“Caged birds accept each other but flight is what they long for.”
Tennessee Williams, Camino Real
Early on our final day of captivity, the V issued each of us a pair of dark blue cotton slacks, a long-sleeve blue shirt, a gray windbreaker, a small gym bag, and a pair of shoes. We didn’t waste any time getting dressed. For the first time in more than five years we would be wearing something other than black or maroon striped pajamas. My feet had become so accustomed to rubber tire treads held on by a strap across the toe that I wondered if I would have trouble putting on real shoes. It was not a problem.
A little before noon we loaded onto camouflage-colored buses, and our motorcade headed for Gia Lam Airport. It was a strange feeling to be outside the prison walls without blindfolds, handcuffs, and leg irons. We rode like normal people taking in the city and gazing back at the curious Vietnamese onlookers. After a short ride, we pulled into a park near the airport, and they handed us a box lunch and a bottle of Vietnamese beer. Our excitement began to rise, but we were still calm—steady on course.
After lunch, the buses took us to the airport, where we unloaded and formed up on the tarmac in groups based on date of capture. John McCain was in the first row of our group, and I was three rows behind him.
Yes, this was the day—the long-awaited day—and we were functioning as if it was just another day at work. To be honest, I was more curious than excited. I had grown to be so cautious that my emotions were as flat as a table. After five years, four months, and two weeks—1,955 days of captivity—I was going to walk through this exercise and see what happened.
As our names were called, we stepped forward and saluted the senior U.S. Air Force officer who was receiving us. We were then escorted to three waiting C-141s, a bird ever after to be known as the Hanoi Taxi. When all were loaded, the walk-on tailgates were closed and the windowless aircraft, which felt inside somewhat like a cave, began taxiing out. The lack of visibility brought to mind a trip I had taken less than a year earlier, when we were transported under a tarp in the back of a truck from Hanoi north to Dogpatch. On today’s journey, though, there would be no blindfolds, handcuffs, guards, or bone-jarring bounces.
The revving of the C-141’s four big engines caused my heart to race. Pilots love the feeling of power during the run-up and takeoff; this time it was almost surreal. As the brakes released and our Hanoi Taxi accelerated smoothly down the runway, we held our breath waiting … waiting … waiting. Finally, the wheels broke ground—we were airborne! A bedlam of cheers, yells, whistles, and foot stomps erupted in the cabin.
Our destination was the big hospital at Clark Air Base in the Philippines. As the primary Air Force staging base in both the Korean and Vietnam wars, it was a familiar place to most of us. A few minutes after takeoff, the aircraft commander came on the intercom: “Gentlemen, we are ‘feet wet’ and over international waters.” A roar went up; the captives indeed were free.
On the flight to Clark AB, we smoked cigars, circulated, shook hands, looked at the latest magazines, and visited the cockpit, where I was taken aback to see that the aircraft commander was a captain about my age, still under thirty. We also took turns hugging the three nurses on board. Other than a couple of Vietnamese kitchen coolies, we had not seen a female in all those years.
As the Hanoi Taxi rolled into the VIP parking space at Clark, we were surprised to see a large crowd waiting with welcome signs and banners. As we deplaned, the cheers and tears of the crowd warmed our hearts and calmed our anxieties about our reentry into a radically altered world.1 It was a shock to be treated like returning heroes. We did not see ourselves as heroic; we simply had done our duty.
We went straight to the hospital, checked into our rooms, traded the Vietnamese travel clothes for hospital attire, and headed to the cafeteria for the thing we had most thought and talked about during captivity: food! It was afternoon, but the time of day didn’t affect our menu choices. I had eggs (fried and scrambled), sausage, bacon, grits, hash browns, fruit, pancakes, and the long-awaited glass of cold orange juice. Then I returned for a steak and some ice cream, followed by more ice cream with apple pie. My friend Leroy Stutz (Captain, USAF), who had been released ten days earlier with a group of men shot down in 1966, had set the record. This farm boy from Kansas and former football player at the Air Force Academy, ate a dozen eggs with all the trimmings and then went back and got a dozen more followed by a couple of steaks and then several desserts.
