Act of War

by Jack Cheevers

  Even the circus had been turned into a kind of animated billboard for state ideology. One of the clowns, dressed as President Park of South Korea, loudly beat a drum marked with a U.S. dollar sign. When “Park” started to collapse, another clown costumed as an American army general jumped into the ring and reinflated him with a tire pump. The political symbolism was ham-handed but funny nonetheless. The following night, the crewmen were again bused into Pyongyang for a superb performance by the North Korean Army Chorus.

  By now Bucher was convinced the seamen were going home. He made his hunch known to his officers and certain enlisted men, but some of the others had drawn their own optimistic inferences from the communist charm offensive. Why would the North Koreans spend so much time and effort entertaining them if they weren’t going to be freed?

  That view was reinforced when their captors made a bumbling attempt to recruit the sailors as moles for Pyongyang.

  The effort began when four important-looking communists drove into the compound one day and disappeared into the building where the multinational press conference had been held. Not long afterward Doc Baldridge was summoned there. The medic was gone about three hours; the rest of the crew had no idea what was happening to him. Baldridge finally reappeared, drunk, in the mess hall at dinnertime. He had to be led to his usual seat at the head of the table, where he promptly dumped his meal on the floor, grousing that he couldn’t stomach such garbage anymore. The others tried to find out what had gone on with the visiting bigwigs, but Baldridge was too blasted to explain. He lurched out of the mess hall, brusquely telling a guard at the door, “Get the hell out of my way, you dumb shit.” Taken aback, the North Korean stepped aside.

  Over the next week more sailors were called into what Bucher dubbed “the Gypsy Tea Room.” Upon entering they found what in America might pass for a cocktail lounge combined with an all-you-can-eat buffet. Four cushioned chairs were arranged in a square; nearby tables held cold cuts, cookies, cigarettes, beer, wine, and ginseng liquor. The Americans were invited to eat and drink to their heart’s content, and they didn’t have to be told twice. Stu Russell polished off six beers; several others got sloshed, too.

  Murphy found himself in the Tea Room with three North Koreans. One was an army captain who’d interrogated Murphy early in his captivity. The other two, in civilian clothes, appeared to be political officers. They made small talk as two sweater-clad girls brought in trays of apples, sausage, candies, and—perhaps in deference to the executive officer’s teetotaling—soft drinks. One girl wore a green sweater and matching skirt; the other wore all red. Murphy thought of them as “Merry” and “Christmas.”

  The Koreans talked with creepily detailed knowledge of Murphy’s two children and schools he’d attended. They asked whether he’d like to return to their country someday. Trying to sound as “sincere” as possible, the XO said he would, but only after spending time with his family in the States. Was Murphy willing to receive a North Korean “visitor” at his home in America? Oh, yes, the lieutenant said archly; he promised to give anyone from North Korea a welcome “he would long remember.”

  The communists probed for receptiveness among other sailors, too. Some men gave compliant answers to their questions; others blatantly insulted their hosts. Asked whether he’d open his home to someone from North Korea, Baldridge replied, “Are you kidding? Why the hell should I, anyway?” Friar Tuck said the only way he wanted to see North Korea again was through a bombsight. Russell, happily soused, agreed not only to take a visitor into his Southern California home, but to escort him to Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm, maybe even Tijuana.

  The Gypsy Tea Room apparently yielded little, if anything, of value to the North Koreans, and they decided to give the crew one last propaganda immersion. On October 10, the sailors were told to pack toothpaste, soap, and other personal items for a short trip. Buses took them back to Pyongyang, where they boarded a train for a place they’d never heard of: Sinchon.

  Located about 40 miles southwest of Pyongyang, Sinchon was a sort of national historic site dedicated to hatred of Americans. North Korea claimed that during the Korean War, rampaging U.S. troops turned the Sinchon area into a vast slaughterhouse, massacring more than 35,000 civilians. To memorialize the alleged butchery, Kim Il Sung erected his own version of a Holocaust museum in Sinchon; it was there the sailors were to be taken.

