CHAPTER 7

“WHY ME, LORD?”

EARLY SPRING 1966

NOT LONG AFTER CHRISTMAS, Zoo guards moved Jerry to another cell. Instead of facing water fields dotted with floating baskets for harvesting, his new corner cell faced forward into the middle of the compound where a large, abandoned pool doubled as a garbage dump. Shuffling along, with hands tied behind his back, he saw carp sluggishly swimming in its foul-smelling depths.

Again, soot covered his cell, which appeared to be even more infested with crawlers, perhaps due to its closer proximity to the fetid pool. When he entered, however, he noticed a split-bamboo frame four inches high in one corner. A few days later, guards brought in two wooden sawhorses that raised the platform about two feet. It allowed him to recline without actually touching the frigid cement floor. In addition, he was given a thin cotton blanket, about eighteen inches wide and five or so feet long, but the cloth was a mere wink at warmth, nothing more.

Whether he was elevated or not, vermin explored his reclining body while he tried to sleep. He learned quickly that if he left even a morsel of food, rats would steal it. He was so hungry, he usually ate everything anyway. And he knew he was losing weight, even though he had been in prison only about five months. Diarrhea had set in almost as soon as he entered Hoa Lo Prison and was reoccurring regularly.

Despite Jerry’s Christmas revelation, solitary confinement continued to challenge his ability to cope. When he awakened each morning, he faced hour upon hour of tedium: no variation of scene, sights, or sounds, just a dragging on of minutes, days, weeks, and months of being completely alone with nothing to do. He decided to map out a schedule for each day and began following it as much as he could.

The opening of cell doors marked time twice each twenty-four-hour cycle. Around 8:30 a.m., guards directed him outside to pick up a bowl of rice from the concrete walkway beneath a narrow overhang. At about 4:30 p.m., the same thing happened.

This chore of collecting food took approximately fifteen seconds start to finish, but it did provide an anchor both morning and late afternoon. Somehow these two small events helped Jerry organize his time. After eating the two cupfuls of rice, he would begin with prayer and then hymns, singing softly or just saying the lyrics. When he couldn’t remember all the words to a song, he would make up words to fit. Then the serious business began: pacing.

Most days, he walked as many as six or seven hours. When he exhausted himself, he slept better, though still fitfully.

Back at his cell in Heartbreak Hotel, he had only about six feet, maybe seven feet, to walk, hit the wall, turn, and walk back again. For the present, here in a fifteen-foot-square room by himself at the Zoo, Jerry savored being able to walk nine paces in one direction and then back again.

Once every three weeks or so, guards led him to a five-minute shower with nonlathering lye soap. On one of these trips, a jailer handed him a small razor with a broken handle. Jerry hadn’t shaved since his capture. The blade was so dull he suspected at least twenty other guys had tried to use it before him, but he managed to dry-scrape off a few layers of facial hair. It felt good just to do that.

While the turnkey led him back to his cell along a small sidewalk under a narrow overhang, he noticed dark skies overhead. The next thing he knew, a splash of raindrops blew across his face.

The sensation was startling. Since the beginning of his imprisonment several months before, he had been outside maybe a dozen times total and certainly not while it was raining. The cell door at this camp opened to the outside, so guards usually waited until precipitation subsided to perform their duties. On this occasion, the shower blew up quickly, catching them unawares.

Jerry was overcome with amazement at the astounding way fresh-falling rain feels. He leaned as far out from under the overhang into the spray as he could. It was the simplest of pleasures yet the grandest of sensations: he had missed it terribly, and suddenly he was filled with emotion.

During his prayer time that evening, he reflected on the day, his first shave, his shower, then the refreshing rain on his face. He pondered why he had never appreciated the marvelous magic of raindrops in times past. And he immediately knew why.

God, freedom forms the foundation of my life —I’ve never experienced being without it before —thank you, God, for allowing me to be born into freedom.

As the days crawled on, the thirty-three-year-old captain realized his successful communication with other prisoners would depend on his skill with the tap code. Because Commander Bill Franke at Heartbreak had been located a few cells away, it was difficult to tap loudly enough for communication to take place. They used it some, but when Franke could make sure there were no guards around, he would whisper loudly to Jerry. As a result, Jerry was still not speedy in using the tap code yet.

