But the overwrite stratagem, too, had drawbacks. For one thing, the Johnson administration had specifically promised President Park it wouldn’t sign another “helicopter-type” apology to get Bucher and his men back. Park’s government reminded Washington of this pledge in an aide-mémoire declaring that the “integrity, dignity and prestige of the Republic of Korea and the United States are inseparably bound.” South Korea urged LBJ to “maintain a firm stand” against Pyongyang if he wanted to retrieve the Pueblo crew “in an honorable way.”
Another difficulty was that even if Washington did sign a “receipt,” there was no guarantee North Korea would let the crew go. On May 8, General Pak had presented a draft of a servile apology he wanted Woodward to sign. But when the American general asked, at their next meeting, whether Bucher and his men would be freed at the same time Woodward affixed his signature, Pak made no reply. For months afterward, Pak ducked the “simultaneity” question. State Department officials in Washington discussed whether to try to persuade the North Koreans to soften the wording of the draft apology, but finally decided against doing so. The more outlandish the rhetoric, the reasoning went, the easier it would be for the United States to renounce the document later.
Pak was no more forthcoming when Woodward tried to confirm the rumor that Bucher had committed suicide. A Japanese newsman had made that claim to American military intelligence in June, and the story soon was being whispered about in Seoul and Washington. The State Department worried that Rose Bucher might hear the rumor and go public with it. If that happened, the Johnson administration was sure to face noisy and distracting demands to push harder to get the rest of the sailors back in one piece.
The State Department instructed Woodward to press Pak at their June 27 meeting about Bucher’s purported demise. But, as usual, the North Korean bobbed and weaved and refused to answer:
Woodward: Is Commander Bucher in good health?
Pak: Where did you get [such] a rumor and raise such a question? We have no knowledge of it. I don’t deem it necessary to clarify every rumor that goes around.
Woodward: The families of these men have had no reliable assurances that their husbands and sons are decently treated and in good health. Since February 2 you have not even made any statement to Admiral Smith or to me that they are all alive and well. . . . I’ll call on you to tell me now, directly, whether or not all 82 captives are alive and well.
Pak: If your side is really concerned about the fate of the crew of the Pueblo, you should seriously study the statement our side made at today’s meeting and bring the pertinent document of apology and assurance to the next meeting, as we demanded.
Woodward: General Pak, your answer was not a clear one and I ask again that you tell me whether or not the 82 captives are in good health.
Pak: Refer to the statement I have already made.
A few days later, Washington again ordered Woodward to pursue the issue of Bucher’s supposed suicide. “In addition [to] humanitarian considerations, we will be vulnerable to criticism if we have not made every effort [to] ascertain [the] facts in this matter,” the State Department cabled. “In order to avoid unnecessary anguish for Mrs. Bucher and other families, we have tried to prevent the report about his death from becoming widely known.” (The department privately informed the captain’s wife of the rumor soon afterward; she refused to believe it.)
President Park vehemently opposed the United States signing anything that even resembled an apology. Such action, he told Ambassador Porter during an August 27 conference in Seoul, would mark an embarrassing retreat from Washington’s oft-stated position that the Pueblo had never entered North Korean waters.
The South Korean leader listened intently as Porter explained American thinking about an overwrite. Then, clearly unhappy, he peppered the envoy with questions. When Porter told him of Woodward’s abortive trip to Panmunjom, Park asked why Washington was so eager for another sit-down with the communists. Their only desire, he repeated for the umpteenth time, was to demean the United States and, by extension, his country.
If LBJ apologized now, he went on, the American press and public would want to know why he hadn’t done so back in February, when the communists first expressed their demands, thus sparing the sailors months of imprisonment and suffering. How would the president explain the delay? And did the State Department really believe that, by covering itself with the fig leaf of an overwrite, it could argue with a straight face that it hadn’t caved in to the North Koreans’ unwavering demands for an apology?
