JANUARY 1973 TUPELO, MISSISSIPPI
It was January 28, 1973. The day was crisp and cold, but not so cold as to keep people away. Two hundred or more people had gathered on Jefferson Street in downtown Tupelo for the presentation and planting of two magnolia trees at the local library. I had been invited to participate in the presentation, as these trees were in honor of the POWs. Excitement was in the air, as all had taken a keen interest in the news that was coming out of Paris.
Peace talks had been in the works since April 1965, although significant progress was not made until a May 1968 informal meeting between Averell Harriman, the U.S. emissary, and Xuan Thuy, the North Vietnamese counterpart in Paris. High demands on both sides stalled the progression of the talks until October of that same year. This paved the way for formal peace talks. Five days after President Nixon took office on January 20, 1969, the United States sent delegates to Paris to show the seriousness of their desire for peace. However, the talks proved fruitless and were delayed for four years due to firm disputes on both sides.
Though the problem appeared unsolvable, secret talks between Nixon’s National Security Advisor, Henry Kissinger, and Le Duc Tho, a member of the North Vietnamese politburo, the highest political body of the Communist Party of Vietnam, continued. While seemingly deadlocked, Kissinger and Le Duc Tho finally made a breakthrough in negotiations and reached an agreement to end the conflict on October 8, 1972.
In late October, Kissinger publicly revealed the draft of the agreement. However, South Vietnamese President Nguyen Van Thieu was furious over the secret meetings and refused to accept it, which caused North Vietnam to resist talks. However, Nixon’s massive aerial bombardment, Operation Linebacker II, got Hanoi’s attention after they had withdrawn from the talks, and a monetary pledge for South Vietnam reassured President Nguyen Van Thieu enough to continue negotiations.
News reports boosted our confidence that an agreement could be possible in the near future. I had even received a call from Claude Watkins, who was still serving as my casualty officer, with the guarded encouragement to “keep being patient; release is coming.” Pins and needles were my companions for several weeks. But I kept busy with the children, struggling to focus on my task at hand, all the while dreaming of the day when I would see Smitty once again.
I had just joined Mrs. Virginia Robbins—whose son, Doug Clower, was also a POW—as we placed a shovel in the loose soil, symbolically digging the hole that would house the new trees. I hoped these trees would grow deep roots and rise strong and proud, a symbol of the strength the POWs had shown—and, for me, a symbol of the deep roots the children and I had grown in this precious community.
As the ceremony came to an end, Guy Gravlee, a general in the National Guard who lived in Tupelo and had been such a kind support for me, walked up, dressed in his uniform. He said, “I just received a call from Washington, and I knew you would want to know. The peace treaty has been signed. Our fellows are coming home.” Oh, the joy! The news quickly spread among the crowd, and the whole lot broke out in spontaneous celebration. There was cheering and laughing—and, for me, streaming tears of joy. Smitty was coming home!