CHAPTER 14

COMMITTED

1970

IF CIRCUMSTANCES TURNED a corner, most POWs after their release agreed it occurred toward the end of 1969. Developments in Washington —including the inauguration of a new president and progressing peace talks in Paris, though often in fits and starts —seemed to indicate a pivotal juncture. But the most significant event may have been the death of the Communist revolutionary leader who had become president of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh, on the morning of September 2, 1969.

Ho’s passing brought guards into prison compounds the following day visibly subdued and grief stricken. During the next few weeks, there was a noticeable lifting of the strictest regulations. A third meal consisting of a half cup of reconstituted milk laced with sugar and a piece of bread provided additional calories; guards began allowing prisoners into the open dirt courtyards, sometimes without shackles; men were provided extra blankets; and a few received baskets with cloth linings to keep water warm for tea or instant coffee.

One POW, when served cabbage with a few chopped tomatoes plus seasoning on top —cooked just the way his wife prepared it back home —thought for sure it meant the war was over. In later years, when he smelled a similar dish cooking on his home stove, he would lift the lid off the pot and exclaim to his wife, “Look, the war’s over!”

Though physical reprimand always lurked around the corner and several servicemen would experience additional solitary confinement, these events in the United States and North Vietnam combined to bring about improved treatment for POWs throughout the system during the early seventies. They indicated nothing, however, in terms of determining how much longer imprisonment would continue.

For over two years, Jerry was imprisoned at Vegas, until late 1969. Two more Christmases, two more years of family birthdays and anniversaries had been celebrated back home without him. Time was passing, but not for him. In prison, it seemed to stand still. A few months after Ho’s death, guards culled more than fifty POWs from Vegas, including Jerry; loaded them into trucks, blindfolded and handcuffed; and transported them to a compound dubbed “Camp Hope.” It would be remembered always by the entire prison population all across North Vietnam for one spectacular event —and for one very special reason to Jerry personally.

Jerry was discouraged. Many POWs, including himself, wondered if their country had forgotten them. It had been quiet in the skies for a long time —no bombing raids, no fighters roaring: not the sound of a single plane over Hanoi for nearly two years.

Camp Hope, also known as Son Tay, was a remote camp positioned some twenty-two miles northwest of Hanoi. In the long building where Jerry was located, guards locked him into a small one-man cell at night. The two-man cell next to him housed Will Forby plus another POW. During the day, guards would unlock both cell doors and allow the three men to mingle in the small interior space in front of the cells. They still were never allowed outside.

Men speculated as to why the V would make such a move at this point in the war, and many hoped against hope it might be a good sign —that the Communists would want to protect some of their prisoners, to make sure they stayed alive and were not killed should bombing commence again in Hanoi. But there was no way to know.

Jerry had just spent his fifth Christmas in captivity. It was inconceivable to him that he had been in North Vietnam that long. His son would be twelve years old in just a few weeks, and his daughter soon would be nine. He wondered if they liked school, what activities they enjoyed. He couldn’t imagine what his children looked like now. And he missed his wife. He thought about the last time he held her just before he had left for Thailand: all that seemed forever ago.

But Jerry also was aware of his own aging. He would turn thirty-eight later in the year. He was gaining back some weight. Since Ho’s passing, POWs were being given a little more food —that was at least a positive. However, he knew there were several medical issues that needed tending.

First, his feet continued to be a problem. At Briarpatch, he had contracted beriberi, a condition resulting from vitamin deficiency, and his feet bothered him nearly daily —they burned like fire and were so sensitive, he couldn’t stand for anything to touch them, not even thin cotton. A couple of years previously, he had broken one of his molars on a small rock in his rice. Since then, it had abscessed two or three times a year. During these bouts, he had to sleep sitting up to try to relieve the painful pressure from swelling and to aid in drainage.

Although nearly everyone else in the prison population had been permitted to receive correspondence, this was a privilege Jerry had not yet been allowed. Maybe it was because he had been a tough resister, never capitulating to his captors’ demands without a struggle; maybe it was just coincidence. Whatever the reason, it amounted to prolonged punishment.

One morning as he paced in his cell at Camp Hope, a guard came up to the window opening and gave a chopping motion to his wrist, signaling to Jerry to put on his long-sleeved shirt. Jerry knew what that meant —he was about to be taken to the interrogator’s room.

“Cuh, you come,” he said to Jerry.

What do they want from me now? Jerry wondered.

He followed the guard into a cramped interrogation room. Behind the desk sat the camp commandant, holding a small piece of paper.

