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

  “Calm down, Sam,” Jerry responded from Cell Ten. “This thing isn’t over yet.”

  “Maybe not, but Nixon is getting ready to close it down.”

  “It’s going to be a long war,” Harry Jenkins added. “[The Cambodia bombing] is just one more effort—one more move without the support of ground troops.” Even Harry, who considered everything a good sign, realized the U.S. military couldn’t quell the insurgency from the air.

  “One year,” Sam predicted.

  “Probably more like two,” Jerry answered, uncharacteristically pessimistic.

  One night a few weeks later, Mickey Mouse walked into a quiz room where Jerry had managed to fall asleep despite being in rear cuffs. When Mickey Mouse woke him, Jerry thought that the North Vietnamese officer seemed unusually excited. “Denton, I have something to tell you,” he said. “I know you usually don’t believe me, but time will prove I am telling the truth. I have just come from a meeting at headquarters. I have receive information to make provision for two more years.” He held up two fingers and clarified, “I must provide for two more Christmas. The war will go on!” In fact, the Camp Authority would eventually need to make provisions for four more Christmases.

  17

  BLACKMAIL

  That January morning in 1969, ten pairs of eyes had watched through cracks and peepholes as five guards herded Jim Stockdale out of the Alcatraz courtyard, the commander hobbling along as best he could. The gate had closed behind him, and the sound of his awkward stride had faded. The men heard an engine start and a truck rumble down the street, carrying him to an unknown fate. The truck had, in fact, driven Jim straight to Hỏa Lò Prison. When he heard the gates open and smelled the musty air, he knew exactly where they had taken him.

  He could never forget the prison’s distinct smell, and even with the blindfold tightened around his eyes, he could have made the walk to Room Eighteen without escort. He knew the steps from the sidewalk through the gates. He recognized the echoes in the tunnel that led toward the Heartbreak courtyard. He hobbled across a familiar sidewalk and into Room Eighteen, the site of so much agony. The guards removed his blindfold, pushed him inside, and left.

  He looked through a crack in the French doors and saw Rabbit and Pigeye walking toward him. He knew they would make his return to the Hanoi Hilton particularly unpleasant. Just as he shuffled away from the peephole, the doors burst open and in walked his old adversaries.

  “It is you who has caused me to be brought back here from my new office,” Rabbit began. “I don’t like it. We’ll get you this time, you son of a bitch.”

  Referring to the Alcatraz riot and hunger strike, Rabbit continued, “I don’t want to talk about what happened at the camp you just left. I want to know only one thing: Will you be my slave or not?”

  Jim answered, “No.”

  In seconds Pigeye manhandled him into leg irons and nylon straps. Then he plied the trade that had made him so feared and despised among the POWs. He jerked Jim’s arms behind his back and bound his forearms together from wrist to elbow. Then he tightened the straps, one pull at a time, watching Jim begin to shake involuntarily. Eventually, Pigeye could cinch the forearms no tighter. That cued him to begin ratcheting Jim’s arms higher and higher behind his back, forcing his haggard face closer to his outstretched knees. With his head stuffed between his thighs and his windpipe and lungs nearly crushed, he could scarcely breathe. Rabbit just watched placidly. By midmorning, Jim had uttered, “I submit.”

  Victorious, Rabbit had him write a statement that said, “I understand that I am a criminal who has bombed churches, schools, and pagodas of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. I have opposed the Camp Authority and incited others to oppose the Camp Authority. I know the nature of my sins, and I now submit to you to do whatever you tell me to write, say, or tape.” Rabbit left, smug, his morning’s job complete.

  Jim suspected Rabbit and Cat had more concessions in mind, and when he looked through his peephole that afternoon, he saw Rabbit and Pigeye on their way back to Room Eighteen, presumably for the next round. Rabbit assigned Jim a spot on the floor, and once the American had seated himself at his feet, he said, “You have never submitted a complete report of your military activities in the months preceding your capture. We need to know the number of people and the names of everybody in your units. Take this paper and sit in that chair and list the titles of your units, the number of people normally assigned, and their names.”

  If Jim could have rolled his eyes without reprisal, he would have. The North Vietnamese had run him and countless other POWs through this exercise, which revealed virtually no useful military information—especially now, considering nearly four years had passed since the POWs last saw their units. Requests for these biographical statements generally preceded demands for propaganda statements, and Jim would not go easily. Despite the consequences that he knew would come, Jim shouted, “No!” The day’s second session began.

