Jerry sat there, precariously balanced on the stool. He suspected that the Camp Authority planned to coerce him to write a letter of some sort. He wondered how long they expected him to hold out. Well, he’d last longer than they’d think possible, he resolved. And he’d never sign a false confession.
He stared ahead. He stared at the floor. He blinked at the single bulb. He stared ahead again. Nothing in the room changed. No noise penetrated the heavy door and thick plaster. His own coughs, sniffs, and grunts were the only sounds. Otherwise, quiet pervaded. Hours passed. Nothing changed. Occasionally, a peephole in the door opened quietly and shut quickly. Nobody ever entered.
Eventually, Jerry’s bladder made itself known. With no alternative, he delicately dismounted the stools. He landed on his feet even though his hands were still cuffed behind him and useless for balance. The stools collapsed behind him. He walked to the door and used his nose to open the peephole. Then he kicked a stool along until it stood below the peephole. He shimmied his pajama bottoms down sufficiently, stood on the stool, and urinated through the open hole. Relief radiated through him. He felt a tiny sense of victory.
Unable to reassemble the tower of stools, Jerry tried to stage an accident. He scattered the stools on the floor. He scraped his cheek along the rough plaster wall and placed himself amid the collapsed stools. The next guard to slide open the peephole would think he’d fallen asleep and toppled over—if they didn’t notice the puddle outside the door.
In time, the same guard peeked in. If he noticed the puddle, he didn’t acknowledge it. He simply entered and efficiently reassembled the rig. He placed Jerry back on top and left. He brought no food or water. Nor did anyone else.
The second night Jerry heard singing. Then screaming and taunting. He looked to his right and saw angels on the walls, playing harps and forming a beautiful chorus. On his other side, the globs of plaster transformed into noisy devils. The angelic melodies from one wall battled a satanic ruckus from the other. The cacophony inside the room became unbearable, and Jerry felt his mind slipping away once again. He desperately clawed back his sanity and the voices faded. The angels and demons became plaster once again. Damn his captors for making him crazy, he thought. He screwed up his resolve: He would die before signing a confession. Then his mind began slipping once again. Angels and devils battled; the cycle never seemed to stop. As the second night became the third day, he’d still received no food or water. Dying seemed more and more likely.
During the third day, the peephole slid open and closed routinely. Jerry assumed the same guard was always watching him. Later that day, a new figure appeared. A young officer, perhaps twenty-five years old, entered in a formal uniform. He didn’t introduce himself, but Jerry marked him as a man with standing. Jerry noticed the officer’s large ears; he decided to nickname him “Rabbit.”
The new officer began decrying the severe punishment meted out to Jerry. He promised he’d asked his superiors to try different methods, but with no success. Jerry decided higher-ups had sent young Rabbit to play the good cop in this game. He wouldn’t have it. He told Rabbit he would not write a confession. He wouldn’t sign away his honor—the only thing he had left.
“But I tell you man to man, Denton,” Rabbit almost implored, “they are going to torture you tomorrow if you do not write a confession. I know you will not give in to starvation. I have told them that. They will hurt you very badly. Maybe they will kill you.”
“I won’t write anything,” responded Jerry. He also noted that Rabbit used the word torture. Until then, Jerry had never heard a North Vietnamese utter the word. Americans were punished, not tortured. Beaten, not tortured. Starved, but not tortured. He looked at Rabbit with disdain.
“Denton, my government will probably not even use the confession,” Rabbit reasoned. “Maybe no one will ever read it.” He might have been sincere, Jerry allowed, but it didn’t matter. He said nothing. Rabbit continued, “My government knows that it is humiliating for you to write a confession, even if the confession is forced, and not credible. They hope the suffering will cause you to act more reasonable, but they will probably not publicize your confession. You have everything to gain and nothing to lose if you write. Your treatment will greatly improve, you will even get a roommate. Aren’t you lonely after ten months alone?”
Yes, Jerry thought, I’m losing my mind in solitary. He was desperately lonely. He’d not seen an American face since his shootdown. His longest conversations had been with interrogators. He’d heard nothing from Jane. He’d written to her only once, and he had no assurance the Camp Authority ever mailed the letter or if she knew he’d survived.
