Next, the prisoners belted out “God Bless America,” then “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” “America the Beautiful,” “California, Here I Come,” and “The Eyes of Texas.” Jerry basked in the triumphant singing. His men, united in song, sang in proud defiance of their captors. Jerry felt happiness he’d not known for years. When the Camp Authority played its own music over the speakers, the men sang louder. They ran out of songs and switched to chanting. The boisterous men in Room Seven began, “This is Room Number Seven, Number Seven, Number Seven! This is Room Number Seven, where the hell is Six?” Room Six picked up the chant, passed it to Room Five. It circled the courtyard all the way to Room One. Only when troops with riot gear and tear gas entered Camp Unity did the Americans relent.
Once again, the Alcatraz Gang found itself at the center of trouble. Coker and Rutledge were sent to Heartbreak Hotel. The next day, Jerry and Jim Stockdale were sent to Building Zero and placed in stocks. Harry Jenkins and Jim Mulligan joined them within the week after sponsoring a raucous anniversary party for Bob Shumaker; February 11, 1971, marked six years in captivity for Shumaker. Robbie Risner was already in Building Zero, as was air force colonel John Flynn, the highest ranking officer in Hanoi. All the camp’s senior officers were together. Flynn, Risner, Stockdale, and Denton ranked highest and became known as the Four Wise Men. From their confinements in Building Zero, they made Camp Unity a functioning air wing, issuing policies for the squadrons (rooms) and officers (POWs). They christened themselves the Fourth Allied POW Wing. “Fourth,” since they fought in the fourth major conflict of the century. “Allied,” as four Thai and South Vietnamese officers were among them.
Jerry considered South Vietnamese pilot Nguyn Quc ạt—whom he and others called “Max”—a secret weapon for the Americans. Max and the Thai POWs, most importantly Thai special forces sergeant Chicharn Harnavee, received less scrutiny from camp guards. Some initially learned English via tap code and they all, at great risk, couriered notes, served as lookouts, and even shared new skills. Once, Max taught Jerry to fabricate black crayons from burnt bamboo and soap shavings. The Americans warmly welcomed these allies.
The remainder of 1971 passed slowly, as did much of 1972. Jerry appreciated not being tortured, yet nobody seemed to care what he did, period. He drifted toward purposelessness again. Issuing orders to men in cellblocks was no real leadership assignment. Yet regulations did remind the men they were still American officers, not criminals. They were still fighting a war, albeit in a most unexpected way. They should still aspire to return with honor.
To reclaim some meaning, the men organized a veritable university. Collectively, more than 350 POWs possessed an astounding amount of knowledge. Sam Johnson, a former Air Force Thunderbird aerobatic pilot, taught aerial maneuvers. Bob Shumaker taught French. Others taught auto mechanics, mathematics, engineering, literature, and philosophy. John McCain and Harry Jenkins were star movie-tellers; they’d perform entire movies from memory as evening entertainment. What they couldn’t remember, they just improvised.
Packages arrived from home on a regular basis. The POWs thought they received about half the original contents; they often saw guards eating Planters peanuts or smoking American-brand cigarettes certainly meant for them. Jerry and Jim Mulligan opened one package together to find canned martinis. Mulligan also received a box of prunes. When he bit into one, he discovered a tiny plastic container hidden inside. He opened it and pulled out a roll of microfilm. None of the senior officers could read the tiny text, so they sent it to Room Seven, where Shumaker’s and Coker’s younger eyes were able to read a news-paper story about the Sn Tây raid. The news caused celebration. They knew America had never forgotten them.
Hanoi Hannah continued to bring news of the outside world, complementing the news that POWs received via mail. When Jerry Denton had communicated with new shootdown Red McDaniel in 1967, Red reported America had nearly 500,000 troops in South Vietnam. By 1972, Hanoi Hannah reported America was deserting South Vietnam. President Nixon championed “peace with honor” and presided over a massive withdrawal that took four years. Troop levels fell to 156,000 in 1971 and 24,000 by late 1972. South Vietnam, which had seen four different undemocratic regimes since 1960, faced both internal and external challenges and increasingly had to fend for itself. With no clear path to victory, a weak and unsavory ally, and an electorate that had turned decidedly against the war, Nixon and the United States began putting Vietnam behind them. As America withdrew, Hannah reported Communist advances. Soon, she predicted, Saigon would be liberated and Vietnam reunited.
