CHAPTER 16

THE 4TH ALLIED POW WING

MAY 1972–FEBRUARY 12, 1973

AS THE US-VIETNAM PEACE TALKS continued to grind through the summer and fall of 1972, it appeared no one could agree on anything. Disputes over every part of the Paris Peace Accords threatened collapse of the process —representatives of governments attending the meetings argued for weeks simply on the shape of the negotiating table. It seemed as if the war would never end.

Meanwhile, POWs cocooned in Vietnam cells waited. Their last several months of captivity were some of the tensest they had faced, especially for those men known as the “old heads,” the servicemen who had been prisoners from the beginning of the war.

In May 1972, Jerry and others at Camp Unity learned about the possibility of yet another relocation from a Vietnamese A-1 pilot, code-named “Max,” imprisoned with them. “Max” had overheard guards discussing an upcoming move of POWs, but the pilot had not been able to determine how many prisoners would be involved or where they would be taken.

One night a short time later, guards unlocked the door of Big Room 3 and briskly entered with their arms outstretched, making rolling motions with their hands. Jerry had seen that sign multiple times over the past seven years. It was time to move again.

As the POWs were marched out the door, Jerry counted sixteen trucks waiting, engines running. Then he saw guards bring out dozens more men from all over Camp Unity. He nudged the POW standing next to him. “I’ll bet there are at least a couple hundred of us going,” he muttered under his breath. It was obviously a relocation involving the largest number of POWs since he had been brought into the prison in 1965 —a move of great magnitude.

Before guards loaded them into the large convoy, each man had his hands cuffed behind his back. About a dozen or so were loaded into the back of each truck, sitting anywhere they could on the flatbed. Canvas stretched over metal frames, concealing the prisoners from view. Before pulling out of Camp Unity, guards placed one open bucket for a toilet in the back of each truck.

The long convoy rumbled out of Hoa Lo Prison into the deserted, nighttime streets of downtown Hanoi. It moved slowly until it got to the city’s outskirts, then picked up pace, traveling into the country. Before long, the trucks were speeding on dirt roads, obviously rushing to their destination.

Jerry strained to stay seated upright with his hands cuffed behind him. The convoy traveled all through the night, finally stopping just before dawn the next morning. He wasn’t sure where they were —they sat in the trucks during daylight hours. Toward dusk, guards gave them a little water and bread.

As soon as it was dark, the convoy cranked up again and sped onward. Some POWs had a general sense they might be moving on a northward path because roads became steeper and bumpier, perhaps signifying the mountainous areas north of Hanoi.

“Where do you think they’re taking us this time?” John Frederick, a burly Marine, whispered to Jerry.

“I’ve no idea, John,” said Jerry. When the POWs in Big Room 3 at Camp Unity had just celebrated Frederick’s forty-ninth birthday, it didn’t stop the man who had been in the Marine Corps for nearly thirty years from demonstrating he still had what it took to be in the Corps. After they had sung “Happy Birthday,” he dropped down and performed one hundred short-arm push-ups, barely winded afterward.

Jerry knew John from prison population lists he had memorized but had not lived with him until Camp Unity. The stalwart warrant officer quickly became one of his favorites. They both had endured the same amount of physical abuse and torture —John had been shot down just a couple of months after Jerry, in December 1965. They also had shared stories with each other about their children, though John’s were older than Jerry’s. Each man agreed missing their families was the hardest part of being a prisoner of war.

The trucks continued to race along, deep potholes and hairpin curves rendering use of their one small communal toilet bucket nearly impossible. Many were suffering from severe intestinal disorders, and shortly into the second night of the trip Jerry’s kidneys shut down —he simply couldn’t void. The pain was excruciating.

They traveled for three days, moving only at night and hiding under trees in the daytime. Roads were getting steeper and temperatures lowering, which indicated they were indeed climbing upward into a mountainous area. Although the POWs weren’t sure where they were being transported, they realized this was no ordinary move. The unusual distance and large number of prisoners caused concern all around, if not outright alarm. For Jerry, it was by far the most nightmarish relocation he had endured during his entire time in North Vietnam.

At last they reached their destination. Jerry could barely rise when the convoy stopped. John Frederick helped him down from the truck, and Jerry managed to hobble to his cell. At last he was able to drink some water. Fortunately, within about twenty-four hours, his kidneys started functioning again.

