JULY–NOVEMBER 1966 BRIARPATCH
Our new destination was a familiar one. In July 1966, I found myself back at Briarpatch. If I had thought that my first experience there was difficult, I was about to be in for a rude awakening. We were the last group of POWs to arrive at the Briarpatch, and we brought with us stories of torture that had started after the Hanoi March, which quickly moved to Briarpatch, as the guards launched into extreme harassment of all POWs that was uncontrolled and sadistic. A man we named “Frenchie” announced that many of the guards had lost relatives in the previous bombing raids, and he was therefore not responsible for their actions.
Bowing became the most degrading initiative. Lessons in bowing were given to the POWs, and when we were uncooperative, we were slapped and beaten with fists, which soon progressed to rifle butts and sticks. Initially, the SRO gave the order—“Do not bow.” This order was rescinded, but due to poor communication, many POWs did not know. Therefore, abuse continued and eventually became so violent that several POWs were permanently maimed.
Guards would harass the POWs through the barred windows by beating or stabbing us with long sticks. Being outside was a particular torture, and soon the once-oppressive cell became a sanctuary to many of us. However, this sanctuary became hellish when the guards sealed the windows closed, forming an individual steam bath for each POW. Food rations were cut, and due to no salt in the diet, boils were common.
After the Hanoi March, an intensive program called “Two Choices” began over the PA system and continued in the violent interrogation sessions. The first choice was to change over to the Vietnamese side and help end the war. In return for agreeing to this choice, POWs would get the privilege of continued “humane and lenient policy” toward them. The POWs were instructed to show that they had chosen this option by writing or taping propaganda statements.
The second choice was to continue in our loyalty to the United States and resistance to the Vietnamese. Selecting this choice led to threats of dying the death of the “blackest criminal.” Approximately forty POWs were at Briarpatch during this time, and all forty of us chose to support and remain loyal to the United States of America.
In early August 1966, a civilian we nicknamed “Doc” came to Briarpatch, along with an officer we called “Louie the Rat.” I would encounter him later at Son Tay. Doc began his “quizzes” with a few POWs, apparently trying to find willing writers to make propaganda statements, which we later felt were intended for the Bertrand Russell “International War Crimes Tribunal.” This tribunal was funded by many sources, including a large donation by North Vietnam, after a request was made by Russell to Ho Chi Minh, the infamous revolutionary leader of the Vietnamese Communist Party. When the POWs refused, the torture began.
A POW would be moved with all his meager gear to a quiz room and told what to write. After refusing, we were beaten, threatened, and made to sit on the stool for days on end, without sleep. After continuing to refuse to write, we were given the twisted cuff treatment. This was a form of torture in which our arms were tied behind us, and handcuffs with accompanying ratchets were applied to our arms. The sickening click, click, click sound indicated the tightening of the cuff until the two bones bent together as one. This torture continued until some form of statement was written. It was a depressing and disappointing moment for all POWs when they reached their breaking point and could no longer withstand the pain of torture. To be forced to write or say during recorded video the opposite of what one believed created an added burden of guilt.
Time and time again, the Vietnamese “won” this game of torture. However, one final layer of defiance lay within the heart of each man. When forced to write, we took advantage of their lack of understanding of the idioms and jargon of American language. Because the Vietnamese often dictated what to write in their unrefined English, it was possible to write in a way that sounded suspicious and ridiculous to an American, thus announcing the coercion and redeeming the guilt of the forced scribe.
Jeremiah Denton was forced to record a 1966 televised propaganda interview, which was broadcast in the United States. His words were calmly expressed as he falsely stated that he was being given adequate food, clothing, and medical care. However, he feigned trouble with the television lights and was seen blinking in an unnatural way. In reality, Denton was blinking in Morse code. His message? T-O-R-T-U-R-E. Naval Intelligence was able to decipher his blinking message, and this was the first solid evidence the outside world had received of our deplorable situation.
Early after my return to Briarpatch, we observed the Vietnamese digging a series of six-foot-deep trenches at various places around the camp. We were told that these trenches were dug to save the lives of the POWs if the U.S. were to bomb the camp. In reality, a much more sinister plan was in place. During this time of torture, we continued our communication as best we could through the use of the Tap Code. These short messages were communicated by tapping in various ways, including using anything that made a sound, such as bumping the Bos when they were being emptied, shaking our clothing, or whistling the Tap Code.