North Vietnam did not seem ready to negotiate. Heck, Jerry wouldn’t negotiate either, were he in Hanoi’s shoes. America seemed unwilling to force its enemy to the peace table. And if North Vietnam and their South Vietnamese allies, the Việt Cộng, were winning, why negotiate? The POWs prayed fervently that something would change, that America would force a treaty. If it didn’t, they might remain in Camp Unity indefinitely.
AFTER NIGHTFALL ON DECEMBER 18, 1972, Jerry felt the ground tremble. A low thunder rolled across Hanoi. Flecks of plaster floated down from the ceiling of his room. Jerry listened and realized it wasn’t a heavy storm. “I think those are B-52s,” he exclaimed as he hopped to the window. Sure enough, the rumbles and tremors continued; US Air Force strategic bombers were attacking Hanoi. Nixon had decided to force North Vietnam to negotiate! In Jerry’s mind, homecoming suddenly became an undeniable possibility. POWs grasped the bars on their cells and looked skyward. They cheered as concussions rippled through the winter night and American airmen brought the war to North Vietnam’s capital.
The raids continued relentlessly each night, pausing only for Christmas. They finally stopped on December 29. The evenings became silent once again. Jerry noticed radio tower lights now remained on throughout the night. A new oversized North Vietnamese flag flew over Ha L Prison. The guards seemed subdued. A strange quiet fell over Hanoi. The POWs speculated about what it meant. Had North Vietnam agreed to terms? When POWs arrived from recently downed B-52s, the pilots shared news that the war had neared an end. National Security Advisor Henry Kissinger had promised the country that “peace is at hand.” If the bombing had stopped, North Vietnam had likely sued for peace. Hope ran high. In nobody did it run higher than in Jerry Denton.
On January 27, 1973, the Camp Authority assembled all the Americans in Camp Unity for the first time. Nearly four hundred members of history’s longest-suffering military unit walked out of their rooms in shorts, pajamas, T-shirts, and boxers. All wore rubber flip-flops. They wore no shackles or blindfolds. No guards prodded them along with bayonets. They stood in formation and observed press and Camp Authority officials milling near the gates. Anticipation charged the air. The commandant of Ha L Prison walked before his prisoners. He stepped onto a small box and announced the war’s end.
The POWs received the statement stoically, not entirely trusting the words and not wanting to show emotion before their captors and foreign journalists. The commandant continued and listed the treaty’s conditions. At last, he confirmed a most important point. North Vietnam would release the prisoners, in groups of 120 men every two weeks, beginning February 12. Evacuation would proceed in order of shootdown, first to last.
Jerry digested the information; could this be the end, after so many years? His fellow POWs remained stone-faced. They too struggled with similar hopes and lingering suspicions. Yet today’s announcement seemed sincere. Bombs no longer fell. Hanoi Hannah had been largely silent. The Camp Authority, at long last, seemed interested in the POWs’ well-being. Jerry knew his optimism had spawned many false hopes. Today, he would let himself believe one last time.
Lieutenant Colonel Robbie Risner stood in front of the wing. Jerry watched him execute an about-face. “Fourth Allied POW Wing, atten-hut!” he barked. Sandals stamped on the dirt courtyard of Camp Unity as the Americans snapped to attention. Risner gave a salute. The leader of each cellblock returned it. Jerry saw pride on the faces
of the fighting men standing alongside him in Ha L Prison. Their unexpected mission appeared almost complete. The cellblock leaders ordered, “Squadron, dis … missed!”
POWs walked about the courtyard, talking with one another. Then back in their rooms, they let themselves celebrate, away from the eyes of the press and Camp Authority. Jerry and the camp leadership hammered out an official statement and signaled to other rooms: “No celebrations, no fraternization or friendliness, and no unnecessary confrontation with the prison guards. All conduct will be dignified, professional, and on the guarded assumption that release is imminent. We will operate from a position of cautious optimism.”