During the next few days, the POWs learned they were only seven miles from the Chinese border and about a hundred miles due north of Hanoi. Their prison was a new maximum-security facility located in a small valley surrounded by desolate mountains. A high brick wall surrounded the front side of the prison, and a soaring karst blanketed and topped with barbed wire buffered the rear. Black paint, along with vines and branches, camouflaged the roofs. One airman said the only thing that kept it from being a dungeon was location —it wasn’t underground.

Though the prison was newly constructed, Jerry found the dozen or so stone and concrete buildings even gloomier, colder, and damper than any facility in Hoa Lo. The unusually thick walls contained only narrow slits for windows. There was no electricity. Since high mountains surrounded the complex, total darkness engulfed the cells fourteen hours a day. POWs soon nicknamed this obscure place “Dogpatch.”

Men were divided into groups of eight to twenty, filling the empty concrete rooms. The primary topic of conversation was why had they been moved so far out of Hanoi —did it indicate a positive omen or a dangerous situation? Not surprisingly, opinions varied widely as to what all of this might mean.

One of the reasons many thought the move possibly was a favorable sign was related to their individual shoot-down dates. These men represented roughly the first two hundred servicemen captured, beginning with Lieutenant Everett Alvarez Jr., the first prisoner taken captive (on August 5, 1964). Alvarez, a Navy fighter pilot, would become known affectionately as “the Old Man of the North.” On the other hand, why had they been moved to such an isolated location in the first place?

Jerry was placed in a building with approximately three cells. During the day, the prisoners could commingle, but at night, fifteen or so men were locked into individual cells. John Frederick and Will Forby were both in the cell group with Jerry.

At night, he would sit in the pitch darkness of his remote prison, praying for strength and wondering what this latest move so far away from Hanoi might signify.

A few weeks after POWs occupied these cells, guards distributed outdated American magazines, though many sentences were blotted out. As Jerry thumbed through the pages, he thought of all he had missed during the past years —seven and a half now, counting the time he had been in Thailand before his shoot-down. The people in them looked so different from what he remembered. He wondered, as he often did, what his son, Tommy, looked like as a teenager, and what his little daughter, Lori, looked like. He missed them. But he missed Terry most of all.

Out of the blue, he found himself wondering what sort of hairstyle she wore now. The magazine pictures showed women with very large, bouffant styles, which some of the men in camp referred to as “bubble-tops,” and many men in the States were pictured with very long hair. Double-knit suits sporting wide-bottomed pant legs looked odd for guys. On the other hand, the short, colorful miniskirts for women looked interesting. The younger shoot-downs expressed hope this particular style would still be in vogue if or when they ever returned home.

No sooner had someone framed a statement in that manner than silence followed. Jerry knew things would be different —how different was the question. The North Vietnamese guards never spared sharing with them information about the thousands of Americans who demonstrated, protested, and rioted concerning US involvement in the war.

Captors continued to repeat every negative and hateful pronouncement against them by their countrymen in the States. And they just as eagerly shared any sympathetic and pro-Communist statements —especially those from other Americans. In fact, over the years, POWs felt they could discern the ebb and flow of the severity of their torture relative to the amount of protests erupting in America.

At this point, however, the two-hundred-plus men just a stone’s throw from the Chinese border had little way of knowing what was transpiring in Hanoi, much less the United States. They might as well have been on another planet, confined as they were in Dogpatch.

Like being allowed magazines, several other aspects of Dogpatch actually seemed to be slight improvements over other camps where Jerry had been confined. The fifty-five guards adopted a “live and let live” attitude. Since daylight was shortened, prisoners were allowed to spend time in the hallways of their cells visiting. However, they were locked up again after dark, which was most of the time.

Food was minimally better here than in Hoa Lo, even though rice replaced bread. Later, they were given books, primarily Russian propaganda books translated into English.

Even with these slightly more favorable conditions, there was one major deficiency at Dogpatch that proved devastating. Due to colder and damper interiors, illnesses escalated. Though Hanoi meted out medical treatment sparingly, here in this remote location there was little, if any, available.

One day, Jerry noticed John Frederick had spent a couple of mornings not doing much more than just lying on his bunk. He decided to check on him.

“John, are you okay?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, I think so,” said John. “Just feeling a little weak —that’s all.”

But Jerry worried. He knew it was not a good sign for someone as strong as John. He talked to a couple of others in the cell, including Will. “I think we ought to see if we can get the guards to do something,” said Jerry. Will agreed.

