“That’s right! How are they treating you?”
“Oh, they aren’t treating me too badly.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Jerry said with confidence. “We’ll hack ’er.” He thought a moment, then asked, “How many men have been repatriated so far?”
“Never heard of anybody being repatriated” came Guarino’s reply.
“How’s the mail been coming through?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jerry. We don’t get any mail up here.”
“Well, don’t worry about it,” Jerry reiterated with slightly less confidence. “We’ll hack ’er.”
Jerry and Larry Guarino began talking and whistling to each other, more and more overtly. Eventually, the prison staff noticed. “You are absolutely forbidden to speak or make any sounds,” one officer warned the pair. “You must only sit and ponder your crimes against the Vietnamese people!” From his interrogation sessions, Jerry had gathered that the French had imprisoned several current North Vietnamese prison officials in this very dungeon; the North Vietnamese knew exactly how prisoners thought. Consequently, they knew the value of keeping POWs isolated. The captors wanted prisoners to become desperate little islands, lonely and susceptible to coercion.
The two Americans kept communicating. Soon, Guarino felt he knew Jerry well enough to confess his real situation. “Jerry,” he finally said, “I’m in bad shape. They are giving me almost nothing to eat. I’m down to a hundred pounds and I haven’t crapped in twenty-six days. I don’t remember how long I’ve been in irons, but it’s been weeks. I don’t know whether I can make it.”
Guarino’s report shocked Jerry; he asked for an explanation. “I think it was because I was impolite at one of the quizzes,” Guarino said. Jerry assumed quizzes referred to interrogations. “I lost my temper and spilled a cup of tea all over the table. I was only giving them name, rank, service number, and date of birth. They threatened me about that but didn’t do anything until I spilled the tea. Guess they thought I was being rude.” Jerry made a note to keep his temper in check.
For several days, Jerry’s world inside Ha L Prison comprised just his cell and Room Eighteen. Chats with Larry Guarino became his only friendly contact. He burned to know who else lived nearby. Eventually, guards took him to a latrine in the far corner of the small courtyard; his world nearly doubled in size. Inside the latrine, he learned toilets in North Vietnam consisted of a hole in the cement. That at least beat the rusty bucket inside his cell. He used the facilities quickly as the summer heat, humidity, and stench made the interior unbearable. Outside, the guard allowed him to wash his red-and-pink pajamas, which he thought of as his clown suit. He hung them to dry in the hot sun. The guard motioned to a pail of water and indicated Jerry should wash. Given the primitive conditions, he wasn’t quite sure of the procedure, so he poured the entire bucket over himself. He looked up rather pathetically, water trickling down his face and body. His guard burst out in laughter.
Jerry’s trips to the latrine became more frequent in the coming days, and he learned to use his bucket of water more judiciously. On his way to wash one day, Jerry heard a soft voice coming from a door on the north side of the courtyard. “Go fishing,” it said.
Once inside the latrine, Jerry spied a matchstick placed across a metal drain. He lifted it up and found a tiny roll of paper dangling from a string tied around the match. He unrolled the note. It read, “Welcome to the Hanoi Hilton. If you read this, spit as you depart the latrine door. Shumaker, USN.”
Jerry knew of Bob Shumaker; he’d been the second American captured in North Vietnam. Jerry couldn’t help but smile at the nickname his fellow aviator had given the prison. Jerry spat emphatically when he walked out of the latrine to signal he’d read the note. Back in his cell, he quickly set about establishing a dialogue and borrowed Shumaker’s technique. He scavenged a burnt match, which he wet and used to write on the rough brown toilet paper issued to the POWs. He began to communicate via note drops in the latrine.
Between his conversations with Major Larry Guarino and note drops with Lieutenant Commander Shumaker, Jerry soon confirmed he outranked everyone else in captivity. As of July 31, 1965, that number included seventeen POWs. To his relief, he had learned his bombardier-navigator, Bill Tschudy, was among them; he’d worried Tschudy might not have survived the trip to Hanoi. Their captors had placed the Americans in two sections of Ha L. Shumaker and other early arrivals had nicknamed Jerry’s section New Guy Village; Jerry had heard that Heartbreak Hotel lay somewhere deeper inside the prison.
