APRIL 9, 1965
For the next several days, I was interrogated two or three times a day—sometimes in the middle of the night. When I would not answer their questions, they became angry and told me that their superiors demanded answers and were losing patience with me. But mostly the Vietnamese officer would speak at length and Owl would translate.
I was given the entire history of Vietnam, stressing how they had repeatedly defeated foreign “aggression.” The long war and final defeat of the French at Dien Bien Phu were covered in detail.
After about three days, I noticed that some minor burns on my neck from my parachute were becoming infected. Stoneface led me from my cell for my first bath in the DRV. The bathroom, for lack of a better name, faced the small courtyard adjacent to my cell. The dark room contained a recessed tiled area and a rusty showerhead. I turned the handle, but no water came out of the shower. Stoneface pointed to a spigot near the floor and with sign language told me to fill my bowl and pour water over my body. Only a trickle came out of the spigot, but I tried my best to clean myself, particularly my neck. It felt wonderful! My flight suit and boots had been taken away and replaced with a second set of too-small pajamas. About every two days I was permitted to bathe with strong lye soap, and I found pleasure in washing myself and one set of pajamas in the ten minutes allotted for this purpose. However, my infected neck continued to get worse.
The patience of my interrogators wore thin. The older man often got up and took a swing at me when my lack of response infuriated him. He did not use his fist as an American would but hit me with the heel of his palm. What a punch for a little man! One blow to my head often knocked me sprawling from my stool. I tried to control my emotions and be absolutely impassive. The armed guards standing in the doorway were a reminder that physical resistance would be a losing endeavor.
In one session, my interrogator seemed very pleased with himself. He said that my knee clipboard had been recovered. I knew he was lying. It had been on my knee when I ejected, but I believed it very improbable that my maps and charts could ever be found. However, he told me I had taken off from Korat, Thailand, in an F-105 and described my route of flight.
Although it was true, he must have been guessing. I would not confirm this information. In succeeding sessions, it became clear to me that indeed he did have my papers. My heart sank. Not only did my charts reveal my base and flight plan, but a careful analysis would reveal speeds and the capabilities of my aircraft. Times between checkpoints and fuel consumption were carefully annotated on my paper—all information I did not want our enemies to have.
I was taken to the blue room for another interrogation. The interrogator gave me a friendly greeting and said he had good news for me.
“You will be permitted to go home,” he said proudly.
My heart leaped. “When?”
“Very soon. Perhaps one or two weeks.”
I sat dumb and incredulous. I was completely unprepared for this but finally managed, “Why? Is the war over?”
“No, the war continues. Our president, Ho Chi Minh, is a very reasonable and caring man who loves the American people but hates the warmongering reactionaries who control your government and military forces. To show his love for peace and as proof of his reasonable concern for peace-loving Americans, he has agreed to release one American prisoner.”
I thought it significant that this was the first time I had not been referred to as a criminal, even though I still was not given the correct title of “prisoner of war.” However, I was still dubious.
“Why me?” I asked. “What must I do now?”
I knew there were other American POWs (Alvarez, Shumaker, and Lockhart), and my captors had bragged of capturing other American “criminals.”
“You must show your appreciation to the government of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam by writing a letter to Ho Chi Minh thanking him for his leniency and telling him you are sorry for your acts against the DRV.”
So that’s what they want—some kind of confession that they can use for political purposes, I thought, as my tiny window of hope shut decidedly in my mind. How dumb could I be to even get my hopes up? These people have no regard for humane treatment or leniency. They only want to exploit their captives for political purposes.
“No,” I answered as firmly as I could.
My answer visibly shook my interrogator. His face reddened with anger, but he retained his outward composure and asked me to be reasonable and to think about my family and loved ones. “It is only a small thing for you to do, and since Ho Chi Minh himself has showed his concern for you, it is only proper that you should show your appreciation.”
Grasping at a fleeting straw, I said, “I can thank Ho Chi Minh for releasing me, but I cannot state that I am sorry for my acts. I was following a legitimate order of my government that was justified by your government waging war against South Vietnam, against the Geneva Agreements of 1954.”
Again, with difficulty, he retained his composure. “Now you return to your cell and think about what I have told you.”
For the next three days, my interrogators pressed me to be reasonable, but finding that I would not agree to provide them a propaganda statement, they dropped the subject. My struggle was only beginning.