The next morning when they were allowed into the hallway, a POW said to the turnkey, “Bao Cao, Bao Cao,” the familiar call to speak to someone in authority.

A guard came who spoke limited English. They asked him to send a Bac Si, or medic, to check John. When the guard returned, he brought a medic, who gave John one aspirin.

Later that night, Jerry felt John’s forehead. He was clammy. “Maybe that’s a good sign, John. Maybe you’ve sweated off a fever. You will probably feel better in the morning.”

John did feel somewhat better the next day but still was not his normal self. For nearly a month, this continued with his fever constantly spiking and breaking. Jerry and the other cellmates watched helplessly as the brawny Marine grew weaker and weaker with each passing day.

The next time a medic came to check on him, he ordered John removed from the communal cell to an isolated one. A few days later, POWs in another building saw a truck pull up to that same isolated cell at night, and they thought they saw a man being carried out on a stretcher.

Jerry asked the guards about John the next day. They simply answered, “In hospital. In Hanoi. Taking soup.” He prayed for his friend who had served his country so valiantly for thirty years.

Each time after that, the guards always replied the same thing when the POWs asked about their friend. But John never returned to Dogpatch.

The situation devastated Jerry and the other POWs. They all had gained such an appreciation for this brave Marine who, at nearly fifty years old, had taken everything the V had thrown his way. Jerry continually prayed for his friend, for God to make him well and return him home to his family.

Fall eroded into winter at Dogpatch. It was cold and depressing, and Christmas was fast approaching —Jerry’s eighth in captivity. In this remote facility, POWs lived together basically in the same groups they had been with for the past two years. Once again, Jerry was in charge of planning Sunday services for anyone who wanted to attend —and usually most men did.

One Monday morning during planning for the upcoming Sunday church call, Jerry approached a younger POW and asked him if he would give a devotional during their worship time. The airman declined, saying so many others were more qualified than he was. Jerry didn’t pressure.

“Okay . . . maybe just think about it,” he said, “and let me know.”

A couple of days later, the young officer approached Jerry and said he would do it. Jerry had no idea what a powerful message they would hear.

When Sunday arrived, the other POWs began sitting down on their wooden bunks. In the informal setting, the young pilot stood up.

“Well,” he said, “here goes.” He fidgeted with his hands, obviously uncomfortable. “When Jerry came to me and asked if I would speak to you guys today at our Sunday service, I told him, ‘Hey, I’m not a church person.’ There are so many of you who could be doing such a better job of this than I can.” He spoke softly, hesitantly.

“But after I thought about it, I went back to him and said okay —I’d do it.” The other men were listening now, intently.

“I don’t know much about the Bible —however, what I do know is what we’ve been through here in prison. We’ve been hungry. We’ve been beaten. We’ve been abused.”

None of the men who sat before him needed to be reminded of their plight, but there was something profound about the retelling. The sound of the speaker’s quiet voice going over the litany of abuses and hardships they all had endured brought the brutal reality of their situation to the forefront of their minds. They were prisoners of war in a hostile environment. They had endured everything the North Vietnamese had dished out.

“And here, so far away from our country, our families, our homes —we have nothing. Everything has been taken away from us,” the young man said.

It was absolute fact: the men sitting before him had been stripped of all external possessions. Of material things, they had nothing to their names —nothing. Though some speculated the war might be drawing to a close, there was no solid information to confirm that. And the fact that the V had transported them to such a remote place caused many grave concern. Fresh on everyone’s mind was John Frederick. They still didn’t know what had happened to him.

“But in reality,” he continued, “we each have many gifts —call them talents, if you want to —but we each have something that God has given us.”

He stopped speaking for a moment and picked up one of their enameled tin plates stacked on a nearby bunk. Now, he came to the heart of his message, holding the empty container in his hands.

“Though we have nothing materially, we each possess something, a gift or talent within us —something we can give to God for him to use. As I pass this empty dish around, I want each of you to hold it for a moment. Whatever you have that you are willing for him to use, place it in the plate —whatever you are willing to give to God.” He handed the plate to the first man sitting closest to him.

There was complete silence, just the subdued sounds of an empty plate being passed from one man to the next. Each man held the plate for several seconds. Many could be heard stifling their emotions. Some wept openly.

As Jerry watched the powerful yet simple message being delivered by this inexperienced teacher, he thought about how he had asked God during that first year in prison to use him in these dark dungeons whenever possible. And God had done that many times over.

