Captured

by Alvin Townley

  One man mocked the downed pilots by shouting, “There, right before our eyes, is the ‘might of American air power!’ ” The POWs, skinny and weakened from injuries and imprisonment, tried their best to soldier on.

  A rock suddenly smacked the back of Jerry’s head. He fell forward, pulling Bob Peel to the ground with him. Peel helped Jerry back to his feet. An instant later a man darted from the sidewalk and walloped Jerry in the groin. He almost fell over again. Up and down the line, Jerry could see objects flying from the sidewalks and battering the Americans. People began pushing through the cordon of guards surrounding the columns. They’d beat prisoners until guards threw them back into the crowd. The guards began to lose control; unexpectedly, they were no longer guarding POWs. Instead, they found themselves protecting the POWs and themselves from the inflamed citizenry of Hanoi.

  Jerry felt another hard shot to the groin. As he crumpled to the ground in pain, he noticed the same man disappearing into the masses. Bob Peel again pulled Jerry to his feet. “He’s not going to get me again,” Jerry resolved to Bob. The next time the assailant came, Jerry and Bob used their conjoined right and left arms to deliver a well-coordinated punch that stopped him cold. “If that son of a bitch comes out again, I’m going to kill him,” Jerry yelled at a nearby guard, nicknamed “Spot.” Spot knew Jerry was serious, and the next time the man tried for Jerry, Spot backhanded him and threw him into the crowd.

  As he continued trudging through downtown Hanoi, Jerry spied an elderly woman weakly batting American pilots with her traditional straw hat. She wore an expression of weary anger. He noticed the tears in her eyes and wondered, Who had she lost?

  The parade devolved into an outright melee as it neared the two-mile mark. Crowds left the sidewalks and pressed into the street, forcing guards and POWs through a narrow gauntlet. Beatings and projectiles had bloodied nearly every American; many men began to doubt they’d survive the night. Fears of dying in a Ha L Prison interrogation room took a back seat to fear of dying on a violent Hanoi street. Their destination and refuge seemed to be a looming stadium that Jerry spied as the march turned a corner. As the first POWs arrived, guards cracked open the stadium gates to let them through. Guards had to push the gates closed after each pair to keep out the surging mob.

  By the time Jerry Denton and Bob Peel approached the stadium, they were alternately staggering and crawling forward through the angry crowds. They had to get to that stadium. They stood up and resolutely punched, kicked, and bulldozed their way through the final yards, using the very last of their energy. Guards pulled them through the gates to safety. Inside, Jerry and Bob Peel were unshackled. They were dog tired but safe. They had survived yet another trial. They stumbled to the stadium’s track, where they joined other survivors. The march had exhausted guards and prisoners alike. They lay in separate groups, quietly talking about their harrowing night and enjoying a rare moment of peace. Many imprisoned Americans had not seen the night sky for months. Jerry looked up and wondered if Jane and their children might be seeing the same stars.

  WHEN JERRY RETURNED to the Zoo later that night, a guard removed the strips of gauze that had bound his sandals to his feet during the march. The rags were filthy. The guard used one to blindfold his prisoner. He stuffed the other into Jerry’s mouth. It tasted of sweat and pavement. The guard marched Jerry along the grounds. He smelled Lake Fester, the stagnant swimming pool. It smelled fetid as always. Jerry could hear mosquitoes swarming above it. The guard pulled Jerry’s arms behind his back and cuffed them around a tree. The guard left. The mosquitoes descended. Jerry had joined what the POWs sarcastically dubbed the Garden Party.

  Jerry stood against the tree, his arms and back aching, cuts on his face and body still bleeding. He could taste the streets of Hanoi in his gag. Occasionally, a guard would saunter by to slug him. He finally managed to cough his initials in code: JD. From his left, he heard two coughs, then five: J. Then one cough followed by three: C. At least fellow naval aviator Jerry Coffee was there with him.

  A guard released Jerry at daybreak and took him to see Fox, who still commanded the Zoo. Fox ordered the guard to wipe Jerry’s dirty, bloody face. The guard complied carelessly. Fox sharply ordered him to do better, then sent the guard out of the room. Fox stunned Jerry by asking his thoughts on the previous night’s march. No North Vietnamese official had ever asked his opinion about anything; Jerry did not waste his opportunity.