Things began to happen. The Camp Authority filled Rooms Four, Six, and Seven with 116 POWs captured before July 1966—the first men slated for release. Extra bread appeared with meals. POWs cooked for themselves in the courtyard; they filled up with vegetables and meats, wondering how they’d survived on thin Phở for so long. Jerry’s friend Bob Shumaker tracked prisoners’ weight by dunking them in the courtyard’s water tank. He’d calculate body mass by measuring cubic feet of water displaced and multiplying that figure by 62.4 pounds, the approximate weight of one cubic foot of water. Some men gained more than ten pounds while awaiting release.
The end of their imprisonment also brought sadness. The Alcatraz Gang learned for certain that Ron Storz had not survived. As they had feared, Ron never left Alcatraz. He’d died there in April of 1970.
In early February, Jerry squared off with Mickey Mouse for one last quiz. The former superintendent of Alcatraz asked what Jerry would say upon release. “I haven’t answered your questions this long,” Jerry responded. “Why should I answer you now? Why do you care what I say anyhow? There are hundreds of men who will speak when they get home.”
“You have credibility, Denton.”
“What do you expect? Don’t you know I’ll tell about the torture?”
“Yes, we expect that,” Mickey Mouse said.
“Why do you want me to tell you what I will say?”
“We afraid when you get home and make a speech, Mr. Nixon will not give us aid he promised,” explained Mickey Mouse. “Public would not allow.”
“I will say that through 1969 you treated me and the others worse than animals,” Jerry answered.
“Yes, but is that all?”
“No,” said Jerry. “That is not all. Late in 1969 you came off the torture. After that, to my knowledge, you did not resort to extreme punishment. You then acted within your conscience, such as it is.”
“That’s the truth, but others may not tell the truth.”
“If there is any exaggeration, the senior officers will take care of that,” Jerry said.
As Jerry rose to leave, his longtime adversary stood with him. Mickey Mouse looked Jerry in the eye and said, “Denton, you’re a good man.”
Jerry awoke early on the morning of Monday, February 12, 1973. It was his 2,766th morning in North Vietnam; he expected it to be his last. Camp Unity bustled as guards delivered leather shoes, socks, khaki pants, button-down shirts, and jackets to the Americans. The Camp Authority had wanted to send the POWs home wearing sweaters or suits; the POWs had wanted to wear their pajamas. The khakis and shirts were a compromise, one of the few ever made with the POWs.
Jerry took one last cold shower, then donned real clothes for the first time in nearly eight years. He and other POWs wobbled as they readjusted to wearing shoes. Once dressed, POWs streamed out of their cellblocks and descended upon a rich breakfast of milk, bananas, bread, and coffee provided in the courtyard. Soon, the 116 men to be released that day began to assemble; the rest would follow in the weeks to come.
Jerry organized the lucky men into two columns; Ev Alvarez and Bob Shumaker, the first two shootdowns, were at the head. Shumaker had spent exactly eight full years in captivity. Today was the first day of his ninth year; soon he’d see his son, now eight years and three months old. Jerry took his place in the column’s seventh row next to his bombardier-navigator, Bill Tschudy.
Jerry looked over the group from front to back, eyeing men who’d been downed between August 1964 and July 1966. Together, they’d endured torture and deprivation, the “Make Your Choice” campaign, the Hanoi March, and the dreadful summer of 1967. A special handful had survived exile at Alcatraz. Jerry wondered if any other American unit had endured so much.
After a long hour of standing, Jerry received the order to mobilize. “Ev, we’re going to march out in formation,” Jerry called to Ev Alvarez at the column’s head. “You count cadence.” Jerry wanted his men to leave Ha L Prison like soldiers.
“Right face,” Jerry ordered. “Count ’em off, Ev!”
Alvarez called, “Forward march!”
The disciplined column moved smartly toward the foreboding main gate through which so many POWs had entered captivity years ago, beaten, bloodied, and afraid. They passed through the dark tunnel and emerged onto the drizzly street. The column wheeled right before masses of quiet citizens who crowded the sidewalks. The last time Jerry had seen the local citizenry, they were attacking him during the POWs’ ill-fated march through Hanoi during 1966. Now, they simply looked on curiously.
The Americans boarded waiting buses and rumbled through the battle-weary city. Jerry silently observed blocks of apartments and shops. People stopped to watch the three buses carrying men who’d spent up to eight years in their city. Once these men had been vilified daily. By February 1973, they had been largely forgotten.
