MAY 1965
“High up in the sky the little stars climb, always reminding me that we’re apart.”
Stardust! I listened carefully. Someone was whistling that old standard. I was no longer alone. Another American was incarcerated nearby—within hearing distance. I climbed up on my bed and yelled out in the alley behind my cell.
“Hey, American, who are you?” The whistling stopped. The alley was quiet. Again, “Who are you?”
“Hayden Lockhart” came the response from a nearby cell.
My cell door started banging. A guard was hitting it and through the open peephole motioning me to get down. In a few minutes, an interpreter entered my cell and said it was against regulations for me to climb up on my bed or to make any noise. “If you try to communicate with other criminals, you will be punished.”
So there are other Americans here, I thought, elated. The Owl had told me that other Americans were held somewhere else. I had noticed that almost all activity at the prison stopped for about two hours after noon. I reasoned it would be the best time to try to talk to Hayden. I felt I already knew him from being present at his shoot-down over Xom Bang and the write-up about his capture in Stars and Stripes.
As soon as the prison quieted down the next day, I called out in the alley, “Hi, Hayden.”
He answered, “Hi. Who are you?”
We talked quietly for about ten minutes. Hayden was just down the hall from me in cell number four. I was in number one. He told me he had been permitted to write a letter home. Again there was banging at my cell door. I got down quickly.
What great news! I immediately started composing a letter to Louise in my mind. I had a million things to tell her, but most important was that I was still alive. I worked diligently to find the right words that would bolster her spirit and give her hope for the future. I thought about all the problems she must be having and got a lump in my throat.
If only I could help, I thought helplessly. I was only partially reassured when I thought how very capable and stable she was and the help she could obtain if needed.
For the next few days Hayden and I had short conversations. He believed there was a Navy pilot in another cell facing our small courtyard.
“Perhaps we could get in contact with him by passing a note in the bath area,” I said.
I heard keys at my cell door. They must have heard us talking again. A guard I had not seen before made motions for me to pick up my bowl, net, pajamas, and grass mat that I now had and to follow him. I knew I was moving from this cell, but where? I guessed that I was being separated so I wouldn’t be able to talk to Hayden. Or perhaps I’m being moved to another camp, I thought.
We walked through the corridor I had entered twenty days ago into the large courtyard with trees and shrubs. Entering another corridor, we stopped at a wide door that opened onto a dark hall. A strong smell of urine combined with human sweat produced a heavy, damp, musky odor that spoke of misery and suffering behind the eight cell doors facing the hall. The odor recalled a vision of some underground dungeon, and the foot-and-a-half brick-and-mortar walls furthered the illusion. I entered cell number four at the end of the hall. My heart sank as the cell door was closed, bolted, and locked behind me.
This cell was almost half the size of the one I had just left. In the seven-by-seven-foot area, concrete bunks on each side left a two-foot aisle, at the end of which was the only other furniture, a rusty one-gallon can. I sat on a bunk, utterly dejected.
How can I keep my sanity locked in this tiny dark cell for who knows how long? Will I ever get used to the musky odor?
I noticed a familiar-looking peephole with a door on the outside in my cell door. Above the door was a barred transom. I climbed up on the stocks at the end of each bed, straddling the aisle, and was able to look out onto the hall.
I whispered loudly, “Any Americans here?”
In a moment, an answer came back: “Yes, it’s me in cell number one.” So Lockhart had been moved too.
“How goes it, Hayden?”
A long pause. “Who is Hayden? I’m Scotty Morgan. Who are you?”
“I’m Smitty Harris.”
“Oh. Phil Butler, a Navy lieutenant, was here last night and this morning.”
The door at the end of the hall banged open. Guards opened our peepholes. “Keep silent.”
A guard menacingly pointed at the leg stocks as a reminder of what would happen if we continued to talk.
Scotty and I were the only two occupants of the cellblock. Cell number eight, directly opposite Scotty, was the latrine, which explained part of the odor. Each morning, we emptied our buckets, dumping them out a four-inch drain hole at the back of the cell. A showerhead had been installed over that end of the cell that at least gave a trickle of water when we were allowed to bathe.
Guards entered the cellblock at all hours of the day and night. Rather than walking back to the drain hole, they stood in the doorway of cell number eight and urinated on the floor. Being permitted to bathe in the cell was a mixed blessing.
The door at the end of the hall was usually left open, but Scotty was able to reach outside his transom and with a spoon pull the door open enough so he could give it a good push to slam it closed. When it was closed, we could talk quietly with little chance of being caught.
Scotty said the only other American he knew of was Lt. Cdr. Ray Vohden, who was in a cell nearby. He had been able to communicate with Ray by talking out of the high, barred window that faced the courtyard. Even though he could climb up on his bed and look out, it was impossible to completely clear the area, and he had been caught talking several times. So far the Vietnamese had only threatened punishment.
