Defiant: The POWs Who Endured Vietnam's Most Infamous Prison, the Women Who Fought for Them, and the One Who Never Returned

by Alvin Townley

  His memory cleared as he assessed his injuries. In his A-4 Skyhawk’s last moments, it had received a hit to the nose, ramming a section of the instrument console into his chest; his ribs still ached. He found his entire left arm unresponsive; the rough ejection from the smoke-filled cockpit had jerked it from its socket and twisted it backward. He looked at his bloodied, swollen, stockinged feet. He remembered villagers stripping him of his boots, along with his flight suit, wallet, and rosary. He recalled rocks and pebbles shredding his socks and feet, and stepping in piles of fresh dung as he struggled to keep pace with his captors, who had yanked him along gravel roads and rough footpaths. Twice during their march, the North Vietnamese had paraded their half-naked captive through violent mobs, which left him further humiliated and covered with bruises. After he endured those gauntlets, only his dirty boxer shorts remained. Every inch of his body hurt, but nothing hurt worse than his arms.

  * * *

  While on his way to Hanoi in an army truck, Jim—still blindfolded—had begun working at the relatively loose rope that bound his wrists together. A soldier caught him and furiously pulled the rope tighter until it dug into Jim’s wrists. Soon, he could not feel his hands. When the truck stopped to refuel along the roadside, Jim heard a crowd gathering. Then he smelled gas. Moments later, the gasoline poured over Jim’s forearms, a soldier’s idea to entertain onlookers. The rope had cut bloody rings into his skin, and the gasoline burned like straight alcohol on the open wounds. It seemed as if someone had hooked his arms to a high-voltage current. Jim had never known such pain. He began sobbing; he lost control of himself. Mercifully, he passed out. When he regained his senses nine days later, he found himself lying on the floor of Hỏa Lò Prison. It was March 31. POWs would later tell him that he’d spent many of those lost days raving mad, crashing around a cell in Heartbreak Hotel. During that time, the gasoline-soaked ropes had tightened as they dried, burrowing into the bloody flesh of his forearms. The pain returned with his consciousness. He realized that he had turned forty just four days earlier and muttered to himself, “If life begins at forty, I’m off to a helluva bad start.”

  Like every other resident of Hỏa Lò Prison, Jim Mulligan never expected to find himself in such a situation, but he believed his faith and character would see him through. Devout Roman Catholics who lived in Lawrence, Massachusetts, his parents had worked long hours in the town’s mills, and while his parents passed on their strong work ethic and religious convictions to Jim, it was his French-Canadian grandparents who instilled within him a deep sense of patriotism. During the 1940 ceremony when his grandmother became a United States citizen at age eighty, she pointed to the nearby cemetery and in broken English told the magistrate, “My husband is buried over there and he’s not a citizen. This country has been good to my family and me. I want to be a citizen when I lie next to him.” Jim never forgot this moment and dreamed of serving the country his grandparents loved so dearly. He became an Eagle Scout and at age seventeen enlisted in the Navy’s V-5 aviation cadet program. At the end of World War II, he was still waiting for flight school. Two years later he’d earned his wings, and by the time he received his college degree in 1955, he had a wife, Louise, and four sons. When he deployed aboard the USS Enterprise in November of 1965, Jim and Louise had two more boys.

  Like many other aviators in 1966, Jim believed in the stated American cause of containing Communism. He’d grown up with a staunchly anti-Communist father and grandfather and had been stationed in the Caribbean during the Cuban Missile Crisis, defending his country and family from the warheads of Khrushchev and Castro. He never forgot his experiences. Still, even though he hated all things Communist, he objected to the conduct of the war in Vietnam and the political rules that limited him as an aviator. He could attack munitions moving south, but not when they were being unloaded from foreign ships onto North Vietnamese docks; he could attack truck parks, but not factories. It seemed Washington had to approve every target. The eight-week Rolling Thunder campaign announced in March 1965 had now lasted fifty-four weeks. Targets were limited, and campaign intensity varied; Jim thought Hanoi would only understand force applied consistently and convincingly—and he judged Johnson and McNamara unwilling to do this. He did not conceal his opinions well, nor did he really care to. Before he was shot down, he worried that another month of flying handicapped missions and he would no longer be able to keep those views to himself. Of course, the only people who would appreciate his untempered opinions even less than his superior officers were the North Vietnamese.

