In a letter to President Johnson, an Illinois salesman, Glenn A. Karl, offered to go to Pyongyang and negotiate face-to-face with Kim Il Sung. “I believe that possibly an average American as I am, a salesman all my life, that sent by my President and my country to talk directly to the leader of North Korea, I just might be persuasive enough and just possibly might be the answer to the Pueblo crew’s release,” Karl wrote.
A former Oklahoma congressman, Victor Wickersham, went further, flying to South Korea and offering to become a hostage of the communists if they’d free the sailors. U.S. military officers escorted him to Panmunjom, where he told journalists the secret negotiations should be opened to the press and conducted around the clock. He also recommended that General Woodward be replaced by a prominent private citizen such as evangelist Billy Graham or Harrison Salisbury, a New York Times reporter who’d covered many stories in the communist world.
Wickersham—a Democrat then campaigning to win back his old seat in Congress—favored a U.S. apology and thought making himself a hostage might reassure the North Koreans that it wouldn’t be retracted as soon as the crewmen were let go. But when the politician was taken to observe a session of the Military Armistice Commission, the experience sobered him. “He evidently had no real conception of [the] harshness of [the] meeting atmosphere and [the] tenseness at Panmunjom itself,” Porter cabled Washington.
An even more determined effort to co-opt the Panmunjom talks was made by Bruce Noland, a Virginia contractor and onetime Navy officer.
Noland’s odyssey began in Washington, where he’d gone in July to investigate for himself what was being done to help Bucher and his men. Concluding that there was “no genuine interest at any governmental agency,” Noland set off to ransom the crew.
He traveled first to Moscow, but had no success in meeting resident North Korean diplomats. From there he went to New Delhi, but wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone at the local North Korean embassy. His next stop was Hong Kong, where he hoped to make contact with Kim Il Sung’s representatives through the Communist Chinese. That attempt, too, proved futile.
Noland moved on to Tokyo, meeting with Kenji Miyamoto, head of the Japanese Communist Party. Miyamoto recently had attended North Korea’s twentieth-anniversary festivities, and Noland was convinced he had good contacts in Pyongyang. Although Noland had no such funds at his disposal, he blithely offered to pay $50 million to North Korea and another $1 million to Miyamoto’s organization in exchange for the Pueblo crew. With that potential windfall to tempt him, Miyamoto agreed to transmit the offer to Pyongyang.
Noland turned up in Washington again in late October, asking for State Department help in carrying out his plan.
He was given an appointment with Dalton V. Killion, of the department’s East Asia desk. Noland said his conversations abroad had convinced him the Panmunjom talks were doomed because the North Koreans had come to “dislike and distrust” General Woodward. Noland also claimed he was waiting for a telegram from Miyamoto confirming the North Korean government’s approval of the ransom deal. He was certain he could persuade a U.S. bank to put up the $51 million he needed. Killion, he said, should accompany him to Tokyo to hand the money over to the Japanese communists.
Killion, however, was wary of the peripatetic businessman, describing him to colleagues as naive, “very high-strung,” and “unstable.” Politely but firmly, he told Noland his scheme had no merit: The North Koreans had never demanded ransom, and even if they had, the U.S. government would face “obvious problems” in swapping cash for imprisoned servicemen.
Two days later, Noland phoned Killion to say that, despite their discussion, he was flying to South Korea. He then wired LBJ, asking his blessing for the ransom project. In Seoul, Noland claimed to U.S. embassy officials that the State Department had pledged Woodward’s help in setting up a meeting for him with the North Koreans at Panmunjom. Noland added that Woodward was supposed to provide him with a car, an interpreter, and an armed escort to the village.
Embassy staffers told him they had no such instructions and, in any event, such a meeting was out of the question. The talks were strictly government-to-government; no private citizen could represent the United States.
Unfazed, Noland returned to Tokyo. He took a cab to a large villa hidden behind high walls and met with someone who claimed to represent the North Korean foreign office in Japan. But that person only repeated what the State Department had told him: North Korea was not interested in a payoff; the Pueblo crew would be freed only if Washington apologized.