  He erupted, “You fools! It’s the biggest mistake you’ve made. Parading prisoners in the streets is a return to barbaric times. I have nothing but contempt for your utter cowardice. The spectacle of helpless prisoners being paraded through the streets will bring a wave of criticism from the world.”

  Jerry expected a fist or rifle butt to his face, but neither came. Fox asked if Jerry had finished. He had.

  Fox said, “I have something to say to you and I request that you remember it for a long time. These words are important. Do you understand?”

  Jerry nodded and Fox continued, “The march was not the idea of the Army of Vietnam. The march was the idea of the people.”

  Fox essentially told Jerry the army disagreed with the Communist Party’s leadership. Never had Jerry heard a North Vietnamese official come so close to criticizing the government or apologizing for anything done to the POWs. Jerry stumbled back to his cell, still under guard. He considered how it was a soldier’s lot to follow government orders. The conflict in Vietnam had made young Americans and North Vietnamese alike face that hard reality.

  As Jerry fell asleep on his bamboo mat 8,446 miles from home, his mind weighed the challenges still at hand. Cat’s grand “Make Your Choice” campaign would continue unabated and his men needed guidance. How should they uphold the Code of Conduct in the face of more torture and coercion? How long could they resist, and if they’d never return home, why did it matter?

  Jerry had long hours to weigh that very question when Fox placed him in rear cuffs and leg stocks on July 20. He sat immobilized in his cell, unable to swat away hungry Southeast Asian mosquitoes. He learned the necessity of entering a trancelike state of reminiscence so he could transport his mind away from the dreadful present. He went back to McGill Institute, his high school in Mobile, Alabama, and his football coach Ed Overton.

  Jerry recalled two things Overton had said. First, he always reminded his teams, “To be a champion, you have to pay the price every minute, day in and day out.” Jerry wondered how many more minutes he’d have to pay the price in Hanoi. He’d paid it for 367 days already, 528,480 minutes.

  He also recalled losing a key game during his senior year. Jerry played quarterback and gave every bit of his energy, mind, and body to the game. He lost a tooth, bloodied his nose, busted his mouth, and utterly exhausted himself. Still, McGill lost. Coach Overton spoke to the players after the game and singled out Jerry. He said, “Denton rose to the occasion. He has that in him. If all of you had played like he did, we would have won.” The words embarrassed Jerry at the time, but they also stuck with him.

  Now, thousands of miles and twenty-some years removed from McGill Institute, how could he inspire his men to fight like he did that night? Nobody measured the score in this contest with points; nobody recorded wins and losses in lights. But Coach Overton’s lesson still applied. Jerry knew he had to set the standard. His duty was example.

  He passed five days and nights locked in stocks. His muscles weakened daily, but he screwed up his mental strength. He guessed Fox was using the week’s punishment to soften him up for a confession or biography. He guessed correctly. He refused Fox’s request when it came on the fifth day. Fox promptly sent him to a Zoo cellblock known as the Gate. Guards dressed him in long sleeves and pants, locked him in rear cuffs, and roped his ankles together. They left him inside a veritable steam oven. The room had no ventilation. The July sun beat on the room all day. Sweat soaked Jerry’s clothes. The wet clothing then caused boils to erupt. Mosquitoes bit into his exposed skin. He slept on a filthy conc
rete floor. He did learn to unlock his cuffs with a nail; he just had to listen closely for approaching guards so he could relock them before being caught.

  After three weeks of slow-grinding punishment, Jerry still refused to write anything. Fox sent Jerry back to the tiny closet in the Auditorium. A guard nicknamed “Happy” used a rope to tie Jerry’s arms behind his back. Then he left him in darkness. Jerry figured out how to loosen, then untie the ropes to afford himself some sleep at night. One night—at least he thought it was night—he heard boots approaching hurriedly. The door opened before he could retie the ropes. Happy noticed. He was livid. He knocked Jerry against the wall and retied his arms tighter than ever. Punishment continued the next day with two guards beating him around the cell and lifting him up by his arms, which were still tied behind him. Jerry marveled that his shoulders didn’t pop. Finally, the pain grew too intense to resist. Beaten, he agreed to write a confession. At least it had taken three weeks to extract.

