DECEMBER 1965 THE ZOO
I had known Bob Purcell when he was in a sister squadron at Kadena Air Base in Okinawa. Percy, as we called him, was extremely active and gregarious. The prison environment, especially solitary confinement, would be particularly difficult for someone like Percy to adjust to. How would he channel his almost boundless energy? As might be expected, he became a key to his building’s communication network. There was a trapdoor in his twelve-foot-high ceiling, but somehow Percy was able to climb up through it, crawl to the end of the building, and talk to men in an adjacent building through a louvered roof eave.
Some of the men in Percy’s building were on half rations or worse, so he decided to see if he could help them. He found there was a hole in each ceiling through which the electric light wire passed. By scraping and chipping away at these holes, he was able to enlarge them so he could drop pieces of bread down to the men. Percy divided up his own meager portion of bread and passed it out in this manner to the men being punished. He realized that if he were caught, he would be punished even worse than those he was helping, but providentially, the Vietnamese never discovered his actions.
Shu and I moved to the same building with Percy in the next cell. We tapped to him, but he instructed us to place a tin cup at a designated spot on the wall and to place our ear tightly against the bottom of the cup.
I was very surprised to hear Percy’s voice very clearly. He explained that he had wrapped his cup with a blanket and with the remainder had made a doughnut-shaped circle around his head. By pressing the end of his cup to the wall and speaking into it, we could hear him, but the blanket muffled the sound enough that it would be difficult for a guard passing by outside to hear him talking. Cup talk was great. We had all become very proficient with the Tap Code, but it was still a slow way to communicate. Percy talked a great deal with us.
Since he and I were both Catholic, we tried to help each other remember some prayers and the Rosary we had learned as children. This time for reflection had helped all of us sort out the really important things in life, and I believe, without exception, we all found a new relationship with our God.
How could two people cooped up together for days, months, and even years find things to talk about? Seemingly without real effort, Shu and I always found something. When nothing else seemed interesting or informative, our minds wandered to new areas. We started building things. It might be a building, a picnic table with a built-in Lazy Susan, a game, or an educational aid. Though the only building taking place was in our minds, it was a wonderful way to keep sharp and occupied.
We would explain our current project in detail—right down to the nuts, bolts, and measurements of every component. We exchanged recommendations for improvement and often argued over the best approach. We did not, however, quarrel. Though of different temperaments, we enjoyed a great deal of mutual respect and knew we had only one real adversary—the enemy, our captors.
Time weighed heavily on POWs in North Vietnam. We all came to appreciate what a valuable commodity time is and the frustration of having almost nothing to do. Days, weeks, and months were slipping by. We were missing important periods of time with our families. Anniversaries, birthdays, graduations, christenings, and all the important dates that are cherished for a lifetime were gone, never to be recreated.
What an awful waste! We could not even occupy our minds or find entertainment because our captors would not permit us to have books, paper and pencil, games, or anything else with which to utilize our time. We painstakingly made cards and chess sets from the rough brown toilet paper. Mashing rice with a little water produced a paste with which we could stick layers of paper together for stiffness. Regular inspections of our cells usually turned up our creations, and they were confiscated with threats of what would happen if we did it again.
We all had a regular exercise program. Though our diets were meager, it was amazing how well our bodies adapted and became strong, even if underweight. Our exercises served the dual purpose of some gainful use of time while our bodies became tough for whatever demands might accrue in the future. We talked and planned for that future.
Shu had had some musical training that he began to impart to me. With burnt matches, I drew up a full-sized piano keyboard on toilet paper. We also drew up sheets of music. I practiced daily, hitting the paper notes on my piano with the proper timing. The music was written for exercise only, and I often wondered how it would sound if it were played on a real instrument. One day we were permitted to visit the reading room for about an hour. Here the Vietnamese kept their propaganda material that we occasionally were forced to read.
One of the pamphlets had the Vietnamese national anthem, with musical score printed in it. I tore it out and hid it to take back to my cell. I now could play real music on my “piano.” Shu said it sounded better than his composition. We hid our music sheets, as well as some math problems Shu was working on, between the louvered shutter and the bricked-up window. Using a string taken from a blanket, we reached through the hole at the top of the window and tied one end of the string to a protruding piece of concrete and the other to our secret possessions. In this manner, our packet of papers survived several inspections.
We were moved to the other side of the building with no time to retrieve our work. We heard some loud banging by workers and were told through the communication net that the bricked-up window in our old cell was being knocked out. Our hidden items were found. Surely we would be punished, particularly for tearing out a page from one of the propaganda books, but nothing happened. The workers in the camp were almost friendly when they saw us and undoubtedly did not turn us in.
Commander Denton had tried on several occasions to make some friendly overtures to one of the workers he saw when he was out of his cell. We still were interested in pursuing any opportunity to cultivate outside help for a possible escape attempt. Just obtaining some old clothes would be a big help. Denton made the Catholic sign of the cross when he saw the worker, hoping he was Catholic and would be receptive. The next day when Denton was out of his cell to bathe, the worker slipped a crudely carved crucifix onto his bed.
Although in this police state we could never obtain outside assistance, we found evidence that these people were much like people everywhere. They had compassion and cared for others. We found too that theirs was a very disciplined society in which the state had a remarkable ability to control the thoughts and emotions of its people. Our guards were told that we were criminals and should be treated as such. They blindly followed their instructions.
The weather was getting cold. Although the temperature rarely gets down to freezing in Hanoi, we had insufficient blankets and clothing to be comfortable in our unheated cells. At night, our wooden bed boards made us as cold on both the bottom and top, so we tried wrapping up in our two cotton blankets. We kept track of the date and knew Christmas was coming.
Our thoughts turned more and more to our loved ones on the other side of the earth. What kind of Christmas would this be for them? At least we knew they would be warm and safe, but we also knew this separation was in many ways more difficult for them than for us. We were comforted by the fact that they were safe, but they had no assurances about our welfare, and in many cases they didn’t even know if we were alive. If only the Vietnamese would permit us to write and receive letters. I had been lucky to write one.
On December 10, Shu and I were taken to interrogation with Dog. He talked about Christmas and what it would mean to us. I thought he was trying to torment us. He mentioned that we might receive letters from home. When the guards came to take us to our cell, Shu left, but I stayed for a few final words with Dog. Dog accused me of being disrespectful and having a bad attitude. He was right about my attitude toward him.
He thought I should preface everything I said to him with “Sir.” Because I had not, I would not get a letter at Christmas. He was true to his word. Although I could perceive no difference in Shu’s attitude from mine, I was sure Dog wanted to make a point with us. Although I was almost as pleased as Shu when he got his letter from his wife, Lorraine, a few days later, I was sure I would in no way change my demeanor or attitude toward our cruel, heartless captors.