CHAPTER 13

A WAR OF WORDS

1969

AT NEARLY EVERY CAMP in the prison system of North Vietnam, propaganda spewed from cell loudspeakers daily. Generally, it began in the morning and lasted for several hours. The decibels were earsplitting, and guards usually wanted men to sit at the ends of their beds to listen. The propaganda always aimed toward one goal: articulating the fundamentally unfair and cruel governmental policies of the United States versus the fair and humane policies of Communist North Vietnam.

It always included a list of crimes committed against the Vietnamese people. The POWs were “warmongers,” “Yankee air pirates,” and “the blackest of criminals.” Emphasis was placed on leniency of treatment if the prisoners would denounce the unjust actions of their country and submit to Vietnamese authority.

Day in and day out, cell loudspeakers blared indoctrination. Propaganda continually reiterated a single message: “The United States is an evil nation.” Sometimes these statements would be read by a woman. Just as Japan had Tokyo Rose in World War II, Vietnam had Hanoi Hannah.

When a man was taken to the camp commandant’s room, an interrogator would seek any statement that might be used as evidence the POW was turning against the United States or as evidence he was being well treated. Sometimes a long cloth draped over the wooden desk concealed a tape recorder underneath.

Often enough pressure was exerted that men were coerced into reading statements over the camp loudspeakers. POWs used devices to alert others this chore was done under duress. Mispronounced words or singsong presentations signaled they resented what they were being forced to do. Some exaggerated their accents or talked in a stuttering manner.

The various effects were humorous but also signaled continued opposition to the task. Sometimes mispronunciations of Vietnamese officials, especially the name Ho Chi Minh, received the greatest reaction. But men had to be extremely cautious, since the slightest hint of disrespect could bring swift reprisal.

One of the most unfortunate conditions of existence for the POWs, however, didn’t come directly from the V but rather from the States: learning of the tremendous antiwar sentiment back home was demoralizing. The captors used stories of protests and riots to undermine morale and gain support for their cause. Most men stated, when they were released, that they had noticed a ramping up of mistreatment in prison paralleling the ramping up of antiwar sentiment in the States.

These announcements also frequently blared lists of Americans that were confirmed killed in action, which were recounted by name and hometown. Due to the language barrier, these sometimes produced a result more humorous than despairing.

For many weeks, Jerry and other cellmates kept hearing the lists of names. Occasionally, after the name would come this phrase: Chick-a-go-three. He and his cellmates kept looking at each other —what on earth could that mean? At last someone figured it out: Chick-a-go-three was actually Chicago, Ill. The POWs just shook their heads. Somehow it was part of the surreal experience each one of them faced.

Jerry smiled when he first realized what the mistaken translation really meant. Yet his levity passed quickly. The prisoner knew the mispronunciation represented grief back home.

Sometimes, however, POWs learned about current news events they would not have known otherwise. One day as Jerry sat on his bunk, the loudspeakers blared a propaganda statement with articles listed as “Even ifs.”

“You blackest of warmongers! You criminals! Yankee air pirates! Even if United States have big army, big planes, we defeat you.

“Even if United States have more, we have soldiers who will win.

“Even if you have guns and weapons, we will defeat you.

“Even if you have universities and schools, we know more.

“Even if you have man who walk on moon . . .”

All four men in Jerry’s cell looked up. “Did you hear that?”

“Wow! NASA finally got someone up there —wonder who it was?”

The monotony of the daily grind was sometimes relieved in unexpected ways in the four-man cells. One morning, miscommunication combined with a lack of knowledge of the US military services produced a bright spot for everyone within earshot of the incident. It all began when a guard the prisoners called “Mouse” jerked open the small “judas window” set at eye level in the door of the four-man cell Jerry lived in.

“Conducting survey,” said Mouse with pompous authority. The men in the cell remained motionless, two of them lying on their wood bunks, one sitting on the edge of his, the other standing against the wall.

“Cuh, are you Air Force?” he barked through the little window in the cell door.

“Yes,” said Jerry quietly, not looking up or supplying any additional information that might provoke further dialogue. The Vietnamese knew as soon as they captured someone what branch of service he was in because of flight suit markings, so servicemen openly acknowledged that information.

Mouse proceeded to the next man and asked, “Fo, are you Air Force?” Will Forby answered yes, also not moving.

To the third man leaning against the wall, Mouse asked the same question, “Are you Air Force?” Again, a simple yes indicated the third man’s branch of service.

There was only one man left in the cell. “Are you Air Force?” This man answered no, without further information.

Mouse stood still a moment. “Are you Navy?” The fourth cellmate was in fact an F-4 backseater with the Navy.

