APRIL 4, 1965
I sat up on the bed, sickened to see my wedding ring in the hands of my enemies. Why didn’t I put up more of a fight? I wondered and then immediately knew the answer. I couldn’t. My left arm was almost useless, and the scuffle had caused excruciating pain in my shoulder. My physical weakness at that moment only strengthened my mental resolve.
I was now ordered to make a statement in the microphone. I took it and spoke into the microphone: “Will someone please get a doctor to look at my shoulder?” The English speaker was again angered, and he turned and jabbered something in Vietnamese.
Abruptly, the four men left my cell, taking their tape recorder with them. I got up and began to hobble around the small cell, trying to loosen up my knee.
As I walked in circles, I began to think of escape. I have to get out of here, I thought with determination. I remembered from my survival training that the best time to attempt escape was immediately after capture or while en route to a permanent place of detention. I had seen the grove of trees and some underbrush that came within yards of the police station. Wanting another chance to reconnoiter the area, I began shouting for a guard. When the door opened, I indicated I needed to relieve myself. He called another guard, and the two of them escorted me to an outdoor privy with a shoulder-high bamboo screen around it. I was able to see part of the wooded area, which looked well cleared out near the ground and would provide little cover. I was unable to determine the extent of the trees and underbrush, but perhaps they would lead me to the river, and at night I could make my way down river to a better area of concealment.
Back in my cell, I examined possibilities for escape. The ceiling appeared to be bamboo with some type of plaster over it, and the roof was red clay tiles. It would be difficult to break through the ceiling, but if I could work a bed board loose, I might be able to use it to make a hole large enough to get through. My arm was going to hamper my efforts, but I began trying to loosen one of the bed boards one-handed. While I was working on removing a nail that was slightly loose, the cell door opened again, and I was motioned to come out. The crowd that had dispersed for an hour or so was back in full force, and again I was led through a corridor of shouting, fist-waving Vietnamese. This time, however, the corridor led to a vehicle, and I was pushed inside. Guards tied my hands and put a heavy blindfold over my eyes. As the vehicle pulled away, the crowd roared. The loudspeaker had again given the cues to the people, and they had responded as directed. The propaganda and control by the government were alarmingly effective.
We bumped along for several miles before coming to a paved but rough road. The darkness of the blindfold matched the darkness of my situation. My thoughts digressed from my current situation to the previous twenty-four hours.
I had returned to Korat ten days earlier after a wonderful week with my family, who were still in our little home in Okinawa. Upon my return, I had immediately noticed a quickened pace. We were flying more missions. Maintenance and armament personnel were working around the clock; pilots were briefed in the middle of the night for early-morning strikes; and a feeling of excitement was in the air.
We were all anxious to hit some really important targets. So far, we had flown many sorties in armed reconnaissance along some roads and rail lines and had hit a few small bridges, trucks, and small troop movements. We all knew this effort to stop rail and road traffic was largely futile, as most of the traffic moved at night. At this time we had no effective night capability. We were also restricted from striking far enough north to destroy major centers, loading and docking areas, and supply dumps. The enemy could move men and material with impunity to the narrow band of North Vietnam in which we were permitted to operate and then proceed at night through this area.
Each pilot at Korat was given a few days off during his combat tour to gain some rest and relaxation from the war. After several missions that were largely unproductive, some friends and I planned on R & R in Bangkok. I eagerly anticipated spending a few days in this beautiful, interesting city. However, my squadron was tasked to knock down the Hàm Rong bridge at Thanh Hóa, North Vietnam.
This was the most important target that had been assigned so far in the war. Not only was it an important rail and highway bridge used to speed war material south, but it was also psychologically important to the North Vietnamese. It was the first major bridge designed and built by the North Vietnamese since the French had left their country. It was a massive structure supporting concrete roadbeds as well as rail tracks. We were briefed that the bridge was heavily defended by 37mm and possibly 85mm antiaircraft guns and many smaller automatic weapons. I canceled my trip to Bangkok and successfully pleaded to be assigned to this mission.
Early in the morning of April 3, 1965, we were briefed for the attack on the Hàm Rong bridge. Lt. Col. Risner was to lead the mission with four flights of four aircraft armed with “Bull Pup” air-to-ground missiles. These very accurate missiles would probably drop the bridge, but in case they did not, four flights of four F-105s were to follow, each aircraft armed with eight 750-pound bombs. Though less accurate, the large bombs surely would knock down the bridge with a direct hit.
I was somewhat disappointed to be assigned as flight leader of the last flight of four F-105s. I was sure there would be no bridge left for my flight to bomb. As we neared the target, I knew from the radio chatter that the Bull Pups had not been able to knock down the bridge. There were many reports of direct hits with no apparent effect on the bridge.
As the lead flights of F-105s carrying 750-pound bombs pulled off the target, we heard Maj. Matt Matthews, who was spotting hits, report that most of the bombs were falling too far to the east. Unexpectedly strong winds carried the bombs away from the target. Armed with this information, my flight recomputed our aim points and started our bomb runs against a bridge that wasn’t supposed to be standing.