Following the Code of Conduct, Jerry took command. He issued his first orders via note drop in the New Guy Village latrine: “Follow the Code of Conduct. Think about escape. I want a note about it every day, and I want a map of the camp.” He immediately thought back to those quotes he’d memorized about heroism. He realized his little army didn’t need a hero; it needed a leader. Jerry believed he should set the example. He knew Article III of the Code of Conduct required he make every effort to escape, so he designed a plan. Ignoring the obvious challenge of scaling the prison’s menacing wall and navigating the streets of Hanoi and roads of the North Vietnamese countryside, Jerry decided to pry the bars off his window and bust out of the Hanoi Hilton. He broke off a piece of rusted iron from the leg stocks and chipped away the concrete that held the iron bars and framing in place. Day by day, he made progress. Every bit of concrete he chiseled from the wall gave him immense satisfaction and more encouragement.
One day, Jerry returned from a “quiz” to find guards inspecting his cell. They were furious. They confronted him with the improvised crowbar, loose window frame, and busted concrete. They manhandled him onto a bunk and locked his right ankle in the stocks. They left his injured leg unrestrained, which he at first appreciated. Over time, however, it rubbed against the rusted iron and became infected. The barbaric confinement raised Jerry’s ire. For a while, he refused to eat.
From his bunk, he could still raise Guarino. He let several days pass without mentioning his new situation. Then, knowing guards had clamped Guarino in leg irons as well, Jerry asked, “Larry, I’ve been thinking about it for three days, but can’t figure it. How do you take a crap in irons?”
“Aw heck, that’s a long story,” Guarino said back. “You don’t want to hear it.”
“Yeah, I’m really interested. How do you manage it?”
Grudgingly, Guarino explained his process to Jerry. “Now what did you want to know all that for?”
“Because I’ve been in these stocks for three days,” Jerry revealed, “and I couldn’t figure it out!” The surprising response drew a laugh from Guarino. Moments of humor kept American spirits afloat inside the Hanoi Hilton.
During long afternoons in solitary, Jerry thought back on different moments in his life. Confronted with the prospect of leading Americans in Hanoi, he recalled his first brush with leadership. One day in 1936, Jerry and several fellow eighth-grade boys were eating lunch outside of St. Mary Catholic School in Mobile, Alabama. Jerry had an infectious spirit of adventure and he suggested the boys use their lunch hour to explore a nearby culvert that led to a swampy woodland.
“Let’s take off and go to the creek,” said Jerry. The boys just laughed, but he persisted. “If we leave right now, we can have some fun.” Convinced, the other boys set off behind Jerry. The rest of the class followed. Jerry guided twenty-five eighth-grade boys and girls through a dark culvert that ran beneath a street and led to a veritable jungle. The students fanned out to explore the woodland; nobody minded the time. When some students realized they’d been gone far longer than an hour, Jerry calmed them down. “School lets out in another hour. And we’re already in as much trouble as we can get in. Why not enjoy the rest of the afternoon? Then we go straight home. The whole class won’t be expelled.”
Sister Mary Josephine called the entire eighth grade into the auditorium the next morning. She soon learned Jerry Denton had organized the unsanctioned expedition. She took him to her office
and spoke with him for an hour. He never forgot the conversation. “It takes leadership to do what you’ve done,” she explained. “If you have that much influence over people, you had better be very careful how you use it!”
He hoped he still had that gift. He certainly needed it now as he assumed leadership of the Americans in Hanoi. He hoped he wouldn’t disappoint Sister Mary Josephine.
Larry Guarino and others passed Jerry’s directives along as best they could to all known POWs in the camp. Jerry began formulating other guidelines he believed would help the POWs remain unified against their captors during this ordeal, which he guessed might last six months, perhaps more.
When he learned Larry Guarino had stolen a pencil from Room Eighteen, Jerry asked him to leave it in the latrine. Jerry picked it up on his next visit. Using an old razor blade, Jerry sharpened the pencil and began writing orders on sheets of toilet paper. His first posted directive again reminded all POWs to abide by the Code of Conduct. In Jerry’s mind, the six articles boiled down to this: American POWs should not cooperate with captors; should always think of escape; should assume the responsibility of command when necessary; and should give interrogators only their name, rank, service number, and date of birth for as long as possible. Perhaps most importantly, under Article V, they were bound not to make disloyal statements. Jerry set about running his prison like a military unit, despite their circumstances. His next set of orders included more specific policies:
FOLLOW THE CODE OF CONDUCT.