“Cuh, you blackest of criminal and you Yankee air pirate —you deserve nothing. But I be generous to you —even though you not deserve,” he said. He continued to hold the paper.

“This letter . . . I allow you to read. But hurry! Not allow long.” The camp commandant slowly laid the paper down on the desk in front of Jerry. Jerry immediately recognized Terry’s handwriting. The commandant continued his rambling. The prisoner hardly noticed.

“Dear Jerry, How are you?” His eyes filled —he couldn’t hold back. Jerry carefully touched the corners of the paper: a faraway world materialized before him.

“We are all just fine —busy with school and church activities. Tommy and Lori are doing so well in school. Growing so tall and the best news, they both have asked Jesus to come into their hearts.” Jerry was weeping openly now, though silently, his shoulders quietly shaking. He could hardly see to read the last sentence.

“We miss you so much and love you more than you know. Terry.”

The commandant snatched the paper up from the desk. “You go back to cell now.” Jerry never saw the letter again. It didn’t matter. God had given him a reason to stay committed.

When he got back into his cell, he fell to his knees in thanks.

Now that Jerry had been allowed to receive a letter from home, he began a steady campaign to send one to his wife. Once he was given permission, he used the opportunity to produce small encrypted messages within the letter using the system of coding he had been taught at Vegas.

He laughed to himself, thinking how funny it would sound to Terry —the code sometimes produced odd sentences. But since he knew other POWs within the clandestine unit had already sent his name to US intelligence authorities as a participant, he recognized they would contact her about the messaging —more than likely they already had done this.

In order to “mix a martini,” Jerry had to memorize the content he would write and what words he would use before he arrived in the camp commandant’s room to compose a letter.

From this point forward, the letters Terry and Jerry sent back and forth were coded; they still were allowed to exchange only a handful of letters each year. It didn’t lessen the wonderful fact that they were now in communication. But the encrypting system did birth some strange-sounding English, such as “Being nostalgic at Christmas is a blessing” or “Please insure to maintain a good photo album.”

When Terry wanted to write to Jerry, she would first send her letter to the Pentagon. The letter would be reworded to include the encryptions within her existing sentences. Then the letter would be returned to Terry to recopy in her own handwriting. She used preprinted paper cards provided to families by North Vietnam. The slips of paper were addressed to “Camp of Detention for U.S. Pilots Captured in the Democratic Republic of Vietnam,” with strict instructions only to speak of “health and family.”

For Jerry, receiving a letter from Terry was the intense part of the system. After the letter arrived, guards allowed him only a few minutes to see it, and then always under supervision. The encryption had to be deciphered on the spot, a nerve-racking task requiring complex decoding.

These secret messages allowed military authorities to obtain a better understanding of the living conditions and torture men were enduring, the names of prisoners, especially some still not accounted for, promotions within the ranks, and possible vulnerabilities of camps that might be useful should a rescue attempt be planned.

The bits of information were admittedly small, but for men living in darkness, any help they were able to offer provided something to strive toward. Jerry’s clandestine involvement in the letter messaging system made him and the other POWs who participated feel they were at least contributing to the war effort, even if only one or two sentences at a time.

In July 1970, Jerry and all the prisoners at Camp Hope were transported to another facility about nine miles northwest of Hanoi. This would be the first time since Jerry’s imprisonment that a large group of men were allowed to live together within the same cellblock. Seventeen other Americans were in Jerry’s cell. Here he was the senior-ranking officer, though in some cases only by a few days, and therefore in charge of and responsible for the men under him. The POWs dubbed their new rural prison “Camp Faith.” It was Jerry’s ninth time to be moved since entering captivity in 1965.

Guards allowed men at Camp Faith outside for about thirty minutes each day. This was the first time in five years Jerry had been allowed outdoors and unshackled within the prison walls, except when escorted back and forth to the shower a time or two a month. Though brief, these sessions were a blessing.

In addition, men were being given a bit more to eat, so many were regaining strength. Several decided they would learn to do handstands.

“Hey,” said one of Jerry’s cellmates, “how about spotting for me?” The fellow prisoner wanted Jerry to stand in front of him and hold his hands up around his feet to keep him centered.

“Sure,” said Jerry.

Several handstands later, somebody called out Jerry’s name, and he turned to answer, an unfortunate circumstance for the would-be gymnast in the middle of his next handstand. He lost his balance and tumbled down hard.

“Oh my —sorry about that,” Jerry said as he helped his cellmate to his feet. As they laughed about it, Jerry watched out of the corner of his eye one of his other cellmates surreptitiously picking up something from the dirt. Jerry knew what he was doing but kept quiet.