  After Jerry inked the statement, Fox returned him to the general population in the Pool Hall. The inhabitants quickly reminded him how poorly they fared. One tapped to Jerry that POW Jim Mulligan looked like a prisoner at a Nazi concentration camp. He learned Jack Fellows couldn’t use his arms, nor could Norlan Daughtrey. Ron Bliss had a major head injury. Nearly everyone was debilitated, yet the Camp Authority still put these men through the ropes and other means of torture. How long could POWs survive under these conditions? How could Jerry ask them to suffer even more?

  Jerry had a two-week respite before the Camp Authority demanded he cease inciting other POWs to resist. Willing to endure torture again, Jerry refused. He would not quit his most important duty. A cadre of guards soon visited his cell and rigged a new coercion device. They sat Jerry on a pallet with his legs out straight. They cuffed his hands behind his back and placed his ankles in irons. A rope ran from the irons through a pulley and back to the pallet. By tightening the rope, guards could raise Jerry’s outstretched legs. They began gradually. Every day, the rope was tightened and his legs lifted higher. The iron bar ate into his Achilles tendons. By and by, it broke the skin. His ankles swelled and oozed beneath the iron cuffs. His lower back ached more and more. After five days, Jerry noticed that the torture rig was affecting Happy, the guard assigned to Jerry. Happy would be weeping every time he left Jerry’s cell.

  On the tenth day, Jerry broke down. With tears in his eyes, he gave himself to God. He could take no more on his own. He’d reached yet another limit and sought peace in his last refuge.

  “God, You’ve got it,” he offered. “I can’t take any more. You handle it, I’m putting it entirely in Your hands.”

  The instant he surrendered himself, he felt an extraordinary peace. It rooted deep inside him. He felt warm and comforted. The hurt vanished. He no longer felt alone.

  When Happy ratcheted up Jerry’s legs a short time later, blood trickled from his ankles. Yet Jerry did not feel pain. He looked calmly at Happy. His expression asked, “Why are you doing this to me?” The two men locked eyes. Happy dropped the rope and ran from the room. Jerry heard a shouting match outside. Happy returned and loosened the ropes. The next day, Happy took Jerry out of the punishment rig. He applied ointment to Jerry’s ankles. Since Jerry could no longer walk, Happy and another guard half carried him to a room in another cellblock. Alone, he considered his ten-day ordeal. For the first time ever, they had not coerced a statement of any sort. He had finally won.

  When the guards left, Jerry tapped, whispered, and even shouted, but he could raise nobody. The Camp Authority had isolated him again; Jerry was sure they wanted to prevent other POWs from learning he had beaten their game. He drew deeply upon that warm sense of pride and the power of his abiding faith. He hoped word of his example would somehow reach his men.

  The Camp Authority never truly succeeded in isolating Jerry Denton. They eventually ended his exile, and he continued to lead his ragged fighting force at the Zoo in battle after losing battle with their adversaries. Somehow, he motivated broken men to rebound and willingly fight another round. They sacrificed for one another. At times, they collected extra rations for POWs in acute need. When the Camp Authority tried to starve a confession out of POW Bob Jeffrey, Jerry’s neighbor Bob Purcell requested he be allowed to give part of his rations to Jeffrey. Jerry granted permission, although he wasn’t sure how Purcell planned to accomplish his plan. A short time later, Jerry heard noise above his cell. A ceiling tile suddenly disappeared. In its place appeared Bob Purcell’s face, wearing a wide grin. Jerry passed bread to Purcell, who scampered along the rafters to relieve Bob Jeffrey, stopping above other cells to gather extra rations. He used the afternoon siesta to run food and water to Jeffrey and other POWs in need at the Pool Hall.

  Once, guards entered the cellblock during one of Purcell’s excursions through the attic and began checking cells. The POWs raised a collective ruckus and banged items around their cells to cover Purcell’s rapid retreat. He hurried along the rafters, dove through his ceiling, and crashed into his bunk. A guard opened his door moments later. Purcell said he’d fallen while exercising.

