CHAPTER 15

THE HANOI HILTON “UNIVERSITY”

SPRING 1971–SPRING 1972

DURING 1971 AND 1972, there remained a test of wills between captors and captives. Of course, guards continued to demand ridiculous shows of subservience, and there remained the threat of punishments. But for the most part, the brutality of the torture era was past. Now came a time of a different sort of adjustment: huge numbers of men with strong personalities living in extremely cramped spaces.

Jerry had spent his sixth Christmas confined again in solitary. After three cold winter months, he returned in spring 1971 to his large living group in Big Room 3 at Camp Unity. There he discovered one of the most rewarding developments possible: an amazing system for continued education had been initiated among the prisoners. It couldn’t have come at a better time, so welcome after the weeks he had just endured.

When Jerry was imprisoned at Camp Faith, the POWs there had begun informal classes as a way to renew and stimulate their minds. Once men were living together in larger groups at Camp Unity, each cellblock began organizing classes, clubs, and groups that developed into what they would come to call the “university.”

One of the POWs had been an experienced educator before prison. He was tasked with launching the learning program. Men were canvassed, then organized according to what they knew and could teach. Every cell had resident experts in a wide variety of subjects. Within days, a diverse curriculum of courses covering an amazing variety of subjects emerged.

Among the languages offered were French, Spanish, German, and a short course in Russian. Math was taught, including advanced calculus. The arts were not left out. Many had musical backgrounds and began figuring out ways to teach music fundamentals without instruments or recordings.

Electives included a variety of history, science, and electronics courses. A former member of the faculty at the Air Force Academy taught thermodynamics; another POW lectured on government and American history; an avid Civil War buff taught seminars covering every battle from start to finish. One POW had been a business major in college and taught business and accounting. Yet another POW had worked as a butcher and taught meat cutting. Someone else, whose hobby was wines, led his group on imaginary wine-tasting tours in France and Germany, teaching them the differences between all sorts of varieties, from cabernets to pinot noirs, solely by vivid descriptions of taste, color, and body. Beekeeping and diesel maintenance rounded out the offerings.

As Unity’s educational system grew, one of the POW instructors noted later that all the typical complaints over workload, scheduling conflicts, and exam preparedness became a natural part of the process. Those who struggled with difficult material sought after-hours tutoring. “It was, in all the essential ways, a real school. Certainly learning was taken seriously, and the appetite for knowledge was great.”

Naturally, disputes occasionally arose as to the facts stated in a given course. With nearly five hundred men spread among the various buildings, most college graduates and many with advanced degrees, there were always those willing to instruct and help with fact-checking.

But without the benefit of textbooks, memories often differed. The communications network would then get busy to see if there was someone else in another cellblock who could settle the matter. Of course, this had to be done through urgent tapping on the walls to another large cell group while students waited for the correct answer.

Sometimes, however, issues were settled on the basis of “most likely” or “strongest possibility.” These cases were dubbed “Hanoi facts,” meaning everyone would agree on a consensus “educated guess.” Often these disputes continued until men returned home and could, at last, verify a specific bit of information. Sometimes, fairly large sums of money exchanged hands due to verification of disputed “Hanoi facts” once home.

The greatest handicap was lack of paper, pencils, blackboards, and reference books —all the natural accompaniments to most teaching environments. Without these supplies, men used only their memories and speech to relay learning.

As the men in Big Room 3 welcomed Jerry back from his three-month stint in solitary confinement, they filled him in on everything that had happened while he was gone, who the new shoot-downs were, who had been sick, and who seemed to be experiencing more than the usual depression.

They also related to him what he had missed at Christmas. During the holiday celebration, POWs had exchanged imaginary gifts. Will Forby was given a life-size photo of Jerry to commemorate their sixth Christmas in prison together.

They then introduced Jerry to the “university” classes, now in full swing. It was nothing short of fabulous for him and filled a void —a need deep within for learning.

Since Jerry had joined the Air Force when initial sign-up required only a two-year minimum of college, he was in the minority among the POW population, most of whom had already graduated from four-year programs. He had always intended to complete his undergraduate degree at some point while in service, but the war and captivity interrupted all that. Having the opportunity now to further his education and intellectual development inspired him. He plunged in wholeheartedly.

Even before Camp Unity, Jerry had practiced Spanish and French “through the walls” for several years. By manufacturing ink using ashes or brick dust and water and forming a stylus from a bamboo sliver, he would write vocabulary words on pieces of toilet paper and memorize them. Then at Camp Faith, one of his cellmates spoke Spanish fluently, and another French, which continued his education.