Nevertheless, Porter replied, that was exactly what the United States proposed to do. The reason for the delay was that Washington couldn’t sign an overwrite until Pyongyang promised to simultaneously let the crew go. And getting the pigheaded North Koreans to say they’d do that turned out to be one of the thorniest, most time-consuming problems at Panmunjom.
The United States was well aware that North Korea only wanted to shame it, Porter said. But President Johnson couldn’t afford to sit on his hands. He had to show Congress and the public that everything possible was being done to save Bucher and his men. “It [is] not practical for us to remain motionless in this matter,” the ambassador told Park.
Woodward finally sat down again with Pak on August 29. The atmosphere was businesslike but charged: Each time Woodward made a statement, the North Koreans wrote it down and a courier whisked it out of the Military Armistice Commission building. Pak seemed to expect the American negotiator to say something momentous, and he wanted to make sure his superiors in Pyongyang knew about it right away.
For his part Pak issued yet another threat: A U.S. failure to apologize, he said, would lead to “unfavorable results for the crew.” The only thing he wanted to know was whether Washington was prepared to say it was sorry. Otherwise, he declared, the North Koreans had “said all we have to say to your side.”
As it had done with Admiral Smith, the State Department cabled explicit instructions to Woodward on what to say to Pak. For this meeting, the general had been told to be more specific about the overwrite. In three previous sessions, Pak hadn’t responded when asked whether he’d return the crew in exchange for an “appropriately amended” version of the communist-drafted apology. Now Woodward asked whether the North Koreans could accept a “receipt” for the crew. Pak didn’t seem to understand the question. Woodward repeated it three times, but got no real answer. Worse, near the end of the meeting, Pak appeared to misinterpret what the American was saying.
“I have noted your statement made at today’s meeting that your side is ready to sign the document of apology and assurance put forth by our side,” he said.
“I take note of your statement,” replied Woodward, “and only wish to reiterate that the language of my statement should be carefully studied since your last statement contains language that I did not use.”
Thus the twentieth secret meeting ended in confusion and inconclusiveness.
—
In early September a flurry of news stories in South Korea and the United States suggested Kim Il Sung might let the crew go as part of the upcoming celebration of North Korea’s twentieth anniversary as a nation. “Freeing of Pueblo Reported Imminent,” said a headline in The New York Times. The evidence underpinning such stories, however, was flimsy. The North Koreans were sprucing up their side of the Joint Security Area at Panmunjom, a logical spot for a release, and the head of the Japanese Communist Party told newsmen he thought some progress was being made in the bilateral talks. But the cleanup activity could be routine and the Japanese party chief might not know what he was talking about.
American officials had no choice but to take the reports seriously. On September 8, the day before the North Korean anniversary, a U.S. military hospital ward in Seoul was cleared for the crew, and ambulances were readied to transport them from the DMZ.
Ever the pragmatist, Ambassador Porter envisioned ugly possibili
ties beneath the optimistic froth. Since the North Koreans’ main objective was to wrest an unconditional apology from the United States, they could be planning to bring the sailors to Panmunjom, let a handful of them go—just officers, for instance—and refuse to release the rest unless Woodward signed the document they wanted. The communists could invite a large contingent of TV reporters to witness the spectacle, knowing the resulting images of newly released captives, rejoicing with bear hugs and tears—and contrasted with the fearful, anxious faces of those left behind—would sharply increase public pressure on LBJ. A second possibility was that the entire crew would be brought to the truce village and offered in exchange for an unqualified apology. All or nothing, and Woodward would have to decide on the spot.
In the eyes of much of the world, any such ploy would be seen as blackmail of the crudest, most contemptible kind. Many people would interpret an “apology” in such circumstances as the humanitarian thing to do, and make no criticism of the United States for doing it. Yet the State Department still wanted to play hardball. Even if Pak offered most or all of the sailors back, Woodward was told, he wasn’t to sign an apology without including the “receipt” language.
