APRIL 4, 1965 11:45 A.M.
In the village I was led into a dirt-floored building, and several people pushed in with me. An older man started giving instructions, and all left but two men with rifles and him. He was holding my .38 revolver.
Just to be safe, my hands, which had been tied behind my back, were now tied to a post that supported the roof. After about an hour, I saw a uniformed man pull up to the hut on a bicycle. After a short conversation among my captors, my hands were untied, and someone brought in my flight suit and boots. After donning them, I was taken out and motioned to start walking. The older man led the way, and the two men with rifles followed. Ten or twelve other villagers joined our group.
When we came to the edge of the village, we passed over a narrow levee with a deep trench dug beside it. The older man stopped and talked to the men behind me. I guess I was still shaken up by my previous experience with a firing squad, for I was sure that at any moment a bullet would crash into my head and I would be pushed into the trench. Instead, he turned around, and we started walking again. My injured shoulder was giving me much pain, so I pulled the zipper of my flight suit down to my waist and rested my arm in it like a sling. Also, my knee had gotten stiff and sore while I was sitting in the hut. It turned out to be a bad sprain, but I hadn’t even known it was hurt until then.
We walked for about an hour on small paths and levees between the rice paddies until we reached another larger village. The people were out in force to see me. I was surprised to see almost no hostility in their faces—only curiosity. I also noticed the bare subsistence level of their existence. I saw only two or three bicycles and no cars. Most of the thatched-roof huts had bare floors, and no appliances or luxury items were visible through the open doorways. An outside well provided water. There was, however, a loudspeaker in each village blaring out some Vietnamese radio program. I supposed that the people were too poor to own radios of their own.
We passed through the village and continued to walk for another half hour or so. It was now early afternoon, and I was extremely hot and thirsty. We stopped in a small group of trees, and I was tied to one, with the two men with rifles still guarding me. The rest of the group found some comfortable spots in the shade and took a nap. Soon, some Vietnamese women brought food and drink. The men awakened and took the food but offered me none. I made some motions that I was thirsty, and finally one of the guards untied my hands and gave me a bowl of hot, salty soup that did little to quench my thirst.
Soon we were walking again. This time my knee was almost completely stiff. After about a mile, we came to a river with a pontoon bridge and crossed to the other side. The hot sun and humidity were oppressive. I was perspiring freely and suffering from acute thirst. I would gladly have drunk the river water if given the opportunity. We walked up a bank near the river, and in the distance I could see another small village, with some trees and foliage near it. I had been looking for even the slightest possibility for escape, but to this point there had been no cover in which I could hide. Our group walked through the village, and again the people were alerted and stared curiously at me.
Just past the village was what I believed to be a police station. Several uniformed men in unpressed khakis were standing around. I was led behind a large building to a small brick hut that was obviously a place of detention.
There were bars in the high windows and a heavy padlock on the thick wooden door. I was pushed inside, and the door slammed behind me. I sat on the only piece of furniture, a wooden platform that was used for a bed. Within a short time, I began to hear many voices outside and a loudspeaker blaring something in Vietnamese. The voices got louder and angrier and began to chant. I was unable to see out of the high windows but knew a large number of people were out there. Suddenly, the cell door opened, and two policemen led me out into the crowd. They had placed two ropes as an aisle for me to walk in and to separate me from what was now an angry mob. When I appeared in the cell door, there was a loud yell, and a sea of hostile faces met my gaze. I was led a short distance to a cleared circle about thirty feet across, in the middle of which were my helmet, dinghy, parachute, survival seat pack, and other personal objects. These things had not accompanied me on the walk, and I wondered how they had gotten here.
There were at least a half dozen men with cameras and one large 35mm movie camera. A ring of fifteen or twenty uniformed men kept the mob of people out of the circle. One of my guards pushed on my head, indicating for me to bow. I feigned ignorance of what he wanted, and the crowd yelled madly. I was led around the circle two times and then through the corridor to my cell. When the door slammed behind me, I heaved a sigh of relief. This small, dingy cell was a welcome respite from the mob outside. Several years later, Louise was shown a picture of me taken that day by one of the photographers. It was found on the body of a North Vietnamese soldier killed in South Vietnam. She guessed that my arm was injured, because I was carrying it in the zippered front of my flight suit.
Back in my cell, I thought about the hostile, screaming Vietnamese just a few feet away. Were these the same people who a short time before had passively watched me walk through their village? Their lack of sophistication and childlike response to an emotional appeal over the loudspeaker were revealing. Apparently, their government had no problem controlling the hearts and minds of these people.
My cell door opened, and two civilians accompanied by two armed guards entered with a portable tape recorder. One of the civilians asked me in poor English to give the name of the Navy ship from which I was flying. I remained mute. He then asked the type of aircraft I was flying. Again, I remained mute. He was obviously angered by my lack of response and spoke at length with the other Vietnamese men. Controlling his voice, he asked my name, rank, and service number. I provided this information, and he seemed pleased. Then he said, “Speak into the microphone and tell us about your bombing mission.”
I shook my head—No. His face turned livid, and I saw him look at my left hand that was resting on my lap. He spoke to the guards in Vietnamese and then turned to me and said, “Give me the ring from your finger.”
“No,” I said once again. He simply nodded to the guards, and they knocked me backward on the bed. There was a short struggle with all four men participating, and they removed my wedding band.
Louise. Her name pierced my mind as one of the men held up my ring in triumph. With a sinking feeling deep in my gut, I knew I had been ripped away from her and my children, just as the ring had been ripped from my finger.