SEPTEMBER 1965
Six weeks later, I found myself repacking the cardboard boxes for the fourth time in six months. We were moving next door to Janice in the house that Sam and Pat Hall had rented. Though I was happy to be next door to Janice, Dick, and their children, the reason for the availability of the house brought a great familiar sadness.
Two weeks prior, I was busy preparing dinner when the phone rang. It was Janice, and I immediately knew something was wrong.
“Louise, I have some sad news. Sam’s brother, George, has been reported KIA. They are devastated.”
“I’ll be right there,” I quickly replied.
After dropping off the children at Janice’s house, I slowly walked across the yard. Scenes from my own experience filled my mind as I imagined what they must be feeling. I knocked on the door, and Pat answered. I didn’t say a word; I just hugged her. She led me into the den where Sam was, and the three of us sat together, heavy with emotion.
“Do not give up hope,” I said with conviction.
“The casualty officer said they saw his plane in flames and didn’t see a chute,” Sam answered dejectedly.
“Do not give up hope, Sam,” I repeated. “They didn’t give me much hope at first either.”
“You’re right. We won’t give up hope. But they’ve just told my mom and dad that their son has been killed in action. We need to be near them, so we have already made the decision to move back to Hattiesburg. Do you want to move next door to Janice?”
And so it was. We moved into 732 North Madison, right next door to Janice’s house at 734 North Madison. Our two backyards became one big playground for Robin, Carolyn, and Lyle.
I could now get our swing set out of storage. Smitty had built the swing set when were stationed in Wichita and had it shipped to Okinawa. When I returned to the States, I couldn’t bear to leave it behind and had it shipped back. In this way, Smitty had a small part in their everyday play. We often told the story of how Daddy had made this for them because he loved them so much. We talked of Smitty as if he would walk through the door at any moment. As children are so miraculously capable of, they filled their young lives with laughter and play.
Our house was built in 1951 and was a red brick, ranch-style cottage with heart pine floors and a floor furnace for heating. There were four bedrooms and three bathrooms, and given what we had been renting, I felt we were now living in a palace. I had barely unpacked when I had another huge decision to make concerning our home life.
When I answered the phone, I once again knew that Janice must have stressful news to share. Funny how sisters know each other so well that great amounts of information can be gleaned from a single word.
Janice, as usual, got straight to the point. “Louise, I just got a phone call from your landlord,” she said.
“Is there a problem? I mailed the rent check before it was due,” I replied.
“Well, the problem is that they no longer want to rent the house. They want to sell it. He didn’t have the heart to call you, given your situation, but he wanted me to ask you if you would be interested in buying the house.”
“Buy the house? I don’t know if I’m prepared to buy a house,” I said as my stress level rose with every word.
“But, Louise, if you don’t buy it, you will have to move. Again.”
“Oh, I don’t want to move. The kids are finally settled, and it is such a comfort to be next door to you and Dick. I guess I better think about it,” I replied. And pray about it, I thought as I hung up the phone.
A week later, I had a plan. “I will use a VA loan. I have Smitty’s power of attorney, so there should be no problem,” I told Janice, a bit more confidently than I felt.
When I called the VA office in Jackson, Mississippi, I did not get the response I had hoped for.
“You can’t use your loan because you need your husband’s signature,” the man told me.
“If I could have his signature, I wouldn’t need the loan because I would be with him. I have full power of attorney.”
“I’m sorry, that won’t help. The signature has to be specific to this house,” he replied unsympathetically as he quickly ended the conversation.
I was incensed. Here we go again, I thought.
I picked up the phone and called U.S. Senator John C. Stennis. Stennis was a very senior senator, and he was head of the Senate’s Armed Services Committee. He was also a wonderful Southern gentleman from Mississippi.
The operator gave me the phone number to his office in Washington, D.C., and surprisingly, he took my call straight away. I quickly explained my situation.
“Senator Stennis, I have a general power of attorney for my husband, Captain Carlyle Smith Harris, who has been confirmed as being held in a POW camp in North Vietnam. My credit is good. Please, sir, I have moved my children four times in the past six months, and I don’t want to move them again.”
In his deep Southern voice he said, “Well, Mrs. Louise, we will see what we can do about this. Just sit tight, and you will be hearing from someone soon.”
The next day, there was a knock at the door and when I answered, I found the head of the VA standing on my doorstep. He had driven three hours up from Jackson, and he said, “I’m here to help you get your VA loan.”
