Before he could respond to Slick, someone covered his eyes and tightened a blindfold. Hands pushed him into the truck with several other POWs. Jerry didn’t need wheels to carry him through Hanoi—he could have floated. He’d be home for Christmas.
WHEN A NAVAL OFFICER informed Jane Denton that her husband, Jerry, had been shot down over North Vietnam, he offered condolences, then instructed her to “keep quiet.” Any comments she made about her husband’s status as missing in action (MIA) or as prisoner of war (POW) might endanger him and adversely affect potential peace negotiations with North Vietnam. Hundreds of other POW-MIA families received the same bizarre warning.
Months and years passed. Families received little, if any, word from Vietnam. The US government made no progress toward winning the release of POWs or improving their plight, yet the gag rule remained in effect. Families grew ever more frustrated and angry, especially as reports of prisoner maltreatment surfaced.
Jane Denton, along with other POW-MIA wives like Sybil Stockdale and Louise Mulligan, began meeting together and sharing their common nightmare. Were their husbands still alive? How were they being treated? Was their government ever going to bring them home?
Frustrated POW-MIA families banded together and, in 1968, boldly broke the “keep quiet” policy. They became vocal advocates for their loved ones. The US government stood by as the National League of POW-MIA Families launched a nationwide advocacy campaign for American servicemen listed as captured or missing in Vietnam. In 1969, they pressed the administration of new president Richard Nixon so hard that his defense secretary changed national policy and publicly criticized North Vietnam for its violation of the Geneva Convention.
The League created two powerful symbols of their cause: first, a black-and-white flag featuring the silhouette of a POW, and second, the motto “You are not forgotten.” The image quickly became ubiquitous, and their flag still flies today.
The League also leveraged metal POW-MIA bracelets to raise awareness in a uniquely personal way. More than five million Americans wore polished wristbands inscribed with the name of a missing or captured serviceman. These became the first cause-related wristbands.
With their iconic symbols and heartfelt advocacy, this band of family-members-turned-activists united a bitterly polarized nation around American servicemen captured in Vietnam. Theirs became one of history’s most extraordinary women’s movements.
JERRY SAT ALONE IN STARDUST, back in Ha L Prison, dejected but thinking his new cell seemed like a presidential suite compared to Alcatraz. He listened to guards manhandling Jim Mulligan into a nearby cell. “You bastards!” bellowed his friend. “You can’t do this to me. I’m supposed to be going home!” How could they have been so naïve? How could they have let themselves believe homecoming had arrived? Leaving Alcatraz, Jerry had been elated. But when the truck had slowed down after ten minutes, turned, and entered a familiar-sounding tunnel, he knew it had not arrived at the airport. Instead, the Alcatraz Gang had returned to the Hanoi Hilton.
Activity in the Stardust cellblock subsided and Jerry heard the last guard leave. Jerry coughed out D for Denton. He heard H, J, M, T, R, and L come echoing back: Rutledge, Jenkins, Mulligan, Tanner, Shumaker, and Johnson.
Someone whispered, “Where are Coker and McKnight?”
Another responded, “They rode over with us from Alcatraz, so they must be here somewhere.”
“What about Ron?” another POW asked. The men began shouting, “Ron!”
The noise attracted guards, who entered the cellblock yelling, “Shut up! Shut mouth! No talk!” The chatter ceased and the POWs quietly contemplated their poor fortune and their dim prospects until they fell sleep.
The next morning, a guard opened Jerry’s door and indicated he’d take Jerry to wash. Jerry walked into the Little Vegas courtyard. He wore ragged shorts and carried a thin towel, sliver of soap, and bucket. He coughed out his initials. He wanted all POWs to know he had returned after twenty-five months of exile. He encountered Cat before reaching the bathhouse.
“Ah, Denton, I believe,” Cat said and extended his hand.
“Yes, Denton,” Jerry replied with some irritation. Cat knew exactly who he was.
“Long time since I see you, Denton.”
“Yes, not since the banana and the torture,” Jerry shot back and continued on to the bath.
The next day, Cat called Jerry to his office. With a solemn face, he said, “I have some very important announcements, Denton. I, other officers, and many of the guards had in our rage allowed ourselves to vent our anger on the prisoners and were responsible for deviations from our Vietnamese tradition of humane treatment. I have been required to make public self-criticism for my mistakes and from now on you will be allowed to follow the Code of Conduct.”
