MAY 1972 DOGPATCH
On May 13, 1972, I was one of a group of 210 POWs to once again be blindfolded, loaded on trucks, and moved to yet another prison camp. In a convoy of sixteen trucks, we drove hours upon hours in extremely hot and uncomfortable conditions. We arrived around 2:00 a.m. on May 15. We had arrived at Dogpatch.
Dogpatch was the North Vietnamese camp located close to the Chinese border in an area of high karst—irregular “bowls” of eroded limestone. The bowl that housed the camp was fortified with automatic weapons and concrete bunkers. We observed lookouts on the high points of the karst. We were told we had been moved there for our own safety, which defied logic, since many POWs were left at Camp Unity. As usual, there was no rhyme or reason for our location changes.
We were placed in cells in buildings made of concrete and granite that were evidently bombproof. Obviously, this was a maximum security facility. The concrete roofs and walls provided a cold, damp, dark environment for our new home. The intent was apparently to hide us from U.S. bombers and rescue teams, as well as the local population, for the Vietnamese installed camouflage draping over the camp area and blinders in front of the buildings. The roofs were painted black, and an effort to camouflage them was seen in the bushes and vines that had been planted on top of them. Even the courtyards were camouflaged with large jungle plants placed on top of a bamboo framework, extending over the courtyards.
Living conditions took a nosedive compared to our conditions at Camp Unity. The cells were small and poorly ventilated, and eight to twenty prisoners were crammed into each one. There was no electricity, and the only light at night was from a kerosene lamp. We were allowed outside time, but it was limited to two hours in the morning and an hour and a half in the afternoon, six days a week. Water was provided by gravity from the surrounding ridges, which fed into a central water tank for each cell. Several of the buildings did not have enough water for bathing. The courtyards were small, and our regimen of exercise was difficult to maintain.
We did have playing cards, chess and checker sets, and even some educational materials, which was a step up from my early days of captivity. We were also given the opportunity to write home, though only once a month. We received some letters and some packages, but as always, the Vietnamese continued to cut open and sort through the contents.
Throughout the almost eight years of my captivity, I received only two packages. Those were great days! A guard would take me out of my cell and escort me to the interrogation room, where I would receive the package. I would then be escorted back to my cell. Once I was in the cell, I could take my time opening the package. Both of the packages I received were crumpled, broken, and practically empty by the time they reached my hands. I didn’t really care though. I still had the joy of knowing that Louise’s hands had touched the same package I now was holding. In one of the packages, I found a few pieces of broken candy, crushed soap, and a half-filled tube of toothpaste. Looking further still, I found a great treasure—a picture of Louise. She was in a big easy chair with a drink in her hand. I smiled, thankful that she was okay and looked happy.
Given my Escape and Evasion training—as well as my intense curiosity—I combed through each item, inspecting them closely. On a whim, I peeled back the seam of the toothpaste tube and much to my surprise and joy, I found a 3x4 microfilm. Further inspection revealed a bird’s-eye view of a map of Hanoi. Obviously, Louise was working with the Pentagon to provide tools for escape. I was still under the directive to not try to escape unless I had outside help, so the map was never used. It did, however, provide endless fodder for dreaming of escape routes and plans. And it provided the wonderful, comforting knowledge that we were not forgotten.
I spent less than a year in Dogpatch. Though the accommodations left much to be desired, some aspects of our treatment improved. Our food was adequate and even included canned meat or fish on occasion. The torture had ended, but the propaganda remained. However, a poor PA system at Dogpatch helped to curb the constant blasting of taped propaganda, though we did occasionally have to endure statements by actress Jane Fonda and others speaking out against the war.
Jane Fonda, along with thousands of students and protesters, took over the University of Maryland mall in May 1970. From there, she became one of the most prominent faces of the antiwar movement. Though many activists may have begun with noble intentions, the false information and half-truths provided fuel to the fire that resulted in painful and infuriating propaganda used against the POWs—and our families—in countless ways.
In 1972, Fonda took her infamous trip to North Vietnam, which resulted in a disdain for the actress among the POWs and earned her the famed nickname “Hanoi Jane.” Her trip to Hanoi in 1972 sealed her sordid reputation among many in the United States and especially among the POWs, who suffered the most from her propaganda with the North Vietnamese.
In Hanoi, Fonda met with seven POWs who had been housed separately from other POWs and given preferential treatment. They were well fed, well provided for, and never tortured, unlike the rest of us. Two of the POWs had led several young American shoot-downs to cooperate with the Vietnamese. Later, other POWs got word to the new POWs and informed them that they were being led by two turncoats. Thereafter, their attitudes toward and cooperation with the Vietnamese resembled the rest of ours. Though many of my fellow POWs were furious with the lot of them, the SRO determined that they were lost sheep who had come home. They too returned with honor. The two instigators, however, continued to be viewed as turncoats.
The action that most enraged the POWs, as well as all Vietnam veterans, was the infamous photo of Jane Fonda surrounded by North Vietnamese troops, posing happily as she sat on an antiaircraft gun—a gun that had most likely been used to shoot some of us down. To this day, it is hard for me to think kindly of Jane Fonda.
When we returned home and began sharing our stories of torture, Fonda called us “hypocrites and liars and pawns.” After more than a decade of the repercussions of her Hanoi Jane reputation, she appeared to have a change of heart, though the half-apology she offered was incomplete and too little, too late. She told Barbara Walters in a 1988 interview:
I would like to say something, not just to Vietnam veterans in New England, but to men who were in Vietnam, who I hurt, or whose pain I caused to deepen because of things that I said or did. I was trying to help end the killing and the war, but there were times when I was thoughtless and careless about it and I’m very sorry that I hurt them. And I want to apologize to them and their families . . . I will go to my grave regretting the photograph of me on an antiaircraft gun, which looks like I was trying to shoot at American planes. It hurt so many soldiers. It galvanized such hostility. It was the most horrible thing I could possibly have done. It was just thoughtless.*
Yes, she was thoughtless and so much more. In early 2000, she publicly declared that she had turned to Christianity, albeit mixed with Buddhist and Hindu practices. I do sincerely hope that she will find the redemption that Christianity offers. Though I and my fellow veterans will never forget, my faith compels me to seek to forgive.
In October 1972, there was a series of prisoner shufflings from cellblock to cellblock throughout the camp, the largest of which occurred on October 25. When we were all settled into our new cells, we slowly came to realize that we were now housed according to our shoot-down dates. This realization gave us great optimism toward an eventual release, and we sensed the winds of change blowing across the camp through subtle observations—such as better food and less restrictions—as well as reading between the lines of the propaganda we continued to endure.
After the last shuffle, I was the SRO of my cell group. I led my men in continuing to follow the Code of Conduct, as well as the new regulations set forth at Camp Unity. My favorite RESCON to implement as SRO was RESCON 3—Soldier. I would instruct my men to use military formation whenever we were outside the cell. I would make a great show of having my men line up in an organized and unified fashion. They would not move until I said, “Dismissed.” This showed the Vietnamese that we were still soldiers committed to our country and our cause. It was a source of great irritation to the guards, which was a great source of pleasure for us.