Soon there was an attempted communication purge, and new forms of torture were added. Some of the men were bound, blindfolded, and thrown into the newly dug trenches for many days and then removed and taken immediately to receive the twisted cuff treatment. Others were forced to sit in small caves throughout the day, blindfolded and situated in forced, cramped positions. Still others were forced to run blindfolded and barefoot while being dragged by a noose around their necks. This form of torture seemed like a game to the Vietnamese, which they thoroughly enjoyed. It was not uncommon to hear men crying out in pain and anguish at all hours of the day and night. Every man seemed to have a breaking point, and after two and a half months of continuous torture, the Vietnamese had the “confessions” they wanted, although these were full of ridiculous statements and outright lies.
One example was a statement that Nels Tanner, a Navy pilot, was tortured into writing. The North Vietnamese wanted to get a statement that U.S. pilots were antiwar and would refuse to follow orders. After painful torture, Nels wrote that two antiwar pilots in his squadron had influenced his squadron to refuse combat missions. The Vietnamese really liked his statement and sent it to Bertrand Russell at the International War Crimes Tribunal, where Russell read it to attendees. There were two problems with the paper: (1) How did Nels Tanner get shot down if his squadron refused to fly combat missions? (2) Nels had gone to great efforts to name the two squadron mates—Dick Tracy and Clark Kent. Apparently, the North Vietnamese had not heard of the famed comic strip characters. Nels paid dearly for this embarrassment but was proud of his deception.
When the Vietnamese selected men to read their propaganda over the camp PA system, the recently tortured men complied. However, they still managed to covertly defy the Vietnamese by making the material sound ridiculous through the use of mispronunciations and exaggerated accents. An exaggerated Southern accent was a favorite among the men. The limited ability of the Vietnamese to speak and understand English gave the POWs a small victory. We often said, “They have beaten us physically, but we can fight them with our minds.”
By the fall of 1966, we experienced another malady when our feet became so hot and painful at night that it was excruciating to touch them. We found temporary relief by running in place on the cold concrete floor. It wasn’t until our release in 1973 that this malady was diagnosed as beriberi, caused by a thiamine deficiency. Our poor diets were the cause of this debilitating illness.
Toward the end of November 1966, the season of torture came to an end. As Thanksgiving approached, I was thankful that we had a temporary reprieve. On Thanksgiving Day, I was one of two people in one of the isolation huts, which had four cells. The other occupant was Ron Storz, who had been captured on April 28, 1965, less than a month after I had been shot down. Ron was a tough resister and was continually as defiant as was humanly possible. Having been together on several occasions, we knew each other fairly well. During that time at Briarpatch, our hands were continually tied behind our backs. We were untied only long enough to eat our morning and evening meals.
On this Thanksgiving morning, with hands tied, I backed up to the wall that connected our two cells and began tapping, describing in detail an imaginary Thanksgiving dinner. It did not take Ron long at all to chime in. He tapped back his favorite holiday foods, complete with the perfect pairing of wine. After several hours of exhausting all of our ideas for the perfect Thanksgiving meal, I tapped a final message to Ron: “Ron, now that we’ve concocted this great meal together, why don’t you come on over?”
Without missing a beat, Ron replied by tapping, “I would, Smitty, but I’m all tied up today.”
Maintaining a sense of humor, despite our horrific circumstances, was a balm to my weary soul.
Ron Storz went on to be a part of the Alcatraz Gang, one of the eleven bullish POWs who endured much at the Alcatraz Camp, where the North Vietnamese deemed them as troublemakers. Known also as the Alcatraz Eleven, these American servicemen maintained a stance of defiant resistance that ultimately cost Ron his life. In an effort to defy the North Vietnamese, he refused to do what he was told, including eating what was placed before him. His fellow POWs tried to get him to eat, but he refused. Weak and unable to walk, Ron was carried away by the North Vietnamese and was never seen again. Later, it was reported by the Vietnamese that he was one of the POWs who died in captivity. The Alcatraz Eleven returned with only ten.
Years later, at one of our POW reunions, I noticed a tall young lady whose name tag showed Storz as her maiden name. I walked up to her and said, “I know who you are. I knew about you when you were a little girl.” I told her about that memorable Thanksgiving Day, and we were both overwhelmed with the connection of a shared love for her father. It meant so much to her—and to me—as she had not heard anything about his years in captivity.