FEBRUARY 12, 1973 TUPELO, MISSISSIPPI
On February 12, I sat glued to the television. The release of the first wave of returning POWs—which I had been told included Smitty—was big news in the United States. However, due to the time zone differences between the United States and the Philippines, the broadcast of the return occurred in the wee hours of the morning of February 13. I, along with all three of my children, watched anxiously as Jeremiah Denton walked down the metal pull-away steps. I teared up as he spoke his clear, poignant words. The camera zoomed in as faces began descending the steps. Alvarez, Shumaker, and Lockhart smiled as they met the fresh air and the loud celebratory applause. They were followed by Ray Vohden on his crutches and Scotty Morgan, both shot down the day before Smitty.
My heart beat faster and faster as I strained to see the man at the opening of the plane, still in the shadows. And then there he was. My Smitty. He was alive! Thin, maybe a bit pale, but alive! Eight years seemed to evaporate as I recognized the shape of his face and his familiar movement as he descended the steps. We all cheered, the children screaming and jumping up and down. I stayed glued to my seat, with my eyes cemented to the screen, as I watched every second of the broadcast.
When I at last lay down in my bed—not too long before the sun began its ascent in the sky, announcing a new day, a new life for me and my family—my mind drifted back to that night long ago in Okinawa when I awoke with a start, the sound of Smitty’s voice beckoning me from my dream. Soon I would hear his voice once again. This knowledge kept me awake even longer.