  Glorious General had first mentioned the museum when the crewmen were at the Barn. “Someday I hope you may visit Sinchon,” he said. “Then you will really understand why we Koreans hate you Americans.” Throngs of North Koreans, including many schoolchildren, made pilgrimages to Sinchon each year. Some of the guards had mentioned with pride that they’d lost relatives in the Sinchon “genocide.”*

  The crewmen arrived in Sinchon on the morning of October 11. Buses took them to the museum, a boxy, two-story structure of light-colored stone that was once the local Communist Party headquarters. There they were met by a guide, a thin young woman with stringy black hair, and, as always when a propaganda photo op presented itself, a TV crew.

  The museum was a hive of small exhibit rooms, each containing “artifacts” of the horror American soldiers supposedly wreaked on the local populace in late 1950. The displays were far from convincing. The first was a glass case that held only a lock of hair, which the guide said belonged to “a patriotic hero of the war who was murdered by the U.S. imperialist aggressors.” The hair, of course, could have come from anyone, living or dead. The sailors moved on to another exhibit featuring an old, rusty knife that had been used to “chop off the head of a patriotic Korean soldier.” Another glass case contained the shoes of people purportedly drowned in a river by homicidal U.S. troops. A framed photograph of the river hung above the case, but there were no bodies in the water.

  Many of the claimed atrocities were attributed to a “Lieutenant Harrison,” first name unknown. He’d supposedly been captured during the war and confessed to hundreds of crimes. Among other things, he was said to have dragged 30 innocent women and children to their deaths behind a U.S. military vehicle; one of the display cases bore a length of rope Harrison allegedly used in this deed. A large painting depicted him and other American military men sitting around a conference table, plotting villainous acts. When Murphy asked which one was Lieutenant Harrison, the guide pointed without hesitation to a soldier with corporal’s stripes on his uniform. Throughout the tour the TV crew filmed the Americans’ reaction to their tragic national shrine; some of the crewmen, though trying to act contrite, couldn’t resist flipping off the camera.

  It was all a bit much for Bucher, who could barely keep from laughing out loud at the hokey displays. “How ghastly!” he declared in mock abhorrence as he stared at a rusty nail that the evil Harrison was said to have pounded into the heads of Korean women.

  The crewmen were led downstairs to a dungeonlike chamber where, the guide insisted, 900 Koreans had been burned to death. Since the room was hardly big enough to hold 82 sailors, the claim was inherently suspicious. The captain asked whether all the victims were incinerated at the same time. Yes, replied the guide. “Unbelievable!” Bucher burst out. She pointed at the ceiling, saying carbonized skin was still visible there. To the sailors the dark spots looked like mold. Feeling himself on the verge of an uncontrollable guffaw, Bucher suffered another of his “lockjaw” attacks. “I can’t take any more,” he rasped through gritted teeth, as some of his men nearly went into convulsions at his antics. Silver Lips was so pleased with the skipper’s apparent distress at the evidence of U.S. atrocities that he told the camera crew to move in for a close-up. Bucher mugged obligingly, jaws firmly clamped.

  Some of the Americans had hoped the trip to Sinchon was to be the first leg of a freedom ride to Panmunjom. But that wasn’t the case. When the museum tour ended, they were shipped back to the Country Club. Not long afterward, the North Koreans’ recent benevolence evaporated. All talk of repatriation
stopped. Robot and other room daddies began demanding to know more about the Hawaiian good-luck sign. Bucher was confined to his cell for long periods. His orderly was taken away, cutting off his communication with the crew. Bucher worried whether the abrupt change in attitude was his fault, whether he’d gone too far with his lockjaw routine and other shenanigans. Had he crossed some fatal line with the communists?

  He couldn’t find out from Glorious General; the prison commandant had again vanished. When he returned a few weeks later, he displayed nothing but icy disdain toward the Americans.

  G.G. ended all special privileges. No more Ping-Pong and card games. Watery turnip soup again became the dietary staple. The number of guards on each floor multiplied from two to 12; the seamen were again forced to bow their heads in their captors’ presence.

