald.

Ted Ferriter

I am a retired U.S. Navy Captain, naval aviator form the P-3 community. My final tour in the Navy was as the Naval Attache to Mexico. This tour was a superb way to end a 30 plus year career, very interesting and much fun. My dad, John, was also a career naval officer, destroyers, who retired in 1967. Both my mom and dad were born in Washington, DC, as were their three children. My older sister, Julie Morgan, lives in the DC area.

I am cousin (second or third, once or twice removed, or something) with other "bloggers" on this site, noteably George Ferriter, coordinator of the upcoming Ferriter Clan gathering in Wisconsin.

I have two sons: John, a 1st LT in the USMC, and Andrew, a 1st LT in the US Army. John is a lawyer who starts Naval Justice School in JAN 08 with follow-on orders to 29 Palms, Calif. Andrew is an aviator stationed at Ft. Hood, Texas, currently in Iraq.

My Navy career took me to many parts of the world, over thirty countries, and our family lived nine different places. (Counting my years growing up in a Navy family I have moved well over twenty times.) At least temporarily, my wife, Pat, and I have decided to settle in the DC area.

One of the highlights of my early travels was a visit to Ballyferriter with my mom, dad, and little sister, El. We stayed at Ferriter’s Inn, outside Ballyferriter, a bed and breakfast run by Ireen Ferriter. We visited the farm of yet another John Ferriter and my dad and I hiked out to see the remains of Pierce Ferriter’s "castle." I have a great picture of my dad leaning up against the remaining corner of the stone structure, high on a cliff over looking the ocean. I will take my son's there when we can work that visit out.

A friend who visited Ireland last year sent me a picture of “Ferriters” a pub somewhere near Dingle that advertises “Food till 8 PM” and “Live music”. I plan to visit there also.

Edward C. (Ted) Ferriter