Now, in Big Room 3, he discovered great teachers in both languages and immersed himself in their classes. He had chosen Spanish primarily because being from Texas, he already knew a respectable sprinkling of words and phrases. He studied French mainly because he enjoyed the sound of the language.

After attending study groups in both languages for more than eighteen months, he acquired a vocabulary of around four thousand words in each. He could converse at a relatively high level in both, but especially Spanish.

Another area of interest for Jerry was public speaking. He had always enjoyed teaching Bible classes in church, and standing before people to speak came easily to him. Several of the men formed a Toastmasters Club and gave speeches in front of the group, then were critiqued. Jerry joined the club. His speech on “How to Make a Louisville Slugger Bat” received a stunned ovation when he finished.

Will Forby also had been at Camp Faith and participated in studying Spanish there. Now he continued foreign language studies and sat in on business management. Neither pilot, Jerry nor Will, had any idea God was laying a foundation for each of them in prison to experience second careers later in life.

Before men were moved into larger living groups, one of the ways to pass time and keep minds active consisted of playing games. Someone fashioned a backgammon board by laminating layers of coarse toilet paper with rice-paste glue. The center of a small bread loaf —if the POW was willing to sacrifice bites of food —could be rolled and shaped into small disks to form game pieces. If he wanted to create checkers, red brick dust could be used to color one set red, and black coal dust could be used for the other set. Of course, anything of this sort had to be kept extremely small so it could be concealed quickly.

“Five Questions” became a favorite trivia-wagering game among POWs. Sometimes when answers were contested, bets ensued. Several men after their release sent money to other former POWs for wagers lost during contested games.

Occasionally, once the Vietnamese allowed prisoners to receive packages from home, someone might get a deck of cards. Before that, guards gave out a few decks of Vietnamese cards made from pasteboard glued together in thin layers. These couldn’t be shuffled in regular fashion because they creased so badly, even breaking, so cards were mixed gingerly.

Playing bridge was by far the most complicated pastime. The four men making up a rubber often were not in the same cell or even adjoining cells. A hand of bridge might last two to three weeks since every move had to be tapped through a successive series of walls.

Jerry had never played cards, and one of the Navy pilots living with him in Big Room 3 noticed he was not participating. One day he approached Jerry. These two men represented some of the “old heads.” Navy Lieutenant J. B. McKamey had been in prison nearly four months longer than Jerry; they each knew what the other had endured. Over the years they had lived all around each other yet never in the same cell.

“Tom,” said J. B., “I’m going to teach you to play bridge.”

“Are you any good?” Jerry looked steadily at the lanky pilot, who he knew had faced all the same trials and tribulations over the years that he had.

“You bet. I have master points,” said J. B.

“What does that mean?” asked Jerry.

“It means I’m d — good,” grinned J. B. and turned to rummage up a deck of cards.

And so began a most rewarding master-apprentice relationship. J. B., with patience and commitment, was determined to make his student a suitable partner for any bridge tournament someone in the Hanoi Hilton might want to organize. And as time went on, Jerry realized he enjoyed the game tremendously.

Not long after the lessons began, while J. B. was dealing out four hands —two dummies and one for each of them —they began talking about their individual shoot-down experiences. Jerry knew the Navy pilot had flown an A-1 Skyraider, or Spad, the same type of airplane that had accompanied him on helicopter rescue missions. These attack bombers carried a respectable amount of ordinance. What he hadn’t heard, however, were the details of J. B.’s shoot-down and capture.

“Where were you bombing?” Jerry asked him.

“My targets were north of Vinh,” he said.

Jerry suddenly looked up. “When was that, J. B.?”

“Well, I had flown in that general vicinity before, but I was shot down on June 2, 1965,” answered J. B.

Jerry sat a moment. “You know what —I was based at NKP —and I believe I was the one launched to go pick you up. We were already airborne and got a call that you had been captured!” said Jerry.

“Sure wish you had been able to get to me sooner,” J. B. said, chuckling.

“Me too. I’d have saved you a lot of trouble —or at least tried,” said Jerry.

J. B. nodded in agreement. “See —teaching you to play bridge is the least I can do for the rescue helicopter pilot they sent after me!”

The knowledge of their close encounter prior to captivity sealed their friendship. Now the master-point bridge player was more determined than ever to produce a star student. Together they won many tournaments at the Hanoi Hilton.

Jerry was working on his Spanish vocabulary for an upcoming “exam” when a guard came into the cellblock and directed him to the camp commandant’s office.

Now what? Jerry thought. No POW ever knew for sure what would happen when guards escorted him somewhere.

The turnkey led him into a small room with a desk. On top lay a letter. As Jerry sat down, he saw something else besides the paper. He picked up two small photographs —the first images he had been allowed to see of his children since his capture six years before.

