The League of Wives

by Heath Hardage Lee

  Despite casting everything aside to become Mrs. CAG Stockdale, Sybil’s sharp intelligence and natural love for education compelled her to do more. After she earned a master’s degree from Stanford University in 1959, Jim followed suit, earning his own master’s from Stanford in 1962. He became intensely interested in the Greek Stoics and their philosophy, studies that would later sustain him and even perhaps save his life.

  In 1962, the couple moved to Coronado, where Jim was assigned to a fighter squadron in San Diego. While he was deployed in April of 1964, Sybil bought a charming Tudor cottage at 547 A Avenue that reminded her of her childhood home. Family life was heaven. The beach, the sunny and temperate weather, and the warm camaraderie among the Navy families made for smooth sailing.

  Jim and Sybil had arrived. She liked to imagine that Peter Pan was watching their happy family life through the English windows of their snug new home. She felt protected, safe, and content.23

  Inevitably, Jim’s next deployment arrived. To his chagrin, he had just missed action in the Korean War. This time, he was determined not to miss out on the action bubbling up in Southeast Asia. He was a fighter pilot, and warfare was what he was trained for.

  In the weeks prior to his 1964 departure for Vietnam, Jim headed to the San Diego mountains for Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE) school. All officers assigned to combat zones went through this program, created in 1962 by American prisoners from the Korean War.24 The tenets of the course were based on the U.S. military’s Code of Conduct, especially Article 3, which provided the SERE acronym and applied especially to prisoners of war: “If I am captured I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.” The men were all trained to live—and die if necessary—by this Code.25

  The men were sent deep into the mountains northeast of San Diego to play a 1960s military version of The Hunger Games. The lessons were top secret. SERE was known to provide “a grim crash course in what to expect as a downed pilot in hostile territory.”26

  In the unlikely scenario that any of them were captured (most pilots found this idea laughable; a good aviator would never get shot down), the course taught the trainees coping strategies. They learned how to outsmart, outwit, and outlast the enemy. Korean War vets serving as trainers advised the SERE newbies that if the men could resist their jailers for just a few months, they would be home free. The enemy would eventually give up when they saw how tough American military men were.

  Jim returned home, dusty and physically and mentally worn out from his SERE training. Despite his exhaustion, he may have secretly chuckled to himself at the thought that, compared with what Sybil was doing at home, managing four active, rambunctious boys, SERE school might have been the easier assignment.27

  * * *

  As CAG of the VF-51 Screaming Eagles, based out of Naval Air Station Miramar, north of San Diego, Jim decided the time had come for a “traditional (a little wild) old time aviator” party.28 He and Sybil planned the be-all, end-all bash for his men at 547 A Avenue in December of 1964, celebrating their return from a Gulf of Tonkin deployment on the USS Ticonderoga. Their next deployment, on the USS Oriskany (dubbed by Navy men “the Big Risk”), was not far off: they would leave for Asia again in April of 1965.

  The Stockdales rolled up the rugs, hired a local rock band, threw their French doors open to the outside, and set up a well-stocked bar for their guests. G&Ts (a Sybil favorite), manhattans, sidecars, and Harvey Wallbangers flowed freely.

  That evening, the Screaming Eagle pilots drove up in Corvettes, sporting trim flight suits and accompanied by their pedal-pusher-clad wives and girlfriends. Here on the West Coast, things were much more casual than on the stuffy East Coast, even in military circles. The band played surf music and hits from 1964: Jan and Dean and the Beach Boys.29 A Beatle wig made the rounds, passing from one pilot’s head to another as the party gained momentum. Sybil ended up in the middle of the crowd, dancing with a six-foot-three pilot named Bud Collicott, who sported the Beatle wig.

  Bud later carried Sid, the second Stockdale son, on his shoulders, giving the boy a bird’s-eye view of the scene. Sid remembered the night vividly, recalling a roomful of “pilots at the top of their game having a good party before they deployed.”30 His older brother, Jim, said, “I think they were all completely sure they were invincible … It was as close as Mom and Dad ever came to hosting a blowout.”31

  These pilots were surfing the wave of military life with ease, riding high thanks to frequent parties, copious amounts of alcohol, and their own naturally high levels of testosterone. They tended to overlook any clouds on the horizon and considered themselves immune from mortal ills like the death and destruction of war.