The absence of movement at Panmunjom was also a source of deep frustration to State Department officials, who plunged into internal debate and soul-searching over whether the United States should give in and apologize.
Katzenbach opposed doing that. The mere thought of his country groveling before the North Koreans stuck in the under secretary’s craw. He’d been a prisoner of war himself during World War II and knew full well the urgency of getting the sailors out. As a navigator on a B-25 bomber, he was shot down over the Mediterranean and sat in German and Italian POW camps for more than two years, though under conditions not nearly as grim as those faced by Bucher and his men.
In a December 3 memo to President Johnson, Katzenbach acknowledged that the idea of the government holding its nose and signing a false apology “appeals to many reasonable men.” Nevertheless, he argued, giving in to communist blackmail—even for humanitarian purposes—was too high a price to pay in terms of its damage to America’s good name. The under secretary puckishly noted, “Most foreign governments and even many Americans are puzzled by our reluctance to utter untruths, but they respect us for this eccentricity.”
Among those who shared Katzenbach’s scorn for an apology were the parents of CT David Ritter, who laid out their reasoning in a brief letter to LBJ.
“David and the rest of the crew, we are sure, would feel their work had been for naught if because of [thoughtless] public pressure, an apology was tendered for something that has not been conclusively proven,” Elizabeth and Caspar Ritter wrote.
“We wish there was some way to facilitate the release of the prisoners with honor and dignity because we know that our son would want it that way. He is a career man in the Navy, or was until this episode, and he was extremely proud of his contribution to the United States’ efforts.” The Ritters closed by offering Johnson their “heartfelt sympathy . . . for the decisions you must make.” So touched was Dean Rusk by the couple’s words that he responded with a personal note, telling them that “the President and I will face our responsibilities with more confidence because of your reminder of what sort of people we are privileged to serve.”
In the absence of an apology, however, would the crew ever come home? The dilemma ate at James Leonard, who ran the Korea desk at the State Department. Like Katzenbach, Leonard didn’t want to resort to the device that had sprung the helicopter pilots—a false admission followed by a loud renunciation. That maneuver, he felt, was inherently deceptive and beneath a great nation’s dignity. But what was the alternative?
One Sunday in late November, Leonard was discussing the problem with his wife at their Bethesda, Maryland, home. Eleanor Leonard suggested a variation on the helicopter scenario: Why not publicly repudiate the apology before General Woodward signed it, rather than after? That way no credible allegations of trickery could be made, and the United States could walk away from Panmunjom with a clear conscience.
It seemed like a nonsensical idea, akin to offering a kidnapper a voided check to let his victim go. Jim Leonard didn’t think the North Koreans would buy it. On the other hand, Washington had tried almost everything else, and so the next day he brought his wife’s idea to Katzenbach. The under secretary didn’t think it would work either, but he agreed to present it to the White House. “I called up the president,” Katzenbach recalled. “I said, ‘This may sound nutty to you,’ and I told him, and he said it
was. It did sound nutty and he couldn’t believe it could happen. I said, ‘Well, can I try it?’ He said, ‘If [Woodward is] willing to do it, I’m willing to do it.’”
Unlike the Washington skeptics, Woodward embraced the ploy. He thought the North Koreans would go for a “prerepudiated” apology because it gave them what they’d demanded all along: a ranking American official’s signature on a document that portrayed the United States as genuflecting before Pyongyang. Most North Koreans, the general figured, would never learn that he’d disavowed the apology in advance; their government’s propaganda machine would see to that. Woodward would have to swallow his pride to make the deal, but that was a small matter compared to freedom for the 82 Pueblo survivors.
Katzenbach knew LBJ wanted the crew back by Christmas, in the waning days of his presidency. In order to make it home on time, the sailors had to be released no later than December 23. Katzenbach instructed Woodward on December 9 to offer General Pak a take-it-or-leave-it choice between the overwrite and the prerepudiated apology. A time limit would apply: If Pak didn’t say yes to one of the proposals and promise to let the crew go before Christmas, both offers would be withdrawn and no new ones put on the table. Pyongyang then would have to take its chances with the incoming administration of Richard Nixon, who’d narrowly beaten Hubert Humphrey for the White House the previous month.
