JULY 1966 THE ZOO AND THE HANOI MARCH
A guard came and took away one of our long-sleeved pajama tops. Through peepholes and tapping, we found that one shirt had been taken from each POW. As always, when anything out of the ordinary routine occurred, there was a great deal of speculation among us.
An hour or so later when the shirts were returned, a large stenciled number was on each one. We were sure this was for the benefit of someone outside of camp—to make us look more like criminals. There were almost as many ideas as there were POWs about when, where, and for whom we would be displayed.
In the late afternoon, guards directed us to put on our long clothes, and then we were blindfolded and led to a truck. Shu and I were handcuffed to each other, as were other pairs of POWs. We traveled only about fifteen minutes in the trucks until we disembarked and waited. Finally, guards lined us up in some kind of formation as we started walking. We halted.
Rabbit had a megaphone. He said we should all keep our heads bowed so the people would not get angry, and we must not try to communicate. We still had no idea what was going on. Guards removed our blindfolds as Rabbit said, “Now the walk begins. You will see the indignation of the Vietnamese people.”
We had heard the noises of a lot of people, but we weren’t prepared for the huge multitude we saw as we walked a block and entered a very large square in the city. By now it was almost dark, but the square was lit with streetlights and very large spotlights carried on trucks. A roar of noise greeted us in the square. Loudspeakers blared. People screamed and chanted. I shuddered as I remembered my parade in Thanh Hóa. At least here, the people were being kept separated from us. Movie cameras and other cameras of all types were recording our march. English speakers continuously reminded us to keep our heads bowed.
Just as in Thanh Hóa, the authorities began losing control of the thousands of people they had intentionally brought to a fevered pitch of hatred. As we left the square in a long file of twos, the mob began closing in on the guards and army men who walked beside us. Sticks and rocks were thrown. Men were being hit and kicked. Jeremiah Denton was knocked stunned to his knees. Bob Peel literally dragged him to his feet and kept him moving as the crowd closed in for the kill. They wanted blood. All of us were hit, and most were bleeding when we finally arrived at a stadium. Two or three hundred people were milling around the gate as guards and POWs tried to push through them to enter. The last fifty feet were the toughest.
Angry fists struck at us. Some landed. We were kicked and struck by thrown objects. Somehow we managed to push through to the gate and enter the stadium. What a relief—the guards and army men had been able to keep all but a handful of the mob outside. I was truly worried. Shu and I had been near the front of the formation of fifty to sixty POWs, but the men behind us probably were feeling the brunt of the mob’s violence, which had increased throughout the march. I could picture the mob knocking someone to the ground, and in their frenzy, there would be little chance for his survival. Miraculously, my fears were ill-founded, and no one was killed.
In the unlit stadium we sat on the ground, waiting to be moved. Lt. Chuck Boyd was handcuffed to Lt. Cole Black, who had been shot down just a few days previously. Chuck was trying desperately to teach Cole the Tap Code whenever they could exchange a few words. There was so much noise, activity, and shock from the harrowing march that Cole was not able to comprehend what Chuck was trying to teach him. Finally, Cole turned to Chuck and, still wide-eyed over what he had been through, asked, “Do they do this very often?” Chuck knew there was no use trying to keep going on this occasion to teach Cole the Tap Code. Trucks carried us back to the Zoo.
We heard cell doors open and close. Guards barked orders—some men were moved. We felt like caged animals because we knew there was trouble in camp. The arrogant, abrupt manner of the guards revealed some new instructions that had been given them by their superiors. Through our communication system, we heard that some men had been seen chained to trees in the courtyard. In the morning we heard from Pop Keirn that he had been tied between two trees and whipped with a strip of rubber from an old tire. He had been randomly picked, and I knew my turn was coming. That was all part of the mental torture we were enduring.
Apparently, the Hanoi March was the culmination of a program to rile up the hatred of the Vietnamese populace against American POWs in preparation for our trials. We were to be exploited. The North Vietnamese were going to try to obtain some propaganda advantage from us.