  Later, however, they would find themselves feeling like a squadron of Icaruses flying too close to the sun.

  Two

  IT CAN’T HAPPEN TO US …

  ON THE NIGHT OF Saturday, July 17, 1965, thirty-nine-year-old military wife and mother Jane Denton sat in the darkness with her three youngest children, Mike, Madeleine, and Mary Beth, at the Virginia Beach Drive-In Theater. The family had just arrived to see Mary Poppins, the Disney blockbuster that was sweeping the nation. The 1950s-era drive-in was just a few miles from the beach, attracting moviegoers from many Navy families who lived and worked around Naval Air Station Oceana as well as the summer tourist crowd.1 Jane’s job description was essentially the same as that of her fictional counterpart on the screen that night: like Mary Poppins, she was on duty twenty-four hours a day while her Navy pilot husband, Commander Jeremiah “Jerry” Denton, was away on a nine-month deployment to Vietnam.

  The young members of the “M Society” (composed of Mike, Madeleine, and Mary Beth, with “Mom” Jane being the “founding” member) were thrilled to have some time alone with their busy mother who was consumed with the household duties of managing her small army of seven children. The four older children, Jerry III, Don, Jim, and Billy, were constantly busy with sports and school activities. Jane was a pretty brunette with milky skin and luminous brown eyes. But she often felt older than her years trying to manage her boisterous brood alone.

  Jane kept telling herself that the war in Southeast Asia would soon be over and that Jerry would be back home with the family by Christmas. But something deep within her was fearful for their future. Tonight, in the darkness of the theater, her inner radar picked up signals that something was wrong. She went from feeling unsettled one minute to experiencing a gut punch of panic the next. A terrible sense of foreboding engulfed her. She remembered that “a strange feeling of dread and fear came over me and I lost my composure and confidence for the first time since Jerry left. I panicked and wept in the dark there. Was this a premonition? It was between 10 and 11 PM when this took place and the feeling persisted after the tears stopped.”2

  Jane was a seasoned military wife used to being alone for months at a time while her husband was deployed. She was not prone to hysterics and had proven her mettle, making numerous moves at home and abroad for her husband’s career. She was now happily settled in the big white house at 3125 Watergate Lane in Virginia Beach. But her instinct told her that her settled Navy family home life was about to change drastically.

  The next day, her intuition proved to be spot-on.

  Jane had woken up early that Sunday morning, written Jerry a letter, and taken all seven children to Mass. She was a fervent Catholic, and her religion gave her solace, comfort, and a place where (thank you, God) the children had to be quiet, if only for that one hour on Sundays. The family had just returned home when the doorbell rang.

  “Mom! Someone’s here to see you!” yelled her son Billy. Jane’s heart stopped. She took a deep breath and rushed down the stairs. Standing before her were Captain Stuart “Stu” Nelson and his pretty blond wife, Barbara. What Nelson told her next was the news she had been dreading: Jerry had been shot down during the bombing of the port facility of
Thanh Hóa, in North Vietnam. The “good” news was that he had been spotted ejecting from his plane with his parachute and had made it safely to shore. Now the search was on, but a rescue scenario did not seem likely.3 Jane was in shock upon receiving the news. As the hours passed, she began to tap into her deep Catholic faith to keep herself calm.4

  After falling from the humid tropical skies over Vietnam, forty-one-year-old Navy pilot Jeremiah “Jerry” Denton was enraged.

