1972 WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was September 1972. The children were busy with their school activities, Scout meetings—of which I was the leader—church activities, piano lessons, and sports practices. I was busy trying to keep up with them, as well as to keep all things in order. Most days went smoothly. Most days we were joyful. Some days we were not. Some days the reality of our situation hit me like a blast of cold air, taking my breath away. During the daytime, I did not have time to think about our situation. I did think about Smitty, however.
I watched then seven-year-old Lyle develop friendships with the neighborhood boys, learn to ride a bike, and diligently fold a piece of paper backward and forward until a replica of an airplane came forth. I would smile wistfully at him, happy in the knowledge that he was a contented little boy, and at the same time sad that Smitty was missing all of the ordinary moments that make up a lovely life. And sad that Lyle and my precious girls were missing the great influence that their father would have had on their lives simply by his presence. I missed his wisdom, and I missed his wit. No one could make me laugh the way Smitty could.
At night, the wistful feeling turned to an acute, aching loneliness. But even as I allowed myself to feel it, I would not embrace it. I could not. I had too many responsibilities; too many little lives were counting on me. Once again, I reminded myself that if Smitty could do what he was doing, I could do what I must do.
Over the years, I had felt a strong responsibility and desire to keep Smitty’s presence alive in our children’s lives. By now, they did not know him at all. Yes, Robin may have had a few flashes of memory of her father, but Carolyn did not, and of course Lyle had never even met him. Yet each night we all knelt by the bed—me and my three little ones lined up side by side as good soldiers in a spiritual war. We were doing our part to defend Smitty and all the POWs. Our warfare was not carnal, but mighty for the pulling down of strongholds—as the Scriptures say. So each night, in prayer, we pulled down the strongholds of despair and destruction, and we prayed our Smitty home.
To the children, I talked as if Smitty were away on a long assignment. He had a very important job, and our nation was counting on him to do it. Since this was all they had ever really known, the children took this in stride and did their part by praying each night for their father. One day, when Lyle was about five years old, we were playing in the park when an aircraft darted across the blue sky with its white clouds trailing behind. Lyle looked up and pointed. “There goes Daddy,” he said. Thankful that this was the picture in his mind of the father he didn’t know, I simply said, “Yes, son. There he goes.”
One day, as the oppressive summer humidity finally gave way to the refreshing signs of autumn, I received a phone call from my casualty officer in Washington. He invited me to travel to Washington with several other POW wives to participate in talks concerning a plan they had dubbed Operation Egress Recap. We called it Operation Homecoming. The thought of Smitty’s homecoming could be likened to the current weather—the oppressive unknown was slowly giving way to a refreshing view of what was to come.
By now, the reports of the war seemed to positively indicate that the POWs might be released in the coming months. How we each longed for that day. But having an inkling of what our men had endured meant that we must prepare carefully to ensure the healthiest and smoothest transition as they were filtered back into a society to which they were no longer accustomed.
As a wife, I was thankful that the United States military was considering the impact of such transitions—especially given the heightened volatile stance of many Americans. Though I never personally experienced the forceful outrage of Americans who were confusedly fighting against the very men who were risking their lives to fight for them, many of my fellow POW wives had. And as shocked as we were when such blatant discontent was aimed in our direction, we had seen this happen gradually. There would be no gradual indoctrination of the current climate for our men, and I cringed to think of the ungratefulness at the least and contempt at the most that these men who had sacrificed so much might experience.
The U.S. military leaders wanted our input for this Operation Egress Recap, and we were very glad to give it. Eight wives flew to Washington to participate in three days of meetings with various leaders of the military. As we walked down the Washington Mall, I was gripped once again with a patriotic force rising in my heart and mind. I took a deep breath of the crisp, cool autumn air and held my head high as I walked past remnants of the latest protest that had signs proclaiming, “Make love, not war” in blood-red paint scattered on the lawn. I was proud of my husband and proud of the brave warriors who had sacrificed everything. I could only hope that these protesters would one day see things from a different perspective. Yes, war is the most complex entity. It is extremely hard to decipher. Yet this I knew with all my heart—our men were the bravest, most honorable of men.
Our meetings took place at the Pentagon. Yes, they wanted our input, but they also wanted to win us over to their view of our husbands’ return. Operation Egress Recap had started as a plan in the anticipation of a large-scale release. The early release of three POWs from Vietnam was causing a bit of havoc in their systems. These men appeared intact not only physically but also mentally and emotionally. The job of the leaders of this plan was to make sure that all POWs experienced the healthiest homecoming. Since each man would have had different experiences of torture and tragedy, the plan tried to anticipate the issues that some of the men would likely endure, and it was in our best interest to prepare for that possible reality.
The Operation Egress Recap project was connected to the Navy’s Neuropsychiatries Research Center, which was ironically located in an old World War II structure overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Point Loma in San Diego. The research center was led by a Harvard Medical School graduate, Capt. Ransom J. Arthur. A civilian physician named Dr. John Plag was directly in charge of the project. Dr. Plag explained that there was no way to know the specific condition in which each man would return, and they were therefore preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.
Six months earlier, researchers at the Defense Department’s Center for Prisoner of War Studies had collaborated with sixteen learned professionals, including medical doctors, psychiatrists, and psychologists, to create a plan for a mass return of POWs. Combining knowledge from both previous wars and from detailed information about each of the POWs, they recommended what they called “slow decompression” of our released men.