He was an exceptional aviator. He belonged in a cockpit. How had he ended up fighting the war from a prison cell? But he suffered these abuses for the sake of his honor and his own orders. He would not cashier that sacrifice. Months ago, he had decided not to write again on point of principle. He would neither second-guess that decision nor compromise. He just stared at Rabbit.
The young officer searched Jerry’s eyes. “We know we cannot break you by food or water,” he said. “Tomorrow we get serious. Tomorrow we torture you.” Jerry wondered what tomorrow would bring but said nothing. Rabbit must have wondered why this helpless old man—Jerry was at least fifteen years older than Rabbit—acted so stubbornly. With some resignation, he said, “We will allow you to rest some time tonight. You have until morning to change your mind.” Rabbit turned and left.
The silent guard returned for Jerry. He took him off the stools and led him away from that terrible room where he’d dwelled without food, water, or comfort for three days. The guard took him to New Guy Village, where he’d begun his imprisonment the previous July. Once there, the guard uncuffed Jerry’s hands from their position behind his back. He immediately stuck them into a set of stocks. The stocks were at such a height that Jerry could neither fully stand nor completely kneel. He remained in a maddening limbo for two hours, his arms extended, wrists locked in the stocks, and legs bent.
Rabbit came with crackers and tea. He unlocked Jerry, gave him the food, and suggested he eat and sleep. Instead, when Rabbit left, Jerry called softly out the window. His voice echoed along the space between the cellblock and the outer wall, as it had when he and Larry Guarino communicated during his first weeks of imprisonment. He called again. The voice of his Naval Academy classmate Jim Stockdale came floating softly back.
Stockdale, a notably philosophical aviator, slightly outranked Jerry and led the Americans in Hanoi, when he was not in isolation. Like Jerry, Stockdale had taken North Vietnam’s worst treatment on numerous occasions and always emerged with his inner resolve unbroken. Stockdale’s reserved stoicism contrasted to Denton’s aggressive gung-ho style, but the two made an effective pair. Jerry was thankful they had finally made contact.
Jerry figured he’d already been condemned to the worst punishment the Camp Authority could muster, so he didn’t care about being caught communicating. He spoke openly and briefed Stockdale on activities at the Zoo; he described his three nights atop the stools. Stockdale recognized the silent guard as “Pigeye.” He reported that the Camp Authority had unleashed Pigeye in November 1965. He’d since become a universally dreaded presence in the Hilton; seeing him usually meant pain. Jerry learned that Pigeye had broken most Americans of any seniority and was an accomplished practitioner of medieval techniques. Using ropes and straps, he’d broken Stockdale more than once already. The salty commander didn’t have much hope that Jerry could resist Pigeye’s inducements.
Jerry aimed to die rather than submit; “I’m going in there to die,” he told Stockdale, with cavalier flourish. Jerry riled himself up and imagined himself on a religious crusade. He told Stockdale that God might well consider him a martyr. He entrusted his old classmate with a message to carry home to Jane.
“Tell Jane I love her,” Jerry implored, “but that I want her to remarry.” Jerry was specific and unrelenting on this point and eventually obtained Stockdale�
��s agreement. Secure in the knowledge that Jane would move on, he settled down. He believed this would be his last night alive and spent the hours reflecting on his rich life. He had done his duty through the years. Tomorrow, he’d do it one final time.
When Jerry’s cell door opened the next morning, Pigeye walked in. In rough English, he asked if Jerry had changed his mind. Jerry had not. He would not write a confession of any sort. Pigeye showed no reaction other than to grip Jerry and walk him to Room Eighteen, the room where he’d undergone his first interrogation last July. Pigeye shut the door. Another guard cuffed Jerry’s hands behind his back. The two men began pummeling Jerry’s face and body with fists. He tried to act stoically and resist the blows, but soon he fell to the floor. The guards picked him up and resumed their beating until he fell down again. They spun him around the room; he banged into one wall after another, leaving streaks of red blood on the white plaster. Each time a blow landed, Jerry felt pain, then anger, then resolve. Was that all they had? This, he could endure.
