As evening neared, guards loaded the Briar Patch prisoners back into trucks, and they rumbled east into the heart of Hanoi to meet POWs from the Hilton and the Zoo, like Bob Shumaker. The trucks all met at a common point and commenced unloading. As each POW stepped from the truck, a guard took off his blindfold. Shu was handcuffed to Smitty Harris and pushed into a two-column formation, four rows from the front. They looked around and observed a total of fifty POWs in the roundabout in front of the Hanoi Opera House. Shu’s attention quickly turned from the building to the boisterous, jeering mass of Hanoi citizenry that had begun to line the east-west thoroughfare of Phố Tràng Tiền (Tràng Tiền Street). Most POWs had never ventured outside their prison walls without a blindfold; Shu’s first sights of the angry city were terrifying.
As officers and guards finished forming the columns, the prisoners began to understand the night’s plan. One POW quipped, “A parade! A parade! Oh boy, I love a parade!”
Then Rabbit’s familiar voice rang out. “You must remember that you are all criminals and that tonight you are being taken to your public interrogations so that all the world will know your terrible crimes … Today you will see the fury and hatred of the Vietnamese people. They will try to kill you. We cannot protect you. Show proper attitude for your crimes. If you repent, you will see our lenient and humane treatment. If not, the people will decide what to do with you.” The parade would serve as a symbolic public tribunal. Rabbit was the prosecutor, the people of Hanoi his jury.
Behind Shu and Smitty Harris stood twenty more rows of handcuffed twosomes, including Jerry Denton and Bob Peel. Mickey Mouse and Pigeye had punished Jerry for the defiant answers he issued in his May press interview with a vengeful all-night torture session in his Heartbreak Hotel cell, but they judged him sufficiently convalesced for the evening’s march. Ron Storz and Air Force Captain Wes Schierman paired off just behind Jerry Denton and heard Rabbit’s final counsel. “Now I give you advice: Do not look to the right or to the left, do not look behind you. Do not speak. Walk straight ahead … Bow your heads in shame for your crimes.”
American POWs begin the Hanoi March, July 6, 1966; Bob Shumaker is in second row, on left.
The procession began around 7:30 P.M., as dusk descended upon the capital, only slightly reducing the summer heat and humidity. The POWs were sweating before even taking a single step. On an order from the guards, the column began moving along the darkening streets.
As the parade began, 8 feet separated each of the twenty-five twosomes from the one behind it. Most POWs stood at least a head taller than the uniformed guards that flanked them. When the guards began moving the assemblage west, across the roundabout and toward Tràng Tiền, they noticed prisoners holding their heads up in defiance. They began yelling, “Bow! Bow!”
Over the growing ruckus, Shu heard Jerry Denton roar, “You are Americans! Keep your heads up.” His command spread through the columns, and heads snapped back up. Rifle butts descended on those who refused to bow, but the men did their best not to submit before the citizens of Hanoi. By the end of the march, however, many heads would bow, not out of submission but to dodge all manner of projectiles.
Suddenly, Shu noticed a truck engine start. From the direction of the sound came a blaze of light. Floodlights affixed to a flatbed truck lit up the marchers like entertainers on a Las Vegas stage. Squinting through the dazzling lights, the POWs saw reporters and cameras on the truck, which kept close to the curb and moved slowly along with the marchers. The floodlights revoked the last cover the prisoners had: darkness. Now the Americans might as well have been marching at high noon.
The two columns of POWs progressed down Tràng Tiền, and citizens crowded the sidewalks to gawk and vent their anger at America and the bombings that were disrupting—and in many ways destroying—their lives. They lived on shortened rations, often no more than the POWs received. They had no certainty that they or their family would live through the next night. Many families had lost members to American bombs or bullets. While their military retaliated with artillery and rockets, the North Vietnamese people felt a sense of disconnected helplessness. They almost never saw the face of the enemy who flew over their country, showering them with ordnance. They were angry. They had been calling for blood, and in a calculated move, their government had thrown them fresh meat. The July 6, 1966, march presented Hanoi with the first look at those responsible for their sadness, frustration, and outrage. Hanoi’s citizens did not waste their chance. All along the 2-mile-long parade route, the sidewalks filled with men and women of all ages, shaking their fists and spewing hatred at the foreigners trudging through their streets. The noise echoed across Hanoi.