Woodward demanded an immediate sit-down with Pak, but the North Korean didn’t reply for several days. He finally appeared at Panmunjom on December 17. Woodward explained that Christmas was a national holiday of great emotional power for Americans, symbolizing family togetherness, and President Johnson was “prepared to go very far indeed” to reunite the captured seamen with their loved ones by then. The U.S. negotiator said that if Pak chose the prerepudiated apology, Woodward would sign it, but only after publicly stating there was no convincing evidence that the spy ship had encroached on North Korean waters; that its surveillance activities were perfectly legal; and that the U.S. government couldn’t apologize for an action without solid proof it had actually taken place—points that blatantly contradicted the contents of the communist-crafted apology.
Pak called a recess to study the offer. Fifty minutes later, he returned and demanded to know precisely where Woodward would sign the apology after renouncing it. The U.S. general said his name would appear above the signature block, in the American manner. Pak wanted Woodward’s name to the right of the block, Korean style.
“If you sign on the right of your name,” he said, “we are agreeable.”
Woodward said that was fine and a tentative agreement was struck. The two men met again on December 19, hashing out numerous logistical details. Bucher and his crew would be freed at the Bridge of No Return, which spanned the Sachon River not far from Panmunjom. The 250-foot-long bridge had gotten its name at the end of the Korean War, when thousands of POWs from North Korean, Chinese, and U.N. forces were brought there and asked whether they wanted to go back to their home countries. If they did, they were allowed to cross over to either the allied or communist side, never to return. Pak said the North Koreans planned to deliver the body of Duane Hodges first. Then Bucher would cross the bridge alone. After him would come the rest of the crew, in inverse order of rank, walking 20 paces apart. Murphy would be the last man over.
Hodges’s coffin, Pak said with no evident irony, didn’t have to be returned.
Before the seamen could be released, Woodward had to sign. He’d do that in the same conference room in which he’d bickered for months with Pak. Civilian journalists would be barred from the signing, in case something went awry. “We are . . . perturbed by [the] possibility of [a] last-minute hassle over what is being signed, and prefer not to have [the] press as witnesses,” the State Department explained in a cable to its Seoul embassy. Instead, newsmen were to be corralled on a hill near the southern end of the bridge, viewing the carefully choreographed freedom walk from a safe distance.
Ignoring Woodward’s repeated objections, Pak insisted on a two-hour lag between when the apology was inked and the prisoners set loose. Another sticking point was whether the two sides could announce that a deal had been reached. Woodward wanted to be able to issue a brief statement, but Pak didn’t concur. It was left unclear what information, if any, either side could put out—an ambiguity that would come back to haunt Woodward.
Throughout nearly five hours of point-by-point haggling, Pak refused to set a date for letting the sailors go. Woodward pushed for December 20. Pak wouldn’t budge and didn’t even agree to talk again until December 22. But within minutes of the start of that meeting—the 28 since the Pueblo was taken—the communist general pledged to emancipate the crew the next day. Woodward would sign the apology at nine a.m. on December 23; the men would be let go at eleven a.m.
One sensitive issue was barely discussed: the possibility of a fracas at the bridge. What if the sailors somehow antagonized the North Koreans—by, say, giving the Hawaiian good-luck sign one last time as they crossed—and the communists tried to stop the repatriation? What if North Korean soldiers started shooting at the crewmen?
Both sides had a vested interest in a calm and orderly handover of the sailors. But an unanticipated incident couldn’t be ruled out. U.S. military officials quietly laid plans to pump troops into the area if anything went wrong on the bridge.
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Two North Korean officers entered Bucher’s cell on December 22 and ordered him to strip. A third officer, nicknamed Major Rectum, joined them and subjected the captain to a body-cavity search that was “not entirely medical in character.” Satisfied that his orifices bore no contraband, the communists issued Bucher a new lightweight uniform—gray cotton jacket and trousers, white shirt, black sneakers—that was wholly unsuited to the Korean winter.