Now Jerry recognized God had used him once again. God was answering his prayer of seven years before. Yet one more time, he had become a conduit for God’s light —this time through him to another POW and out again to others, a moment full of unspeakable purpose during his imprisonment.

Jerry was the last to touch the plate with its invisible contents. Only God knew its weight.

Back in Hanoi, when the other prisoners learned of the large number of men who had been moved out to an unknown destination, the leaders and senior officers discussed the situation. Some believed it was a sure indication that things had begun to progress with peace negotiations —they just didn’t know in what direction. They were all convinced the Communists wanted to protect a cache of their prisoners in the event they were needed as bargaining chips.

Others thought it indicated a dire situation. They hashed over what would happen should the prison be overrun by locals in Hanoi. Many remembered the massive crowds and near-tragic results of the Hanoi March back in 1966. Others speculated the V might carry out mass executions of all POWs should the United States invade Hanoi. So many unknowns —the Communists could never be predicted.

Then, in mid-December, what began as another ordinary, monotonous day at Camp Unity in Hanoi quickly turned into the most unbelievable day they had experienced in prison. Long-silent air-raid sirens suddenly started to wail. Then, several detected a distant roar. It grew louder and louder until someone shouted, “Do you hear that?” They felt the ground begin to shake violently, and within moments plaster began falling all around them inside the cells. Squadrons of B-52s commenced bombing Hanoi on December 18, 1972.

“We knew we were supposed to dive under anything we could, but most men went to the windows and just cheered,” remembers one POW. It had been years since any of them had heard the sound of airplanes overhead. Later, John McCain said it was the most spectacular show of air power he would ever see.

In his book, When Hell Was in Session, Admiral Jeremiah Denton describes the event:

Our captors were stunned by the tremendous bombardment and as the B-52s continued the assault nightly, leading up to Christmas, the camp hierarchy began to lie low and play strictly by the rules with us. They began to defer to our senior officers and appeared badly frightened.

The bombing stopped on Christmas Eve, and I prayed that the antiwar people would not deter Nixon from resuming the bombing after Christmas. I believe it was the most decisive moment of the war.

After the bombing began, there was a general sense that perhaps things really were winding down, that their days in Hanoi were limited. About 130 Americans were taken prisoner in 1972, a large portion in December. Fifteen of the B-52s were shot down, the survivors brought into the prison at Hanoi.

These new captives shared news of the status of the Paris peace talks and what was taking place back home, primarily political developments. The deliberations in Paris had stalled, and with intelligence reports of POWs being taken to a remote location near China, President Nixon had made the decision to begin bombing Hanoi and the surrounding region, focusing on military targets.

Most military experts then and military historians since believe it was in large part the renewed bombing that secured the successful release of the POWs. It explains how, as a group, those men who were incarcerated within the prison system of Hanoi would always regard Nixon as the one ultimately responsible for bringing them home.

Late in January 1973, Dogpatch guards loaded their two-hundred-plus prisoners into trucks, bouncing again over dirt roads descending back down from that remote mountainous area near the Chinese border. When they arrived at Camp Unity, others who had remained in Hanoi quickly updated them on all that had happened concerning the bombings during their absence. “I wish I could have seen it,” said Jerry.

Yet he knew the V couldn’t be trusted. The “old heads” who had been in captivity the longest had had their chains jerked too many times throughout the years to get excited before concrete evidence surfaced.

But even these seasoned POWs had to admit there were some noticeably positive signs. First, when the Dogpatch prisoners returned to Hoa Lo, the V kept POWs grouped together according to shoot-down dates, the accepted method of release once that time came. Second, the lights on guard towers and elsewhere around the camp were kept burning through the nights, signifying lack of concern by the North Vietnamese for continued air raids. Third, the airmen began receiving increased amounts of food: a half cup of reconstituted milk laced with sugar in the morning and extra bits of meat at night.

Some men reasoned the additional food might be an attempt to boost the health of those who looked undernourished. Also, the fewer men who needed to be carried out on stretchers the better in terms of public relations for the North Vietnamese. For the duration of the war, the captors had claimed that all prisoners had been treated according to the terms of the Geneva Conventions.

Still, no one ever verbalized, “You are going home.” One day, however, the Hoa Lo camp commandant himself allowed something to happen that seemed to point to an ever-closer release date. After so many years, the scene symbolized the pride of those who remained, even though captivity had suppressed their true identity.