The parade passed Hồ Hoàn Kiếm, the lake at the city’s heart, where the public congregated in the mornings and evenings. They marched within two blocks of Hỏa Lò Prison itself, although the men had little idea of their whereabouts. At regular intervals, party officials stood in the crowds, leading chants and generally riling up the populace. As particular POWs passed, the officials would make the chants personal and used English so the Americans would understand. “Alvarez, Alvarez, son of a bitch, son of a bitch,” they’d yell.
Tens of thousands turned out to witness the spectacle, and the crowds swelled as word of the march spread throughout the city. The miserable POWs slogged along as Rabbit walked ahead, helping to incite the onlookers. “Down with the imperialist American aggressors!” the people chanted. “America get out!”
Emotions intensified, and the guards struggled to control the increasingly unruly crowd. A militiawoman stepped from the sidewalk toward the POWs; a guard pushed her back. “No,” she said in Vietnamese, “I’m not going to hit them. I only want to take a close look at the face of that tall lanky guy over there. I keep thinking of how unbelievably vicious and boastful he must have been before he was shot down.”
Another man yelled, “There, brethren of the capital; there, right before our eyes, is the ‘might of American air power!’” Indeed, these pilots had once exuded pride. Here in the unruly streets of Hanoi, however, they seemed humbled and vulnerable. The people tried to strip what pride these men had left. In its first mile, the parade served the purpose that the government intended. The Communist Party had promised its people trials but likely realized the disastrous consequences of actually trying and sentencing U.S. airmen. Perhaps staging the public march was a middle course. During the second mile, however, the North Vietnamese soldiers lost control of the populace.
No POW could say who felt the first brick or who received the first punch, but the blows began landing on POWs as the march reached the intersection of Nguyễn Thái Học and Hàng Bông. Two trolleys arrived near the intersection at the same time as the column, and passengers poured out to join the melee. Guards turned their rifles and bayonets away from the prisoners and toward the mob. Curses and screams cascaded from all sides; citizens began slipping through the line of guards and assailing the captives with fists, feet, stones, and whatever weapons they could fashion. As the guards and prisoners neared the march’s end, they faced a full-fledged riot.
Jerry Denton locked eyes with a woman carrying a basket of rocks. She glared at him, then moved into line behind him, walking directly in front of Ron Storz. Jerry saw several rocks sail past his head harmlessly. Then the woman adjusted her aim. Jerry took a rock to the skull and fell forward, his handcuffs yanking his partner, Bob Peel, down with him. The shackled pair got to their feet just in time for Jerry to receive a sharp punch to the groin.
Jerry spied the man who had delivered the shot preparing another assault. Jerry and Peel readied themselves. When the assailant came at them again, Jerry jabbed him with his free hand. Then Jerry and Peel punched at him with the fists of their conjoined arms and connected. Jerry spied a familiar officer nicknamed Spot watching the scene with concern and shouted over the growing din, “If that son of a bitch comes out again, I’m going to kill him.” Spot, easily recognized by the white birthmark or napalm s
car on his chin, knew enough English to understand Jerry’s threat. When the man prepared to attack Jerry and Bob again, Spot grabbed him by the shirt and hit him with his pistol, then threw the man onto the sidewalk.
In the row behind Jerry, someone smashed a shoe against Ron Storz’s face. Blood erupted from his now-broken nose, but he could do little to tend it. One hand fended off more would-be assailants; the other hand was cuffed to his friend Wes Schierman. An elderly woman walked into the street and pulled off her nón lá, her country’s traditional woven conical hat. She began weakly hitting the Americans with the hat’s peak as they plodded by. The POWs thought her effort was almost comical until they noticed the tears in her eyes.