COMMUNICATE BY ALL MEANS AVAILABLE.
LEARN ALL POW NAMES AND LOCATIONS.
COMPLAIN ABOUT FOOD AND CONDITIONS.
GATHER MATERIALS LIKE WIRE, NAILS, AND PAPER.
OBSERVE A WEEKLY SUNDAY DEVOTIONAL PERIOD.
DO NOT ATTEMPT ESCAPE WITHOUT OUTSIDE HELP.
DO NOT ANTAGONIZE THE GUARDS.
The latrine in New Guy Village soon became a communications hub, connecting the various cellblocks inside the Hilton. Sometimes men left notes for specific POWs. More often, visiting POWs read the same scroll of toilet paper. They’d locate and unroll it when they ducked inside the latrine. They’d roll it up and replace it when they left. Each successful broadcast provided the men with a small victory over their captors. Jerry added new directives to the scroll on a regular basis. He felt each directive helped to remind the men they were military officers on a mission, not criminals as their captors so often called them. He refused to let his men become purposeless victims.
Importantly, Jerry found one note from Shumaker with a five-by-five matrix. The only writing said, “POWs learn this code.”
Jerry realized Shumaker had established a language POWs could use to communicate covertly when they couldn’t write, whisper, or send visual signals—which was most of the time, thanks to the hawklike watchfulness of guards. He learned Shumaker had named the method the Smitty Harris Tap Code, after an air force POW who’d recalled learning the code from a Korean War POW during survival training. To send a letter, POWs would tap the number corresponding to the letter’s row, then tap the number corresponding to its column. For example, to send “B,” Jerry would tap once for the letter’s row, then twice for its column. He’d communicate C as “tap—quick pause—tap, tap, tap.” The process seemed daunting and painstaking at first, but with hours of time on his hands, Jerry soon became proficient. To amplify sounds between cells, Jerry placed his metal cup to the wall and pressed his ear to the cup. He improved efficiency by using abbreviations, sending “GM” for good morning, and “GN” for good night. Translating taps into letters and strings of letters into words kept his mind sharp in the absence of other stimulation; most POWs soon had calloused knuckles. Guards realized the POWs were communicating via taps, but they couldn’t break the code. Instead, they did their best to stifle the encrypted chatter. POWs had to remain vigilant; Jerry learned that getting caught tapping could bring a beating.
For a time, twenty-five-year-old navy POW Ed Davis occupied a New Guy Village cell that adjoined Jerry’s. In the evenings when guards were scarce, Ed would croon “Fly Me to the Moon,” by Frank Sinatra. The tune’s heartfelt longing made Jerry think of his wife, Jane, and their happy times together. It reminded him how much he loved her. He hoped she would wait for him.
Jerry and Davis became as close as two men could be, given they couldn’t see each other and guards forbade overt communication. The tap code became their language. Once, Jerry heard Ed calling him on the wall with the usual five-beat “shave-and-a-haircut” sequence. Jerry tapped back twice: “two bits,” the go-ahead confirmation. He put his cup to the plaster and listened. Using the tap code, Ed indicated he’d hidden a gift for Jerry in the latrine in honor of the Feast of the Assumption of Mary, on August 15; Ed knew Jerry was a devout Catholic. Jerry found the gift on his next visit: a cross woven from bamboo fiber that Jerry guessed Ed had pulled from a broom. Jerry had no other personal possession in Hanoi, and he treasured the cross. He hid it inside a propaganda pamphlet stuck under his pallet. He looked at it in private moments, and it gave him peace. It reminded him to seek strength in his boyhood faith.