Ray had been shot down on the third of April and had a compound fracture of his leg. The Vietnamese had set his leg, but it had become infected, and Ray had been in excruciating pain. This, combined with high fever from the infection, had caused him to become delirious. The Vietnamese had finally begun to give him penicillin, but he was still very weak.
My cell was closer to Ray’s, so I tried to contact him, without result. Through the window I could see the doctor and nurse often enter what Scotty told me was his cell, so I assumed he was still alive.
Scotty and I talked often. One day, I called down to him and as an opener said, “Scotty, this is the crummiest hotel in the world, and the room service is terrible.”
Scotty replied, “You’ve got that right. This is the original Heartbreak Hotel.”
From then on, this block of eight cells in the “Hanoi Hilton” was called “Heartbreak Hotel.” A large percentage of American POWs would spend some time here and usually shortened the name to “HBH.”
I heard someone whistling softly, “Daddy’s Little Girl,” the 1950s hit song recently rereleased by Frank Fontaine: “You’re Daddy’s Little Girl . . . my Pot of Gold, you’re Daddy’s Little Girl to have and hold.”*
Tears welled in my eyes, and I was unable to swallow because of the lump in my throat. I thought about Robin and Carolyn and how much I loved and missed them.
It suddenly dawned on me that the whistling was not coming from HBH but from outside. I climbed up on my bed and without caution said, “Is that you, Ray?”
Ray answered immediately. We talked briefly. Ray said he was very weak but was doing better. He was from Memphis and had two children. Loud voices and men entering HBH interrupted our talk.
An interpreter and guard entered my cell, and I was thoroughly chastised for communicating with Ray. They threatened severe punishment if I talked with him again. In my opinion, it had been worth it.
My shoulder was still painful and useless, but it was much improved. As long as I didn’t move it, it gave me little discomfort. I had begun an exercise program of sit-ups and some isometric exercises, moving my left arm gingerly and pressing and pulling my hands up to the point of pain in my shoulder. My right knee was still stiff, but I spent hours walking back and forth in the narrow aisle.
Despite the threats, I continued to talk daily with Ray. By watching the area carefully during siesta, we usually could talk quietly without being caught. After about a week, I thought to ask Ray if he was doing any exercises, as they might be helpful to regain his strength.
He answered, “No, today is the first day I’ve been able to sit up to be fed.” I hadn’t realized how very sick he was. His voice was strong and confident. He said the Vietnamese were going to take him to a hospital to operate on his leg when he was a little stronger.
On the tenth of May at dusk, an Army ambulance drove into the courtyard. As they carried Vohden out on a stretcher, both Scotty and I stood at our windows and yelled out, “Good luck, Ray.” The guards scowled and yelled back at us in Vietnamese, but no further action ensued. I learned that he had a compound fracture of his fibula; the bones were broken in two. But his leg had become infected, and his moans and groans of pain had increased significantly. Both ends of the broken bone became infected. At the local hospital, they sawed off both ends of the infected bones. He was back in the cell that evening, and the horror of his suffering echoed through the walls. He was delirious with pain, and it was a month or more before he was coherent again.
Ray’s suffering disturbed me to the deepest depths. They gave him a few shots of morphine, but when the effects wore off, he was almost out of his mind in agonizing pain. His moans echoed through the cellblock, and Scotty and I cringed in helplessness, knowing we could do nothing for him. The pain slowly subsided to the point that we could communicate again. He had been put to sleep with ether, but the hospital conditions were terrible—a dirty room with an oilcloth-covered operating table and open windows for mosquitoes to swarm in and out. Though Ray survived the grisly ordeal, he was still using crutches at the time of our release, nearly eight years later.
Scotty Morgan and I were now old friends. We had been together in HBH for what seemed an eternity but was actually less than three weeks. We talked daily and found out a great deal about each other. Scotty’s principal hobby had been hunting and guns, while mine was golf. Scotty was Protestant and I was Catholic, but both of us had a deep faith that was strengthened through prayer since our capture. We found out that both of our wives were pregnant and talked of plans for our families when we were released.
Scotty closed the door at the end of the hall and called down to me. “Smitty, I know we’re of different faiths and that your new child will have Catholic godparents. Nevertheless, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to be an honorary godfather.”
I was deeply moved. It took a few moments before I could speak. “Scotty, I would be extremely honored for you to be godfather to my child, but only under the condition that I can be honorary godfather to your and Ruth’s new baby.” The pact was made. Scotty promised to give my son (hopefully) his first shotgun, and I promised to give his child his first set of golf clubs. That was a happy thought, which I savored for a long time.