Pigeye finally stopped the beating. He repositioned Jerry on the floor. The two guards used rope to lace up Jerry’s upper arms, which were still cuffed behind his back. They dug their feet into Jerry’s spine as they pulled the rope tight and drew his upper arms together. Rope pulled tight against muscle and bone. His lower arms lost circulation. Pigeye continued pulling Jerry’s upper arms together until his elbows nearly touched. He felt one more cinch would crack his sternum in two and pull both shoulders from their sockets. He screamed with pain. Then Pigeye released the ropes and blood flooded back into Jerry’s hands, unleashing blinding pain, an agonizingly intense pins-and-needles sensation that nearly made Jerry pass out. But his mouth stayed shut.
Pigeye tightened the ropes again. Someone lifted Jerry’s cuffed hands skyward behind his back. Hands forced his head toward his toes. His hamstrings erupted in pain, as did his shoulders and spine. He became a ball of agony. Jerry could not stop himself from crying. He pretended to pass out, hoping that would make Pigeye stop, but the man just lifted up Jerry’s eyelids and grinned. The torture continued. Soon, Jerry had only one thought: How can I stop the pain? The thought consumed him; the desire to end the pain overrode his every other thought and instinct. He knew there was only one way to escape. Desperately he whispered, Bo co, bo co, the Vietnamese term for “I submit.” Jerry had broken. The room went black.
JERRY SENSED COLD WATER trickling down his body as he slowly regained consciousness. He felt it swirl around his legs. His eyes registered dark walls; his ears registered only soft sounds of water. Beneath him, the floor was hard, cold, and grimy. He was naked. Someone held up his torso. Jerry opened his eyes and saw Pigeye watching him. As his eyes adjusted to the dim room, he saw his blood mix with water as it flowed down a drain.
“Wash,” Pigeye commanded. He and the other guard left Jerry to himself. The trickle of water coming from the shower and the soft gurgle of the drain made the only noise. In the dim solitude, Jerry collected himself. Then he heard an American voice.
“Hey, ol’ buddy,” said a voice under the door. “What’s your name?”
He tried to respond, but the shower drowned out his terribly weak voice. With tremendous effort, he rose to his knees and used his elbow to turn off the shower. “I’m Denton,” he said, using much of his remaining strength.
The voice asked, “Jeremiah Denton?”
“Yes.”
“God bless you, Jeremiah Denton. You did a wonderful job at the Zoo.”
“I’m not doing a very good job now,” Jerry replied.
“You’re only human,” the voice said. Then the voice told Jerry he’d arrived in Heartbreak Hotel, a section of seven cells and one shower in the center of the Hanoi Hilton. The voice identified itself as that of Robbie Risner, lieutenant colonel, US Air Force. Jerry knew the senior-most POW had been isolated somewhere in the system for months; many suspected he was at the Hilton, but nobody knew for sure. Risner had once commanded all the POWs, but the Camp Authority had silenced him. Jim Stockdale and Jerry had stepped into his place, but now Jerry, like Stockdale, seemed condemned to the same isolation in Heartbreak Hotel. Jerry surmised the Camp Authority aimed to decapitate the American leadership.
The men talked for some time before Pigeye returned and stopped the conversation. He took Jerry to Room Eighteen, where Jerry met an officer he’d not previously seen. The man’s features, including his protruding ears, matched the description of an officer nicknamed “Mickey Mouse,” who’d reputedly been haranguing other POWs. Mickey Mouse sat behind a desk. Pigeye placed Jerry on a stool, but he fell off. Pigeye propped Jerry up against a wall. Mickey Mouse asked, “Now Denton, you are ready to write a confession of your crimes against the Vietnamese people—and make a tape recording of it?” Jerry nodded. Mickey Mouse placed a pen in Jerry’s hand. His hand was so gnarled from his torture session, he couldn’t hold it. Mickey Mouse violently popped Jerry’s fingers back into joint and dictated: “heinous crimes … Yankee imperialists … aggressors.” Jerry bent over a notebook and tried to write. Then Mickey Mouse made him recite the same diatribe into a tape recorder. Torture had so addled his mind, he couldn’t even speak. His tormentors gave him a reprieve; he immediately fell asleep.