  * * *

  By the time Jim Mulligan’s Skyhawk went down over North Vietnam in March 1966, the Camp Authority no longer considered torture a last resort; it was a first option. On Jim’s first conscious night in the Hilton, two khaki-shirted officials unlocked and entered his cell. Jim met Rabbit and Pigeye, who were fast becoming two of the most hated members of the prison staff. They ordered him to his feet, and Pigeye took the rope dangling from Jim’s still-bound wrists and led him out of the cell, toward the dim corridor between Rooms Eighteen and Nineteen. They pulled him into Room Eighteen and sat him on a small stool before a panel of three other officials, Cat, Mickey Mouse, and an officer known as the Pro. Jim recalled a survival instructor telling him, “One, you’re smarter than those people. Two, don’t ever let them know what you know.” With his training in mind, Jim readied himself.

  Rabbit opened the session. He said, “You must remember that you are not a prisoner of war—you are a criminal of war in the eyes of the Vietnamese people. You must obey all the regulations of the camp if you expect to receive the humane treatment offered by our people.” Rabbit listed Jim’s alleged crimes—bombing churches, schools, and children. He explained that Jim would pay dearly for his crimes against Vietnam.

  “Bat shit,” Jim said.

  “You must answer all the questions of the camp authorities,” Rabbit continued.

  Jim interjected, saying, “My name is James Alfred Mulligan Jr., commander, 504324, born on 27 March 1926.”

  Piqued, Rabbit raised his voice. “You are impolite,” he said. “You have bad attitude. You have no rank in Vietnam. You are a criminal of war!”

  Jim’s injuries and fatigue conspired against him. He lost his balance and fell to the floor. Pigeye immediately returned him to his stool. The adrenaline initially summoned by the interrogation began to wear off, and the pain from Jim’s injuries resurfaced, circling his wrists and spreading up his arms. His shoulder throbbed. Jim regrouped and pronounced, “I am an American prisoner of war and I demand medical treatment for my wounds, as guaranteed by the Geneva Convention.”

  “Keep silent,” commanded Mickey Mouse. “You are a criminal of war, you have no right to make demands of Vietnamese people. You will receive humane treatment when you admit your crimes to the Vietnamese people and to the world.”

  The Pro resumed the questioning, shouting, “Where were you captured? What was your target? When were you shot down?” Jim just repeated the Big Four. Even as his arms throbbed, he did not plan to submit.

  Before too long, Rabbit tired of the game. He stood and announced, “You will stand at attention on the wall, and my guard will punish you if you fail to obey. You are a very sick man. You will not receive the humane treatment when you have bad attitude. You will get nothing until you are polite and repent your crimes.”

  The officers filed out; Pigeye stayed. Jim stood against the wall. The preceding hours had exhausted his body, and the stinging in his arms increased at an alarming rate. It had far surpassed any level he’d thought he could tolerate. He didn’t understand how the pain could grow, but it did. Tears came to his eyes. Pigeye just sat nearby, calmly smoking a cigarette and watching, detached and knowing. When the position became unbearable, as Pigeye knew it would, Jim submitted. Pigeye walked into the hallway and called for Rabbit, Cat, the Pro, and Mickey Mouse. The foursome filed back into the room and retook their seats. They looked at Jim, saw his tears, his grotesquely bound f
orearms, his scabbed feet, his brown shorts, his filthy, almost-naked body. Jim thought he must be the ugliest American in North Vietnam.

  “Untie the ropes,” Jim begged. “Untie the ropes.”

  “I will have my guard remove the ropes when you tell me that you will read the statement on the document we have prepared for you,” said Mickey Mouse. “You will make the recording and confess your crimes to the American people and the world.”

  “Take off the ropes,” Jim begged again. “Please take off the ropes. I can’t stand it anymore. I’m done. I’m finished. I’ll do what you want, but please take off the ropes.”

