“No, you get medals for charging machine-gun nests,” he said. “You don’t get medals for this.”
After about fifteen minutes the buses stopped near the Bridge of No Return. The duty officers gave the Americans detailed instructions on how to cross. They must not run. They must not talk or look back. Above all, they must not make “gestures.” Anyone who did would be shot.
Huddled against the cold, the men sat and waited. Tension filled the buses; what if for some reason the North Koreans changed their minds? The eleven a.m. deadline for their release came and went. Still they waited. In spite of the cold, Ralph McClintock, the communication technician from Massachusetts, was sweating heavily. His heart pounded. He thought he was going to dissolve in a crying jag.
If the communists sent them back now, he was convinced, the Americans were sure to be killed.
—
Woodward sat down across the narrow table from Pak at nine a.m. sharp. In front of the American general lay two copies of the apology, one in English, the other in Korean. Before he signed them, he read a statement declaring that their contents were hogwash.
The U.S. government had maintained all along that the Pueblo was doing nothing illegal, he said. Nor was there any plausible evidence that the ship had trespassed in North Korean waters. Woodward said he understood those facts were at odds with the apology, and he was putting his name to it for one simple reason: “I will sign the document to free the crew and only to free the crew.”
Pak ignored the refutation and, as communist cameras rolled, milked the moment for maximum propaganda value. “The documents admitting the criminal acts of the crew of the Pueblo and apologizing for them,” he said, “will remain forever together with the shameful aggressive history of the U.S. imperialists.”
Woodward slid the signed papers across the table. “Put the date,” Pak demanded. Then he heaved a monkey wrench into the works.
Earlier, the State Department had issued a one-sentence announcement that the two sides had reached final agreement and the crew would be let go at the bridge. Pak denounced the statement as a “perfidious act” that violated a supposed promise by Woodward not to publicize the release beforehand. With the shivering sailors yearning for deliverance on their buses, the North Korean general now said he’d punish the United States by holding them longer.
Woodward couldn’t believe his ears: “I felt like saying, ‘What the hell are you trying to prove?’” The deal on publicity, as he understood it, was that if either side made an announcement prior to the signing, the other side was free to say whatever it wanted. Woodward glared in contempt at his antagonist but kept his voice even: “If you now repudiate this agreement and do not release the crew as you agreed, at 1100 hours, you will have repudiated your solemn agreement.”
Pak threw himself into another long tirade, crowing over the apology and lambasting Washington for covering up its “crimes” until “the very last moment.” Then he declared his penalty for the allegedly premature U.S. announcement:
The crew must sit on the buses an extra half hour.
—
Snow was falling over the Bridge of No Return. On nearby hillsides communist riflemen watched and waited. Odd Job called Bucher out of his bus to identify the remains of Duane Hodges. Wrapped mummylike in gauze, the fireman’s body had been brought to the bridge in an ambulance. Attendants wearing white surgical masks lifted the lid of the wooden coffin and pulled aside the bandages so the captain could see the corpse’s face.
“Yes, that is Duane Hodges,” he said, turning away in grief and revulsion.
Odd Job led Bucher back aboard the bus. Then he and other duty officers handed out mimeographed copies of Woodward’s apology. Bucher couldn’t believe what he was reading:
The Government of the United States of America,
Acknowledging the validity of the confessions of the crew of the USS “Pueblo” and of the documents of evidence produced by the representative of the Government of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea to the effect that the ship, which was seized by the self-defense measures of the naval vessels of the Korean People’s Army in the territorial waters of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea on January 23, 1968, had illegally intruded into the territorial waters of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea on many occasions and conducted espionage activities of spying out important military and state secrets of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea,
Shoulders full responsibility and solemnly apologizes for the grave acts of espionage committed by the U.S. ship against the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea after having intruded into the territorial waters of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea,
And gives firm assurance that no U.S. ships will intrude again in the future into the territorial waters of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.
At eleven thirty a.m., Bucher was ordered off the bus again. He was escorted toward a guardhouse incongruously decorated with painted doves; just beyond was the magical sight of the bridge. A high-ranking North Korean officer began loudly haranguing him. It was General Pak, and he inveighed against U.S. imperialist aggression for twenty minutes as the captain stamped his sneaker-clad feet to keep them from freezing. When Pak finally finished, Odd Job said sternly, “Now walk across that bridge, Captain. Not stop. Not look back. Not make any bad move. Just walk across sincerely. Go now!”
Gaunt and hollow eyed, his brown hair turned steel gray after nearly a year of sadistic imprisonment, the skipper limped for home. He’d led his men into this ordeal, and now he was leading them out. Behind him crept the ambulance bearing Hodges’s body. A loudspeaker boomed a recording of Bucher’s final confession: “Eleven months to the day ago, we were captured in the act of committing espionage. . . .”
One by one, the others were called off the buses, warned not to get out of line, and steered toward the bridge. Soon the span was filled with nervous Americans walking twenty paces apart. Some had to suppress a powerful urge to run like jackrabbits; others resisted a strong desire to spit in the faces of soldiers they passed.
