APRIL 6, 1965
After leaving Thanh Hóa and the parade, we traveled a short distance out of the city and waited in a line of vehicles that inched forward slowly. I was blindfolded but could hear other engines start and stop, and by tilting my head back I could glimpse a line of taillights in front of us. Time seemed to have stopped. With the side curtains up, the vehicle was steaming hot, but I took some consolation in the knowledge that the two guards sandwiched on each side of me on the narrow backseat must be suffering too. They, however, were surely not suffering from thirst as I was and certainly weren’t bothered by aches and pains.
Finally, I understood the delay. We embarked on some kind of ferry that would carry us across the river. I thought of my failed mission at the Hàm Rong bridge. Surely, there is no bridge still standing, I thought as we bumped across the river. I would learn several years later that the Hàm Rong bridge was not finally dropped into the water until August 11, 1967, with 3,000-pound laser-guided “smart bombs.”
We traveled all night over paved but bumpy roads. The guards had brought food with them, and they gave me a piece of heavy French-style bread and poured a few ounces of water in a tin cup for me. Even with the water, my mouth was too dry to swallow the bread, although truth be told, I still was not hungry. The pain in my body and the uncertainty of my situation had stolen my appetite, just as the Vietnamese had stolen my freedom.
The vehicle stopped two or three times for fuel and to give the guards a chance to stretch their legs. I, however, was not permitted to move, nor was I sure I would be able to move. Throughout the long, arduous trip, the jeep remained stifling hot, and my thirst was unquenched.
Midafternoon of the following day, we entered a town large enough to have a trolley or streetcar. The sound was unmistakable, even though my eyes could not see through the blindfold. On the long journey, I passed the time by guessing where we were headed. I assumed our destination was Hoa Lo Prison, which had come to be known as the infamous “Hanoi Hilton” among the U.S. prisoners of war. The city of Hanoi, located in the northern region of Vietnam, has been the capital for almost a thousand years. The prison’s actual name, Hoa Lo, is commonly translated as “stove” or “fiery furnace,” or even “hell’s hole.” I would soon find out the accuracy of that translation as I entered my own personal hellhole.
I guessed correctly that we were in Hanoi and at least took heart that we would probably stop here and this tortuous trip would finally end. And water! Surely, they must have water, I thought as we slowed to a stop. I didn’t know how terribly acute thirst could be.
My blindfold was finally removed. We had stopped in a courtyard with shrubs and trees that made me wonder if we were indeed at a prison. I tried to disembark but was unable to move my knee from its bent position in the crowded backseat. Guards pulled me roughly from the vehicle and half carried me through a corridor into a smaller courtyard and then into a narrow, dark hall with four cell doors facing it. Now I could clearly see that this indeed was a prison.
The cell was similar to the one in Thanh Hóa, except there was no toilet—just a rusty bucket. At the rear of the cell was a barred window above eye level, through which I could see a high wall. Embedded in the concrete on top of the wall were thousands of pieces of broken glass—old wine bottles—and above that three strands of wire strung between electrical insulators. I knew immediately that this was French construction because I had seen identical walls, minus the wires, surrounding French villas in the city of Casablanca when I had been stationed in French Morocco.
My first concern was my knee. Painfully, I was able to straighten it out, and I walked stiff-legged between the two concrete beds that were staggered, one at each end of the cell, which was about fifteen by seven and a half feet. There was no other furniture, only a short broom made of a bunch of twigs tied together and an old worn-out shoe. The previous occupant had obviously not used the broom—the place was filthy.
I sat on one of the beds, keeping my injured leg straight so that when it stiffened up, at least I could walk. I found that when I was sitting, my shoulder continued to give me much pain, so I lay on my right side with my arm resting on my left side. Just as I was getting more comfortable, I heard the keys rattle in my door. Again, I felt myself tense up and felt great apprehension. Those damn keys! For the next almost eight years, I would almost always feel some apprehension when I heard my cell door being opened.
An old guard motioned for me to follow him. We went to a windowless room, draped at one end by a dirty blue cloth. The same type of cloth covered a table in the center of the room, and a bare lightbulb hung down over the table. I was directed to sit on a short stool in front of the table. Two Vietnamese officers in uniform and a young man in civilian attire entered. I rose and saluted the older man. We had been taught to recognize senior officers when in captivity. He did not return the salute but motioned me to sit.
The young man, an interpreter, began with a well-rehearsed spiel that I was not a POW but a criminal who had perpetrated heinous crimes against the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. My mind wandered as he droned on about the righteousness of the Vietnamese cause and how my Yankee imperialistic government persisted in the warmongering, obdurate falsehood that the United States was legitimately involved in the Vietnam War. He looks like an owl but acts like a parrot, I thought, as I listened to his memorized lines. From then on, I called him “the Owl.” Suddenly he stopped.
The older man spoke at length in Vietnamese. The Owl said, “Tell us about your mission. From what base did you fly? What type of aircraft did you fly? What is your squadron?”
Ignoring his questions, I replied, “Please have a doctor look at my shoulder and give me some water.”
Comments were exchanged between the Vietnamese, and the Owl said, “Now you return to your cell.”
Back in my cell, I felt my first real depression. I was tired, thirsty, and injured. The realization finally sank in that I was not going home to my family—today, tomorrow, or perhaps ever.
The Owl had said I would be punished for my so-called crimes. What did he mean?
I noticed for the first time the French and Vietnamese names carved in the stocks at the end of my bunk. Had they been punished? How? Where were they now?
This was undoubtedly the “Hanoi Hilton.” What an awful place! Room service, food, and accommodations are terrible, I thought, trying to keep a semblance of my former sense of humor.
Keys rattled in my door. The old guard stood there with articles in his hands. He put them on the floor and slammed the door closed. Stoneface, I thought. I had never seen such an unemotional countenance. He must be completely inured to the human suffering he has seen in this god-awful place. But Stoneface had brought me water! It was in an old, stained, galvanized metal pitcher, and my tin cup was even more disreputable, with most of its original porcelain coating chipped off and rusting. Nevertheless, this was water, and my parched mouth eagerly emptied the cup again and again. He also had brought a too-small set of pajamas, a bowl, and a mosquito net.
Later, he brought some rice with a few small pieces of an unknown meat and gravy. I was really surprised. For some reason, I had not expected them to bring food that day. My survival training had stressed that the enemy would try to keep us alive, for we were more valuable to them alive than dead.
At least, I surmised, they want to keep me around for now.