“Well, that’s good, because I intend to have one. You must have talked to Senator Stennis,” I replied.
A month later I was sitting at a long table with my attorney at the Bank of Mississippi, signing thirty pages of documents that secured the rate guaranteed by the VA. I walked out with the legal papers declaring my ownership of 732 North Madison in Tupelo, Mississippi.
By now, I was getting accustomed to living in Tupelo. Though we had only lived there a couple of months, I already knew I could not have picked a better spot to raise my children. With a population of 17,000, everyone knew everyone, and in the hospitable Southern way, the town quickly welcomed me and the children warmly and without question. While other POW wives were experiencing the negative effects of antiwar activists, I was experiencing the open arms of acceptance and support.
My casualty officer at this time was still Claude Watkins. He called to check on me and the children often. Each time, he asked if I was experiencing harassment. POW wives in other states had reported episodes of vandalized homes and yards, as well as fierce verbal attacks. I knew nothing of such behavior. When Watkins came to Tupelo for the first time, his plane was hours late arriving, without his checked baggage. He commented, “Now I see why you’re not being bothered by the activists—they can’t find you here in Tupelo.” Maybe he was right.
The idyllic north Mississippi town, with its picturesque tree-lined streets, was first established in 1867. Its claim to fame now is being the birthplace of Elvis Presley, and Tupelo Hardware is still visited by Elvis fans as they travel far and wide to see where he bought his first guitar. When Elvis was a baby in April 1936, he was a survivor of the Tupelo tornado, one of the deadliest storms in U.S. history. Striking at night, the tornado leveled forty-eight city blocks and claimed the lives of 233 people and injured more than seven hundred. But from these ruins, Tupelo rose in determination and strength to rebuild itself into a beautiful, loving, and caring community. I, too, felt that a storm had swept through my life, destroying what I had known and cherished before. But the warm reception from the people of Tupelo helped carry my burden as I raised the children alone and provided, despite our circumstances, what all three would describe as a happy childhood.
As I settled into my new home, I fluctuated between being grateful and overwhelmed. It was tough navigating so many changes without Smitty’s help and support, but not knowing how he was faring was simply terrible. One day, around four in the afternoon, I received a call from the local postmaster, Banks Livingston. I answered the phone, and he quickly got straight to the point.
“Mrs. Harris, I think I have a letter for you from your husband,” he said all in one breath.
“You have what?” I practically screamed in the phone.
“I think I have a letter from your husband. It is addressed to Louise Harris, Tupelo, Mississippi. There’s no street address on it. In the top left corner, it says Carlyle Smith Harris.”
“Oh, Mr. Livingston! Where are you and how can I get it?”
“I’ll meet you at the back door of the post office,” he quickly replied.
I called to my niece, Deb, to please watch the children, and I hopped into my car and practically flew to the post office. True to his word, Mr. Livingston was waiting at the back door. He handed me the letter, and with one look I exclaimed, “It’s from him! I recognize the handwriting!” My name and Smitty’s name were definitely in his handwriting, though the partial address was in a different script. Overcome with joy, I threw my arms around a startled Mr. Livingston. He seemed as excited as I was, and he hugged me right back.
I immediately took the letter home, intent on opening it with the children, wanting to share this moment, this precious memory, with them. I ran into the house, and Deb helped me gather all three around me on the couch. With shaking hands, I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper that Smitty’s hands had also held. It was dated Friday, June 25, 1965. Careful to keep my emotions in check, I read the letter aloud.
Dearest Louise,
Words cannot express my love and concern for you and the girls and our new baby boy. My thoughts and prayers are with you constantly. The people here found out and advised me of the birth of our son and that you both were OK. I have never had happier news. Because of you and the kids, I can still say I am the luckiest man on earth.
Louise—please don’t worry about me because it is completely unnecessary. I am uninjured, healthy, in good spirits, and well taken care of. I am living with other American pilots, and we get plenty of good food, clothes, medical care if required, and adequate living and hygiene facilities.
I paused slightly wondering if this part was true. I knew Smitty might try to paint a better picture so that I wouldn’t worry, and I had been informed that if he sent letters, it might include some propaganda—information that the North Vietnamese wanted portrayed. I could not dwell on that thought long, as the children were antsy to hear more.
I have started daily exercises and am sure that when I am released, I can get a job on TV with an exercise program and be the idol of 1,000,000 American women—what do you think of that?
Now that sounds like my Smitty, I thought as I laughed out loud. The children didn’t understand what I was laughing about, but they joined in anyway.