After our meal, we started working the phones to call home. As a single guy, my call was to my parents, who were waiting at our farmhouse with my brother and his family. It was wonderful to hear their voices again and to know that all was well. These calls were a dream come true for most of us, but not for all. Some men learned that their wives had moved on or wanted a divorce; a few found out for the first time that a parent had passed away.
We spent two days at Clark getting a brief physical, dental check, haircut, and new uniforms for the journey home. Putting on that blue service uniform was an emotional experience. It represented my career, the commitment I had made, and the sacrifices that had come with it. I was proud to wear it again; it had been a privilege to serve my country in difficult times and in the presence of true heroes. We were a band of brothers. We had accomplished our mission, and we had returned with honor.
Those of us returning to the southeastern United States came back together, stopping only once to refuel in Hawaii. It was the middle of the night when we arrived at Hickam Air Force Base near Honolulu, but a large crowd was waiting to welcome us. Major General “Boots” Blesse, a Korean War ace and one of my commanders in Vietnam, was there to greet our flight. He and I had flown several combat missions together, and it was good to see him again.
After a short visit, we were back in the air for a nonstop flight to Montgomery, Alabama. It was hard to believe that I’d soon be back in the sunny South, the land of pines, peaches, pretty girls, and grits. We Air Force guys would undergo a few days of detailed medical exams and intelligence debriefings at the Air Force Regional Hospital at Maxwell AFB. John McCain and the Navy guys would board another aircraft and head on down to Jacksonville, where they would be reunited with their families and check into the regional hospital.
This C-141 was configured for a med-evac flight, so I crawled into a bunk and began to reflect on what was happening. After nearly six years in captivity, POW life had become the norm. How well would I adapt to a world where a myriad of changes had occurred and a multitude of opportunities waited? Even simple activities, like sitting in a chair, having a hot shower, or drinking beverages with ice would require an adjustment. How out of step would I be, and how would others experience me? The only thing I knew for sure was that I would never be quite the same. Yes, I was the same person—adventurous, confident, outgoing, and blunt—but I had changed in profound ways, mostly for the better. While pondering these thoughts, I sank into a deep sleep.
About an hour out, we were awakened so we could freshen up and prepare for arrival. This was the day I had been waiting for. I had always believed it would come, but now that it had arrived, I wondered what it would be like. I straightened my tie and put on my uniform jacket. At the last minute I decided to wear the lei I had been given at our stopover in Hawaii. The cockpit reported that the weather on the ground was clear and crisp, a perfect March day.
We landed, taxied in, and deplaned one at a time. When they announced my name, I walked down the steps, saluted the dignitaries, and stepped over to the staff car where my mom and dad waited with open arms—a terrific moment! Our escort officer drove us to the officer’s quarters where my brother Robert, his wife Pat, and their son Bob were waiting for our joyful reunion. It was St. Patrick’s Day, and I love green; but in pilot speak, it was all “blue skies.” The dark clouds of POW life truly had passed, and the light of freedom was brightly shining. We celebrated throughout the rest of the day and long into the night.
Over two delightful days we caught up on what had happened to each of us during the past five and a half years. For the first time I saw my three-year-old nephew, Bob, and I also met Ken Fisher’s lovely wife, Maggie. When he was captured, they had been married only two and a half years. It was strange to realize that Ken and I had lived together more than twice that long. When Ken had left the States, his little girl, Susan, was ten months old; now she was a grown-up six.
After our families headed home, we “returnees” kept our quarters and signed into the hospital to begin physical checkups. The majority of us were in decent health. I had lost several fillings due to rocks in the rice, and like the rest of the guys, I needed de-worming. The guys who had suffered serious bone damage on ejection and capture had the most problems; some would need significant surgeries to correct years of neglect.
During the next month we would spend many hours with the intelligence debriefers telling our stories in minute detail. The immediate objective was to gather any information we might have about non-returning POWs and MIAs. As far as I knew, no one was aware of any living POW left behind.
As soon as the first round of checks and intel debriefs was completed, I flew to Atlanta where my family picked me up. As our car approached our home, I noticed yellow ribbons on trees and fences along the side of the highway. With the war ending, the song “Tie A Yellow Ribbon (‘Round The Old Oak Tree)” by Tony Orlando and Dawn sold more than three million copies in a matter of weeks and was number one on the charts for four weeks that spring. In our wildest dreams back in the camps, we never could have imagined how much of the nation’s attention and concern had been focused on us. We owed a tremendous debt to the families, friends, and citizens who had worked so devotedly to raise awareness of our plight.