  By January of 1967, Jerry had passed 554 days in North Vietnam since parachuting into the M River—and he’d never had a cellmate. If he’d had a choice between Pigeye’s ropes and more loneliness in solitary confinement, Jerry might have picked the ropes. The depression of solitude grew worse each day. He found emotional torture just as brutal as the physical. Unexpectedly, the Camp Authority granted him relief on January 23, 1967.

  Guards opened Jerry’s cell door and motioned for him to gather his belongings. With no say in the matter, he complied. He’d become accustomed to trips into the unknown, and he really couldn’t imagine how his situation could get worse. He trudged down the corridor.

  Guards guided him to an office and sat him before an officer who fit the description of a new man POWs had nicknamed “Lump.” Shortly, the door opened behind Jerry. He turned and locked eyes with Jim Mulligan. He’d known the gruff Irish Catholic with big sideburns from USS Independence. Jerry couldn’t stop grinning.

  “Hi, Jerry,” Mulligan said, extending his hand.

  “You know each other?” Lump asked.

  “Yes,” Mulligan answered. “We served together on the East Coast on board Independence some years ago.”

  “Good,” Lump said. “Denton, how many aircraft do you have on the Independence?”

  Jerry remained silent.

  “How many aircraft does the Enterprise have, Mun?” he asked, calling Mulligan by his “Vietnamese” name and referencing the carrier to which he was most recently assigned.

  “Normally about one hundred and fifty or so,” Mulligan replied, roughly doubling the actual complement.

  “Denton, you see the good attitude Mun shows by answering my question. You must learn yourself to be more cooperative. Since today the Camp Authority permit you to live together, you must not talk loudly and must obey the regulations of the camp.

  “You may return to your cell with your friend,” Lump said to Mulligan. Mulligan bowed and left. Jerry did the same. Jerry tried to hide his elation as he followed Mulligan toward their new cell. The Camp Authority had found perfect cellmates. Both were devout Catholics, and they had thirteen children between them.

  “God, I’m glad to see you,” Mulligan said when the guard had left them. “I’ve been so lonesome that the past couple of weeks I thought I was losing my mind. You’ve been solo for eighteen months, twice as long as I have. I don’t know how you kept your sanity.”

  “Jim, I prayed a lot and it helps more than anything else,” Jerry answered.

  Mulligan thought on that, then switched his attention to communication. “Watch for the guard and I’ll pass the word to [Jerry] Coffee that you are with me,” Mulligan said. Then he tapped, “JD MV IN W ME GOG WASH SOON CU AFTER CHOW. GBU.” Jerry translated silently: “Jerry Denton moved in with me. Going to wash soon. See you after chow. God bless you.”

  At the
washbasin, both men stripped down and looked at each other. They didn’t say anything for several moments. Then Mulligan said, “Jerry, you look like one of those starving Jews in the German concentration camps.”

  Looking Mulligan up and down, Jerry replied, “Jim, I might look bad, but I don’t look as bad as you do! You must weigh about ninety pounds. When you were first shot down I saw you in the yard at New Guy Village hanging out your clothes and you looked twice as big then as you do now. Are you eating everything they give you?”

  “Hell yes,” Mulligan answered. “I eat everything but I’ve had [diarrhea] since last summer. Every once in a while I pass a bucketful of worms. Last month I got rid of a tapeworm that was over three feet long. It scared the hell out of me.”

  The two POWs agreed they each looked terrible. Maybe a good wash would help. They dumped buckets of water over each other and began scrubbing. “How about washing the middle of my back,” Jerry suggested. “I haven’t been able to reach it and feel clean since I was shot down.” Mulligan scoured Jerry’s back with his washcloth; Jerry reciprocated. They finished bathing, washed their clothes in the wastewater, then enjoyed the morning sunshine until the guard herded them back inside their cellblock. They found breakfast waiting. They sat down to the first meal either had shared with another American since arriving in North Vietnam. Jerry said grace. Both men agreed that dining together made the stringy soup and rice seem like food from a feast. They felt human once again. They talked nonstop for two days.