  The officers told Pigeye to take off the ropes. He could not; the strands had become embedded too deeply in Jim’s skin. Pigeye left and returned with a knife. Jim sobbed with defeat, exhaustion, and agony as Pigeye cut the ropes away from his skin. The ropes tore away sickeningly, taking dead skin and dried pus with them. The newly opened sores began to bleed, and the sensation of freed circulation struck him ferociously. It soon subsided, and Jim at last felt relief. Broken, he faced his next task. He prepared to betray his country and break the sacred Code of Conduct. He had been weak. He had not outlasted the North Vietnamese. He hated himself.

  The ropes had rendered Jim’s hands useless. He could neither feel nor use them to any effect. Anticipating this, Rabbit had produced a typed document for Jim to review and recite into a tape recorder. It begged forgiveness for criminal acts and condemned the war. To encourage Jim’s cooperation, Rabbit showed him an assortment of alleged confessions made by other prisoners. “You must confess your crimes and repent like the others,” Rabbit said. Jim wondered what hell they’d endured before they’d broken. Being in their company made Jim feel no better as he began reading the script aloud. His first recitation proved unsatisfactory. His exhausted brain couldn’t function. Rabbit had Pigeye fetch coffee and sugar. Since Jim’s arms were useless, Rabbit had to help pour two cups down the aviator’s throat. Jim’s mind cleared, and soon Rabbit had the confession he needed.

  With the quiz almost over, Mickey Mouse said, “I am the camp commander of this camp. I will have for you the regulations of the camp, which you must follow. If you do not follow the regulations of the camp my guard will punish you … You must now stand and bow to the authorities before you return to your room. You must remember to be polite and bow to all the Vietnamese army men and people. You greet everyone with a bow. Do you understand?”

  Jim answered, “Yes, I understand.”

  Mickey Mouse gave Jim a copy of the camp regulations, and the panel of officers smiled as he bowed to them before leaving Room Eighteen. After Pigeye locked his cell, Jim shuffled to his bunk. He lay down, surrounded by dirt, rats, and cockroaches. Not long ago, he had slept soundly, with a full stomach, between clean sheets aboard the Enterprise. Now he found himself in a situation so degrading that he still had difficulty believing it was real. However, he knew his pain, his hunger, and his crushing sense of failure were all very genuine. “I’m broken,” he sobbed quietly into his bamboo mat. “I’m a traitor. I’ve disgraced my family, my country, and myself.” Why couldn’t he have been killed in his Skyhawk’s crash? He wished the villagers who’d shot at him as he parachuted to earth had found their mark. He wished the infections in his wounded feet or his arms would poison him. “Lord, forgive me,” he prayed. “Please, Lord, help me.” Tears streaked his face as he fell asleep.

  8

  I LOVE A PARADE

  Every summer, Sybil Stockdale took her four boys—plus Jim whenever he could secure leave—to Sunset Beach in Connecticut, where her parents kept a cottage overlooking Long Island Sound. She’d come here every summer since she turned five. As a young girl, she enjoyed the break from chores on her family’s New England dairy farm. As a teenager, she’d had her first date in the nearby village. Sunset Beach had become a place of memories, a retreat that renewed her strength.

  During the summer of 1966, Sybil watched many sunsets from the seawall that separated the family’s house from the sound. As she sat there one night, her father approached, placed his hand on her shoulder, and gently said, “Sybil.” His tone caught his daughter’s attention; he’d been watching the news on television. “The news isn’t good, Sybil,” he said, “but I’m sure they won’t go through with it…”

  “What, Father? What is it that they said?” she asked.

  “They said they’re going to try the prisoners with war crimes trials,” he explained, “but I’m sure they won’t go through with it, Sybil. I’m sure they won’t.” Together, they watched the sun set over Long Island Sound. As they listened to the boys playing on the shore in the fading light, they wondered how Jim—how all of them—had become participants in this surreal drama. She wondered how their family would survive. That night, Sybil lay in bed debating how to tell the boys about the trials. They’d endured the prospect of their father’s death once already—how could they face it again? She wondered how she would bear the horror of Jim, blindfolded and bound, being executed by a North Vietnamese firing squad. She prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, please don’t let it happen, and if it does, I’m going to need extra help only you can give me.”