  Jerry and his bombardier and friend Lieutenant William “Bill” Tschudy were shot down by enemy fire, ejecting successfully from their A-6 Intruder aircraft. Jerry emerged, wet and dripping, on a riverbank to find himself surrounded by North Vietnamese soldiers who gestured at him menacingly with rifles and machetes. His fighter pilot mentality kicked in instantly: “Dazed and bleeding as I was, my principal emotion was fury. I was mad as hell at being shot down, and even angrier at being captured.”5

  Bill had parachuted down perfectly from the aircraft. He remembered it being “very quiet on the way down; I didn’t hear a thing for a good while. The noise increased the closer I got to the ground.” The American pilot landed on his feet in a village hamlet, surrounded by palm trees. He was rushed by villagers, who immediately stripped him of all of his clothes but his underwear. They forced Bill to walk barefoot for about a mile, to a small enclosure. Inside, he was shocked to see Jerry Denton sitting in a motorcycle sidecar. His leg was injured and propped up.

  Bill recalled Jerry saying, “How are you?” Bill blurted out the first thing that came into his mind: “I’m sore!” He hoped later that Jerry did not think he was angry—he just didn’t know what else to say.

  That night, both men were taken in separate trucks to Hanoi. Jerry later said he heard Bill making noises that night. Bill could not see or hear Jerry. They would not meet again until 1973.6

  * * *

  Back in Virginia Beach, Jane’s support crew quickly appeared. Her dear friend from college, Kitty Clark, flew down immediately. Local Navy wives and neighbors mobilized to help with childcare and meals. Both Jane’s and Jerry’s families in Mobile, Alabama, were notified. As after a funeral, a whirl of casseroles, phone calls, letters, and telegrams overwhelmed the newly minted MIA wife. Perhaps due to her proximity to Oceana naval base, everyone seemed to know the situation—and Jane’s predicament. Jerry was one of the early shoot-downs, and the protocol for handling these situations quietly didn’t seem to be in place—yet—in Virginia Beach.

  On Monday, July 19, the scenario became even more surreal when two letters that Jerry had posted before he was shot down arrived. Jane wrote in her diary: “Had two letters from Jerry today—wonderful, comforting ones. During last night I realized in my heart that Jerry was not going to be picked up and prepared myself for the news that the search had been cancelled. Tonight Captain Nelson brought that news and details of the flight. God helps me to bear what seemed unbearable. My sister arrived tonight. Our children are wonderful and strong. The younger ones (Mal & Mike) are with friends (Carvers).”

  The next day, July 20, would have been Jerry’s change-of-command day. Another letter from the lost pilot arrived at the Dentons’ Watergate Lane home. Jane remembered the phone ringing constantly and insistently, demanding her attention. Casseroles continued to flood the household until there was no more room in her refrigerator to hold them all. Jane fervently wished she could send Jerry that food—food she and her children neither needed nor wanted. Instead she arranged a special Mass for Jerry. And they all continued to pray. The next few days passed in a blur, in the same manner. Jane recalled, “I went through the motions. God helped me maintain calm for the most part.”

  An official telegram arrived, special delivery, on July 23, confirming the news. Though Jerry had been sighted landing in a small village area, he had been declared missing in action. “It is with utmost regret I must inform you that the report further states that the extensive search by the Navy and Air Force has failed to locate any trace of your husband since 18 July 1965.”7

  The same day she received the telegram, Jane also saw the first photo of Jerry in captivity. She already saw evidence in the picture of how he was being treated by his captors. She wrote again in her diary: “Jerry’s picture was released by Com. in Tokyo. It was dreadful and I fear that he is being inhumanely treated. God help him. I saw the picture on TV at noon. Later I went to 7–11, bought a paper, kept it folded until I got to church where I sat in the back pew and opened it to see my love’s poor face on the first page. I prayed. I then went by Fr. Summer’s rectory and sought comfort. Then back home to my wonderful family.”8

  * * *

  Though Jerry and Bill had been assigned to work together in Vietnam, their wives had not yet met. There had been a squadron party at the Oceana Officers’ Club before the two men deployed. Both couples had attended the party, but somehow Jane and Janie had missed meeting each other there.

  A chic, friendly young woman with a pixie haircut and sparkling blue eyes, Janie Tschudy had been in Northern Michigan visiting her family when the news of the shoot-down hit. She and her son, Michael, had gone to the beach that day with Janie’s niece Casey. It was a windy, overcast day, and Janie had an unsettling feeling that something was off. Nothing she could put her finger on, but she felt her composure slipping, and the three arrived home early from their outing.

