FEBRUARY 12–15, 1973 CLARK AIR FORCE BASE, THE PHILIPPINES
The next couple of days were filled with medical tests—from blood work to physical inspection, from mental capacity tests to psychological testing. During the testing process, Mo and I tried our best to warn the doctors about the mental state of Al Brudno. We repeatedly told them he was not okay and tried to describe what we had witnessed as his roommates when we were at Dogpatch. But Al was on a high at that time, so relieved to be freed. His intelligence also helped to mask the deep mental brokenness he consistently dealt with. Our warnings were not heeded, and within days, Al was on a plane headed back to the United States to his wife.
Though many of my brothers came back on crutches, still dealing with shoot-down or torture injuries or with the effects of illnesses from vitamin deficiencies, I was fairly healthy upon inspection. I attribute that to good, healthy genes and adherence to the strict exercise regime throughout my years of captivity, with the exception of the year I was too sick to do so.
In every camp, no matter how small my cell, I forced myself to spend time each day in self-imposed exercise routines. At one point, I required of myself three hundred sit-ups each day—that is, until the hard concrete floor caused sores on my backside. I lowered the number to accommodate that painful issue. I then started doing three hundred V-ups to help manage the sores. I would lie on my back, raise my legs, and touch my toes, using the same muscles as a sit-up without aggravating the sores on my backside.
Next, I turned my attention to countless push-ups—clapping my hands between each of the fifty reps. I would then touch my chest to the ground and back up for another fifty reps. My concrete bunk served as a step machine, as I forced myself to step up and back down over and over on the bunk about fourteen inches from the ground.
My next exercise included running in place while jumping up on my right foot, after which I would go back down and let the left foot lead. I would do this until I was huffing and puffing—usually two hundred reps, twenty-five with one foot, twenty-five with the other, alternating until I reached my goal. In most of my cells, there were small ledges over the doorway, which served as a challenging source of pull-ups, my fingers wrapped as tightly as possible on a 3/4-inch ledge. Those were kind of tough. Squat jumps were a great source of cardio, so much so that after my release, I could easily run five miles, though I had spent most of the past eight years in a seven-by-seven-foot cell.
In addition to the medical and psychological tests, we were extensively debriefed about our experience, particularly concerning any names we knew of fellow POWs. After being given extensive physical, mental, and dental exams, as well as good food to fatten us up, we were finally fitted for new uniforms. It was a proud moment in my life when I once again wore clothing that reflected and represented my devotion to the United States.
Though I had been told that it could be up to two weeks before I returned to the U.S., within three days, I was released to go home. Home—and all that this word encompassed—was finally within my reach. My heart pounded with anticipation.