The North Korean anniversary came and went with no relief for Bucher and his men. In Seoul, there were whispers that Woodward, at the most recent secret meeting, had agreed to an unfettered apology, and the gossip soon morphed into newspaper stories. Porter suspected President Park’s government—especially the foreign minister—as the source. The rumors were uncomfortably close to the truth, and Park had a vested interest in stirring up public opposition in both his country and the United States to any expression of regret. The State Department had precisely the opposite interest, and Porter visited the foreign ministry to convey his annoyance at the whisper campaign.
On September 20, as the American ambassador accompanied Prime Minister Chung Il Kwon and several other cabinet ministers on a tour of three South Korean provinces, Chung asked whether there was anything new on the Pueblo.
Porter told of the difficulty of getting straight answers out of General Pak. Chung in turn urged that the U.S. government spare no effort to bring home its sailors as soon as possible. Time worked against Washington, he said; the matter would only become more volatile in the future. Porter replied that no one knew what would emerge from the closed-door negotiations. Choosing his words carefully, he asked the prime minister’s opinion of how the South Korean press and public would react “if something did develop.” Chung offered his best Machiavellian advice:
Whatever deal the Americans decided to make at Panmunjom, they should do it at a time when the news media were distracted by a bigger story far, far away.
CHAPTER 13
HELL WEEK
The afterglow of Super C’s satisfaction with the international press conference warmed Bucher and his men well into September. More attention was paid to their medical needs; the quantity and quality of food improved. The sailors found their plates heaped with fresh fish, canned ham, bread and butter, apples. Some even began to gain back some of the weight they’d lost over the previous eight months.
A few nourishing meals weren’t enough to reverse the cumulative effects of long-term malnutrition, however. About 15 crewmen, afflicted by nerve problems in their legs, still had trouble walking, and sailors still suffered from infections, chills, and fevers.
Bucher was beset by severe diarrhea, fever, a brief bout of hepatitis, and numbness in his battered right leg. One day a guard found him collapsed again—this time in the hall—and called for Charlie Law. The half-blind quartermaster scooped up his unconscious boss in his powerful arms. Weighing only 115 pounds, the skipper felt like “a bundle of feathers.” Law maneuvered his way into Bucher’s room and gently deposited him on his bed.
Despite their poor health, the Americans’ morale was at an all-time high. CT Earl Kisler composed a tongue-in-cheek poem that reflected their heightened sense of solidarity:
Out of Japan on the fifth of Jan.
The Pueblo came a-steamin’
Round Kyushu’s toe, past Sasebo,
You could hear the Captain a-screamin’
“XO!” he said,
“Full speed ahead! We’ve got us some spyin’ to do!”
“Timmy, be sharp!” Then with Charlie Law’s charts,
Away like a turtle we flew.
The poem went on to describe the crew’s seemingly endless incarceration before concluding:
But if we get back,
No coins will we lack,
So beware all ye banks, bars, and brothels!
If some night you’re pub-crawlin’,
And into gutters you’re fallin’,
And in that gutter are 82 gaffers;
It’s only the crew of AGER-2,
Otherwise known as “BUCHER’S BASTARDS.”
When the North Koreans decreed that yet another round of “confessions” be written, the seamen took even more liberties than usual. Steve Harris revealed that he’d been tutored as a spy by Maxwell Smart, the hilariously clumsy, secret-agent antihero of the Get Smart TV series. Bucher wrote of receiving orders to “spy out” North Korea from a cartoonish cast of characters that included the villainous “Fleet General Barney Google” and CIA master spy “Sol Loxfinger,” a name the captain cribbed from a Playboy magazine spoof of James Bond novels.
Super C also wanted the crew to submit another “petition for leniency” to his government. The captain chose Schumacher, Steve Harris, and three enlisted men to help him write it, and together they produced a small masterpiece of satirical counterpropaganda. Their statement expressed the usual contrition over violating North Korean waters, but the Americans also planted a number of linguistic booby traps the communists failed to detect.