  “Janie, you need to eat!” her mother exclaimed.

  “Mother, I’m not really hungry,” Janie insisted.

  “No, you have to eat. I made a pot roast!”

  So Janie and Michael dutifully ate. After they finished, Janie’s parents told her the news. Debbie Snead, the wife of Bill’s CO (commanding officer), had called Janie’s father earlier that day to tell him that Bill and Jerry had been shot down and were missing. “That was it. There was no more to go on,” Janie remembered.

  A few days later, Janie was on her way back to Virginia Beach with Michael. Her whole world had just fallen completely to pieces. Her instinct had told her something was wrong that day at the beach, but she had no idea of the impact this would have on her life from this day forward. She spent several days with Michael at a friend’s house in Virginia Beach. Then Debbie Snead took her to meet her fellow MIA wife Jane Denton.

  There was no awkwardness. The two women talked for hours about their husbands and their mutual predicament. Jane had seven children, Janie just one. Jane was thirty-nine, and Janie was twenty-seven. Jane was a seasoned Navy wife, Janie just a newbie. But these differences, their husbands’ ranks, their places in the military wife hierarchy—it all fell away. Such things were usually a barrier to communication—younger wives were often afraid to talk to higher-ranking officers’ wives—but none of that mattered now. The women became instant friends and confidantes.9

  On Friday, an ominous broadcast hit the airwaves from the Communist capital of Hanoi, announcing that two American pilots had been “sent by McNamara [President Lyndon B. Johnson’s secretary of defense] personally, and would be treated as imperialist criminals.”10 Jane and Janie both heard the pronouncement. The two women were so stunned at this point that neither knew quite how to react.

  Jane and Janie continued to observe the social graces prescribed during emergencies. They graciously hosted hordes of company and sent thank-you notes for the Jell-O fruit salads, tomato aspic (the children all gagged when confronted with this dish), and Bundt cakes drizzled with frosting.

  Southern women like Jane were exceptionally well trained in the exhausting custom of entertaining others during times of mourning. It was just what you did—there were (and still are) whole cookbooks devoted to recipes for the bereaved. Jane and Janie’s situation was like a living death—no one (including their own government) knew exactly what had happened to their men. Everyone assumed the worst. Well-meaning friends continued to flow in. Jane wished everyone would go away and leave her to her own private grief.11

  * * *

  After almost four months apart, Sybil arrived in Tokyo�
�s Haneda Airport on July 24, 1965, ecstatic to see her husband. Jim was on a nine-month deployment to Japan on the USS Oriskany. Stanford, Sid, Taylor, and Jim Jr. were deposited with their grandparents so the couple could enjoy a romantic reunion. Sybil could not wait to see her husband. This vacation would be a welcome respite from her four rambunctious boys. Sybil adored them, but she had to manage them like a drill sergeant to keep the peace. Being a military wife meant being a single parent for long stretches. Sybil could not imagine being able to maintain her sanity without her work tutoring elementary school children and her local friends.

  Within a few days of Sybil’s arrival in Japan, the Stockdales attended a champagne reception at the Atsugi Officers’ Club. A huge ice sculpture of a Navy plane rose above the crowd as the centerpiece. Life on base and within the naval community there seemed idyllic. The couple enjoyed sunset cocktail parties in lovely Japanese gardens, shopping in the upscale Ginza district, massages, and Japanese hot baths together.12 It was truly paradise.

  A side trip to the seaside town of Atami provided an unexpected window into Japan and its history. Sybil and Jim’s cook during their stay told them in halting English that her husband had been killed by American bombs in World War II. She mentioned this offhandedly, and seemingly without animosity. The next day, Jim looked out their hotel window and pointed to the hills. “You know, that fellow who speaks English told me there was a Japanese prison camp right there in those hills during the war.” A hotel worker who spoke English had mentioned this to him the previous day. “Kind of gives you an eerie feeling, doesn’t it?”13 Sybil didn’t give this history lesson a second thought. World War II was ages ago. The past was over, and Japan now seemed to embrace the American military men—and their wives. They seemed to welcome their presence and their business on the island.