Cat’s statement shocked Jerry. He’d admitted the Camp Authority had tortured the POWs. He’d almost apologized.
Cat continued, “I will prove by my deeds that my words are true, and I want ideas from you on how we can apply humane treatment, including games and movies. We shall have many discussions in the future. Here are French-Vietnamese and English-French dictionaries for consultation to make sure we understand each other.”
Floored, Jerry watched Cat walk away. He surmised that North Vietnam feared President Richard Nixon would escalate the war until America won, and Hanoi did not want to be held accountable for crimes committed against POWs. Cat had perhaps become a scapegoat. In his next meetings with Cat, Jerry demanded everyone receive a roommate; solitary confinement must end. He stipulated several other conditions under the Code. Cat generally agreed. When Jerry asked about the whereabouts of Jim Stockdale, however, Cat said nothing more than “Stockdale is tranquil.” He said nothing about Ron Storz. Jerry feared for his fellow leader and for the young resister.
After several days back in the Hanoi Hilton, Jerry learned that Coker and McKnight were in the Mint. Nobody had seen Ron Storz. Jerry also discovered that in his absence the American resistance had indeed faltered. Some POWs had yet to join the communication network. Others had cooperated with the Camp Authority without being tortured. Some freely read on the radio, something that gave the Alcatraz POWs fits.
Jerry took control and reasserted discipline among the American prisoners. He whispered over shower stalls, dropped notes in the courtyard, and tapped out lengthy messages to let POWs know torture had ended; they needn’t fear the Camp Authority anymore. They should say no. They should stop cooperating. Other Alcatraz veterans shared the same messages wherever they went. Jerry issued orders to a renegade group of POWs in the Desert Inn cellblock to stop reading on the radio and writing for the camp magazine. When he received no response, he shouted out their names and demanded they stop. He observed them regularly eating outside, a special privilege afforded nobody else. He complained to Cat, who stonewalled him. “I am your uncle,” Cat said. “I have good nephews and bad nephews. I shall treat some better than others, but all will be treated well.”
On December 23, 1969, the door of Jerry’s Stardust cell opened. Jim Mulligan walked in, carrying his gear. The two commanders looked at each other until the guard closed the door. Then they embraced. Joyful, they slapped each other on the back and broke into cheek-hurting smiles. Both men had endured more than two years of solitary confinement since their last stint together in 1967—more than 780 days, 18,720 hours, or 1,123,200 minutes alone. Add to that Jerry’s 738 days alone prior to Alcatraz. They marveled they weren’t utterly crazy.
On Christmas Day, the reunited roommates walked through an unusually active camp to the game room. They found a Christmas tree and nativity scene, along with other decorations. The scene dumbfounded them. They were sure the Camp Authority planned a propaganda stunt, but when guards began bringing full cups of steaming coffee, they decided to play along. Jerry relished the strong French roast, sweet with sugar.
Cat himself arrived next, in his pressed khaki uniform. He retrieved two plates laden with food. “Eat, Denton. Eat
, Mulligan,” he said, delivering the hot meals. The POWs bowed and said, “Thank you, Commander.” They cleaned their plates of carrots, potatoes, cabbage, and turkey.
Christmas continued as Cat distributed letters from home, along with photographs and packages. Jerry knew the Camp Authority had kept these from him for years or months. Nevertheless, he had them now and felt fortunate. He gazed at the letters and photographs for the remainder of the afternoon. He saw a growing family that had changed noticeably from the one he left in 1965. In particular, and not happily, he noticed his sons’ hair getting longer. In wrapped packages, Jane had sent coffee, protein pills, soap, and chocolate drink mix. It was the first care package Jerry had received; surely the worst was over.
The year 1970 began with Jerry and the Alcatraz Gang restoring order to Little Vegas and the Hanoi Hilton. They wrote signs saying “Don’t read” on toilet paper and held them up in their windows when POWs who were still operating outside the Code of Conduct came into the courtyard. Jerry did not relent and soon Little Vegas was, for the most part, aligned and running like a military unit under his command.