Jerry found the event unfolding before his eyes as surreal as anything he had witnessed in the seven and a half years since his shoot-down and capture. Each man there that day probably felt the same, because in later years accounts would vary widely as to details.

Regardless of specifics, nearly four hundred POWs were allowed to gather together outside in the dirt courtyard of the prison —and to muster in parade formation, senior officers at the front with Vietnamese guards standing by, just observing. It certainly did seem to indicate a sudden, extraordinary change in attitude on the part of their North Vietnamese jailers.

Hardly anyone, however, showed overt emotions. This was partly due to leadership’s instructions to maintain dignity and discipline, partly due to most being completely drained of physical and emotional strength. So as a group, they stood motionless. One POW remarked later, “We were hardly breathing as we formed ranks.”

As he looked forward, Jerry watched the camp commandant begin to read a document he said pertained to a future event. It seemed to imply an end to military activities and alluded to the POWs’ “release from prison,” but there was no specific date as to when that would take place. Communist propaganda, as always, laced the message.

If Jerry had felt the chill of that January morning in 1973, he no longer noticed. Could I really be hearing this correctly? he wondered, but he kept his eyes trained forward. There was no movement from the few hundred men who were standing together in formation.

Colonel Risner, as SRO, was standing in the front of all the POWs at Camp Unity. He also was looking straight ahead as the camp commandant continued to read.

The document did say that if release happened, it would be done in increments of approximately 120 in order of shoot-down date, with sick and wounded going out first. The camp commandant —most POWs remembered him as the one they called “Dog” —then advised them to show “good attitude to end,” the old admonishment, though no one really knew if it would be the last time they heard it or not. Their thin, gaunt faces remained passive, looking straight ahead, in group formation, dressed in their tattered, soiled prison clothes.

Are they still jerking us around? Jerry wondered.

But when the camp commandant finished reading, he turned to leave. At that moment the SRO startled everyone. Jerry stood mesmerized.

Colonel Risner, at the head of the formation, did a sharp about-face, his military bearing displayed with unapologetic pride. Though he was still dressed in ragged prison garb, some would say he never looked more dignified.

“Fourth Allied POW Wing, atten-hut!” Risner barked out the command, and four hundred servicemen immediately snapped to attention. One POW recalled, “The thud of eight hundred rubber-tire sandals coming together smartly was awesome.”

In all his career, Jerry had never come to attention with such great delight. The name itself, “4th Allied POW Wing,” had evolved as the SROs in Camp Unity sought to emphasize their military organization: “4th” stood for the number of wars the United States had been involved in during the century, and “allied” referred to the inclusion of Thai and Vietnamese POWs captured. Elation filled Jerry at being able, after seven and a half years, to express that which defined him, his commitment to the Air Force and his country. We are a military formation even if we’re wearing pajamas, he thought to himself.

Every squadron commander immediately returned the SRO’s salute and in turn signaled their units with a “Squadron, dis . . . missed.” The undeniable expressions of pride in their military organization representing their country, which for so many years had been submersed in darkness —at times had endured even torture to protect —were witnessed now in the light of day for all to see.

Jerry was as honored to be a part of their group on that occasion as he had ever been. It felt good to be in formation and to be able to display the outward signs of allegiance and training. They all stood a little taller on that day.

When they reentered the cellblock from the courtyard, many POWs broke down into tears, others laughed quietly, but many met the day with continued subdued emotions as if lost in their own thoughts. No matter the visible reactions, it was overwhelming for everyone. These were sights and sounds of a day burned into their memories forever.

Jerry would never forget the image of Risner calling them to attention. He would never forget hearing the sounds of words so closely associated with their military bearing and the sound of heels clicking together in response, men acting in one accord.

During the next few days in February 1973, a flurry of activity seemed to suggest that this, at last, was the real deal —though many still remained reserved. Those who had been there the longest said they weren’t ready to “party it up” quite yet. As Jerry said to a nodding Will Forby, “We’ll believe it when we see it.”

Up to this point, no Vietnamese official had actually verbalized the prisoners would be released.

The captors began what they were calling “exit interviews” beginning with the first group according to shoot-down dates, earliest first. Senior leaders stressed the necessity of avoiding both confrontation on one end of the scale and fraternization on the other. This was not the time to do or say anything that might instigate problems.