When we reached the city limits of Commerce, Georgia, the general manager of the local GMC dealership, Milton Nix, was waiting in a Cadillac convertible. Being driven down the main street of my hometown to the cheers of hundreds of citizens was an overwhelming experience. In retrospect, I regret that my parents, my brother, Robert, and his wife, Pat, were not in that convertible with me. Their years of work and sacrifice on my behalf made them the real heroes in my eyes.
It’s unfortunate that another group of real heroes—our Vietnam veterans who made tremendous sacrifices for our country—were not welcomed home as were the POWs. The majority of our vets never received a word of thanks, and many were treated with disdain, even hostility. It did not seem fair that we were honored and they were not.
A few weeks later, those of us who had lived at Son Tay, along with the Son Tay raiders who had attempted to free us, were flown by Ross Perot to San Francisco for a reunion party. After a parade in streetcars and a cruise in the harbor, we were treated to a huge banquet at the Fairmont Hotel with entertainment by numerous celebrities, including Red Skelton and the Andrews Sisters. John Wayne and Clint Eastwood were there to pay homage to the “real” tough guys. At dinner, Duke, with tears in his eyes, turned to raid leader and legendary special operations commander Colonel Arthur “Bull” Simons and said, “Colonel, you are in real life the role I only play in the movies.”2
The celebrations seemed to go on and on. Ross Perot, with the support of civic leaders and several Texas corporations, invited five hundred of us, along with our spouses or guests, to Dallas for a Texas-size celebration. This gigantic affair, dubbed Dallas Salutes, was the first time all Vietnam POWs had been together. What a privilege it was to meet men I had known about for years but had never seen. On Saturday afternoon, we sat on the field at the Cotton Bowl as Bob Hope hosted a special tribute to us before 70,000 fans. When Tony Orlando and Dawn finished singing their hit song “Tie A Yellow Ribbon,” all in attendance were on their feet cheering.
We were invited to the White House in May for what turned out to be the largest party ever held on the premises. The celebrities who entertained us sat at our tables. Sammy Davis Jr. was seated between my mom and me and was a gracious and entertaining host. Bob Hope again emceed and kept us laughing all night. At the close of this magnificent evening, the elderly Irving Berlin stepped onto the stage, spoke a few words of kindness, and then led us in “God Bless America;” there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Truly, the “faith you can never afford to lose” had become reality.
Like most of the POWs, I had decided to continue my career in the service. The Air Force had instituted a plan called Operation Homecoming to requalify returning pilots, so on August 7, 1973, under the watchful eye of my instructor pilot, I launched a T-38 out of Randolph AFB in San Antonio. As we cleared the end of the runway, I rotated the “white rocket” into a max climb, pressed the mic button and made the call to the tower, “Freedom 34, airborne.” This captive was really free; I had slipped the surly bonds of earth once more.
Captivity was not without its benefits. One of them was the opportunity afforded for reflection. At times I felt as if I was on a silent retreat. In these quiet moments, I realized that my physical body wasn’t the only thing imprisoned. My mind also needed to be set free from bondage to unhelpful perceptions, erroneous opinions, and self-limiting fears.
This awareness motivated me to fight new battles for my own freedom, and it allowed me to become more sensitive to the kinds of shackles that inhibit others. As a leadership consultant, I’ve noticed that even good leaders typically have not yet arrived in their journey to freedom and wholeness. Most will need to address one or more of these three issues to free themselves and in turn free others: (1) avoid bitterness, (2) connect with their emotions, and (3) do the right thing in spite of the difficulty.
Since my release, people have often said to me, “I can’t believe you’re not bitter.” That’s an understandable question, considering that I “lost” more than five prime years of my life. However, I don’t feel bitter. During our last two years of captivity, when the V adopted more of a “live and let live” policy, we had time to think about our feelings and about what our attitudes would be after repatriation. Most of us concluded that bitterness would serve no good purpose, but would instead undermine our happiness and steal our freedom. Bitterness is about looking back with anger and regrets. “Victims” who focus on their losses and blame others for their misfortunes make poor leaders.