Tears welled in Jerry’s eyes as he thought about the hardship Hanoi’s citizens would face rebuilding their country under a Communist regime. At least he could leave. Rabbit, Cat, and these men and women had to stay. The buses continued through light rain and across the Red River.
At Gia Lâm airport, the Americans waited in formation, looking at an empty airstrip and searching an overcast sky. Some grew nervous. Then POWs spied a silvery transport descending through the clouds, like an angel of deliverance. The men heard the whine of four jet engines. Soon they could read the words “US Air Force” emblazoned on the plane’s side. The massive C-141 Starlifter landed gently, puffs of smoke issuing from its wheels. There would be no trickery or surprise. America had finally come.
The POWs advanced toward a tarp that shaded a delegation of North Vietnamese and American officials seated at a long table. Jerry spied Rabbit standing at a microphone. He called out the names of each POW, one by one. The twelfth name he called was Jeremiah Denton. Jerry stepped forward. He saw papers being signed at the official table. He shook the hand of a United States Air Force colonel. A uniformed escort walked him away from Rabbit, Ha L Prison, and nearly eight years of captivity. He walked toward freedom. He passed under the wing of the parked C-141, then climbed the ramp into the plane’s cavernous belly. He joyfully embraced the eleven ex-POWs already aboard. Away from the eyes of captors and press, Jerry Denton celebrated.
Three planes would arrive that day to extricate American POWs from North Vietnam. When the first forty men had boarded Jerry’s plane, the gate closed and the men buckled into their seats. The big plane taxied to the runway. Then the four engines roared as the pilot pushed the throttles forward. When the wheels left the ground, forty free men shouted at the tops of their lungs. It was 1:46 p.m., Monday, February 12, 1973.
Jerry was senior officer on the first flight, so he’d make the first public statement on behalf of the returning POWs. During the three-hour flight to Clark Air Base in the Philippines, he crafted what he’d say to the world. He knew cameras would carry his words to millions of viewers and, most importantly, to his wife, Jane, and their seven children. He shared a two-sentence statement with his fellow ex-POWs, or ex-cons as they were calling themselves in jest. They approved.
The passenger section of the C-141 offered no windows, so it wasn’t until the plane landed in the Philippines and the door opened that Jerry saw the crowds. Hundreds had come to welcome the POWs back to American territory; their collective roar fill
ed the aircraft. Jerry walked through the door and descended a short stairway. Wearing dark pants and a light Windbreaker, he saluted the commander of America’s Pacific forces, who waited at the bottom of the stairs in his white navy uniform. Jerry turned toward the microphone and the cameras beyond. He blinked in the sunlight and began.
“We are honored to have had the opportunity to serve our country under difficult circumstances,” he said. “We are profoundly grateful to our commander in chief and to our nation for this day.”
He paused. He needed to say more. Heartfelt words welled up inside him. With his voice breaking, he concluded, “God bless America.”
The crowd roared its approval. Jerry smiled humbly through moist eyes. He stepped forward to salute the American flag carried by the planeside color guard. He pivoted on his heel and marched down a red carpet to the buses that would whisk him and his men to the base hospital. From his seat, he watched his men file out of the C-141, one by one. They saluted the flag and strode, walked, limped, or hobbled down the ribbon of carpet. Despite nagging injuries, returning POWs made each step with pride. Neither Jerry nor any of his men had wished for such an assignment. None wished to spend the war in prison. None anticipated their mission would last so terribly long. But they had all done their duty as best they could, and they were going home.
The full buses drove through crowds chanting “Wel-come-home” and waving signs, banners, and flags. Shortly, the buses arrived at the Clark Air Base hospital. Jerry received a full physical. His doctor cleared him to eat, and he joined the flood of POWs converging on the cafeteria. Jerry saw men downing banana splits while in line for steak and eggs. He noticed cafeteria staff flash looks of disbelief as POWs piled plates with all the foods denied them in Hanoi. The men gorged themselves. Senior officers like Jerry joined right in. Next came hot showers; Jerry savored the steam and felt the water wash away years of grime and memories, both painful and proud.
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