CHAPTER 8

BRIARPATCH HUMOR

SUMMER 1966

SHORTLY AFTER HE SHARED Communion through the wall with a fellow prisoner, guards transferred Jerry, trussed and blindfolded, to another camp around April 1, 1966. This facility, located thirty-five miles west of Hanoi near the town of Xom Ap Lo, rivaled the primitive circumstances of captives being held in the jungles of South Vietnam. It had no running water or electricity, and the food here was even less nutritious than at the Zoo, where a palm-sized loaf of French bread or a banana sometimes accompanied meals. So crude were these living conditions that POWs quickly dubbed the camp “Briarpatch.”

After Jerry arrived, guards placed him in an area where small hut-type buildings replicated a tic-tac-toe grid. These seven-by-eight-foot enclosed cells each held a single prisoner in solitary confinement. Jerry occupied the cell located at the center of the grid. Cracks in the walls patched over with mud gave interior surfaces a cave-like appearance, and during summer months, tropical temperatures turned the huts into ovens. During winter, the opposite was true; cold clung to every surface.

Once the sun set, temperatures relaxed somewhat, but it quickly became evident that what created an uncomfortable situation during the day found its rival in an equally undesirable situation at night. Because of the camp’s rural location, bugs came out in droves.

The first night, Jerry observed hordes of mosquitoes like a black blanket covering every inch of exposed skin surface. Fortunately, the next day, a guard brought him a mosquito net. He attached one end to the bars on the window and tucked it under his rice mat at the other end, holding it down with his feet. How on earth could anybody survive out here without a net? Jerry thought.

Right away he and the other POWs isolated around him realized a bonus unique to their new location. The iron bars embedded in the concrete caused reverberation through the walls. As a result, tapping communication could take place among all occupants. Though each was in a different cell, everybody could be “online” at one time.

These vibrations developed into a marvelous source for sharing information . . . and humor.

Here at Briarpatch, guards often were as irritable as prisoners. It was a miserable assignment for them due to its isolation and primitive conditions. As a result, they frequently gave even less attention to simple tasks.

After the first few days of imprisonment in this rural camp, Jerry noticed guards left his plate of rice for longer periods of time before allowing him to pick it up. One night, once he brought it inside his cell, he heard a distinctive rustling.

As he groped around the plate with his fingers, he discovered two large roaches —three- to four-inch flying palmetto bugs —competing for his supper. In addition there was a small rock or cement chip mixed in. He also thought he could detect a few grains of rice that were squishy and longer than expected. He guessed those might be white rice worms boiled during preparation. But he was so hungry, he fought off the roaches and swallowed the worms.

When he had finished eating, he tapped gngb on the wall, which meant “Good night, God bless.” This was becoming the standard sign-off message between all POWs “through the walls” before going to sleep.

But then he decided to pass on his mealtime discoveries and tapped against the wall: one roc . . . two roch . . . two worm.

Almost immediately, he could hear the POW on the other side of the wall tapping back. Jerry pressed his ear against the surface.

beat u . . . two roch . . . four worm . . . one bug.

During successive nights as the POWs continued to count foreign objects in their food, every man within Jerry’s grid of cells shared what they had found in their plate and the number. After a couple of nights, they simplified their messages by just tapping out the total number. One evening someone proposed whoever had the most would “win” and be proclaimed king for a day. Game on.

This contest continued for several nights, until one day the winner demanded a prize. After all, that was the least the others could do for him.

One POW tapped out: u get dessert.

Jerry rapped the walls with his knuckles: ice cream.

Another POW answered back: whip cream.

Next, someone added: nuts.

And so it went. Each night, someone was “crowned” king for a day, depending on how many foreign objects had been extracted from his food —or eaten as part of the meal. Then someone selected a delectable dessert to present to him, and each POW added a topping, a treat, or something to enhance the original selection.

In a very real way, this silly game actually lifted spirits at day’s end. By mealtime, it was pitch black in the pens. The only sound was that of an occasional cough or shuffle or bugs flying. But if a captive had had the most foreign objects in his meager helping of rice, for a moment he had won a small victory, and the king for a day enjoyed an inspired culinary treat, if only in his dreams.

Jerry had not been in this rural camp long before he began to be interrogated. He had received a little information already through other POWs, who tapped out the letters qz, which stood for “quiz,” the term POWs coined that encompassed any and all interrogations. Some of “the V” —a nickname the POWs used to designate their Vietnamese captors —spoke fair to good English; under these conditions, a prisoner exercised caution, restricting his answers to the shortest possible phrases. But often a guard might just be practicing his English. Always, however, the POWs were reminded they were the “blackest of criminals” and had committed many “war crimes” against the people of Vietnam. Often the lectures lasted for hours.