My flight made several direct hits on the bridge. Lt. Ivy McCoy put the center of his group of eight bombs directly on the center span of the bridge. A huge geyser of water and smoke rose, but when it cleared, the bridge was still standing. Apparently, the inexperienced Vietnamese engineers who designed the bridge had decided it would be wiser to overstrengthen the bridge than take a chance on a mistaken calculation in the opposite direction. At any rate, the massive steel girders were essentially undamaged, but the concrete roadbeds were broken and unusable. The rail tracks, offering little resistance to bomb overpressures, appeared to be undamaged.
On the following day, April 4, another strike on the Hàm Rong bridge was planned. This time, the entire force of forty-eight aircraft would carry 750-pound bombs, as it was apparent that the Bull Pups were almost completely ineffective on this target.
It was believed that repeated hits by the bombs would drop the bridge. Because my flight had made the only direct bomb hits on the bridge the previous day, I was selected to make the first bomb run on the target with my wingman, Lt. Bob Bigrigg, staying high to observe the wind effect on my bombs before starting his bomb run.
Lt. Col. Risner was again leading the mission, but he and his wingman, Capt. Wayne Sharp, would remain at altitude over the target, armed with air-to-air missiles in case any enemy MiG aircraft came to meet us. As we approached the target area, a heavy haze and low, broken clouds made it very difficult to pick out the bridge.
Lt. Bigrigg saw it first and called out its position to me. As I started down my bomb run from about 13,000 feet, I began to see the small flicks of light on the ground that were muzzle flashes of antiaircraft guns. Although there had been heavy gunfire the previous day, none of our strike aircraft had been shot down, and I had even less reason to fear being hit today. Lt. Col. Risner’s F-105 had battle damage, but he was able to nurse his crippled aircraft for a safe landing at the United States Air Force base located at Da Nang in South Vietnam.
The lead ship was rarely hit because the inexperienced North Vietnamese (at this point in time) almost never led the target sufficiently, and the second or subsequent aircraft were more vulnerable to being inadvertently shot down. Aside from that, I was too busy tracking my target to be concerned with enemy fire. At 3,600 feet, I released all eight bombs with a perfect sight picture.
The aircraft jumped when all that weight was released, and I started my pullout from a 45-degree dive. I pulled hard to clear the ground by as much altitude as possible. As I leveled out, traveling at nearly six hundred miles per hour, I started a turn so I could observe my bombs’ impact. At that moment, I felt a heavy jolt, which shook the entire aircraft. It yawed violently to the left, and smoke began to fill the cockpit. I knew the aircraft was hit, and hit badly. A conditioned response caused me to hit the disconnect switch to the automatic yaw damper system that sometimes causes these problems. I immediately regained control of the aircraft, even though the yaw had been so severe that in my peripheral vision I saw my left external fuel tank ripped from the aircraft. But now I had more severe problems: my engine had lost complete power; the aircraft was decelerating rapidly; and the cockpit warning lights were flashing FIRE. The panel on the left was lit up like a Christmas tree, shouting loud warnings—too many for me to have time to comprehend.
Surprisingly calm, I radioed my squadron mates who were flying on the same mission, following my lead. Using our call sign of the raid, I informed them that my aircraft was hit and burning.
Apparently, my aircraft had received a direct hit in the engine area. I tried to restart the engine on the emergency backup system and started a turn toward the sea, hoping I could get to a more favorable rescue area. The engine did not respond, and the aircraft continued to decelerate. I was now fairly close to the ground. At about a thousand feet and near stall speed, I radioed once again that I was ejecting from my crippled aircraft.
Could that have been only twenty-four hours ago? Time was moving at a different pace as I began my race of endurance. Minutes seemed like hours, hours like months. And what lies ahead? How much time will pass before I see Louise and my little girls? Will I ever lay eyes on them again? Will I ever meet my little one yet to be born? I immediately squelched the brief, dark thought. I could not go there. Not now. Not yet.
After what seemed hours, though it was probably less than one hour, I could tell by the sounds of other traffic, outdoor radio speakers, and frequent stops that we were entering a city, most likely Thanh Hóa. We made a hard turn and lurched to a stop. I was pulled out of the vehicle, and my blindfold removed. It was dusk now, but I could see we had stopped in a prison courtyard.
Iron bars were on all the windows, and heavy padlocked doors were evidence of the cells behind. I was led down a dark corridor and pushed into one of the cells. The stench almost took my breath. At the end of one of the two concrete bunks was a French-type toilet—two footpads in the concrete with a hole between them over which one could squat. There was a bucket of water and a dipper used for flushing out the hole, but the stench remained. Since getting into the vehicle, my stomach had been rumbling, and I had a terrific urge to use a toilet. As bad as the place smelled, I took off my flying suit and tried to squat down, but to no avail. My knee was so stiff and painful that I could only lean awkwardly against the wall and hope for the best. Nature would not be delayed. On the very first day of my capture, I had the first of many cases of diarrhea. No paper was available, and I was forced to clean myself with my shorts, which I dropped in the corner. I lay down on one of the bunks, feeling miserable.