All he could do was stare at the people in the photos. He knew who they were, of course, but in another sense, he just simply didn’t recognize them.

Tommy had just turned seven when he left for Thailand in April 1965. This young man was nearly thirteen, with hair below his ears, broadening shoulders. He looked like a linebacker. His face was full yet already showing signs of early puberty —not the boyish grinning child he had kissed good-bye in Alexandria, Louisiana.

But it was his little daughter who had changed the most. Lori was four years old when he had left —not much beyond toddling and still with thin, wispy hair. The young girl he looked at now was ten years old, with long, dark hair and a dimpled chin, beautiful beyond words. She looked like her mother.

He tried to imagine them speaking —to hear their voices saying “Daddy.” Suddenly, the tears flowed.

Though he couldn’t imagine why, the guards allowed him to take the pictures back to his cell, where he shared them with some of his cellmates. They all agreed how handsome the children were.

That evening as he lay on the floor, he stared at the pictures for a long time.

Thank you, God, for taking care of them. They have changed so much . . . do they remember me?

Jerry knew that of course Terry would keep his memory alive in their minds —he was not worried one bit about that. But would they remember him? He knew Tommy would have memories, but how many Lori had of him, he wasn’t sure. She had been so little when he left. His kids had loved him before, and he had loved doing things with them . . . but that seemed like another life, another person.

Please get me home, God. Take care of them, God, until I return.

He placed the pictures under the thin, blue sweater that was rolled up beneath his head.

As 1971 dragged on, the “university” classes continued, accomplished without aid of pen, paper, textbooks, or dictionaries. The POWs often mentioned how they wished they had reference books.

But there was one book above all others that many POWs ardently wished they possessed: a Bible. For many years, POWs held in North Vietnam weren’t allowed to receive packages from the States. Finally, however, this prohibition was lifted, but boxes had always been opened, contents pilfered, and any Bibles confiscated.

Over the years, Jerry’s wife attempted several times to send him a copy. Of course, he never received any of them. And once in captivity, one of his greatest regrets was not having taken time to memorize more Scripture during previous years of his life. He missed the Bible —he had no idea before prison just how intensely he would. In place of Bible verses, Jerry relied heavily on great hymns of the faith, which often echo Scripture in their words.

From the beginning of their imprisonment, men had whispered or tapped Scripture verses they knew by heart through the walls. When they couldn’t remember a certain verse in a passage, they would improvise. When they were repatriated, many POWs said how amazing it was, the accuracy they maintained without realizing it. Scripture was their light in the darkness. And what faith men had in their hearts they shared, like Jerry when he led in Communion with the unseen man on the other side of the wall at the Zoo many years before.

But many POWs longed for a Bible. The SRO in Jerry’s cellblock continually petitioned the camp commander to allow them to have one. And if any of the men were called in for a “quiz,” they also would ask. Jerry always repeated the request for a Bible every time he endured an indoctrination session.

Finally, the camp commandant at Unity told Big Room 3 he would allow one POW to come into the quiz room and read a Bible. When that message came back to the cells, the prisoners called a meeting.

“I think we should select one person to go in and ask to copy verses —someone who already has a fair knowledge of Scripture . . . and can write fast,” said Jerry. The other men agreed, and Jim Ray, one of the seasoned POWs, was selected. Jim was familiar with several different Bible translations, and everyone thought that might be beneficial.

In addition, Jim had been a soloist at his home church in the States, often singing hymns based on Scripture. During the first church service at Camp Unity, when Jerry heard him sing, he immediately recognized the voice: the one that had sung “O Holy Night” over camp loudspeakers during that bleak Christmas at Briarpatch.

So the men began to pool what Bible verses they already knew by heart. Out of nearly fifty men in Big Room 3, it was surprising how many they could remember collectively. Sometimes, if someone knew only part of a psalm or passage, someone else could fill in what he didn’t remember. Jerry knew the familiar verses children usually memorize growing up in Sunday school, but he wished he knew more. He promised himself he would memorize more Bible verses once he got home.

Men in Big Room 3 who were participating in the project —and that was nearly everyone —now began to decide which verses or passages they wanted Jim to copy. As they discussed the project, they decided on a few favorites for reading and meditating. Jerry agreed with the others —the Sermon on the Mount was definitely a key passage they wanted, as well as chapter 13 of 1 Corinthians.

The day came when Jim was allowed to go to the interrogation room where the camp commandant awaited. As he entered, there was a small Bible lying on the table with paper and pencil. He sat down and turned to Matthew chapter 5 to begin copying the Sermon on the Mount. The Bible was a tattered-looking copy of the King James Version.