I know that Mother, bless her heart, is very upset over my capture. Please help her, and Dad and Mary too, to understand that I am just fine and it is just a matter of time until I am released. Give them my love and tell them I demand that they not worry and that if they do, I will fuss with them when I get home.
On a serious vein, Louise—I am convinced that there is a reason for all of this. Perhaps we are being given an opportunity to strengthen our faith to merit some very special graces in the future. Whatever the reason, I am sure we can use this time to become emotionally and spiritually stronger. We are separated, but we still have our love and will have years and years together after I am released. So we are really losing nothing important, and I am sure will gain in other ways.
Louise, I know the big responsibilities you suddenly are facing at a time when you are having to take care of the almost constant demands of a new baby. I have absolute faith in your good judgment and your ability to take care of all of this and still maintain your sense of humor and composure, and remain your own lovely, lovely self. I will never understand how I was lucky enough to fall in love with and marry the most wonderful girl in the world.
I am addressing this to Tallahassee because I imagine that you will be or are in the States now. My guess is that you will spend some time with both our families and perhaps stay with one until I am released. Later on, you may want to get a place of your own. In any event, please get a maid to help you with the kids and to give you some free time to entertain, go to parties, etc. See how much fun you can have, and I am sure the time will pass quickly until we are together again.
I am anxious to hear from you and get all the news about our little boy, also to hear about the latest doings of Robin and Carolyn. You might try regular mail, a peace organization, or a U.S. Senator as a means of getting me a letter.
Give Robin and Carolyn a big hug and kiss for me and tell them I love them very much. They are such good and sweet little girls, and their daddy misses them very, very much. I am popping all my buttons with pride over our little boy. Give him an extra hug for me too.
Louise, I must repeat, I am in excellent health and spirits. I keep mentally and physically busy so the time passes quickly. In retrospect I am sure this separation will seem short. I love you with every ounce of my heart and soul. Please take care of yourself.
All my love,
Smitty
When I finished reading the letter, I refolded it, placed it back in the envelope, and held it close to my heart. I scooped my three children in my arms and hugged them closely. As tears began to form in my eyes, I dismissed myself so they would not see my emotion. Such bittersweet words of comfort and encouragement!
About that time, Janice wheeled into the carport and ran into the house. Deb had called her at her real estate office when I went to the post office, and she had rushed home as soon as she could. I reread the letter to her and laughed and cried all at once. I then picked up the phone to call Smitty’s parents. I knew they would be just as happy as I was to know that he was alive and well. I only wished we could read it together in person. Tears fell freely on both ends of the telephone as I read the letter aloud to them. When I hung up, I placed a call to my mother and then my grandmother, and then I had one more call to make. I called the Pentagon. They had given me a special number to call after hours, and someone answered immediately.
When I explained that I had received a letter from my POW husband, their first response was, “Please send the letter to the Pentagon right away.”
“Well, yes—but I need to make you a copy,” I stammered.
“We need to see the original one, ma’am,” was the reply.
“Well, I will still need to get a copy for myself,” I said.
“There must be some place you can get a copy made tonight?”
“I live in a small town, sir. I will see what I can do. But I need the original letter back,” I replied.
“We will get it back to you, Mrs. Harris. I promise. But we will need to keep it for at least a week.”
“Do not damage my letter,” I said firmly.
“We will take good care of it.”
I hung up the phone, and Janice and I headed back to her office to make copies of the letter. I made copies for myself and Smitty’s parents. By that time, it was too late to mail the letter to the Pentagon, but the next morning it was headed to Washington via registered mail with a return receipt requested.
Years later, I found out how the letter came to find me in Tupelo. The letter had been written in June 1965 when Smitty briefly shared a cell with Phil Butler, Bob Peel, and Bob Shumaker. A visiting delegation of diplomats who were investigating to see if the North Vietnamese were following the rules of the Geneva Convention was scheduled to arrive, and our captors wanted them to see these letters as a propaganda piece, proving that they were allowing the POWs to write and receive letters, in adherence with the Geneva Convention.
Knowing this might be the case, Smitty and the others wrote the letters, believing they would have a better chance of being delivered if there were positive words concerning their circumstances. The North Vietnamese had no intention of delivering any of the letters, but when the Vietnamese hosts briefly left the room, the diplomat from Great Britain slipped one of the letters in her purse. When she returned to England, she mailed the letter to a contact in the States, who mailed it to me in Tupelo.