I also harbor no bitterness toward those who objected to the war. In the camps we were proud to defend the rights of the protesters back home, even when we believed their actions prolonged the war and consequently our term of imprisonment. My cellmates and I regularly told the communists that freedom of speech was one thing that made our way of life great and theirs unacceptable.
Life is full of opportunities to become bitter; “injustice” is everywhere. One person may feel cheated when he is passed over for a promotion that goes to a “less competent” colleague. Another may become bitter when she loses her job or has a career fall apart for no apparent reason. Still another may indulge in self-pity when he loses his life’s savings due to poor advice or a scam. When parents lose a child, or have a child born with a severe disability, bitterness knocks at the door of their hearts wanting to come in. And it’s easy for those who suffer the injustice and humiliation of discrimination to feel like victims. There are many reasons that seem to justify bitterness, but bitterness is always a losing proposition.
As a leader and coach, I try to help others understand that bitterness poisons the heart and imprisons the spirit. The consequences can be far worse than physical confinement. If you detect bitterness in yourself or others, launch a mission to free the captives. The first step for me was to look ahead to what is possible, rather than stew over being a victim. The antidote to bitterness is forgiveness. Forgiveness is usually grounded in love—and it starts with love for yourself. I refused to be bitter because I cared too much about myself to let someone or some situation that I could not control, ruin my life. When you really love yourself, you are more free to forgive and even love those who have hurt you.
Forgiveness also comes more easily when you realize, as we pointed out in Chapter 13, that the most difficult trials can produce the greatest growth. In a very real sense, the years I spent in captivity in Vietnam were not “lost” or “wasted” at all; I reap some benefit from them almost every day. I certainly wouldn’t choose to go back into captivity, but I appreciate the treasure that I’ve mined from those trials.
Some of the toughest leaders I’ve known avoid emotions like the plague, except for anger, which they deem okay when it’s theirs. Except in combat, shutting down your emotions is a mistake. Emotions can be a leader’s greatest asset for positively influencing others.
Gallup Research shows that organizations where leaders emotionally engage with employees and customers realize significant financial returns. Specifically, the data revealed that customers who have a strong emotional connection to the organization deliver an average of 23 percent more than the average customer in terms of share-of-wallet, profitability, revenue, and relationship growth. In stark contrast, Gallup also found that actively disengaged customers—those whose emotional connection to an organization is weak or absent—represent a 13 percent discount.3
Emotional awareness is crucial for success on an individual level, too. A few years ago I was brought in to coach a high-level superstar in a Fortune 500 company. He was brilliant and likeable, but in meetings he attempted to demonstrate his competence in an overly passionate, sometimes domineering, manner. During our second session I looked him in the eye and said, “Sam, I want to ask you a question. Who are you trying to impress?”
For a moment he was dumbstruck, as if I had hit him in the head with a hammer. After a long pause, he looked at me in astonishment and said, “My father, and he died two years ago.” I reminded him that he was a highly paid, highly respected professional, and most likely his father would be proud of him. Even if that weren’t true, he did not need to let self-doubts rule his life. Upon my recommendation, he entered into counseling and continued his growth.
Connecting with emotions has been one of my biggest personal struggles. As a POW, I worked to suppress my feelings to avoid the painful oscillations from highs to lows. That wasn’t difficult for me to do. By personality, I tend to avoid most emotions except anger, which sometimes can be helpful for bringing about change and getting work done. When my second roommate of the war was shot down and lost, it hurt so much that I decided to shut down all sad emotions. In war, mourning every loss can land you in a bottomless pit of paralyzing despair and ineffectiveness. This decision served me well in the POW camps, but when I came home it started to cause problems, especially two years later when I met and married Mary. How can a husband whose emotions are encased in concrete connect at a heart level with his wife and children?
About fifteen years ago, I saw the magnitude of the problem. With this new awareness, I began to fight for a different kind of freedom in order to be able to give my family the unconditional love they needed. It’s an ongoing process, but Mary will tell you that many of the fetters have fallen away. Seeing how my emotional freedom has given my family new freedom has been a strong incentive for me to lean into the pain.
PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) increasingly is recognized as a serious problem among combat veterans.4 But many executives in civilian life also suffer from the debilitating effects of insecurities and fears due to past hurts and traumas. Although the manifestations may be less severe than for combat veterans, the effects can be career derailing. If you suspect that mental or emotional bondages are holding you back, I encourage you to seek help, lean into the pain, and realize the rewards of an intentional commitment to growth.