Two or three in Jerry’s group had begun making plans to build a crystal set radio —a type of simple radio for receiving frequency waves. If planning an escape, it could be a useful tool for monitoring incoming messages.

The men scrounged the ground around buildings while they were outside. They managed to collect small pieces of wire, a few nails, and other odds and ends buried in the dirt, trash remnants from the original camp-construction activities. A few managed to remove razor blades from the bath area when guards weren’t looking.

It was imperative these be kept hidden since reprisals would be fierce if the materials were found: inspections by guards were unannounced and always thorough. Usually only a few men at a time participated in such planning because, generally speaking, the fewer people that were involved, the better. That way, should the guards place pressure on someone, he could not give accurate information under torture.

Every POW in North Vietnam knew the story of the two airmen who had planned an escape for months and did in fact break out of their prison camp. They were caught almost immediately since they had no contacts outside the prison walls and, as Westerners, no way of blending into the surrounding population.

When they were brought back into the camp, both were beaten mercilessly. One of the men died during the brutal pummeling. Not only this, but after they finished with the two POWs who perpetrated the escape, guards instituted a systematic sweep through every cell, torturing the entire prison population, one at a time, as camp-wide retribution for the attempt. The POWs were careful what they did and who they shared it with.

Jerry, as SRO for his group of seventeen men at Camp Faith, knew about the plans. This type of activity, though dangerous, had its positive side. He knew it gave them something to think about and plan for, taking their minds off imprisonment, even though guards would hold him responsible if anyone was caught.

Jerry suddenly jerked awake. At first he thought he was hearing things, but immediately the sound of gunfire in the distance commenced again. It was the middle of the night on November 20, 1970.

“Do you hear that?” he asked the guy sleeping next to him.

“Yes . . . what do you think?” the man said. Already several of the POWs in his cellblock had moved toward the shuttered windows to see if they could glimpse anything.

“I think I see some flashes of light out west of us, out toward Son Tay,” one airman said. This group of prisoners had been evacuated from there a little over three months before. Suddenly the unmistakable sound of US jet fighter cover meant to create a diversion came screaming overhead.

One of the younger and newer POWs turned with a questioning look to Jerry.

“I just don’t know,” he said, “but something’s happening for sure.” He didn’t want to pose any speculations that might be false, but before he nodded off again that night, a small glimmer of hope awakened in his thoughts. He felt in his bones that something significant was going down —there just wasn’t any way to know for certain.

Within a day or so, guards rushed into their cells, waving rifles and yelling frantically. They hastily packed up Jerry and his men with their belongings and loaded them onto trucks. The speeding vehicles took all of them back to downtown Hanoi and into the large Hanoi Hilton once more, into an area of the camp POWs began calling “Camp Unity.”

When Jerry and the men under him arrived back at the Hilton, they were deposited into a large building just as Vietnamese prisoners were being led out. This building was one of several large bay-style cellblocks loosely ringing a central courtyard.

Jerry’s group now found themselves with most of the other men who also had been at Camp Faith but in separate areas. Approximately forty-five men were locked in this cell about twenty by sixty feet in size. In the middle of the cell, a concrete platform elevated about four inches off the floor served as a sleeping area. It covered virtually the entire center portion of the cell. Each man had about eighteen inches sleeping space on these concrete beds.

As they were being shuffled into their new large cellblock in Hanoi, they heard other trucks and commotion: men being unloaded all over the complex. The buildings in this part of the Hanoi Hilton compound usually held only Vietnamese prisoners. Now the buildings seemed to house only American POWs. Certainly something was happening.

But regardless of why all of them were suddenly brought back into Hanoi, that first evening held unbelievable joy. Being united in large groups for the first time brought a wellspring of pent-up emotions to the surface. Though most of Jerry’s large group had been at Camp Faith, they had not all been together in the same cell. Before, only eighteen men, including himself, were in his unit. Now it was remarkable to see forty-five POWs who had been imprisoned elsewhere together under one roof. He suspected the other buildings were experiencing the same pandemonium.

Still, each building only represented a fraction of the total prison population. They were not allowed to mingle together as an entire group, and they now estimated several hundred men were POWs in North Vietnam. At Camp Unity, the men numbered these buildings. Jerry’s was labeled Big Room 3.

Within the next few days, however, a major bit of information spread like wildfire through the walls of Unity and became the subject of hours of speculation. It explained many things, including why every POW from outlying camps had been rushed in frenzied haste back to Hanoi.

Jerry was speechless when he first heard about it. “You say he saw a drawing of what?” he asked the POW explaining to him what had just been transmitted through communication channels.