His last major gripe involved Sam Johnson, the one POW still in solitary. Jerry complained to Cat. “Ah, Denton,” Cat said. “Johnson is a bad nephew. He will never have a roommate.” Jerry relayed the bad news to Sam. “Don’t worry, Sam,” he said. “We’ll think of something.” He remembered the signs of depression and madness he’d seen in Ron Storz. He began seeing the same dangerous indicators in Sam Johnson. On April 30, Jerry ordered a hunger strike to protest Sam’s solitary confinement. He and most POWs in Little Vegas refused to eat unless Sam received a cellmate. The fast infuriated Cat, but he did not relent. It lasted for three days, until Jerry felt POWs were jeopardizing their own health. Jerry ordered half rations until May 11. Nothing had changed for Sam, however, and the POWs had to give up the effort. Sam continued his own personal hunger strike. Jerry learned he’d collapsed in the game room while playing pool alone; he was starving himself. Jerry got on the wall: “Sam, I’m giving you a direct order. Stop the fast. Don’t hurt yourself.”
At last, Cat told Jerry he’d let Sam visit him and Mulligan. “Sam,” Jerry whispered across the corridor when he’d returned to his cell, “Cat told me you are going to be allowed to visit with Mulligan and me. Try to act surprised when they come to get you or they’ll know we’ve been communicating and they’ll call off the visit.”
Several days later, the door to Jerry and Jim Mulligan’s cell opened. There stood Sam Johnson. He looked like a skeleton. He stood at attention and said, “Major Sam Johnson reporting, sir.” Jerry grabbed him in a bear hug as Sam’s whole body sobbed. Tears traced down the cheeks of each man. Sam began daily visits, and Cat soon moved him into a cell with Bob Shumaker and Nels Tanner. Johnson knew Shumaker well; the navy whiz had taught Johnson French through their shared wall at Alcatraz.
Two months later, Jerry heard movement outside his door. He heard muffled voices in the neighboring cell. Then taps came through the wall from Johnson: He’d just been moved into a cell with Jim Stockdale. All of Stardust celebrated Stockdale’s reemergence. He’d been lost for a year and a half, since January 1969. The Alcatraz Gang had reassembled, with the exception of Ron Storz. They had heard nothing from or about Ron in nearly a year; they feared he hadn’t survived. Sam reported that Stockdale had barely survived his own ordeal. He’d been sequestered and tortured in the Hanoi Hilton since leaving Alcatraz. The experience left him badly addled.
The POW experience seemed to have affected Cat too. Jerry had noticed a gradual change in his adversary during the spring and summer of 1970. He’d lost a star of rank on his collar, and he seemed increasingly humble. His arrogance had vanished; a tic developed above one eye. Once lord of the prison system, Cat now seemed a fallen figure. He made fewer and fewer appearances. Neither Jerry nor any other POW saw Cat again after mid-1970.
Jerry Denton passed command to Jim Stockdale on November 1, 1970, once the grizzled leader had sufficiently recovered. Several weeks later, Colonel Robbie Risner arrived at the Hanoi Hilton, having emerged from a long isolation, and took over from Stockdale. Then two more senior officers transferred in and took command, one after the other. Jerry wondered what caused the influx of POWs from other camps into the Hilton.
In fact, a daring American raid on the POW camp in the Hanoi suburb of Sn Tây sparked the change. While navy and air force aircraft staged a distraction over the North Vietnamese coastline, helicopters carrying fifty-six US Army Special Forces Green Berets snuck across North Vietnam’s western border on November 21, 1970. They skimmed trees and fields on their way to Sn Tây. US intelligence had reported numerous American POWs in the camp there, and the army trained exceptionally hard for this rescue mission. Unfortunately, the intelligence was out of date. The Camp Authority had transferred the POWs out of the camp four months earlier. The raiders landed inside the prison compound to find empty cells and few North Vietnamese troops. They returned to Thailand safely but empty-handed. The daring mission did convince the Camp Authority to consolidate their American prisoners in the Hanoi Hilton, however. The POWs finally learned of the raid from a roll of microfilm smuggled inside a care package received in late 1971. But during 1970, many were wondering if their country had forgotten them.