The camp commandant started talking. “I give you one hour. No more. You copy but must do here . . .” As he talked, he placed his elbow on the page of the Bible Jim was trying to record. He sat there for nearly fifteen minutes of Jim’s hour, covering the Scripture passage Jim had selected.

When he finally sat back in his chair, Jim copied as fast as he could. At the hour’s end, he folded the piece of paper and was led back to the cell.

“Here it is,” said Jim.

Jerry and others immediately asked him to read out loud what he had copied. They sat around on the floor or on the sleeping platform to listen. It was the first reading of Scripture Jerry had heard in six years.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.”

A hush fell over the men.

“Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.”

Jim’s voice was the only sound in Big Room 3.

“Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Finally, Jim reached the end of the Beatitudes. Unseen light permeated the room.

“Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.”

Jerry thought the reading of Scripture that day had never sounded sweeter in his life.

After he finished reading, Jim passed out the verses to several of the men who wanted to continue to study them later that night. Jerry received the verses about how God’s children are the light in the world. The POWs all agreed having Scripture they could hold in their hands was one of the greatest things that had happened since their imprisonment.

The next morning, however, as guards entered Big Room 3 inspecting for the usual contraband, they found the pieces of paper with English writing. Immediately they confiscated all of what Jim had copied and distributed among the POWs.

“We take papers! Give back now!” The guards were yelling and began sweeping aside blankets and clothing to locate all the pieces of paper.

“Wait,” said Jerry. “You said we could do this.”

“You must give back! No keep!” growled the guard.

Reluctantly, the men who held the precious pieces of paper with Scripture written on them gave up their bits of treasure.

Jim stepped forward. “But I can continue to copy. The camp commandant said I could.”

“You can . . . but no keep. No keep!” The guards retrieved every bit of paper and rushed out of the room.

“Well,” said Jerry, “we will just have to start memorizing whatever Jim copies. They can’t take it away from us then.”

So the next time Jim went in to the interrogator’s room, he copied as fast as he could. He began with 1 Corinthians 13. He ended the hour by recopying parts of the Sermon on the Mount, since the men now thought they could piece most of those chapters together.

This time when he returned to Big Room 3, he tore the paper into sections and handed them out to as many POWs as wanted to participate —and most did. They spent the rest of the evening memorizing the verses on their pieces of paper.

Sure enough, shortly after breakfast, guards came in to inspect the cell again for contraband. They did find the papers with verses written on them, but this time, it didn’t matter. The POWs handed them over without regret, because they held the verses in their hearts. The “living” Bible had been born.

Each week, the recorder had to return what he had copied the previous day. But the V quickly realized the spiritual lift the Bible verses seemed to be giving the men. This frightened the guards, especially the camp commandant. He only allowed about six one-hour recording sessions, then abruptly stopped the copying.

However, between what prisoners knew from memory collectively and what had been copied and memorized, they could recite the entire Sermon on the Mount, Romans 12, 1 Corinthians 13, many of the Psalms, and various other passages scattered throughout the Old and New Testaments.

Jerry treasured being able to learn more verses. And when someone felt a need to hear a certain Scripture passage, there usually was someone who knew it, would be willing to recite it, and would help a fellow POW memorize it. As Jerry watched another POW exercising, he realized he could go to him and ask him to recite the verses he held in his heart. The prisoner found it so uplifting to think, for example, that “John 1:1-5” was doing push-ups over in the corner. The one Bible the POWs constructed was perhaps the greatest that exists —a truly “living” Bible. Jerry thanked God for it every night.

One evening, as he was drifting toward sleep on the concrete platform with its eighteen inches of sleeping space per man, Jerry began his usual talk with God. That week, a ferocious pink-eye epidemic had swept through his cellblock. All fifty men confined in Big Room 3 had contracted the disease except for him and one other person. Those affected suffered eyes badly swollen and struggled with severe pus and redness. The medics had nothing for it. Jerry had spent several days delivering wet rags to comfort men seeking a little relief from burning and itching.

God, please help my cellmates. Heal their eyes quickly. They need your touch.

Then, he reviewed the Spanish and French he had learned that day and his next speech for Toastmasters Club. As usual, his thoughts drifted to his family —he wondered if Terry had to help the children sometimes with homework. Did they like school? He prayed they did.

Before joining the Air Force, Jerry had completed two years of college —only his finances had prevented him from continuing along that path. His entry into the Air Force, at first, was really because he needed secure employment. But he discovered he loved to fly and loved visiting other places. He had seen so many things most people never see as long as they live, and he had experienced things only written about in books.

As he reflected, he realized the extent of his desire for learning. He had always had an innate curiosity about things —history, mechanics, people. It seemed ironic that here in a prison, an oppressive place that constantly reminded him of his confinement, his mind was soaring. He was receiving a quality education.