  “Đán, do not scream,” Pigeye whispered into Jim’s ear after he’d roped him up and begun forcing his head toward his feet. “Do not scream, Đán.” Screams required breath, and at the moment Jim had none; he was suffocating. Only submission could save his life.

  Pleased with Jim’s second surrender of the day, Rabbit directed him to write his biography. “Put at the top of the paper: ‘Secret Personnel Report,’” he said. “Now, how many men were on your ship?”

  “I once read in a newspaper that there were over three thousand people on a carrier of that size,” Jim said.

  “Okay, put that down,” Rabbit said. “Now write down the names of all the officers and enlisted men who were assigned.”

  The drill lasted for an hour, Rabbit asking useless questions, Jim supplying useless answers. Jim did notice that Rabbit seemed embarrassed by some questions. It became clear that his superiors had asked him for certain specifics that Rabbit considered inconsequential, but his duty bound him to go through the motions. Finally done for the day, Rabbit rose to leave. Then he looked down at Jim and said, “You are to get no food until you learn your lesson. The guard will bring you water.”

  Before Jim had left Alcatraz, he had placed his men on a hunger strike to protest the treatment shown to the ailing Harry Jenkins. In Alcatraz, the men went hungry together on their own terms, but in Room Eighteen, Rabbit had control.

  The next day, Rabbit began the drill anew. His prisoner reluctantly completed “My Secret Report on the Defenses of My Ship,” “My Secret Report on Aircraft Tactics over the Target,” and “My Secret Report on All the Targets I’ve Struck.”

  When Jim again grew stubborn and refused to comply, Rabbit produced a photograph of eighteen-year-old Jimmy Stockdale, doubtlessly taken from one of the many letters that Sybil sent but Jim had never received. “If you ever want to see this boy again, you must change your attitude,” Rabbit said. The photograph proved insufficient motivation. Pigeye soon put Jim back into the ropes.

  As Pigeye worked on him, Jim’s mind transported him away, just as his survival instructors had taught him. Get your head out of the box, they’d repeated as he was, in fact, stuffed inside a small box during SERE training. Room Eighteen soon became distant and Jim’s mind retreated to Alcatraz, where he could draw strength from the ten men who served alongside him, who understood what he endured. He imagined himself ambling along the cellblocks behind the Ministry of National Defense and eventually arriving at the door of Jim Mulligan’s cell. He remembered the words to “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” the self-assigned emergency tune Mulligan would whistle should he find himself in great distress; each of the Eleven had selected a tune shortly after arriving at Alcatraz. Next, Jim strolled pleasantly across the quiet walkway to Cell One and remembered Howie Rutledge’s emergency song, “Oklahoma.” He walked to Cells Two and Three, reciting “Maryland, My Maryland” for Harry Jenkins and “The Eyes of Texas” for Sam Johnson. He had finished singing “The Pennsylvania Polka” for Bob Shumaker and had begun “The Sidewalks of New York
” for Ron Storz when he suddenly became aware of Rabbit shrieking at him, there in Room Eighteen, demanding he submit.

  So the week continued, Rabbit—now often joined by Chihuahua—pressing Jim for information, Jim giving nothing true or valuable, Pigeye facilitating the process as necessary. Jim knew they were building a thick file of information they thought he was not allowed to divulge. Even though his information was more than three years old, Jim was sure they’d try to use it as leverage against him. He accused Rabbit of blackmail. Rabbit did not recognize the word initially, but the next day, he told Jim, “I looked that word up in my dictionary and you are right—this is blackmail.”

  Rabbit extracted a statement, which read, “To the General Staff Officer, Dear Sir: Here is a summary of the military information that you requested. I would like to present this and would be willing to do so at your office if you so desire. This material should be of value to you, and it is the first installment of more to follow up on your request. James Bond Stockdale.”

  Upon signing the letter, Jim received his blanket roll, a mosquito net, bread, and soup. He happily used the first two gifts. The blackmail admission had infuriated him even further, however, and in protest, he refused to touch the food.

  Six days after beginning the interrogation, Rabbit walked into Room Eighteen and told him, “I have come from the general staff officer. He thanks you very much for your secret information and says it will be very helpful. He realizes that according to your Code of Conduct, you can be put in prison in America for giving him that valuable information. He says, however, that your being the source of it will be kept in strict confidence as long as you are cooperative.” So this was how the Camp Authority intended to blackmail him.