  There were other ominous signs. The Bear had disappeared for a while, too, but now he was back, and he and other guards became rougher. One day the Bear pulled a sailor out of his room and smashed him into a wall for no apparent reason. Law and two men from his cell were brutally worked over. A squat, shaved-headed North Korean colonel in charge of day-to-day discipline—called Odd Job for his resemblance to the brutish, bowler-hurling foe of James Bond—strutted up and down the halls with a knowing smirk on his face.

  The escalating violence revived talk of escape. By mid-November snow had started to fall again and some crewmen doubted they’d survive another marrow-chilling winter in this abominable sinkhole. A spiking fever left seaman Ramon Rosales unable to move on his bed. When Bucher demanded medical attention for Rosales, G.G. just laughed.

  The latest escape discussions made it imperative to finish the illicit radio. No one wanted to risk his neck trying to break out if the Panmunjom talks were close to bearing fruit. And the only way to find out was to tune in to U.S. Armed Forces Radio or a South Korean news station. Strano had almost completed the crystal set. He finally succeeded in assembling a crude battery and discovered an antenna attached to the wall just outside his cell window, solving another technical problem. The device lacked only an earphone, and Hayes thought he could build one from parts pilfered from the prison movie projector.

  One evening G.G. summoned the Pueblo officers. He seemed on the verge of exploding in rage. “Do you play us for the fool?” he screamed. On a table before him lay a copy of the Far East edition of Time magazine. It was open to a photo of the eight unsmiling occupants of Law’s cell, three of whom had their middle digits outstretched. In dead silence Bucher and his officers read the caption:

  The North Koreans are having a hard time proving to the world that the captive crewmen of the USS Pueblo are a contrite and cooperative lot. Last week Pyongyang’s flacks tried again—and lost to the U.S. Navy. In this class-reunion picture, three of the crewmen have managed to use the medium for a message, furtively getting off the U.S. hand signal of obscene derisiveness and contempt.

  Ironically, the photo had made it into Time because of Law. The Tacoma uncle to whom he’d sent a copy turned it over to his local newspaper. From there the picture was picked up by the Associated Press and distributed to hundreds of news organizations around the United States. Not all editors understood it. The Detroit News, for instance, asked some of its press operators, who were deaf and read sign language, to interpret the finger gestures; the pressmen concluded that the sailors were signing the word “help.” Both The New York Times and the Washington Post printed the picture on their front pages and let the extended digits speak for themselves. But Time spelled out their meaning, and now the crewmen were facing the consequences.

  Murphy stared at the magazine, mesmerized. He knew the North Koreans had lost face before the entire world. He imagined the Soviets and Chinese chuckling and shaking their heads at their dim-bulb allies. The North Koreans knew they’d been had, too; they were sifting through all of the film footage and still photographs they’d shot of the crew, looking for telltale finger salutes. Bucher felt triumphant, tremendously proud that his men had succeeded in conveying to the world their refusal to knuckle under to communist coercion.

  On the other hand, he knew they were in for some serious payback.

  Glorious General began bombarding the Americans with shrill accusations, some wildly off the mark. He claimed the crossword puzzles they’d exchanged were coded messages. He charged them with handing “pages of secrets” back and forth; in reality, the pages were part of an amateur porno novel written by one of the enlisted guys. But some of the general’s accusations were on target. Many of the sailors had indeed lied during interrogations and penned “insincere” letters home. At the end of his tirade G.G. dismissed everyone except Bucher. The communist harangued him for several more hours, saying he was now certain to face trial and swift execution.

  Bucher trudged back to his room convinced he didn’t have much time to live. He passed word to his men to ditch the radio and all other contraband.

  “The shit’s hit the fan,” he said. “We’re heading into rough waters.”

  —

  Frigid winds raked the prison during the first week of December; patches of ice glittered in the rice paddies beyond.

