DECEMBER 1971 CAMP UNITY CHURCH SERVICE
Lt. Col. Robbie Risner, my squadron commander, arrived at Camp Unity on Saturday, December 26, 1970. He described in his book The Passing of the Night: My Seven Years as a Prisoner of the North Vietnamese the euphoric pandemonium when he walked into Cell 7 and was greeted by POW friends whom he had not seen or been in close contact with in years. It was like a grand family reunion, with laughing, shouting, and hugging—not unlike my own entrance into Camp Unity. Risner was respected by all as a strong leader and devout Christian who lived out his faith each day through his wise actions and attitudes. We all looked up to him. So it was not surprising that on the first day at Camp Unity, he was asked about leading a church service, now that so many were together. Risner agreed there would be no better way to begin their stay in Camp Unity than with a church service.
They quickly proceeded through the processes of planning, beginning with selecting a temporary chaplain, George Coker. The group was somewhat evenly divided between Catholics and Protestants, with a sprinkling of other faiths. All were united in their desire to participate as a unified group, even those who did not consider themselves very religious.
Once the idea took root, the determination and great desire to worship together spread with a decided purpose from man to man. Six men who had musical abilities were identified, and they quietly began to rehearse songs in a corner of the large cell. The chosen hymns were “The Old Rugged Cross,” “In the Garden,” and “America,” and the lyrics were written out on toilet paper. The service was to be both religious and patriotic, and Col. Vern Liggon, the SRO, was asked to lead the Pledge of Allegiance.
The next day, Sunday, December 27, Liggon organized the men while the guards were at lunch. Some POWs formed a semicircle around the room, while many others stood on the concrete platform in the middle of the room. After the Pledge of Allegiance, another POW opened the service in prayer, and then the choir sang. This was followed by a Scripture “reading,” though they did not have a Bible for reference. However, after years of mind projects, many were able to quote Scripture from memory. Then as a whole, the men recited the Twenty-third Psalm together. This psalm had become known as the Prisoner’s Psalm and was given to almost everyone who had come through Heartbreak Hotel through Tap Code or whispered when the area was cleared of guards. After a short sermon by George Coker, the choir sang another song, and we all recited the Lord’s Prayer in unison. Risner then gave the benediction.
Robbie Risner knew the Vietnamese would not be happy about our gathering, but felt it was important enough to risk the consequences. The first service brought a threat, which we all were used to by now—“How would you like to go back to the 1967 treatment?” Even with that threat, Cell 7 decided to continue with the church services, and many of the other cells joined in as well.
Though the threats continued and the Vietnamese camp commander, a man derogatorily called Bug, was livid, the POWs felt that worshiping together was worth the risk. The service was shortened to fifteen minutes, and the psalms, prayers, and Pledge of Allegiance were recited in lowered voices, but the Vietnamese still opposed the meeting.
On Sunday, February 7, the Vietnamese were ready to retaliate. The Hawk, one of the turnkeys, came and ordered the choir to stop singing, which they promptly ignored until they had sung the final stanza of the hymn. George Coker began his sermon and continued speaking, even after the Hawk told him to be quiet.
When he ordered the men to disperse and sit down, the POWs remained standing silently. The Hawk walked to the door to report to Bug as Howard Rutledge stepped forward to quote Scripture. The service was ending in the same way it had been planned, with Risner giving the benediction. Liggon then said, “Dismissed,” which was the first directive the POWs had obeyed. This infuriated the Hawk. As the POWs began to disperse, the guards began to gather those who had participated in leading the service, including Risner, Rutledge, and Coker. As they walked out of the cell, Bug declared, “Now you will see that my hands are not tied!” We had not been tortured thus far during our time in Camp Unity. These brave men took the torture and isolation on behalf of all of us. I did not see Risner or the others again until our arrival back in the United States.
The guards lined up the men outside with their backs toward the building. A few seconds later, Major Bud Day began singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” It was a call to RESCON 1—the highest level of resistance. Immediately, all the men of Cell 7 joined in, singing as loudly as they could. This spread to other buildings, until all the POWs in Camp Unity were singing in unison. We hadn’t heard “The Star-Spangled Banner” sung in all those years, yet here we were, raising our voices in unity and in resistance. As Risner later described, the sound could be heard throughout the camp, over the walls, and into the city of Hanoi. It was glorious! Risner and the others spent months in Heartbreak Hotel in isolation and enduring punishment as a result of this resistance, but they all felt it was worth it.
Later, when asked how he felt when he heard the POWs loudly singing their support and resistance, Risner famously replied, “I felt like I was nine feet tall and could go bear hunting with a switch.” Thirty-one years later, a nine-foot-tall bronze statue of Risner, who had by then attained the rank of Brigadier General, was placed in the central plaza of the Air Force Academy.
This memory-making church service built morale like never before. The resistance was ignited, and the POWs were emboldened. Other states of RESCON were also utilized during my stay at Camp Unity, including the use of military formation. Everywhere we went, we walked in formation, including during work detail and outside exercise. The Vietnamese were furious. Riot squads comprised of approximately fifty guards with helmets and tear gas grenades, joined our regular turnkeys in guarding us. Many of our leaders were taken out and put in leg irons, and still we resisted. Finally, the Vietnamese announced that our Sunday services were allowed. But by that time, we had made it clear we weren’t waiting for their permission. Even while in isolation, the POWs who had been taken out continued with Sunday worship services, though they were conducted covertly. Rather than a choir, a whistling solo had to suffice each week. The Vietnamese referred to this time as “the riot,” though in reality, it was only our enthusiastic singing and unified attitudes.