By the time the besieged column neared the gates of Hàng Đẫy Stadium, riotous crowds had swarmed the street. Guards and prisoners alike had to battle their way down Phố Hàng Đẫy to reach the shelter of the arena. Many prisoners crawled on their hands and knees through the final yards while guards yelled, “Quickly, quickly,” as if their prisoners needed encouragement. The POWs had always worried about meeting death alone in a Hỏa Lò torture room. Now they faced death together at the hands of a civilian mob.
The front of the column reached the haven of the stadium some forty-five minutes after the march began. The guards held the gates against the throngs, keeping the middle open just wide enough to allow the Americans and guards to squeeze through to safety. Finally—miraculously, many POWs thought—the last of the column slipped through the opening and the guards shut the gates against the crowd. The Hanoi March had ended.
At least one American pilot thought he came closer to dying during the march through downtown Hanoi than he did when the North Vietnamese downed his aircraft. With similar thoughts in their minds, the other POWs collapsed on the cinder track that circled the stadium’s soccer field, nursing their bloodied faces and bruised limbs. They heard the mob outside begin to dissipate. They looked up at stars that many had not seen for months.
Newly arrived POW Cole Black asked, “Man, do you guys do this every night?”
“Nope, just on Saturdays,” veteran Chuck Boyd deadpanned. The response drew laughter from the marchers. For a short half hour, they found peace. They savored being alive, if not free.
After the guards finished dispersing the crowd and secured the stadium, they, too, savored the precious minutes of peace. These men—most younger than the pilots they guarded—had run the same gauntlet as their captives. They had feared for their own safety, and they, too, had survived. Soon, though, the men resumed their roles of prisoners and guards. The guards loaded the Americans into trucks and sent them back to their respective camps. Upon receiving the returning POWs at the Zoo, the wardens unshackled the marchers and led most of them to their rooms. On Bob Shumaker’s way back to his cell from the truck, his guard led him straight into a concrete wall, knocking him out for the night. Shu never determined whether his collision with the wall had been intentional.
Jerry Denton’s escort was a young officer with the nickname JC, as whenever POWs saw him they’d say, “Jesus Christ, he’s going to give us hell.” He also seemed to think everyone should treat him as if he were, in fact, Christ almighty. On the walk back to the cellblock, JC delivered at least one brutal slug to Jerry, presumably for his refusal to bow during the march.
Jerry returned to his cell conscious, despite JC’s drumming. Soon a new guard came and led him outside for a singular event the POWs would term the Garden Party. Guards led several prisoners to the far end of the Zoo, near the cesspool of Lake Fester. Mosquitoes and a pungent smell filled the air. Jerry’s escort stopped and unwrapped the two grimy cloths that had bound his sandals to his feet during the march. He stuffed one filthy rag into Jerry’s mouth and tied the other tightly around his eyes as a blindfold. He then forced Jerry against a tree and cuffed his hands behind it. Others experienced the same treatment. For much of the evening, guards milled about talking, joking, and throwing savage punches at the helpless prisoners.
Alone with his thoughts, Jerry tasted the dirt and grit of the rag. Every part of his body ached, his groin worst of all. He imagined himself as a pitiful sight, although he hadn’t actually seen his face in months. He wondered how he looked, then realized nobody cared. Eventually—as always—his thoughts turned to communication. He heard at least two men tied nearby, one on each side of him; he thought of them as crucified thieves on Calvary. He gave two coughs, then five—“J.” Next, he gave one cough, then four—“D.” “JD” for Jerry Denton. He heard responding coughs from his left: “JC.” For a moment, he thought Jesus Christ had divinely answered. Then the mental haze created by the night’s trauma lifted, and he realized “JC” stood for POW Jerry Coffee. Despite the pain and the rag stuffed down his throat, Denton smiled.
* * *
After Jerry had spent the night bound to the tree, a guard finally opened his cuffs and removed his gag and blindfold. Denton blinked and squinted in the morning light to restore his vision. He stepped in the direction of his cellblock, but the guard prodded him toward the camp office. Inside, he found the camp commander—an officer nicknamed Fox—waiting with JC. JC ordered the guard to wipe the blood and dirt from Jerry’s face. He complied with a thoughtless sweep. JC shocked Jerry and the guard by ordering a more thorough cleaning. Jerry wondered what the officers had in mind. With JC acting as interpreter, Fox asked for Jerry’s opinions on the previous night’s march.