Since the end of Hell Week three days earlier, the North Koreans had schizophrenically flip-flopped yet again and were acting like they actually cared about their prisoners’ well-being. The food improved, the sailors could eat together again, and exercise privileges were restored. Witch Doctor applied hard-boiled eggs and poultices of hot paraffin to the most severely beaten Americans in an effort to clear up black eyes and facial bruises.
As soon as he put on the fresh uniform, the captain was escorted to an all-crew meeting in the movie room. He was startled to see all of his men dressed exactly like him. The new outfits had to mean something, but what? Freedom? A mass trial of the crew?
Glorious General strode in with a self-satisfied expression on his face. “As I knew and told you from the beginning of this shameful imperialist intrigue against our peace-loving Korean people,” he said, “it has ended with the warmongering United States on its knees apologizing to us and assuring that no such provocation and intrusions into our sovereign territorial water shall occur again!” Then he got to the real news. In exchange for Washington’s just atonement, the crew was to be freed the next day. Bucher’s mind spun. Had the United States really caved in to Kim Il Sung? He couldn’t believe it. Were he and his men really to be repatriated after all these months? He hoped so, but he couldn’t exclude the possibility of a ruse.
First, of course, a final press conference had to be staged. About a dozen correspondents showed up, all North Koreans, and they mostly wanted to know how the Americans felt about going home. The crewmen answered with complete sincerity that they couldn’t wait to leave.
The sailors had an early supper. As the evening wore on, Glorious General was quiet and reserved. He told the Americans he was happy they were going home at last. He even gave them the finger, maybe to show he got the joke. Bucher stood up, expressed his thanks, and said that although he thought little of socialism, he had to recognize a fine officer who did his job well. G.G. made no reply. He glanced at his watch.
“Come,” he said. “I don’t want you to miss the train.”
The men were issued quilted blue overcoats and blue Mao-style caps. At abo
ut eleven p.m. they boarded buses and rode to the Pyongyang railroad station, where they stepped onto a comfortable, well-heated train. Duty officers from the Country Club accompanied them. Glorious General stayed behind.
The train rolled south all night, but most of its passengers were too keyed up to sleep. Murphy thought of his wife and children. Steve Harris tried to stretch out on his bunk, but his legs were stiff from malnutrition and his calves ached painfully. Bucher fretted that the communists might pull the plug on the repatriation for some arbitrary reason. The train made frequent stops, and each time it halted, the captain sat up with a “terrible sinking feeling” in his chest.
Along with the residual pain of his Hell Week injuries, Schumacher felt deep satisfaction. Through eleven long months of horrendous brutality, he and his shipmates had held up in important ways. The North Koreans had beaten phony confessions out of them, but the lieutenant believed little if any information of genuine value had been given up. Certainly the sailors had squabbled and even clashed physically. But that was due more to boredom and the friction of living in close quarters than to their captors’ ability to turn them against one another. Forged in a crucible of soul-piercing hardship, the men’s bonds of loyalty—to one another, their leader, their country—were intact and strong. They’d preserved their identities and sense of humanity in the face of fearsome physical and psychological pressures. Best of all, they’d made the communists look like fools by turning their own propaganda against them.
Near daybreak the train stopped. Its windows were covered, but Bucher pulled aside a screen and saw that they were on an empty siding. The sailors ate a last breakfast of turnips. At about eight a.m. they climbed onto three antiquated green-and-yellow buses.
Although he was wearing three pairs of socks, Murphy shivered.
The old buses motored along hilly, snow-dusted roads. Bucher and the lowest-ranking enlisted men rode in the lead vehicle; the other officers and petty officers were in the last. Feeling ridiculous in their Mao caps and padded jackets, the Americans said little. Murphy felt as if he were in some sort of dreamworld in which “to speak was to risk waking.” Perhaps to brighten the collective mood, someone said, “Maybe we’ll all get medals when we get back.” Law wearily dismissed that suggestion.
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