One day in early fall 1965, when two guards entered Jerry’s cell with a long piece of cloth, he immediately expected change. One guard watched Jerry while the other tied on the blindfold; Jerry hadn’t been blindfolded since he arrived at Ha L three months earlier. The guards covered his upper body with a blanket, then hustled him out of his New Guy Village cell. No prying POWs could recognize his blanketed form moving through the prison’s passageways; to them, Jerry would have simply disappeared. He wondered if he was disappearing. A gun barrel prodded him onto the floorboard of a vehicle. The engine started and the vehicle jerked into motion. He soon recognized the sounds of Hanoi’s streets. He had no idea where they were taking him.
THE MOTOR STOPPED after what Jerry guessed was a twenty-minute drive that clearly took him away from downtown Hanoi. He noticed a relative quiet when a guard removed the blanket from his head and shoulders. He smelled a pungent aroma; when his blindfold was removed, he realized the scent came from an abandoned swimming pool filled with festering water. Jerry imagined mosquitoes would inflict worse harm than his jailors. Looking around, he saw nine buildings surrounding the pool. Boards or mats covered most windows. Weeds covered the grounds and livestock roamed untethered. Jerry surmised that the North Vietnamese military hadn’t counted on hosting so many Americans and they’d run out of room at the Hilton. He’d arrived at a hastily improvised POW camp.
Guards walked him inside one of the buildings and shoved him into a small, hot, dark room. Jerry peered around his new cell. He saw a sheet of paper attached to the wall; it displayed the camp rules, which reflected North Vietnam’s disregard for the Geneva Convention:
The sheet listed thirteen rules in total and was signed “Camp Authority.” Jerry rolled his eyes at this Camp Authority’s regulations. He duly set about communicating.
From other POWs, he soon learned the men had nicknamed this complex the Zoo; here POWs were the caged animals. The Americans had named individual buildings Barn, Stable, Pigsty, Chicken Coop, Auditorium, Pool Hall, Office, and Garage; Jerry was in Pool Hall. POWs called the swimming pool Lake Fester. Note drops in latrines and bathhouses were again common means of communication. Whispers carried information and jokes, but at greater risk. The Smitty Harris Tap Code was the predominant language. At times, the Zoo sounded like a den of woodpeckers, with POWs tapping out long messages to one another. Sometimes they passed orders. Other times, they were simply trying to pass time with conversation and to find human companionship.
Hours crept by at a glacial pace, especially in solitary confinement. The absence of visual or verbal human contact led Jerry’s imagination to turn inward where memories would alternately inspire and haunt him. He fought temptation to linger on memories of his family. He tried mightily not to dwell on the irreplaceable time he was losing with them. Jerry prayed for them each morning and night, but otherwise he tried to focus else
where. He exhausted himself as he tried to keep memories of home at bay and struggled to overcome the creeping depression brought on by his miserable circumstance. He worried as much about his mind surviving this ordeal as he did his weakening body.
Jerry realized his rank made him senior ranking officer at the Zoo. As such, he rallied his men around the Code of Conduct. The code became more important when Jerry learned about the practices at the Zoo. Distance from Hanoi seemed to give interrogators more discretion. Fists, blows, and brutal isolation had become common techniques to extract information or statements. Rations were curtailed when prisoners refused to cooperate. Jerry learned Bob Shumaker had arrived at the Zoo before him and had already spent three weeks locked in a pitch-dark room as punishment for some perceived crime or offense. The Camp Authority had tired of American resistance.
Jerry knew his men needed rules and discipline, especially under these harsh circumstances. They needed to understand how to act and what to say when alone with interrogators. In the absence of written rules or a leader by their side to guide them through a quiz, they required a clear standard. Jerry emphasized the Code of Conduct, especially Article V. Every man knew the Code by heart and could consequently carry it into every interrogation.
Still, disagreements arose among the POWs about how to interpret the Code in their unique situation. Many reasoned giving innocuous or fake information did not violate the Code’s spirit. Why should ill or injured men bring additional hardship on themselves by sticking to the literal requirement to say only name, rank, service number, and date of birth? POWs needed more food and fewer bruises. To Jerry, however, any compromise made POWs vulnerable to exploitation. Varying standards could wreck the unity so important to survival; men needed clear guidance. Jerry advocated a hard line: Make as few statements as possible beyond name, rank, service number, and date of birth. And if you say more, make them beat it out of you.
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