This would involve delaying family reunions, as well as slow integration back into our society. They recommended delayed encounters with any emotional situations, as well as any decision-making positions, including those at home. They believed that continued isolation with gradual integration would be most effective for the medical and psychological health of our men. They feared that many of the men, while looking physically healthy, would be acutely afflicted with “concentration camp syndrome” and might suffer with various symptoms such as fatigue, anxiety, suspicion, memory loss, meekness, and loss of initiative.
“It’s important,” said one of the Navy doctors, “for you wives to understand this reality: though the three pilots who came back this week are in good physical condition, and though they seem to be emotionally healthy, this will not be the case for all of the prisoners. In fact, we suspect that a great majority will have a much different experience with their return. You must understand that these men were handpicked for early release. We are still dealing with the propaganda of the Vietnamese.”
As much as I longed for Smitty to return, I felt the churn of anxiety in the pit of my stomach as I thought of the unknown. The experts warned of deep personality changes that often occur in prison confinements, particularly pointing out that those who had been there eight or more years would most likely exhibit this symptom. This, of course, would soon include my Smitty. The premise of the Operation Egress Recap was to ease the shock and bewilderment that a sudden return to freedom and family could cause.
Most of the wives were won over to a gradual rehabilitation of our men, though the thought of being so near our husbands—finally on the same soil—and yet not being fully able to incorporate them back into our lives was excruciating. Even so, whatever was best for Smitty was best for me.
They explained that all POWs would first be held on hospital ships or in military hospitals in Guam, the Philippines, or Hawaii. Those who required additional medical attention or who had undergone deep personality changes would travel to military hospitals near their families for gradual reintroduction of their loved ones. Much of the work of Operation Egress Recap was directed at dealing with the emotional scars of POWs, some of which might be hard to detect. All the wives of the POWs were interviewed, and group therapy for the entire family was recommended as a means to help restore normal family relationships. A lot would have changed in the years our husbands had been gone. They pointed out that even something as simple as a wife’s different hair color or few extra pounds could be an emotional mountain to overcome as our men transitioned back to our families.
The night after our first day of meetings, I stood before the mirror in my hotel room, looking at myself with a critical eye.
What has changed in me? I wondered. Of course, it is inevitable that the children have changed, I reasoned to myself. But have I?
I looked at my hairstyle that was longer and styled differently than it had been the last time I saw Smitty. I was wearing a teal polyester pantsuit, which was a bit of a change from the stylish cotton dresses of the mid-sixties. Leaning closer to the mirror, I wondered if my face had changed. I saw a few tiny lines in the creases of my eyes. And there was a faint line in my forehead. As I had experienced the changes of time little by little, I couldn’t really discern which of those changes would be surprising to Smitty.
Not only did I wonder, Is he the same? but I also wondered if he would think I was the same. Deep down I knew I wasn’t. I was stronger, tougher, bolder, and more responsible. I could only hope that he would find these changes desirable. Nonetheless, I had no fears. Whatever we faced, we would work through it together.
I knew this would not be the case for everyone. Several of the prisoners’ wives had already obtained divorces, and others had told researchers that they were also planning on a divorce but were waiting to break the news to their husbands when they returned. I hurt for all involved when I heard those stories. I had neither the energy nor the desire to speculate or judge their circumstances. I knew only that I was determined this would not happen to Smitty and me. We would find a way through the transition. With the same gut knowledge and determined faith I had utilized when I refused to think he might be dead, I set my sights on learning all I could to make the transition home as smooth as possible. I was positive we could work through whatever was required for us to stay together happily.
On the last day of our time in Washington, our group was told that Admiral John McCain Jr. wanted to meet with us. We were overwhelmed. John Sidney “Jack” McCain Jr. was a very busy man. A second-generation admiral, he and his father, John McCain Sr., were the first father–son duo to achieve four-star rank. He had been stationed in Hawaii in the highest position of CINCPAC, Commander in Chief, Pacific Command, and was now back in Washington, working alongside Admiral Elmo R. Zumwalt Jr., who was Chief of Naval Operations.
We were invited to meet in an office in the Pentagon. As he entered the room, we were struck silent, knowing his position of authority. He was obviously very busy, highly focused, and full of energy, but for that hour, he focused totally on the eight wives sitting in that room. He was very interested in how we were faring, his sincere concern highlighting his eyes as he listened to each story. He knew our names and the names of our husbands. He wasn’t there to impress or to accomplish a publicity goal—in fact, no news outlet ever knew about this private meeting. He just wanted us to know that he cared and that he understood. We all knew that he also grieved the situation in a personal way, as his own son, John McCain, was a POW with our husbands. He expressed concern for us in a way that only one who knew firsthand the emotions of this experience could do. And he humbly allowed us to express concern for him as well—concern not just for an admiral but for a father who longed for his son to come home.
“I want you to know that I fully believe our men will come out. I believe they will come out well and strong, and we will do anything to get them out,” he told us.
The experience was somber and serious, yet it was filled with hope and encouragement. His final words to us meant the most: “I pray for John and all the other POWs every day. And I pray for all of you—the families who are doing their part back home.”
Those words and those prayers were a great balm to each of us. We left this meeting feeling encouraged.
As I flew back to Tupelo and to my children, I carried a small souvenir for each of them. And for myself, I brought back renewed hope.