“Yes,” the prisoner said without further elaboration.

Mouse slammed their judas window shut, and the four cellmates could hear him walking to the next cell door to continue his important survey.

As he progressed down the narrow corridor, Mouse’s voice could be heard increasingly filled with the importance of his mission. “Conducting survey” began each encounter, and the prisoners would only answer yes or no without further elaboration, forcing Mouse to “discover” what branch of military service each prisoner was in.

Finally, Mouse could be heard around the corner from Jerry’s cell, opening the judas window on one of the last cell doors in the building.

“Conducting survey,” Mouse announced proudly. He began questioning the first man: “Are you Air Force?” The prisoner answered yes, and Mouse proceeded to the next man in this two-man cell.

Mouse began again with proud timbre, nearly at the end of this obviously significant task. “Are you Air Force?”

The last man to be surveyed said no.

Mouse’s voice went up a notch. “Are you Navy?”

The prisoner answered no.

There was a momentary pause. When he next spoke, the guard’s voice was louder and higher in pitch than ever. “Are you Army?”

He quietly said no.

Then, exasperated and confused, Mouse blurted out, “Why you here?”

His last survey participant was a Marine, a branch of service evidently unfamiliar to this particular Vietnamese guard. The eavesdropping American prisoners in surrounding cells buried their heads in whatever they could grab, desperately trying to muffle their laughter.

Jerry had been at Vegas over eighteen months now. His corner cell had a high window overlooking a small dirt yard with another cell opposite. Bamboo mats covered the window, but one of his cellmates had discovered early on that when he stood on top of his wooden bed and stretched, he could catch glimpses around the edges of the mats to the outside.

From this elevated vantage point, he could observe guards coming and going through the door of the facing cell, which they soon realized was a torture room. The restricted view hindered them from identifying clearly which POW they were seeing. But they could estimate, based on gait and demeanor, a POW’s physical condition, particularly following torture.

One day, Jerry’s cellmate suddenly looked around and said, “Hey, guys, I think I see Chester.”

This was news indeed. “Chester” was the nickname of Commander James Bond Stockdale. Of course, Jerry knew who this was —they all did. He had been the senior-ranking officer of the entire camp: his bravery and strong leadership under incredible duress were already legendary to all POWs in captivity. For every blow Jerry might endure, Stockdale, who was known by the enemy to be an important commander in the US military, endured twenty.

Stockdale had been in isolation for the past eighteen months, best anyone could determine, and might possibly be back at Vegas. He walked with a permanent limp, the result of prolonged torture. The nickname came from the famous deputy of the hit TV series Gunsmoke, who also walked with a limp.

“Can you make out what’s going on?” asked Jerry.

“Two guards led a guy with a bad limp into that cell. They came out pretty quickly, so they might just be letting him cool off for a while,” his cellmate answered.

Immediately Jerry and his cellmates began a campaign to establish contact with the man in the torture cell whom they suspected might be Commander Stockdale. They located a small piece of torn toilet paper, stiff enough to be used as a signaling device from around the corner of the mat. They had to wait until siesta time though. Usually camp guards took a break after lunch from noon until about two. These were the safest times to attempt communication.

To use paper to send the tap code mimicked how it was done through the walls. Flicks of the paper, either up or down, counted to the row where the letter was contained. Then the next flicks would count across to the chosen letter. For example, if a man wanted to relay the letter T, he flashed the paper four times rapidly, then paused and flashed four times again.

By this time, Jerry and most of the POWs were so proficient with the tap code, no thinking was required. A man could simply hear the knocks or see the code flashed, yet he no longer counted; he simply knew what letters the sequences or taps represented.

His cellmate began a concerted effort to signal, who r u.

There was no response. A few minutes later he tried again. Nothing yet. Again. Jerry’s cellmate had to keep an eye out for guards in the small yard while he bent down on the floor to see if anyone was patrolling in front of their own cell door. Jerry whispered, “Clear.”

His cellmate flashed the message again. who r u.

This time they all heard a sustained cough that spelled out cag.

Those letters stood for “Commander, Air Group,” designating Stockdale’s command responsibilities of all aircraft and aircraft personnel aboard an aircraft carrier before he was shot down and captured. The abbreviated naval moniker also became his nickname in prison. Hearing from Commander Stockdale was news indeed.

Jerry’s cellmates continued to monitor events across the yard from their window. Now Stockdale began flashing his fingers to start a “conversation.” He wanted to know as much as he could about what was going on in the large camp called Vegas. Who was SRO? How many POWs? What kind of interrogations? What was happening?