The North Vietnamese rarely offered prisoners the opportunity to express themselves, and Jerry made sure not to waste this one. “You fools!” he exclaimed. “It’s the biggest mistake you’ve made. Parading prisoners in the streets is a return to barbaric times. I have nothing but contempt for your utter cowardice. The spectacle of helpless prisoners being paraded through the streets will bring a wave of criticism from the world.”
JC translated for Fox and then asked if Jerry had finished. He had.
Through JC, Fox said, “I have something to say to you, and I request that you remember it for a long time. These words are important. Do you understand?”
Jerry indicated that he did.
“The march was not the idea of the Army of Vietnam. The march was the idea of the people.” In North Vietnam, “the people” meant the Communist Party. Fox had just told Jerry that he disagreed with the party. As Jerry returned to his cell, he wondered about the divide between the army and the party. Always optimistic, he tried to discern how that division might somehow portend release. It held no such indication, but on only one other known occasion would a North Vietnamese official come so close to offering an American prisoner a sincere explanation of any sort.
* * *
At home, networks aired footage of the Hanoi March for the nation to see. Nobody watched with more interest than the families whose loved ones were listed as POW or MIA. Each scoured the black-and-white newsreels that showed downed pilots walking stoically through the crowds on Tràng Tiền. Some saw their husband, son, or father and learned for the first time that he’d survived. Sandra Storz watched the film closely but never saw Ron. She still wondered what had happened to him; she still hadn’t received a letter or sign of any type.
In Virginia Beach, the Denton family watched for Jerry but didn’t spot him either. Still, they were also oddly relieved by the sight of POWs walking—some proudly—and surmised the men retained at least a modicum of health. Further, Jane believed the families’ best hope lay in exposing North Vietnam’s illegal treatment of POWs, and the footage of servicemen being paraded through Hanoi served that purpose quite well.
The event sparked outrage across the United States. In the Senate, seventeen prominent doves—men Hanoi typically viewed as allies—protested the march and the threatened trials. Democrat Senator Richard Russell and Republican George Aiken both predicted that the U.S. military would level North Vietnam should trials occur; Russell said the country would be made “a desert.” President Johnson joined the condemnation with only slightly more measured wor
ds. On an international level, Ambassador-at-Large Averell Harriman rallied allies and organizations like the International Committee of the Red Cross to make North Vietnam honor the Geneva Convention.
The initial relief Jane Denton and her children felt upon seeing the footage proved short-lived, however. The next night, Jerry’s namesake eldest son and a date arrived at the beach for a cookout. Nineteen-year-old Jerry had brought an unread copy of the morning paper and tossed it on the sand as he set up the grill. After a while, he glanced down and noticed a photograph on the front page, which showed two POWs struggling to support each other as the mob besieged them. He became acutely aware that as he enjoyed this summer evening by the sea, his father languished in a miserable cell on the far side of the world, possibly never to return. His date shared his sentiment. This reality wasn’t going to go away, young Jerry thought. They didn’t stay long at the beach.
* * *
The North Vietnamese knew that numerous international parties, particularly those not aligned with or not dependent upon the United States, sympathized with them. In the aftermath of the march, they began to realize that staging war crimes trials would jeopardize this standing, regardless of their supporters’ relationships with America. Several weeks after the July 6 parade, Hanoi softened its stance. On July 20, 1966, Hồ Chí Minh conspicuously omitted the term “war criminals” from several diplomatic cables. On July 21, a French reporter found no party member willing to confirm plans for trials; the next day the reporter had learned more and announced that the government had postponed them. By the month’s end, Hồ Chí Minh had told another reporter no trials were in view. The POWs knew none of this and entered the dog days of summer 1966 still no closer to freedom.
Defiant: The POWs Who Endured Vietnam's Most Infamous Prison, the Women Who Fought for Them, and the One Who Never Returned Page 13