During one of his first quizzes, Jerry met an interrogator nicknamed Bug, who became more and more of a factor in the daily lives of men at Briarpatch. He already had a reputation for flying off the handle at the slightest provocation. Some POWs later described him as “an emotionally unstable interrogator whose wandering right eye, constantly jabbing index finger, and harping ‘You have murder my mother’ evoked alternately scorn and terror.”

Bug had been lecturing for a long time, and Jerry sat still, listening. He suspected the interrogator simply might be practicing his English, because he remained fairly laid back and so far had shown no outward signs of losing his temper.

The questioner had been pressing his captive for a period of time about how US military rescue missions determined where a downed pilot was located. This sort of information could be useful to enemy troops on the ground. Bug was getting exasperated.

“How you know where to go when pilot go down?” said the interrogator, his voice rising.

Jerry realized he would need to give him something. From out of nowhere a bogus answer popped into the pilot’s head. Quietly, keeping his face completely expressionless, Jerry asked, “Well, do you know what a carrier pigeon is?”

Because the V never liked to admit when they didn’t know something, the interrogator said, “Yes.” Perhaps with only his political vocabulary or his limited military words, he thought Jerry was speaking of a ship —most operations in the Gulf of Tonkin utilized aircraft carriers.

But he also might have been baiting his prisoner. Jerry couldn’t be sure, and to continue down this path might land him in trouble. But he decided to chance it.

“You see, pilots have carrier pigeons with them. When they go down, they write their location on a piece of paper and wrap it around the bird’s leg. Then the pilot releases him, the homing pigeon returns to base, and that’s how we know where to look for him.”

Jerry continued speaking steadily, with an impenetrable poker face, all the while staring the guard directly in his one stationary eye.

Bug listened and nodded. Fortunately, Jerry was never questioned about his answer, and he often remembered this conversation in heavier moments for levity.

Many POWs began developing their own signature sneeze or cough using expletives. These “sneezes” could be heard throughout the day or night, a little humorous reminder “that the family was all there, and things were normal; dismal as ever, but normal,” said one POW.

After such cathartic moments, a POW might relate his successful ruse with additional satire. “I got away with murder” often followed the slightest triumph in the ongoing war of wills. Such minimal bits of mischief diverted attention, and even at times seemed like small victories.

Surprisingly, Jerry almost always knew what day it was while he was in North Vietnam. The POWs helped one another keep track. This, plus the routine of guards and the sound of gongs, served to help them with the calendar; the American prisoners knew when Sundays rolled around.

Back at Heartbreak Hotel and the Zoo, Jerry honored Sunday by spending more time singing hymns and praying. Here at Briarpatch, with more contact with other prisoners, the men began having church “together” on Sunday mornings.

Early on Sabbaths, someone would tap on the wall cc, signaling church call. These taps would then be passed to as many cells as possible all over Briarpatch, and each man who wanted to participate would begin his silent service. Men also began having church call on Sundays in other camps, and those who wanted to participate did —and it was usually almost everyone. Men bowed their heads, prayed, and worshiped their Creator.

Since Sunday mornings had been important to Jerry his entire life, this became the most uplifting time of the week during his incarceration. There was something powerful —and comforting —knowing other POWs were near him, even if unseen, worshiping while he worshiped. Though he could not see, hear, or touch any of them, he knew they were having church.

The young captain began his silent service by “welcoming members” at his imaginary church door, something he had done many times at Horseshoe Drive Baptist Church in Alexandria, Louisiana. He thought of his many friends back home going to church —and he knew Terry attended there every Sunday with the children.

Terry always had been such a key component of their worshiping together. He thought about the small church they had nurtured together back in Germany with other military couples. They had discovered an old pipe organ in the building, which they cleaned and restored, providing Terry with a wonderful way to add music to their group get-togethers. He always included thoughts of her when he worshiped and pictured his children sitting with her.

Now, at his imaginary church service, he gave a call to worship, prayed, and sang hymns. Next he took up an offering in his mind, first yielding up his heart to God, then passing the offering plate. He preached a sermon by thinking of as many Bible verses as he could and meditating on what each of them meant. By the end of his church service, Jerry had been greeter, usher, choir member, and minister. Terry had led in music and singing.

One Sunday after completing his service, Jerry couldn’t help laughing at himself. He realized how humorous it was to play all the roles involved in a church service —except of course for playing the piano and organ —when back in the States, so many people would think of excuses not to go to church. Even though he was alone in his service, he thanked God for the joy of church call.

Jerry was pacing one day in his cell at Briarpatch during the summer of 1966 and suddenly heard a commotion coming from several other cells around him. It sounded like doors swinging open and shut with many guards yelling and prisoners shuffling around. Then trucks could be heard cranking up and roaring away.

Later that same night, he heard commotion again, the sound of trucks returning and guards evidently unloading prisoners, doors to cells opening and banging shut. In the succeeding days, gradually and through much effort tapping on the walls, Jerry learned of the nearly unfathomable ordeal. It was an event that became known to the entire world as the Hanoi March.