  Jim Stockdale (“CAG”), the highest-ranking naval officer in Hanoi.

  Rabbit added, “[The general staff officer] suggested that you be permitted to take a bath and become more comfortable.” Pigeye appeared with soap and a razor. To Jim, a razor heralded a publicity stunt; they wanted him clean-shaven for the cameras. Pigeye escorted his prisoner across the Heartbreak courtyard and into Heartbreak Hotel, the cellblock Jim had first inhabited upon his arrival at Hỏa Lò three and a half years ago. Pigeye pushed him into Cell Eight, the bath facility, and left. Jim’s mind raced. How could he foil Cat? How could he keep himself from being a pawn?

  He turned on the faucet, which issued forth its familiar weak stream of marginally clean water. How he wished the wall’s graffiti—Smile, you’re on Candid Camera—were true. He stripped and positioned his backside between the shower and the door. Then he stuck his head under the water and lathered his matted hair, which had gone unwashed for more than a week. He wet the razor and placed it near the back of his neck. Then he began working the razor forward, shaving down the center of his head. As he tugged the dull razor through wiry hair and weak lather, it ripped a path of bare skin, marked by long cuts and bleeding nicks from the blade. Blood spilled onto his hands and the floor; it trickled down his head and onto his shoulders.

  He heard the peephole open behind him. Pigeye screamed, “Đán!” The door burst open, and Pigeye disarmed his prisoner. He dragged him outside, stark naked, soapy, and bloody. He returned him to Room Eighteen much earlier than Rabbit and Chihuahua had planned. Both were still busy fastening what was intended to be a hidden tape recorder under the quiz table; they’d planned to secretly record Jim reading his letter aloud. At the sight of their prisoner, they couldn’t hide their shock.

  Expecting the ropes, CAG sat down and stretched out his legs. Nobody issued any orders for torture. In fact, Rabbit indignantly yelled, “No! You are not entitled to the ropes!” The two officers frantically discussed the situation, and Jim learned that sure enough, Cat had planned a public appearance and interview that night. The secret tape would have substituted had Jim refused to deliver the rehearsed statement—empty platitudes, admissions of American imperialism, and an apology—when the show began.

  On orders from Rabbit and Chihuahua, Pigeye commandeered clippers and attempted to bring the rest of Jim’s head into line with the shaved streak. Jim’s hack job foiled any attempt at repair, however, and the three officials went to find a hat to cover his unsightly head. They left their captive by himself.

  At once, Jim surveyed the room for tools and ideas. How could he counter the hat? His eyes fell upon the mahogany quiz stool. He picked it up and started butting it against his cheekbones. Again and again he hit himself with the wooden seat, bludgeoning one side of his face, then the other. His cheeks began to swell, forcing his eyes to squint. Blood ran onto his shirt from cuts opened by the beating. He grunted with each blow. He heard civilians who worked in the prison offices gathering outside, trying to peer through the window to see what was causing the disturbance. Then he heard Rabbit yelling, cutting through the crowd toward the door, followed by Chihuahua.

  Standing over his bruised and bloodied prisoner, a furious Chihuahua asked, “What are we to do? You tell me what we are going to tell the general staff officer about the trip downtown after the way you have behaved.”

  Emphasizing his superior rank, Jim replied, “You tell the major that the commander decided not to go.”

  That night, Jim crawled across the floor of Room Eighteen, dragging his leg irons behind him, and pulled himself onto his blanket to rest. He thought of the photograph of Jimmy that Rabbit had waved in front of him earlier that week; he hoped his performance would make his son proud. He thought about how he had resisted his interrogators, making them torture him for every bit of information. He took pride in his hunger strike, despite the physical harm it caused him. He found satisfaction in foiling Cat’s plan to parade him before the world. He hurt all over, and he knew he would hurt again, but for the moment, he felt victorious. He remembered his classic literature and recalled Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground. He now understood what the story’s narrator—the famous “Underground Man”—knew: “What man wants is simply independent choice, whatever that independence may cost and wherever it may lead.”