Law, his eyes damaged beyond repair, turned the wrong way as he stepped off his bus. Rough hands spun him back toward the bridge. As he started across he struggled to remember a Bible verse he’d learned long ago in Sunday school. Finally it popped into his head: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” He trudged on, mouthing the words, tears dampening his cheeks.
When McClintock heard his name, he shouted, “Here!” and started down the aisle of his bus. Near the door stood a duty officer the crewmen called Fetch, for his willingness to get them things at the Country Club. Fetch seemed to regard McClintock and some of the other Americans as his only friends at the prison. He loved to chat about women and sex, and was particularly fascinated by bikini-wearing Hawaiian women. As McClintock was about to exit, Fetch reached out and clutched one of the sailor’s hands in both of his.
“I come to visit you in Hawaii when it’s socialist,” he said eagerly.
“Don’t hold your breath,” rejoined the American, heading for the bridge.
McClintock felt as if he were exiting the twilight zone. As far as he was concerned, the months in prison were dead time; they’d never happened. Today was his first day after being captured. He wasn’t euphoric about getting out; the wait had been too long and there’d been too many false hopes. He even found it difficult to hate the guards who’d beaten him. They weren’t born cruel and brutal; they’d been indoctrinated since childhood to despise and fear Americans.
Halfway across the bridge, heedless of the duty officers’ warnings, McClintock stopped and turned around. He began to laugh. The problem with North Korea was communism, not the people. He felt only pity for those who had to live under such a dehumanizing system. He took a last look at the wintry countryside. After a few moments he began walki
ng again.
The soldiers did nothing.
As Bucher neared the far end of the bridge, he too committed a final act of defiance, whipping the Mao cap off his head. He’d be damned if he’d wear communist clothes a minute longer than necessary. A wide grin bloomed on his weather-beaten face. “Welcome back, Commander Bucher!” shouted a cheerful U.S. Army colonel who was checking off the arriving sailors’ names on a clipboard. Bucher marveled at how warmly dressed the man looked.
The North Koreans began releasing the rest of the men on the last bus. An injured Gene Lacy hobbled down the aisle. “Ensign Harris!” a duty officer called, and Tim ran for the door. “Schumacher!” someone shouted; Skip bolted after him. Only Murphy remained. “What if your name isn’t called?” asked a duty officer, smiling. Murphy didn’t trust himself to reply. The loudspeaker had fallen silent. Several minutes crept by.
“Murphy!” a North Korean finally called, and the executive officer practically flew out the door.
Schumacher struggled to put one foot in front of the other without breaking into a panicked run. The crossing took only two or three minutes but it seemed like a thousand years. At the other end Bucher stood waiting for the last of his men. Schumacher saluted his commanding officer, and then shook his hand.
“We made it, Captain,” he said softly.
CHAPTER 15
A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR THE NATION
Bucher was nearly overcome with excitement. What should he do first as a free man? Grinning Army officers and military policemen crowded around, shaking his hand, clapping his back. Their job was to get the newly liberated sailors away from the demilitarized zone as fast as possible. Standing with them was an expensively dressed civilian; Bucher assumed he was from the State Department.
Warm army parkas were handed out to the crewmen, along with Red Cross packets of cigarettes and candy. Then they were hustled aboard three olive-drab buses that rapidly departed for a United Nations advance camp four miles to the south. General Bonesteel greeted them at the base, heartily shaking each man’s hand. The sailors were ushered into a Quonset hut where army cooks had whipped up an authentic American feast: piles of juicy steaks, hamburgers, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. But a military doctor took one look at the men’s shrunken frames and decreed a more digestible menu: chicken noodle soup, bologna sandwiches, and milk. Several crew members proclaimed it the best meal they ever ate.
Bucher entered the mess hall last; his men jumped to their feet and gave him a loud, happy ovation. Then the well-dressed civilian approached the captain and asked whether they could talk privately. Richard Fryklund wasn’t from State; he was a high-ranking Pentagon public-relations officer who’d been instructed to find out right away whether the Pueblo had entered North Korean waters. Much was riding on the answer. If Bucher said the intrusion allegations were false, the U.S. government would flash his denial to the world’s media, countering North Korean propaganda. Fryklund already had set up a press conference, with more than 80 journalists waiting eagerly in a nearby room to hear from the captain.
Though Bucher and his men weren’t aware of it, the Navy had been carefully planning their homecoming for months. How it was to be handled had been the subject of much bureaucratic infighting. At one point, planners envisioned flying the crew from South Korea to the Marine Air Station at Kaneohe Bay in Hawaii, where they’d be held virtually incommunicado while undergoing intensive intelligence debriefings lasting days or even weeks.
That idea was scuttled when Navy officials realized the public-relations fiasco that would ensue when anxious wives and parents, rushing to the base from across the country, were turned away at the gate. It was decided instead to bring the sailors to the U.S. Naval Hospital in San Diego, where loved ones could visit as doctors examined the men. Intelligence debriefs would begin only when the medical screenings were finished. The secret repatriation plan was code-named “Breeches Buoy,” after a device used to rescue shipwreck victims.