Fifty-two American POWs were taken, primarily from Briarpatch and the Zoo, and provided “new” prison uniforms. The first thing American military servicemen noticed were the numerals stamped on the backs of shirts, usually three digits. The numbers were random, but the POWs quickly realized they represented much higher figures than had actually been shot down at that point in the war. This was their first clue the event was meant strictly for national public relations and for propaganda purposes —to make it seem many more Americans had been shot down than actually had been.

Guards then loaded the men on trucks and drove into the heart of downtown Hanoi. The parade began in late afternoon, but most men forced to march in it said crowds of people, in places ten deep, already lined the streets when they arrived. Later estimates set the numbers in attendance at over one hundred thousand.

As soon as the throngs saw the prisoners, people began screaming and chanting and grew frenzied with excitement. Many foreign journalists sympathetic to the North Vietnamese were on hand that night and recorded much of what happened.

Very quickly, rocks, bottles, bricks —whatever the spectators could find —turned into missiles. For the entire parade, prisoners walked with hands tied behind their backs, defenseless. Occasionally, the guards would stop and untie a few men at the front of the parade to keep appearances positive for picture taking. As emotions soared, people began darting in and out of the prisoners as they were marched slowly through the streets, punching and kicking the men who had been lined up two by two. Guards made no attempt to stop any attacks.

The men had walked approximately two miles, most now cut and bleeding, some sustaining vicious kicks in the groin or blows to the face. Those who began to stagger were helped by other prisoners, who tried to walk next to them for support.

As they neared their destination, a large stadium primarily used for political rallies, hysterical crowds were near rioting. The guards at this point, recognizing their loss of control of the situation, quickly rushed prisoners onto the field inside the stadium. Panic ensued. The guards knew they would be held responsible if they lost prisoners in the melee.

Inside, bleachers filled quickly with screaming people, and over a loudspeaker a Vietnamese official continued to incite the mob with Communist propaganda. Guards actually encircled the POWs, realizing their only option at this point was to protect the prisoners.

Finally, the crowds began to calm and slowly exited the stadium. North Vietnamese guards narrowly escaped losing everyone they had forced into the Hanoi March.

It was past midnight before the pummeled prisoners were delivered back to their cells, most staggering and groping for any place to lie down. The senior ranking officer at Briarpatch later told the camp commandant that the Communists would regret this blatant disregard for the Geneva Conventions, and it did in fact have a negative impact on their image internationally once documentation appeared in newspapers throughout the world.

Jerry had not been among the ones paraded through the streets of Hanoi in July 1966. There may have been many reasons for this, but most likely it was because the Vietnamese had not allowed his name to be released as alive and captured. At the time of the Hanoi March, he had been in prison ten months; the North Vietnamese would not verify his imprisonment for nearly a year and a half.

Even so, when the POWs returned to camp, he heard many stories firsthand of what had happened. And despite the incredibly horrific nature of the incident, Jerry realized humor had surfaced several times.

One of the POWs began to sing “I-I-I-I I Love a Parade” during the march, until guards silenced him with punches. One new shoot-down, who had just been brought into camp and thrown into the parade lineup at the last minute still wearing his flight suit, sustained several deep facial cuts trying to duck flying objects. Exhausted and disoriented, he innocently gasped to one of the men who had been a POW longer, “Do they do this often?” His question was later passed around prison cells through the walls, providing much wry laughter for seasoned captives —gallows humor at its cynical best.

Jerry could hardly believe all that had happened during the Hanoi March. As he learned more about it, he thanked God that the men survived. Many came away with injuries, but they all managed to survive.

Memories of his first shower at Heartbreak Hotel suddenly broke into his thoughts —those hilarious words: “Smile, You’re on Candid Camera.” He had not yet learned who had written it, but the message lifted him when he needed it at a dark moment during the unsettling first days of his captivity.

God . . . thank you for laughter.

He began thinking about what a precious gift it truly was —enjoyed by no other of God’s creatures except humankind. For the POWs in North Vietnam, nearly all took comfort from any small moment of levity in an otherwise bleak environment. It helped lift spirits, lessen tensions, reduce loneliness. An amusing comment, however brief, redirected thoughts away from their misery.

One POW, Lee Ellis, told Jerry later how during the first three months of captivity he had been unable to laugh at anything. Then one day, after an offhand comment, it was as if the dam broke. He and his cellmate “fell into uncontrollable laughter, to the point of both tears and sweat. It was wonderful therapy that freed us at least briefly from the shackles of fear and worry.”

As the summer of 1966 dragged forward at Briarpatch, Jerry would discover a greater level of distress than anything he had endured up to this point. He would need to call on every internal resource afforded him by his faith —pride, courage, and honor all would be put to the direst tests. The V were determined to conquer their captives, one by one, and they would spare nothing to attain their goals.