One of the issues that arose at the last minute was what to dress in, if and when they left the prisons. Everyone assumed journalists from all over the world would be there, recording the event. And both sides, North Vietnamese and Americans, had their own ideas of what they would wear out of the prison.

The captors wished to have the POWs look well-dressed for propaganda, as if they had been on vacation, and suggested brightly colored sweaters with dress suits. The prison population preferred to walk out in the ragged, dirty clothes representative of their abysmal environment —cruel conditions that had been enforced by the Communist regime from day one. The V would not allow them to leave in their tattered clothes. The POWs were not about to dress as if they had been on holiday.

The agreed-upon choice was a compromise: black shoes, dark trousers, and a lightweight gray jacket with a zipper. These were issued to the first 120 men who had been shot down. Guards then took these men, about six at a time, on February 11, 1973, to a section of Heartbreak Hotel, ironically where most of them had “checked in” when they were captured initially.

The POWs were also given a small black duffel in which to carry any personal items. Many men brought home their tin drinking cups, one of them remarking he had used it so long that it was as close to him as his baby cup had been.

Jerry went to the area to pick up his clothes, then over to a place where the V were giving haircuts. It was here he saw for the first time since his captivity the pararescue crewman from his H-43 helicopter that had been shot down. Neil Black had been incarcerated over the years in locations different from Jerry. Sometimes they may have been only a few dozen yards away from one another but did not cross paths.

The two crewmen from Jerry’s helicopter who were captured when he was on September 20, 1965 —Black and Bill Robinson —became the longest-held enlisted servicemen in the history of the United States. Neil looked about the same; Jerry wondered if he did.

Once he got back to his cell, he and the other POWs were like little children trying on their new clothes. It was the first time in seven and a half years he had zipped a zipper or tied a shoelace.

That night, as Jerry prayed before sleep overtook him, uncertainty remained as to what might unfold over the next few days.

God, will this be my last night in captivity, or will something go wrong and turn the whole thing into a fiasco? Please, God, be with us tomorrow. Let this succeed. Please, get us home. Whatever the plans are, let everything go smoothly, keep us safe . . .

He recalled how he felt that very first night in captivity seven and a half years before as he tried to sleep and kept jerking awake: he was anxious and dead tired, all at once. He felt the same way now. All the signs looked good, but there was no way to know for certain whether they could trust the V, even at this juncture.

God, you have been with me all along. It hasn’t been easy. I am so ready to get out of here and go home. Please, let everything progress smoothly tomorrow.

Jerry tossed and turned all night. He still had heard no North Vietnamese official actually voice that POWs would be released the next day.

As the men in their cells in Hanoi tried to sleep, they had no way of knowing for certain what was transpiring on their behalf elsewhere in the world. In the predawn darkness of February 12, 1973, four C-141 Starlifter crews, ready to take off, received an alert of bad weather over Hanoi, delaying their departure from Clark AFB, Philippines, for nearly two hours. It created tension all up and down the chain of command.

Concerned that any delay might jeopardize their mission —not just significant in humanitarian terms but of historic military importance —as soon as a slight break occurred, the planes were ordered into the air. Three would fly on ahead to Hanoi, while one circled at Da Nang, South Vietnam, as backup in case unexpected problems with the others occurred.

As the C-141s came into Hanoi airspace, the overcast presented a six-hundred-foot ceiling, the bare minimum needed to land the aircraft. Not knowing for certain the condition of the six-thousand-foot runway at Gia Lam Airport, the first plane began its descent and broke out from under the thick fog cover with barely enough clearance above the runway for landing.

Once the first crew saw the condition of the runway, that most of the holes created during bombing raids had been patched over, word was sent there was enough room for the second plane to land. However, in the delay of messages being communicated back and forth from 22nd Air Force at Travis AFB in California, the second plane was told to pull up and circle around, since there remained a question of suitable landing space on the runways.

At this point the North Vietnamese became furious and began yelling for the second plane not to circle but to land. But it was too late. Due to the short runway, once the second C-141 was told to pull up and circle around, they had no choice but to continue on that course.

The incident, under any other circumstances, would have been a mere blip in the overall day. But tensions were high. No one knew for sure exactly what might transpire. Fortunately, the second C-141 circled around and landed shortly thereafter, avoiding any further issues for the present, while the third C-141 continued to circle. Now the crews, military officials, nurses and medical teams, escort officers, and State Department personnel sat on the runway of Gia Lam Airport, Hanoi, North Vietnam, waiting.