Jerry and Jim Mulligan spent December 23, 1970, plucking feathers and cleaning turkeys for a Christmas meal for the eighty men in the Little Vegas section of the Hanoi Hilton. Jerry pulled feathers one at a time, thinking She loves me, she loves me not, with every two plucks. They worked so slowly, Camp Authority staff finished the job themselves. Back in their cell, Jerry contemplated how many more Christmases he’d spend in North Vietnam. The coming Christmas would be his sixth.
On Christmas Eve, Jerry and Jim Mulligan lay on their bunks talking. They counted down the moments until an evening bell marked the end of another day in Hanoi. For Jerry, this evening’s bell would mark 1,986 days.
They suddenly heard movement in the courtyard. Jerry pulled himself up to the window. “It must be some sort of move, Jim,” he said. “I can see the water girls and cooks moving dishes from the main area and taking them out of the main entrance toward Heartbreak Hotel.” Taps came that another cellblock was moved out. Then Jerry saw guards empty two more buildings. Eventually, the Alcatraz veterans in Stardust seemed to be the last POWs in Little Vegas. As Jerry wondered if they were beginning another sequestration, he heard noise in the corridor. A guard loudly ordered the POWs to roll their gear into their mats. He unlocked their cells and organized the men in a single-file line. Jerry trudged out of Stardust and into the unknown yet again. This time, he wore no blindfold.
The Stardust inmates followed guards through the prison’s main courtyard, past Heartbreak Hotel, and into a new sector. Jerry looked at a large, open yard surrounded by low cellblocks. Guards directed the Alcatraz men into the first building on the right. A large number 7 marked the door. Jerry stepped into a lighted room with nearly fifty other Americans, all unbound and unfettered. He had not seen this many Americans together since the dreadful march through downtown Hanoi in 1966. Every man inside was overjoyed.
Embraces, smiles, and stories filled the next hour inside Room Seven. Jerry watched his fellow POWs reunite with old squadron mates; he finally saw the faces of many POWs with whom he’d communicated blindly during his solitary days. POWs rarely saw the face on the other side of the wall. The men now passed information freely: where they’d been, whom they’d seen, what they’d endured. Happily, Jerry learned his right-seater, Bill Tschudy, was alive and well.
Talk eventually quieted and Jerry spoke up. “Hey, it’s practically Christmas,” he said. “Why don’t we have a church service?”
Several POWs volunteered to help. Jerry turned to his favorite Texan, Sam Johnson. “And Sam will sing, won’t you, Sam?”
“Shirley won’t even let me sing in church when there are other voices to cover me up,” Sam protested.
“It doesn
’t matter,” said Jerry. “Just sing a Christmas carol.”
Sam’s breaking voice sang the first line of “Silent Night.” Jerry and the other POWs joined him. In the dark of Hanoi, the men’s rising voices offered long-awaited light. Jerry savored a rare peace.
The Camp Authority was having none of it, however. Guards rushed in, demanding the Americans stop singing: “No authorize! No authorize! Be quiet!” An officer entered with the camp rules, pointed to regulations about prisoner gatherings, and stated, “Not allowed.” Thus ended Christmas 1970.
The POWs let just two months pass before they again tested their captors. Jerry Denton and other leaders authorized a church service in Room Seven on Sunday, February 7, 1971. Worship began with hymns from a POW choir and ended with a homily and benediction. Just as congregants were being dismissed, Jerry saw three guards wade through the POWs and nab the minister and his officiants: George Coker, Howie Rutledge, and Robbie Risner. An officer berated them outside and began marching them away. That’s when POWs began singing in protest.
Air force major Bud Day started off with “O say, can you see …” The rest of the room leapt in, “… by the dawn’s early light?” Room Seven filled with booming voices as fifty Americans belted out “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The singing spread to the other cellblocks in Camp Unity, as the POWs had named the area. By midsong, nearly four hundred POWs were singing in unison. The Church Riot of 1971 had begun.
Guards swarmed into the rooms, screaming, “No authorize! No authorize! Quiet! No singing!” The POWs just sang louder. The crescendo of the US national anthem echoed throughout the Hanoi Hilton; it flowed over the barbed wire and into the streets of the North Vietnamese capital. The imprisoned Americans were telling all of Hanoi that they had survived the worst; they would endure the rest.
Captured Page 14