The strongest commitment I made coming home was to always try to do what is right. That’s seldom easy, and sometimes I’ve fallen short, mostly due to impatience, anger, and fear. Now that I’ve become more aware of my emotions, I try to pause and determine what is driving them, so I can better understand how they are connected to my deepest desires and needs. Then I decide what actions would best allow me to live and lead in a way that honors God, my family, and my country.
Sometimes I catch myself struggling to clarify what is the right thing to do. This usually happens when I have strong emotions about one direction or the right choice requires doing something uncomfortable or unnatural. In these cases, I coach myself to “lean into the pain.” When I have trouble being objective about what is the right thing to do, I reach out to my support team for counsel. If the issues are especially complex, I seek the assistance of a professional coach.
I think others notice my commitment to do the right thing and that helps me as a leader and coach. Not long ago one of my clients called me to ask my advice about whether she should buy a certain business to supplement the substantial income she earned from her regular job. This up-and-coming young executive had done extensive research, and she was very excited about the revenue potential of “moonlighting.”
As a coach, it would have been inappropriate for me to tell her what to do, so I asked her a few questions about her motivation and her relationship with her current manager. “I want to buy this business so I can make more money,” she answered, “and I don’t plan to tell my manager right now.” When I asked how she thought her manager would view her moonlighting idea, she replied, “He probably would not be happy if he found out.” After I asked a few more questions to help her fully understand both her motives and the possible outcomes of her actions, she thanked me and said goodbye.
The next day this client called to say that she had decided to drop the idea, because her planned course of action did not meet the smell test of doing the right thing. As a footnote, within a short time she got a significant promotion and salary increase at her regular job. Meanwhile, the economy turned sour, and the business she had considered buying dried up.
Having had similar entrepreneurial urges as I approached retirement from the Air Force, I can understand this young lady’s passion for owning her own business. I was very impressed with her willingness to process the idea in light of her personal commitment to lead honorably. Since then, it’s become evident that her managers appreciate both her initiative and her character. I think she has a very bright future.
Foot Stomper: Authentic leaders proactively identify the shackles that hold them back and lean into the pain to break free and grow. As you gain your own freedom, begin helping others to do the same. Start by avoiding bitterness, connecting with your emotions, and doing the right thing even when it’s difficult.
Most leaders do not think of themselves as captives, but everyone has some areas that are holding them back from being all they can be—habits and behaviors that just aren’t working. Awareness is the starting point for gaining full freedom to grow in leading with honor. Likewise, once you recognize your own need for freedom, you will be able to help others break free also.
1. Is it possible that past disappointments have created a hint of bitterness in your heart toward someone or some group? Begin monitoring your strongest emotions for indications of bitterness. If it is present, what can you do about it? How can you help others who might be dealing with bitterness?
2. How well are you connecting with your emotions? If you are like many leaders, you may be having difficulty even recognizing them, let alone connecting with them. Refer to the emotions chart in Appendix E and find your most frequently recurring emotions. Are they positive or negative? How can you manage your emotions to be more effective as a leader? What are you doing to help others connect with their emotions?
3. Reflect on a time when you rationalized and avoided doing what you knew was the right thing to do. What can you learn from that experience? How are you helping others learn the value of doing what is right, even when it does not feel right?
Note: To download an expanded version of these coaching questions for writing your responses, visit LeadingWithHonor.com.
1 What we didn’t know then but would soon learn was that most of our fellow veterans received no such honors. In fact they were generally dishonored for their service, which only added to the pain of war they brought back with them.
2 For the exciting details of this raid, read The Raid: The Son Tay Rescue Mission, by Ben Schemmer.
3 Gallup Consulting. “The Next Discipline: Applying Behavioral Economics to Drive Growth and Profitability.” http://www.gallup.com/consulting/122906/next-discipline.aspx, (2009).
4 Many years after the war, several POW friends and I have recognized that we had some symptoms of PTSD. For me it was hyper-vigilance, recurring thoughts of having to fi ght bad guys, excessive need to be in control, and unnecessary anger. That awareness has been very helpful in gaining more freedom.