“This guy over in one of the other cellblocks said he was using the latrine when all of a sudden this stick came through the window,” said the POW, his excitement visibly animating his face.

In these big rooms at Camp Unity, primitive communal latrines were located in the corner of each cell with a barred window to the outside.

“You’re kidding! You mean he was just standing there, and a stick came in between the bars?” asked Jerry.

“Yes! And it had a piece of paper stuck to the end of it. So the guy took the paper —had no idea what in the world was going on,” the POW continued, “and it turned out it was from one of the Vietnamese prisoners.”

At Camp Unity, the V held many allied Vietnamese prisoners together in a separate cellblock. Their ability to understand what guards were saying and talking about was an advantage for the Americans.

“The piece of paper had on it a crudely drawn compound-like structure. But it also had what looked like several parachutes coming down! The Vietnamese POW must have heard guards talking about it. That can only mean one thing! There must have been some kind of an attempted rescue at one of the camps by our Special Ops. Can you believe it?”

By now Jerry was as excited as the POW telling about it.

He turned to other guys who had been with him at Camp Faith.

“Hey . . . you guys remember that night we heard the firefight in the distance coming from Son Tay —I’ll bet that has something to do with this,” said Jerry.

The speculation began. And as military men, understanding how these things work, they surmised it might be the very reason why the V had moved all men from outlying camps back into Hanoi so hurriedly. They wanted to make sure no one was rescued from their prisons. Hoa Lo Prison was the best fortified and least likely place for Americans to attempt a rescue operation.

As Jerry and the men who had been at Camp Faith with him remembered the night they had heard the fireworks plus jet-fighter cover coming from the direction of their previous camp, they realized what had happened. There must have been an attempted rescue of POWs at Son Tay in the middle of the night by US Special Ops forces.

Since he had been living at that camp just prior to the rescue attempt, he would have been one of the fortunate POWs liberated from Communist North Vietnam —except for one minor detail. The V had relocated him and the others just a few months before, so there were no POWs to rescue.

Nonetheless, Jerry’s spirits soared in a way he had not experienced in six years —because it meant his country had not forgotten the POWs after all. It meant that despite all the reports of protests against the war in America, it meant despite all the celebrities from the States who had visited the camps and reported back to the homeland that things were rosy, it meant that even if many all over the world didn’t support the war —nonetheless, his government had not deserted them. The news gave him a much-needed boost; all the others felt the same when they heard about it.

Though initial reports were sketchy, it was enough information for these military men to put the pieces of the puzzle together. And as new shoot-downs entered the prison, more and more details surfaced. The story gradually unfolded.

A joint group of volunteers from Army Green Berets and Air Force Special Operations had formed a top-secret contingency to participate in the daring mission. After many months of grueling preparation and acting on intelligence gathered from several different sources, six helicopters lifted off from Udorn, Thailand, heading toward the remote camp known as Son Tay (Camp Hope), located several miles west of Hanoi.

Special Ops forces executed their mission to perfection —the only problem they encountered was believing their eyes when they discovered no American prisoners in the compound at Son Tay around midnight, November 20, 1970. They were certain POWs had been there . . . but they were not there anymore.

For many minutes, everyone involved with the operation was in disbelief. Author John Gargus, in his book documenting the raid, records the stunned reaction of the rescuers who were finding merely empty cells:

The scene inside the compound was incredible. No one believed what he saw and heard. “Negative items!” (Item was a code word for POW.) That was impossible! As level-headed and reliant on his men as [Captain Dick] Meadows was, he asked them to repeat their initial reports and then urged them to search again. That stunning revelation and disbelief went all the way up the chain of command. . . . Did everyone hear it right? As ridiculous as it may seem today, when the raiders were told to search the cells again, they did it in spite of the obvious results. They all hoped that the men they came to rescue would somehow reappear in their abandoned cells. [Captain Dan H.] McKinney was dumbfounded. He had a long lanyard with a loop for every expected prisoner. He had hoped to be the man who would personally greet each freed man. He would look into his eyes, exchange a word or two to determine his condition, and then place one of the loops on his wrist to ensure that he was now in friendly custody. It just couldn’t be happening!

When Jerry heard about the courageous rescue attempt, he realized it was indeed what he and his men had heard that night in November —the firefight in the distance, coming from the direction of Camp Hope, and the fighter jets screaming over them obviously providing diversionary cover. It explained why he and almost all POWs in outlying camps had been frantically moved back into downtown Hanoi. The V did not want to lose any of their prized captives to possible future rescue missions.