  The next morning, she told her boys not to worry about the reports of war crimes tribunals; they needed to stay brave for their father. She tried to maintain a confident facade, but she secretly carried dread in her heart. Everywhere she went, she felt neighbors pitying her. After a week of soldiering on, she finally broke down. At home, sobbing in her mother’s arms like a child, she cried out, “I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it. What am I going to do?”

  “It’s no good to hold it in all the time,” her mother said gently. “I think letting it out some will help you hold up for the boys. You’ve got to hold up for the boys, you know. You don’t really have any choice. That’s what Jim would want you to do.”

  * * *

  Thousands of miles away, the voice of Hanoi Hannah tried Sam Johnson’s nerves. If the Texan had had two good arms, he would have torn down the speaker in his cell at the Zoo to protect his very sanity from the happy singsong voice of Trịnh Thị Ngọ—known as Hanoi Hannah by Americans. North Vietnam considered proselytizing a vital part of its strategy, with Radio Hanoi—the Voice of Vietnam—broadcasting English-language propaganda to U.S. troops in the South, an attempt to undermine their will to fight. Through speakers at the Zoo, Hannah’s musical selections and propaganda also reached an unappreciative Sam Johnson and his fellow POWs.

  “You will be tried for your crimes,” Hannah kept repeating from the speaker in Sam’s cell that late-June day in 1966. “You will never go home. The just cause of the Vietnamese people will never be defeated. Even now the tribunal is being assembled. Your crimes will be punished.” Was she telling the truth or was it just empty bluster?

  “It’s just for show, guys,” Sam insisted, trying to reassure his cellmate, Jim Lamar, and their neighbor Jim Stockdale. “More Communist garbage. If they tried to try us as war criminals, the American people would react, and they know it.” Sam tried hard to believe his own words.

  On June 29, he heard heavy artillery fire erupt near the prison. Then air raid sirens blared as aircraft roared overhead. Sam and the other POWs peered through cracks in their shutters to glimpse the battle until guards rushed into the cellblock and yelled, “Under bed! Get under bed!” Lying beneath their improvised bunks, they listened to bombs explode and felt the floor vibrate. Even amid the bombardment, the men could find reason to laugh. For months, they had subsisted on an unvarying diet of thin soup—usually cabbage—and over the noise of the air raid, one POW could be heard imploring the American planes, “Bomb the cabbage patches!”

  * * *

  Air raids throughout North Vietnam had claimed 2,000 lives per month that spring, leaving the public clamoring for revenge. After the heavy June 29 raids near Hanoi, North Vietnam’s citizenry erupted with fury. The POWs, who had all confessed their alleged crimes to the Camp Authority, were the pub
lic’s most proximate targets.

  One week after the attack, Sam Johnson and Jim Stockdale watched some of their fellow POWs being assembled in the courtyard of the Zoo. The two friends tapped back and forth between their cells, guessing what the activity meant for those being gathered and for those being left behind. In the courtyard, they saw guards using hemp or cloth to fasten rubber flip-flops to the feet of thirty POWs who were clad in newly issued drab long-sleeved shirts and pants. Most of the shirts bore stenciled identification numbers on the back or chest. Numbering lifted the hopes of desperate POWs throughout the Zoo that the time for their release had finally arrived. It had not.

  Guards blindfolded and cuffed the prisoners, then herded them into waiting trucks, which soon lumbered out of sight and into the coming twilight. Sam, Jim, and other injured POWs were left behind to wonder about the fate of their friends. Men like Howie Rutledge and Harry Jenkins, whose names the North Vietnamese had not yet released to the United States, also remained. Later that night, Hannah would narrate the fate of their fellow POWs.

  Bob Shumaker was one of the POWs chosen for the excursion and spent the ride from the Zoo to their unknown destination tapping by finger and toe with the other blindfolded POWs in his truck; mostly, they just shared their names. When the caravan eventually stopped, guards ordered the Americans out and into the epicenter of Hanoi.

  Earlier that day, Ron Storz and thirteen other prisoners from a remote camp nicknamed Briar Patch arrived in Hanoi’s Hàng Đẫy soccer stadium for a relative feast of water, rice balls, and bananas. The image of fourteen Americans in the large stadium reminded one POW of an ancient spectacle in Rome’s Coliseum. “Well, the Christians are here,” he said as he looked around at the empty seats. “Where are the lions?”