Fryklund escorted Bucher outside the mess hall to an army sedan and, as they rode around, the two men talked. Even this encounter had been scripted beforehand in Washington. Navy lawyers worried that if Bucher was asked, without benefit of legal counsel, whether he’d violated North Korean waters, any subsequent disciplinary proceedings against him might be tainted. Fryklund therefore had been told to get Bucher talking in the hope that he’d raise the issue on his own. As the main architect of Breeches Buoy noted, the captain was “known to be voluble” and probably would open up without much prompting.
Bucher did exactly that, denying his ship ever crossed into communist waters. “That’s what we thought,” replied Fryklund, “but I’m relieved to hear it from you.” He mentioned the press conference he’d arranged and asked whether Bucher would make a statement. The captain said it’d be a pleasure “to talk to real newspeople for a change.”
Thus, less than two hours after hobbling across the Bridge of No Return, Bucher found himself facing a roomful of newsmen keen on knowing why he’d given up his ship without firing a shot in its defense. The skipper looked awful. To one journalist he appeared a decade older than his 41 years; to another, 20 years older. With his drawn face and reddened eyes, he seemed to be under tremendous strain. Cameramen beckoned him to wave and he obligingly did so. He’d never seen so much television equipment in his life.
The stakes were high for Bucher as well as the Navy, and the journalists sensed the drama. There’d been no time to coach the captain, and the Navy had no idea what he might blurt out under the reporters’ gruff questioning. As Bucher mounted a small platform to speak, the faces of Fryklund and other government PR spinners “were a study in agony and suspense.”
For Bucher the risk was saying something he’d later regret if the Navy pressed charges against him. No defense lawyer worthy of the name would’ve permitted a client to put his neck in such a potential legal noose, but the skipper seemed oblivious to the danger. He welcomed the chance to explain himself to an American public that, while sympathetic, also had questions about his actions. And considering his condition and lack of preparation, his statement to the media was remarkably lucid.
He began by praising his men, saying they were “simply tremendous” and “never once lost their spirit or faith in the United States of America.” He insisted—three times—that the Pueblo hadn’t penetrated North Korean waters. “We were attacked on the open sea and we were captured on the open seas,” he said. “This is pure and simple and as plain as that.” The navigation records showing intrusions, he said, were “completely doctored.” He also gave a frank explanation of what happened after the communist gunboats surrounded him: “We—I surrendered the ship because there was nothing but a slaughter out there, and I couldn’t see allowing any more people to be slaughtered or killing the entire crew for no reason.”
Bucher modestly claimed he was beaten “less than anyone else,” but added that on many occasions “I didn’t think I was going to make it.” He described Hell Week as “the most concentrated form of terror that I’ve ever seen or dreamed is possible.” When a reporter asked how much classified material the crew was able to get rid of, Bucher replied, “We made an attempt to destroy everything.” Then he added, “Well, truthfully, we did not complete it.”
A Navy official cut off the questions when the captain appeared to be tiring. But he’d made a good impression on the media. His hesitations, repetitions, and occasionally unsteady stance made his words seem unrehearsed and genuine. As he left the stage, some of the newsmen applauded him—a rare tribute from such a hard-nosed bunch. The haggard commander, one reporter was to write, “emerged as a man who seemed to place responsibility for his crew above linguistic national loyalty or ‘service’ loyalty to the Navy.”
After the press conference, helicopters shuttled Bucher and his men to a U.S. Army hospital about ten miles east of Seoul. Awaiting them was a crowd of 500 hospital patients, employees, and MPs,
whistling and waving enthusiastically. At the hospital the sailors got X-rays, blood tests, and hot showers. They gladly shed their communist uniforms and put on blue submarine-style jumpsuits with “USS PUEBLO” printed on the back. Someone handed the captain a telegram from President Johnson, who declared the crew’s release “a source of the deepest satisfaction to me and to all of your fellow countrymen.”
Bucher was taken to a ward reserved for Pueblo officers. Lacy, Schumacher, and Tim Harris were already there, talking excitedly. Steve Harris lay on a bunk, staring at the ceiling while Murphy spoke in low tones to him. Someone rustled up eggnog and brandy, and the officers toasted their freedom. Bucher then toured five wards occupied by the enlisted men, downing more spiked nog at each stop. By the time he got back to his own ward, he was pleasantly buzzed. The officers were so wound up they needed sedatives to get to sleep that night.
The Navy called another news conference the next day. The sole speaker was Admiral Edwin Rosenberg, a genial Navy doctor. Assigned to personally escort the crewmen to San Diego, Rosenberg had talked with many of them about their experiences and was impressed not only by their stoicism and resistance in prison, but by their high morale and cohesiveness as a crew.
The Navy, he told reporters, expected to convene a “routine” court of inquiry in San Diego to look into the circumstances of the ship’s capture. That piqued the newsmen’s interest. They wanted to know how the Navy regarded what was known of the sailors’ behavior at sea and in captivity. Were they suspected of violating any regulations for giving up their ship and participating in North Korean propaganda efforts? Rosenberg had in front of him a prepared statement filled with careful, understated phrases. But, perhaps caught up in the excitement and pride of the moment, he put it aside and spoke off the cuff, portraying the sailors in glowing terms as “heroes” and Bucher as “a hero among heroes.”
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