They sent him all the information they had. CAG explained he had been in isolation for over eighteen months and felt out of the loop. He flashed to them the most important piece of information: when i feel i can retake command will let u know.

During the past year and a half, the number of prisoners had nearly doubled. Much was happening, especially since torture and brutality had ramped up. Having Stockdale back in the mix would benefit everyone. He was already a legend in Hanoi —as courageous and brave as any man in prison and a natural-born leader. It was good to know that he was “online” again.

The buildings in this rambling complex loosely formed an outer ring, with all activity done in the central courtyard. A bath and sink with faucet at one end allowed prisoners to wash clothes and dishes in nonpotable water. Located beside the sink and faucet was a cubicle sectioned off into five shower stalls with flimsy bamboo screens. Here hand signals could be used periodically over the tops of stalls.

Several weeks after Jerry’s cell had discovered the return of Stockdale, turnkeys ordered Jerry to the makeshift wash area to rinse dishes. He considered it an opportunity for possible communication. On one occasion, as he stood over the sink, suddenly from inside one of the adjacent cells came a husky voice. “This is Stockdale. Who are you?” Jerry turned toward where he thought the loud, hoarse whisper was originating, but the cell wall prohibited him from seeing the man. Before Jerry had time to answer, the impatient voice quickly croaked out once more, “It’s Commander Stockdale. Who are you?”

Jerry quickly identified himself. “Captain Tom Curtis, shoot-down, 20 September, 1965.”

Without further introduction, Stockdale launched into a directive he called BACK-US. Using the words as an acronym, he explained what it meant: B stood for “don’t bow,” meaning do not show subservience in any way to the enemy if possible; A —“don’t go on the air,” meaning do not make any recordings or broadcasts if possible; C —“don’t admit to crimes or accept gifts,” meaning be careful when interrogated and do not admit to war crimes or piracy of any type, regardless of bribes; K —“don’t kiss good-bye,” meaning do not show signs of friendship when leaving; and US stood for “unity over self.”

Then Stockdale said to Jerry, “Get this out to everyone you can. Now repeat it!”

Jerry said, “BACK-US.”

“No, no. What does it stand for?” Stockdale’s gruff voice was filled with impatience again.

Jerry recited the acronym with the commander’s help. Later that day he began a concerted effort to relay through the walls Stockdale’s order. If POWs could stand together, they had a better chance of enduring the incredibly difficult circumstances facing them.

Not long after this encounter with Stockdale, Jerry and others in his cell were approached by a Navy pilot through the walls about the possibility of joining a highly secretive group of POWs who would participate in learning a complex messaging system. If successful, it would connect with intelligence sources in the Pentagon. The mission was classified top secret at the highest level.

The small encrypted messages would be embedded in letters sent out from the prison if —or when —the POWs were allowed to write. It would also involve receiving letters from family members who had been contacted by officials in Washington, then decoding the messages planted within their letters. In order to be prepared in the event POWs could send and receive letters required great diligence in learning the code, especially since it was done through the walls.

Under normal circumstances, if a person could sit with a letter, reading it slowly and carefully in order to decipher its contents, the task would be doable. But these POWs knew guards would allow only a few moments with each letter —so that the system of counting words, looking at ending vowel combinations, and decoding would have to be done lightning fast. And if guards ever suspected such a system existed, their lives would be in jeopardy. They would be classified as spies and could be executed on the spot —no questions asked.

It was such a secretive group of participants that, for the most part, no one knew who else was involved in the covert operations except for the person who had been your primary contact. As Jerry contemplated the mission, he thought about the consequences of participating. But he also remembered the small touch underneath the door his cellmate had described to him: the desperate attempt of a man relating to another in hellish circumstances. He remembered the unknown man who cried out to God in torment, begging to die.

As Jerry prayed about possible involvement in such a program, he decided he had the temperament and desire to volunteer. And because of his growing reputation within the prison walls as a strong resister and someone who could be trusted, he was accepted immediately into the clandestine operation.

The name of constructing such a coded letter was “mixing a martini,” referring to the scrambling of letters within a written piece. And Jerry began the tedious task of learning the complicated messaging system of a code within a code. Only time would tell whether he would have an opportunity to implement it.

At this point, Jerry had not been allowed to receive anything at all from Terry. The North Vietnamese would have to allow receipt of correspondence before the messaging system could be arranged. But he was willing. He knew the risks involved, and he accepted them. Because of incredibly inhumane treatment within the prison walls —and this treatment deteriorating daily —he felt it was the best way to make a contribution toward staying connected with military sources at home.

Perhaps some good will come of it, Lord —if I am ever allowed to send and receive letters from home . . .