MAY 1965
“Why me?” I must confess this was a sentiment that often plagued me in the early days of my incarceration. Trying to find the answer to this unanswerable question, I often thought back over my childhood. I was a typical boy from a middle-income family in a small rural town. Though I hadn’t thought of it back then, I realized as I sat in that dank and humid cell that my childhood had been a very happy one. I had grown up in Preston, a small farming community on the eastern shore of Maryland. My two best friends were Bobby Plutschak and Donald Brodes.
I wonder what those two are doing right now, I often thought.
Bobby lived on a farm outside of town. Around the age of twelve, I began working for Bobby’s dad on the farm. I rode my bike out there with my .22-caliber rifle resting on the handlebars, just in case we had an opportunity to go squirrel hunting.
Donald was younger than I was and lived across the street from me. He helped support their family because his father was disabled. I easily fell into the role of being there to make certain Donald had fun—and for that to take place, I would walk across the street and help him finish his work. We both were interested in building model airplanes, and our favorite was the U-Control variety, powered by a motor. We would make the plane go up, up, up and then turn swiftly and fly down, down, down.
Much like I did with my F-105, yet here I am, stuck in this hellhole, I thought miserably. How I longed to be up in the clouds, defending my countrymen once again.
In the summers I worked on Bobby’s farm, went camping, and enjoyed the outdoors. On reflection, I probably had my share of an adventurous disposition. I was often one of the first to go skinny-dipping in an icy cold stream in the spring, and in winter I skated on the mill pond when there was barely enough ice to hold a boy. These best friends and I were always first to test the ice and often broke through into the shallow water. Dad was a strict disciplinarian, and he took a dim view of some of my antics.
Dad, I thought sadly. Will I ever see Dad again? He had been diagnosed with cancer just before I was shot down. Will he live long enough for me to see him once again? Stop. Don’t go there. I can’t let those types of thoughts rule my mind. The battle of the mind was never-ending.
For as long as I can remember, I had an active interest in aviation. Throughout her life, Mother kept the scrapbook I put together of hundreds of pictures of airplanes I collected and cataloged when I was twelve to fifteen years old. During this time, I began building model airplanes and spent a large part of the money I made as a farmhand and delivering papers to buy new engines and models. I enjoyed patching up old rubber-powered models for one last flight and sent them off with a large firecracker and extra-long fuse to provide a dramatic end to their usefulness.
I dreamed of being a pilot but doubted I would ever have the chance, much less the funds, to pursue this interest. From the time I was twelve or thirteen, I frequently pedaled my bike eight miles to a grassy strip that served as a local airfield. I volunteered to sweep the hangar and wash the airplanes, and I spent many hours simply hanging around pilots and airplanes, daydreaming of becoming a pilot myself. This persistence paid off, and I was eventually invited to take a ride in a Piper Cub airplane. I was thrilled.
The pilot air races of the 1930s were of particular interest to me, and I could see myself joining the ranks of Jimmy Doolittle, Roscoe Turner, and others who had reached the pinnacle of air racing—the Cleveland National Air Race. My early ambition to fly was finally fulfilled when I was able to qualify for the Aviation Cadet Training Program in the United States Air Force. I disdained multi-engine aircraft and wanted to fly only small fighter aircraft. My early years in pilot training and later flying the F-86F day fighter aircraft were too good to be true. It was almost inconceivable that I would be paid to do the very thing for which I had longed.
Adapting to military life wasn’t too difficult, for I had been used to discipline. However, I strained the regulations to the limit and occasionally broke them when I had an urge to fly too low (buzz) or to perform acrobatics not specified in the aircraft technical order.
As I grew more experienced and mature, I came to realize the importance of the Air Force mission and took a more professional approach to the ever more complex and demanding job of being an Air Force pilot.
“Why me?” I guess the better question was “Why not me?” It could have been any of my colleagues and friends sitting here. Looking back, I believed my life had prepared me for this terrible journey in a million different ways—from hard work on the farm to the discipline of my parents, from my admiration of Donald through the difficulties of his youth to the strong will I was born with. I can do this, I thought, as my resolve returned yet again. “I will do this.” I laid back on the cold, concrete platform that served as my bed.
Yes, my days of childhood had been happy. Was that to be true of my little ones? Would my girls be able to overcome this situation? Would they grow up happy, as I did? And what of my son? Why I felt the baby Louise was carrying was a boy, I will never know. But I did. I just knew. Was he born yet? Would I ever see him? Would I ever watch him run and play? That was the great desire of my heart—to watch my children as they experienced a happy childhood. I sighed deeply and shook the thoughts from my head. Well, it is up to Louise now. And Louise can be trusted. I lay down on the concrete bunk and fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of my children running and playing in the backyard of our home in Okinawa as I looked over the steep cliff to the waters of the Pacific Ocean below, where naval ships were anchored.