A bare lightbulb hung down from the ceiling and shone in my eyes, and a couple of lizards played on the ceiling. My body and mind were numb—I just waited for what might happen next.
My cell door burst open, and amidst giggling, a half dozen uniformed Vietnamese crowded into my cell. One of them was a fairly young woman. With sign language and a few words of broken English, they tried to communicate with me. The woman, they said, had manned the gun that shot me down, but from the levity of the group I was not sure if it was their idea of a joke. I think they were just a group of young guards who wanted to see an American; no hostility was apparent. They pointed to me and asked, “Wife, babies?” I nodded yes. They laughed and asked, “You want to make baby with her?” pointing to the young woman. I wasn’t sure they knew what they were saying, but from some explicit gestures, I knew that at least in jest I had been propositioned.
An older uniformed man—I guessed an officer—and a civilian then entered my cell, and the atmosphere changed as if a switch had been thrown. Everything was strictly business.
The civilian had a pad of paper and prepared to write down my answers to his questions. In very good English he asked, “What type of aircraft were you flying, from where did you take off, and what was your target?” I responded, “I cannot answer those questions.” He looked up slowly, waited a few minutes while looking me in the eyes, and then said, “Things are going to go very badly for you, Captain Harris.” He stood up, and the whole group left my cell and locked the door.
Soon someone rattled a key in the padlock. I caught my breath and could almost feel my pulse quicken. I wanted only to be left alone. Another intrusion in my cell would almost surely be unpleasant. The known quantity of this stark, stinking cell with the bare lightbulb giving emphasis to its utter emptiness was preferable to the unknown consequences on the other side of that door.
My sanctuary was being invaded. A guard stood holding a bowl of rice and a cup of hot water. He said, “Eat fast; we move.” I was sure he had memorized this line.
When the door closed, I almost gulped the water, but it was too hot to swallow quickly. I was so thirsty that I had considered drinking the remaining water in that rusty bucket by the toilet, but the odor and look of it made me retch at the thought. I was able to finish the cup of hot water but longed for a tall, cool drink of almost anything. The rice was completely uninteresting. The door opened. Another gulp. Four guards motioned for me to follow them. The narrow corridor, lighted only from small barred transoms over the row of cell doors, led again to the courtyard. Were there other miserable souls in each of those cells? The courtyard was dark—I had not even thought about it being night or day. The normal confines of time had been replaced by the confinement of this nightmare.
At the vehicle—perhaps the same one I had come in—I was blindfolded once again, and my hands were securely tied in front. We bumped out onto a street and rode through town for fifteen or twenty minutes. My thoughts were occupied with interpreting what was happening and what might happen. My training kicked in, and I found myself more focused on gaining information around me than on myself and my predicament. After making several turns, I felt we had gone around in a circle and fully expected to see the prison courtyard again.
Instead, I began to hear loudspeakers and a multitude of voices. Perhaps this was some big rally to bolster the people’s war fervor. Could it be for my benefit? No, surely not. I had already been publicly presented to the people at the police station. The vehicle stopped, and I was pulled out. My heart sank. A deafening roar from the crowd drowned out the shrill voice over the loudspeaker. My blindfold was removed, and I saw what must have been several thousand people packed into an open square. A raised platform at one end held spotlights and loudspeakers. A man was yelling into a microphone. Surrounding me were at least a dozen uniformed guards.
I was led nearby to a motorcycle with a sidecar. A guard riding in the sidecar took one end of the rope that tied my hands and tied it to a bar on the motorcycle, giving about two feet of play. We began to move, the guards walking in front of and beside the motorcycle. The going was very slow, for they had to almost push their way through the milling people. Some crowded near and shook their fists and tried to spit at me. The loudspeaker had at least done some on-the-spot language training, for I heard over and over again, “son of bitch,” with a distinct Asian accent. They should have been more careful to include the article “a,” but what more could be expected from such a rush program? I thought defiantly.
As we pushed on, I could see the people filling the wide boulevard in front of us. Some bolder young men attempted to push past the walking guards to take a poke at me. One was able to get close enough to make a wild kick at my back. The blow landed directly in my kidney area, and I felt a deep searing pain that knocked me into the sidecar and took my breath away. Just as I was recovering from this blow, a rubber shoe someone had thrown struck me in the neck. I could feel the emotional pitch of the people rising.
There was more shouting, and people crowded in so close and tight that the motorcycle was unable to move. They threw hats, shoes, and other objects and shook their fists. My guards were trying to keep the people away from me, but the crowd wanted blood. Finally, the guards physically pushed and knocked people out of the way, and we began to move again. I remembered how much I had enjoyed parades as a boy, but it sure wasn’t much fun being a parade.
Though I was hit many times with glancing fists and thrown objects, the only serious blow I received was that kick in the kidneys, which was still causing intense, throbbing pain. After hobbling with my stiff knee and bruised kidneys a distance of about eight or ten city blocks, we approached a vehicle parked in the street. The entire parade had lasted no more than an hour, but it seemed like a lifetime and easily could have been. My other life, the one with a pleasant pace and fulfilling future, seemed like a distant dream from which I had awakened, only to live in the midst of a nightmare.