Here at the Zoo, however, he had recognized almost immediately there were probably other prisoners close by. He knew this because he could hear movement, sometimes coughing. However, when the POW on the other side of the wall tried to tap him a message, Jerry would forget the last letter while trying to determine the next. He knew he had to gain proficiency.

One day a banana came with his rice. It occurred to him the peel might be used to record letters. Searching around the floor of his cell, he found a small piece of bamboo. As the prisoner on the other side of the wall tapped out a message, Jerry would write down the letters. Whenever he received a banana, he hid part of the peel to practice, and he worked diligently to improve his ability to tap out first words, then short sentences.

The improvised banana peel primers increased Jerry’s ability to pass and receive words quickly and accurately, a most opportune accomplishment because, unbeknownst to him, an event was about to happen that would challenge his skill to its fullest.

When Jerry awoke on the morning of February 22, a melancholy mood immediately engulfed him. It was his son’s eighth birthday, and he had never missed any of his children’s birthdays before. He knew Terry probably would give Tommy a party with friends and family, bake a cake, and watch him open presents. Jerry always loved these family celebrations.

The prisoner prayed, God, I need to be home with my son. He needs a father. Why am I trapped in a cell a million miles from home? Lord, have I done something to deserve this —or . . . not done something I should have?

In his thoughts, he pondered the age-old question nearly everyone asks who has ever faced a tragic event or deplorable situation beyond their control: Why is this happening to me? Jerry did not question God’s authority as he had done on that first Christmas Eve in prison, but he did wonder why.

While he paced throughout the day, he mulled it over in his mind.

Is there some explanation, Lord? Why did this happen to me?

The questions seemed to rise almost of their own accord. But for the moment, Jerry sensed only silence from God. He went to sleep that night praying again for his wife and children.

A few days later, Jerry heard movement in front of his cell at the Pigsty. He quickly pulled up on the window ledge.

Steel bars filled these medium-square openings located about three or four feet from the floor. Large exterior wood shutters with slats fixed at a forty-five-degree angle restricted vision. When guards patrolled the perimeter, they could unlock the heavy shutters and swing them wide open, immediately monitoring everything inside the cell.

The prisoner, however, could not see out unless he was willing to risk being caught by guards. He could pull himself up by the bars and balance on the narrow ledge, then peer down the stationary slats. The higher up he could get, the farther along the concrete sidewalk he could see.

From his perch, Jerry glimpsed the legs of three people going past. Two were turnkeys, but the man between was obviously a POW. All Jerry could see of him was from midthigh down. His legs and knee joints were so horribly swollen, he could hardly walk. It looked like they placed him in the cell next to his.

Jerry surmised the man was a new shoot-down and had probably sustained these injuries during ejection from his fighter. Often from the force of ejection, a pilot’s feet, once they come off the footrests, will flay in the wind blast. Sometimes parts of his body might even strike the canopy or sides of the airplane as the airman is propelled from his seat. No doubt this man then had been force-marched on injured legs from the place he was shot down to Hanoi. Jerry knew he was in bad shape.

After waiting a couple of days to make sure guards were not listening, Jerry took a chance. He knocked on the wall the “Shave and a Haircut” rhythm, which was familiar to Americans and used by the POWs as a safety precaution. Then he waited for the expected response of two taps, or “two bits.” There was no sound. He tried tapping the first part of the seven-note couplet again. This time he heard two taps back.

Jerry pulled up on the window ledge and cautiously whispered through the window slats.

“Hey, new guy.” Jerry used the same words that had been a lifeline to him a few months earlier. “I’m Tom Curtis, helicopter pilot, shot down 20 September last year during a rescue attempt. Are you injured?” Jerry first wanted to determine his physical status.

The other prisoner identified himself and quickly explained his condition: “My knees hit coming out when I ejected —really banged them up. Didn’t help walking on them to get here —took several days.”

Jerry didn’t know how much time he would have to whisper before guards got wise, so he went immediately to the tap code.

“Here’s how we communicate through the walls. We use a tap code: simple alphabet grid, five by five: first five letters across top row, next five letters across second row, and so on. Omit the K and use C where you need to. For example, B would be one tap for the first row, then two taps for two across. Questions?”