Starting immediately after the march, a torture program was initiated to force American POWs to write statements that would be of benefit to the DRV. They wanted letters written to antiwar congressmen, confessions, and statements against our government. Ironically, they tortured us to obtain statements that their treatment of Americans was generous, kind, and humane.
The torture included creating intense pain with tight ropes; leg and arm irons being tightened down; beatings; manipulating broken arms, shoulders, and legs; and other methods that would not leave too many obvious scars. Usually the most intense pain was induced after a POW had been worn down by being forced to kneel for hours or days, being chained to a stool, and/or being denied food and water. Their purpose was to intimidate, extract propaganda statements, and gain compliance with their wishes. They failed. They got some useless statements and temporary satisfaction.
In retrospect, their torture was a big mistake, and we gained from that mistake. Once grossly mistreated, no POW was ever again fooled by their propaganda, brainwashing, or lies. Never could our captors let the International Red Cross or other unbiased outsiders visit and report on our good treatment—the propaganda they desperately desired. Their mistreatment hardened us, and as we fought back, we developed a great pride in ourselves, our leaders, and the others who after each torture session vowed to try harder next time. Our unity and steadfast resistance gave us strength and singleness of purpose that some believe is the main reason we came home without the kinds of emotional and mental problems that were expected from our ordeal.
Much later we found out from new shoot-downs that world public opinion and outrage at the Hanoi March had forced Ho Chi Minh to assure several important national leaders that American POWs would not be tried as criminals. This foiled their plan to use us as public hate objects in trials around their country. It did not, however, stop them from trying to exploit us by attempting to extract propaganda statements. On the contrary, it probably caused them to increase their efforts in the latter program.
For the next few days, a number of men were moved out of their cells. On July 11, guards opened our cell door and motioned to Shu and me to roll up our gear for a move. As we sat on a concrete curb, blindfolded, waiting to board a truck, I tried to peek under my blindfold to see what was happening. Fortunately, looking down, I saw my letter from Louise lying loose on the ground. My most prized possession! I’ve always been a very lucky person—or perhaps Someone was looking out for me.
Years later, I learned that my Louise knew more about the Hanoi March than I realized. A few weeks after the torturous march, she received a call from Claude Watkins, her casualty officer and the man who had taught me the Tap Code, informing her that he was coming to Tupelo from Washington, D.C. He had classified information in his possession he was sure she would want to see. Shortly afterward, Claude was knocking on the door of the Madison Street house, and Louise nervously invited him in. He got right to the point and explained about the Hanoi March, what we had endured, and how a Japanese reporter had relayed the information and smuggled out photographs. Watkins then pulled out a black-and-white photograph and gave it to Louise.
“Louise, tell me if you recognize anyone,” he said as he put the photo in her trembling hand.
She looked for a moment and replied, “No, I don’t think I do.”
“Look closer,” he said.
She pulled the photo closer to examine each face. Then she saw them. My cheekbones were the giveaway, though they were now more prominent because of the weight loss.
“Smitty,” she said with mixed emotions. Her heart sank because the photo revealed how painfully thin I was, and then her heart soared because it was the first proof she had that I was alive.
“You can show your sister if you’d like,” Watkins said with compassion. He knew that if something happened to Louise, Janice would be the children’s guardian, so she was included on most of the communication, including this classified photo. Later, Louise was also allowed to call my parents and tell them about the photo. All of them had the same reaction—a mix of emotions in opposite extremes. They hated to see me and the other men in such terrible circumstances, but it was great reassurance that we had survived thus far.
That photo, now quite recognizable, showed Pop Keirn on the front left of the scene; his normal 250 pounds had dropped by around fifty pounds. Redheaded Kyle Berg and Shu were beside me, and Larry Guarino and Ron Bern were behind us. We were all emaciated, but all alive—at least for now.