  The Bear beat up several men on December 7. Chief Engineman Monroe Goldman caught the worst of it. The communists’ dislike of the wiry Californian, who’d served on a ship that planted mines in Wonsan harbor during the Korean War, seemed to run unusually deep. Bucher was shocked when he encountered Goldman later. The chief’s eyes were swollen shut, his face was covered with bruises, his mouth was badly cut, and he was nearly unable to walk. Goldman had buckled during the ferocious beating, confirming the true meaning of the Hawaiian good-luck sign.

  “Captain, I’m sorry, but they know about [it],” he whispered. “Just couldn’t hold out any longer.”

  “I understand that, Chief,” Bucher answered. He put out the word that the crewmen were to tell the truth if questioned about the gesture; no one else should suffer trying to protect the blown secret.

  G.G. called an all-hands meeting on December 10. He was furious. The Americans, he said, would now pay for their insincerity. First they must confess all the crimes they’d committed in captivity, plus those of their shipmates. This was their last chance to be truthful. Tables were set up and the men immediately began writing a new round of confessions. Back in his cell, Tim Harris could see Bucher in his room across the corridor, staring dejectedly at a wall.

  The next morning the Americans heard the foreboding sounds of furniture being rearranged. Guards were clearing out certain rooms to open up more space for interrogations. Sailors not actively writing confessions were forced to sit in chairs, heads deeply bowed, hands clenched on thighs. No moving, talking, or sleeping allowed. The heat was turned off. Lights stayed on day and night, with guards posted in every cell to keep them on. If a sailor wanted to stand, get a drink of water, or go to the head, he had to ask permission.

  The long waking nightmare the men would call “Hell Week” was beginning.

  Tim Harris heard a racket in the hall and looked up just as Odd Job and Silver Lips barged into Bucher’s room. The captain was at his desk, writing. He started to get up, looking surprised, when Odd Job slugged him in the mouth. Bucher stayed on his feet, but Silver Lips belted him, too, knocking the captain onto his desk. The translator pulled Bucher to his feet and punched him again. The sight horrified Harris. Odd Job kept hitting Bucher as Silver Lips yelled, “You CIA man!” The captain finally admitted instigating the Hawaiian good-luck sign. Silver Lips shoved him back into his chair and the two Koreans strode out of the room. Half-conscious, the skipper slid to the floor.

  Similar mayhem erupted throughout the prison. Law was taken to a newly emptied cell where Odd Job and a translator sat behind a desk. Although the North Koreans had pegged him as a key rabble-rouser, the quartermaster had escaped serious harm during past purges. He thought he could bluff his way through this one, too: maybe absorb a few kicks an
d punches and soon be back in his room.

  Odd Job began firing questions as soon as he sat down. The communist demanded to know which member of the crew was the CIA agent. Law chose to indict himself. “There’s no point in going through this,” he said, throwing up his hands in evident defeat. “I am.” Odd Job acted as if he hadn’t heard Law’s admission. Bucher was the agent, wasn’t he? No, replied Law, again shouldering responsibility.

  “Why you afraid of Bucher?” Odd Job asked.

  Law decided to play along and see where this line of inquiry went. “I’m afraid of him because he can make it real rough for me,” said the quartermaster.

  “Why you afraid of Schumacher?”

  “He went to college and uses big words.”

  Getting angrier and angrier, Odd Job kept demanding the real identity of the CIA operative aboard the Pueblo. After he’d spent more than an hour on the hot seat, Law’s back began to ache. He flexed his arms to relieve the tension, but that set off the North Korean colonel. His fist slammed the desk. “You son of a bitch!” he screamed. He stalked out of the room but returned a short time later with the Bear and another guard.

  Law was ordered to his knees. The Bear punched him hard below his right ear, but the burly sailor only swayed. The Bear grabbed him by the hair and slugged him three or four more times, then kicked him in the stomach. Law grunted and doubled over. The thuggish guard then picked up a five-foot-long rod of weathered wood and began bashing Law across the back and shoulders. The pain was almost as bad as being bullwhipped. Law fell forward onto the floor.

  “Shit on you!” he blurted.