But Jerry’s jubilation over news of what men were already calling the Son Tay Raid was short lived. When guards had moved prisoners so hastily back to Hanoi, the men under Jerry’s command did not have time to destroy their scrounged crystal set radio parts. Unfortunately for Jerry, the V discovered the stash.

Word was sent to the camp commandant at Hoa Lo in Hanoi. Immediately, Jerry’s old nemesis, Bug, set out to extricate him from the cell. As soon as the doors burst open, Jerry knew. They jabbed him with their rifles and roughly marched him out of Big Room 3, yelling at him incessantly.

He had no idea where they were taking him —somewhere in the vast expanse of Hoa Lo Prison. Various large compounds filled the Hanoi Hilton, and by this time, Jerry was well acquainted with most of them. But not where they took him this time.

Guards led him to a small room where an interrogator waited, along with two handlers known to be part of the torture squads. Jerry’s body reacted the way all POWs who had endured previous physical punishment did: his heartbeat quickened, his muscles tensed up.

The camp interrogator was furious. Not only were authorities under pressure resulting from the Son Tay Raid attempt, but anxiety over what might happen next played a key role in their current bad moods.

“We find forbidden things —contraband. You leader, you responsible, Cuh. We punish you.” The commandant spoke as one who knew he was standing on solid ground. The captive had been caught; now he must face the consequences.

Over the next few days, Jerry experienced the debilitating pain of torture once again. Forced to “hold up the wall,” Jerry was required to stand away from the wall with arms raised, hands leaning against the wall holding up his weight, indefinitely. When he could no longer hold his arms up, he was forced to kneel on bare kneecaps on the concrete.

After a period of time, Jerry decided not to punish himself anymore and fell over. When he did, guards on either side pulled him up by the hair and forced him to continue to kneel. Now, not only was he bearing his own weight but the weight of the guards as well. His knees were raw.

He prayed under the increasing torment.

God . . . please, God. Help me survive. Help me. Let me live. Give me strength to endure.

After the guards had satisfied themselves that they had delivered enough punishment for unauthorized contraband, they led Jerry, limping and exhausted, to a tiny, filthy, stand-alone cell.

This place is so isolated, I could scream my head off and no one could hear me, thought Jerry. He stretched out on his mat on the concrete floor, hurting all over, especially his knees. It was the middle of winter, Christmastime —his sixth in captivity. After having a taste of living in large groups, he knew solitary was really going to be difficult —and there was no way to know how long he would be there. He missed his family more than ever.

Jerry grappled with the darkness. He prayed for strength to endure, to stay the course, to continue to hang on, to remain committed.

God, I’ve been in North Vietnam now almost six years. It’s been so long. Thank you so much for those brave men who came to Son Tay to try to rescue us. At least we know our government has not forgotten about us. God, that rescue attempt gave me hope. Please help me continue to persevere.

He went to sleep that night tired, cold, lonely. His recurring dream of attempting to rescue his children from deep waters returned during the night.

A few days later, a guard abruptly swung open his cell door. This guard was nicknamed “Gap” because of a wide space between his front teeth. Larger than most of the guards and somewhat dapper, he also showed no agreeable side to his nature. In fact, many had suffered in his hands during physical punishment.

As Jerry saw who had opened his door, he immediately felt unnerved. Long years of captivity had taught him to be highly suspicious of any change in schedule or activity. “Out, out.” Gap motioned the prisoner outside.

Jerry walked through the doorway. This cell had three concrete steps down from the door to the ground, and there at the bottom sat a three-gallon tin tub filled with water. “Wash, wash,” said the guard.

Jerry was so cold, he couldn’t think of anything worse at that moment. In North Vietnam, the temperatures in winter seldom drop below freezing, but low forties and fifties seem frigid without any heat or heavy clothing, and especially when you are surrounded by cement walls and floors. But he was filthy and knew he needed to clean himself up —to at least make an effort.

When he reached his hand down into the water, he couldn’t believe it. In fact, he was shocked. The water was warm —not hot, but certainly warmer than any shower or water he had used since becoming a POW. Since Jerry’s solitary cell was located close to the kitchen, perhaps the water was leftover from kitchen workers performing cooking chores. When Gap saw they needed to empty the used water, maybe he ordered Vietnamese workers to carry the heavy bucket to Jerry’s cell door in an unusual moment of compassion. Whatever the reason, the grungy captive was more than willing to accept it. Used warm water was better than no warm water at all.

Jerry grabbed his tin cup and began to pour the soothing liquid all over his head and face, one of the best sensations he could imagine. One cupful at a time, he splashed the tepid water all over his dirty feet and hands. Though the air around him remained frigid and the temporary warmth only accentuated the cold, he was so grateful for that one warm, brief bath.