  * * *

  Anytime CAG and his fellow hard-liners managed some small victory, the Camp Authority inevitably beat them back down the next day. So it didn’t surprise him when Rabbit reappeared the following morning. Stockdale had gulped down a ball of laundry detergent that brought about dry heaving to make himself seem sick. Rabbit didn’t buy it and waited for the performance to end, then asked CAG to write to Sybil and explain that he’d fallen ill.

  He grabbed the tablet and wrote, “Dear Sybil, I’m sick. Your friend, Jim.”

  “No, you don’t get it,” Rabbit said. “You have black malaria. You might die at any time, and she must know that. Now I want you to know that I’m through with you. I hate you. All we have been doing is just furnishing you a stage on which to perform. You are the world’s greatest actor. And you love it! I have been granted permission by the general staff officer to leave this case. This is the final document I intend to get from you. Shall I call the guard?”

  Jim realized that should the Camp Authority kill him in the coming months, should he die in Pigeye’s ropes or on the floor of Room Eighteen, this undated letter would allow them to claim that he died of malaria. By the time the U.S. government recovered his remains—if it ever recovered his remains—no evidence would exist one way or the other. Jim decided to skip a final bout of torture under Rabbit’s supervision. His fifth draft read, “Dear Sybil, sorry to inform you that I’m very ill. I’m told I have malaria. It’s a very serious illness and I’m weak. I want you to know I send you my best regards, Jim.” Rabbit taped him reading the letter, then walked out.

  Several weeks later, in mid-March, Pigeye escorted Jim from Room Eighteen to a room across the Heartbreak courtyard. The number “5” marked its door. As Jim put his belongings inside, Pigeye opened a tool chest and indicated that Jim should help him take the room’s door off its hinges. There in the open courtyard, these two longtime opponents converted a typical door into a cell do
or, sawing and hammering, reinforcing panels, and installing a peephole for guards. They communicated with gestures and grunts more than words, with Pigeye always calling Jim “Đán.” When Pigeye was distracted, Jim drove a nail through the door and then clawed it out, creating his own peephole, which he disguised with lint. Once they’d rehung the door, he ironically felt pride in fashioning such a bulwark for himself. Pigeye likewise seemed genuinely satisfied. The guard made a motion that resembled a salute and left Jim alone in his new room, locked behind their refurbished door. Pigeye would never again lay a hand on Jim Stockdale.

  * * *

  While the Camp Authority had Jim agonizing in Room Eighteen or confined to Room Five during that winter of 1969, the new administration in Washington grappled with its unwelcome inheritance. “I’m not going to end up like LBJ holed up in the White House afraid to show my face on the street,” President Richard Nixon promised an aide. “I’m going to stop that war. Fast.” Nixon’s new national security adviser assumed a more prescient tone. “We will not make the same old mistakes,” Henry Kissinger said. “We will make our own.”

  Indeed they would, but they did carry out their promise to begin extricating the U.S. military from the war. In his first year, Nixon reduced the U.S. troop presence from 536,000 to 475,000, gradually shifting responsibility for the war to South Vietnam. By the end of 1970, troop levels would fall to 335,000, and a year later, to 157,000. Yet Vietnam still would claim more than 20,000 American lives during Nixon’s first term. As he had promised in his campaign, Nixon pursued “peace with honor,” an exit he designed to leave America’s international prestige, a non-Communist South Vietnam, and his own presidency all intact.

  * * *

  By the time newly appointed Secretary of Defense Mel Laird took office in January 1969, he had seen nothing positive come from Johnson and Harriman’s previous years of silence and diplomacy toward Hanoi. Personally encouraged by the budding activism of the POW/MIA community, Laird quickly reassessed the Pentagon’s approach, tapping Deputy Assistant Secretary Richard G. Capen as the point man for the prisoner issue. Living in San Diego’s navy community, Capen knew the grief, confusion, and frustration felt by the families of America’s missing and captive servicemen, and he dove into his new role. In March, Capen, State Department representative Frank Sieverts, and former Korean War POW John Thornton flew to San Diego to visit with local members of the League of Families. The navy and air force assisted Capen by assembling the families at the NAS Miramar Officers’ Club. Among the audience at the March 26, 1969, event were Lorraine Shumaker, Phyllis Rutledge, and Sybil Stockdale. Reflecting the skepticism created by four years of frustration, the wives had already nicknamed the three delegates the “Washington Road Show,” and they planned to let the new administration know exactly what they thought.