They came at him again the next morning. When they handed him a notebook, he saw what he’d written the previous day. He’d attempted to write real words; he’d produced only pathetic spirals. Now, holding the pen like a dagger, he wrote a more legible confession. Pigeye poured hot coffee down Jerry’s throat and he managed to recite the words aloud for the tape recorder. He described “vicious, revolting crimes [against] the innocent people and civilian buildings of the Democratic Republic of Viet Nam.” He heralded “the brave and determined workers of an antiaircraft battery [who] shot down my aircraft” and “the kindness of heart of the Vietnamese government and people.” Each word sickened him. He knew North Vietnam would broadcast the statement. He’d violated every point of Article V. What would his men think? What would his wife, Jane, think?
The Camp Authority let Jerry recover in New Guy Village. As soon as Mickey Mouse judged him well enough, he began receiving painfully long personal lectures about the history of North Vietnam. Mickey Mouse fervently espoused his country’s perspective. H Ch Minh had won Vietnam’s independence from France, he reminded Jerry. Now, the revered chairman wanted a unified Vietnam as Western powers had promised in the treaty ending the French Indochina War in 1954. Now, the unpopular autocratic regime in South Vietnam, supported by the United States, might as well have been a foreign power. The people of Vietnam, North and South, wanted unity and, at long last, peace. The struggle was about independence and unity, not political ideology.
Jerry wasn’t buying this version of history. But since his captors held the cards, Jerry held his tongue. The lectures lasted for three nights. Jerry wondered about the purpose. Were they preparing him for something?
In early May, shortly after finishing his nightly lectures from Mickey Mouse, Jerry met a handsome North Vietnamese officer. Jerry estimated him to be in his mid-forties, just slightly older than himself. His uniform fit his slender frame well, and he spoke English with a slight French accent. He informed Jerry that he ran the prison system in North Vietnam. He claimed that he’d been a captive of the French in this very prison. Jim Stockdale had told Jerry about the smooth major nicknamed “Cat.” Apparently, Cat and his henchman Pigeye had worked over Stockdale and numerous other Americans. Torture didn’t seem to be on Cat’s mind this day, however. He wanted Jerry’s cooperation.
“Denton,” Cat said, “you are going to meet with some members of the press. Use your head, Denton. This interview is very important. Be polite and do what you are told. Remember what punishment you have received in the past. I need not say more.”
“I’ll be polite but that’s all,” Jerry said gruffly.
Cat sent Jerry back to New Guy Village. There, he tried to steel himself for more torture, but he feared his weakened
body couldn’t handle a single punch. Jerry found Robbie Risner had taken Jim Stockdale’s place in the cellblock. He asked the senior air force officer for advice. Risner counseled that taking more torture would likely serve no purpose. He suggested Jerry meet the journalists and neutralize the interview.
“I’ll go,” Jerry replied, “and blow it wide open.”
Robbie and Jerry prayed together before they each fell asleep.
The next morning, Pigeye roused Jerry and motioned for him to change from his red-and-pink pajamas into an austere gray outfit. Pigeye made sure Jerry buttoned the shirt to the collar. Jerry slipped on his flip-flops, and Pigeye led him into the courtyard and placed him in a waiting jeep. A guard tightened a blindfold around Jerry’s head. The jeep rolled forward. He heard it pass through the prison gate and felt it turn left onto the street.
Were he driving through Virginia Beach, Jerry would have heard the ever-present din of modern buses, cars, and trucks. As he rode through downtown Hanoi, he heard few other engines. Instead, clear voices, the soft tread of feet, and the subtle crunch of bicycle tires predominated. The sounds were an unwelcome reminder that he languished in a colonial prison in a town where rickety bicycles outnumbered cars. A year ago, almost to the day, he’d said goodbye to his family as USS Independence left Norfolk, Virginia, for the South China Sea. He’d been trapped in Hanoi for 328 days now. Jerry was confounded. Why hadn’t America rescued him yet?
After driving approximately one mile, the jeep turned onto a noticeably quieter street and slowed. When it squeaked to a stop, Pigeye removed Jerry’s blindfold and ushered him toward what looked like a clubhouse. His downcast eyes watched his flip-flops cross the porch and step onto inlaid floors and fine rugs inside the building. Pigeye stuck Jerry in a powder room and handed him a beer. Jerry desperately wanted the drink, but he needed all his wits. He poured out the beer. Wistfully, he watched the suds disappear into the drain.
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