The sailors admitted to being “super-spies” obsessed with “adding goodies to our spy bag.” They were guilty, they said, of “crimes so horrible [that] they have seldom been exceeded in the history of the world.” But the best line was about their ostensible intrusions into communist waters: “We, as conscientious human beings who were cast upon the rocks and shoals of immorality by the tidal wave of Washington’s naughty policies, know that neither the frequency nor the distances of these transgressions into the territorial waters of this peace-loving nation matter because, in the final analysis, penetration however slight is sufficient to complete the act.” The last several words of that sentence were calculated to put a smile on the face of any current or former U.S. serviceman who remembered from boot-camp lectures that “penetration however slight” was the definition of rape under military law. When Bucher read the petition aloud during a mass meeting, some of his men nearly gagged from the strain of holding in laughter. But their gullible captors accepted the statement at face value; it was broadcast on North Korean radio and printed verbatim in the English-language Pyongyang Times newspaper.
Super C had mysteriously disappeared from the Country Club after the international press conference. By October he was back, striding about with renewed vigor and palpable pride. Bucher soon figured out why: The four small stars on his shoulder boards that marked him as a senior colonel had been replaced by two large silver stars signifying his promotion to lieutenant general. The Americans duly upgraded his nickname to “Glorious General,” or G.G. He didn’t say where he’d been, but he seemed to have new plans for the crew. When he summoned Bucher for an all-night interrogation, he was in an almost convivial mood, allowing the captain to chain-smoke along with him. Bucher congratulated him on his advancement and the hard-shelled North Korean beamed with pleasure. Then he said something that made the skipper’s heart leap:
“You have said you expect to be home before Christmas. Well, I say you will not be home before then, nor before your Thanksgiving, but before this month is out.”
Bucher desperately wanted to believe him. But there was no way to know whether G.G. w
as telling the truth or not, and the captain didn’t want to raise his men’s hopes only to have them crushed. He decided to keep the general’s prediction to himself.
Before they let their prize prisoners go—if indeed they intended to do that—the North Koreans were determined to give them a booster shot of communist culture. On October 1, the Americans were bused to Pyongyang to see a sort of propaganda opera titled How Glorious Is Our Fatherland. Posed in his jeep like a conquering hero, Glorious General led the way into the capital. At one point the convoy was forced to stop by a peasant farmer staggering drunkenly down the road. Honking horns and angry shouts had no effect on him. Finally, a North Korean officer got out, marched up to the farmer, and briskly slapped him in the face.
The chastened peasant stumbled off the road and the buses rolled on into the city, stopping outside a large theater with curled-up, Buddhist-style eaves. Inside it was modern and comfortable, with nearly all of the 2,000 seats occupied by North Korean army personnel. The Americans were taken to the balcony, and interpreters sat down next to every fourth man. Then the curtain rose on a large troupe of performers who energetically sang and danced their way through a musical pageant of North Korea’s recent history, as scripted by the communists. With every song and scene, the interpreters leaned toward the sailors, exclaiming, “Very beautiful!” and, “Very great!”
Kim Il Sung’s heroic struggle against the Japanese was acted out, along with a more contemporary tale in which actors in white U.S. Navy caps portrayed the vanquished officers of the Pueblo. It was all very colorful and well performed, and the crewmen thoroughly enjoyed themselves. If nothing else, it was a reprieve from the tension and tedium of their cells.
Four nights later, the Americans were taken back to Pyongyang to see a circus, complete with trapeze artists, clowns, and tightrope walkers. This show was considerably less polished. A skinny, toothless lion staged a sit-down strike, drawing an angry kick from its tamer. Then an old black bear—also lacking teeth—lumbered into the ring. When the trainer stuck his head in the animal’s harmless maw, the sailors burst into wild laughter.
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