No sooner had Jerry been able to explain it than he heard movement outside his cell. He jumped off the ledge and coughed loudly. Then he quickly stood up and began pacing. He knew guards would be watching them closely.

A few days later, as Jerry was sitting in his cell, he heard the “Shave and a Haircut” rhythm tapped on the adjoining wall. Jerry gave two quick raps back, indicating he was ready.

At first, there was silence. Then the faceless man on the other side of the wall slowly tapped out: do u pray. Out of all the questions someone in their situation might ask, the brevity and utter simplicity of this inquiry seemed overwhelming. Jerry sat a moment.

Here were two men who knew absolutely nothing about each other, not even what the other looked like. They had not had time to share much personal information —name and branch of service, what aircraft they had flown, a few bits and pieces of their history. What they did know was both had been stripped of everything: their freedom, their safety, their families, their careers. They had nothing.

The two men so far had not mentioned religion. Jerry had no idea the spiritual background of the man on the other side of the wall. And the man’s question to Jerry wasn’t about particularities like how, when, or what —just simply do you do this thing called praying.

Jerry tapped back yes.

A few more minutes went by. The man began tapping again: did u pray before here.

Jerry wondered what this prisoner with the badly injured legs might be working through mentally. He was suddenly thankful he could tap back a yes in hopes it would offer assurance, perhaps even comfort, to the man on the other side of the wall.

All was quiet for several more moments. Jerry prayed for the new POW he couldn’t see. Then he heard the quiet knocking resume, although he never would have guessed the next question.

Slowly, the other pilot tapped, what can u tell me about communion.

In the utter despair of deep darkness surrounding both of them, it seemed the world itself suddenly hushed. Jerry quickly organized his thoughts and began tapping back simple, short phrases.

jesus died on cross for our sin . . . his body broken . . . we eat the bread . . . his blood shed . . . we drink the cup . . . to remember him.

The taps seemed like piercing rays of light transmitting the lifesaving message not even a detestable prison wall could stop. Silently, Jerry prayed for his fellow prisoner but heard nothing more from him that night.

The next morning, Jerry wondered how the man next to him had fared through the evening. Sometime after guards made their rounds distributing the customary bowls of rice and small pitchers of water, Jerry heard several rapid taps on the wall. He sat down to listen.

saved water and little rice. will u help me with communion.

It seemed as if time stopped once more. Jerry answered, yes. He fetched a few drops of water of his own and a small morsel of leftover bread. Then he began a simple Communion service through the cell wall.

lord, forgive our sin . . . this is his body . . . take, eat.

Jerry ate his small piece of bread, knowing the prisoner on the other side of the wall was eating his grains of rice. He waited a moment, then began tapping again.

this is his blood . . . take, drink.

Jerry swallowed his water and waited again. Then Jerry tapped the last phrase from two defenseless men yielding to the highest authority there is in the universe.

we remember you jesus.

All was quiet. In the stillness, Jerry sensed once more a sudden awareness of God’s glorious presence. It was as if the Lord were saying to him, You ask why . . . and now you see.

After this sacrament through the walls, Jerry began formulating several ideas surrounding his earlier question “Why me?” Throughout his adult life, he had believed the best way to lead was by example. To the best of his ability, he stayed true to his faith and the Code of Conduct he had pledged to his country as a member of the United States Air Force. But within the context of asking God to provide some answer to “Why me, Lord?” he knew the Communion experience answered his prayer.

Jerry always had recognized that one of his tasks while he was locked up was to pray for others in the prison. And this he did daily, sometimes all day. He took his praying seriously because he knew the power it had on men and circumstances and difficulties.

But the sacrament through the walls led Jerry to understand that wrapped up in any explanation as to why believers might experience horrific circumstances in their lives was opportunity —opportunity to fulfill a God-glorifying task, heightened by or as a direct result of the horrific event itself. The tragedy either brought others across a believer’s path who needed to receive God’s light from the believer or who needed to see God’s light through the believer. Then, once engaged, that person perhaps would become a light bearer too.

Jerry realized he had been a conduit for God’s glory to an unknown and unseen prisoner, and an eternal truth surfaced in his mind: the deeper the darkness, the more brilliant the light.