At 3:20 A.M. on the East Coast, all those anxious viewers saw the first C-141 touch its wheels to the runway at Clark Air Base in the Philippines. The families watched breathlessly as the Hanoi Taxi rumbled to a halt before a waiting crowd. People waved homemade banners: WELCOME HOME. YOU HAVE KEPT THE FAITH. WE LOVE YOU. Televisions showed two air force men hurriedly roll out a red carpet. Cameras panned over thick crowds of well-wishers, capturing one of the few happy scenes in this long and unpopular war.
The plane’s rear passenger door opened. The light applause that had pattered like a steady rain since the aircraft landed suddenly became a thunderous torrent. Screams, whoops, and shouts joined the applause. Banners waved, people cried, and the noise grew louder still. Into this jubilant atmosphere emerged Operation Homecoming’s first returnee: Jerry Denton, now forty-eight years old and the senior officer aboard the first plane. He walked down the yellow ladder and onto the tarmac, trying to absorb and understand the crowd’s exuberance, which few POWs had anticipated. Planeside, he greeted Admiral Noel Gayler, Commander, Pacific Command. Then the freed prisoner turned to the crowd, nearly eight years of imprisonment behind him. He stepped toward the twin microphones that would carry the two simple sentences he’d composed during his flight from Hanoi—the first official statement given by the returning American POWs. Blinking back tears, Jerry Denton spoke to the world.
“We are honored to have had the opportunity to serve our country under difficult circumstances,” he said. “We are profoundly grateful to our commander in chief and to our nation for this day.”
He paused briefly; he felt unsatisfied with his prepared remarks. The POWs needed to say something more; he needed to say something more. The words began to well up from his heart. His voice breaking with emotion, he added, “God bless America.”
Tears came quickly and happily at the Denton home on Watergate Lane. The Pentagon had notified the families whose loved ones were slated for release on February 12, but nobody had told the Dentons that Jerry would be first off the plane. Suddenly, he had walked down the steps and they saw him for the first time since his May 1966 television interview, where he’d blinked out “T-O-R-T-U-R-E.” The children—several of whom were young men now—listened to their father’s words and saw his strength renewed, his purpose evident, his spirit unbroken.
Admiral Gayler echoed Jerry’s “God bless America” as he reached for Jerry’s hand. Jerry received the handshake, then walked toward the color guard standing near the plane’s tail. He pulled himself to attention and saluted the American flag. Then he walked down the red carpet to the waiting blue hospital buses. One hundred and fifteen POWs would follow him down the carpet. They walked proudly. Many powered along with limps from injuries left untreated for years. Others walked awkwardly, unaccustomed to shoes after years of wearing none. Almost every man beamed as he savored his first steps outside North Vietnam. A fleet of buses shuttled the returned POWs past the airport’s throngs and down roads lined with people cheering and waving flags; the entire base had mobilized to welcome them home.
* * *
For years, George McKnight had given himself sponge baths with dirty, tepid water that nobody dared drink. So when he arrived at Clark’s hospital, he headed straight for the showers. En route, he took a detour to experience something else he’d been without: flushing toilets. In the shower stalls, he found genuine soap and clean, fast-running water streaming from shiny nozzles. He had no doubt his body still had dirt on it from 1965, and he scrubbed himself from head to foot over and over. “Hey, McKnight,” a POW in line called. “Get out of there! There’re other people here.” McKnight lingered a bit longer, letting the warm steam and hot water wash away seven years of grime, dirt, and painful memories. Unlike McKnight and many of his compatriots, Bob Shumaker spent just minutes in the shower. Now unfamiliar with such quantities of water, he worried the endless stream would drown him.
As the afternoon became evening, the POWs grew restless; they wanted food. First, though, each POW had instructions to visit a doctor. After Sam Johnson’s examination, his doctor delivered the worst news possible. “We’ll have to restrict your diet,” the doctor said and began to issue the Texan a card requiring him to receive a bland diet, fearing his digestive system couldn’t handle rich American food. Numerous other POWs received the same cards, which became instantly and universally despised.
Sam Johnson especially would not have it. “Let me eat,” he howled. If he had survived the food served in Hỏa Lò, he felt sure his stomach could hack anything coming from the base kitchen. The doctor asked what he wanted.
“I want steak and ice cream,” Sam declared.
“That’s too rich for you right now,” the doctor said.
“That’s what I want.”
“I can’t let you have that yet.”
“I’m telling you, I can eat anything!” roared Sam; he had anticipated this first meal for years. His doctor—like most other base physicians that evening—relented. Sam felt as if he’d just beaten up the school bully. With the doctor’s permission slip in hand, he strode down the hall toward the meal of which he’d dreamed for so long.
In the mess hall, Sam found ravenous POWs descending upon food stations and piling absurd amounts of food on their plates; most devoured every last scrap. Sam walked straight to the dessert station. A young steward asked what Sam would like. “A banana split,” he answered, and got one with all the trimmings. Instead of sitting down to finish it, Sam jumped directly into the line for dinner. As he ravenously devoured the bananas, ice cream, syrup, and whipped cream, he ordered a T-bone steak, medium rare. Perhaps given the late hour—it was well past dinnertime—the chef suggested eggs instead. Sam decided to order both.
* * *
After their first real dinner in American territory, some POWs went to bed; some visited with one another. Others lost themselves in newspapers and magazines, trying to recapture missed years and learning about the new world they had so suddenly been thrust back into. The men also began making their first telephone calls home, reconnecting with loved ones who, in some ways, were now strangers. Originally limited to ten minutes, the calls averaged forty. In the span of seven or more years, much change—and often sadness—had come to many American families. Howie Rutledge would return a grandfather, but he’d also learn of the swimming accident that had paralyzed his son Johnny in 1968. When his wife delivered the news, Howie paused before asking, “Phyllis, do you blame yourself for Johnny’s accident?” Through tears, she responded that she’d harbored guilt since the accident—if only they hadn’t gone to the bay to celebrate the Fourth of July.
“Phyllis, I trust you in all things,” Howie said. “I don’t blame you for anything that’s happened and I know you did your very best. That’s all anyone can ask. We can do all things through Christ who strengthens us.” Hearing those words, she knew her husband had returned a different man, a man with renewed faith. Composing herself, she stressed that Johnny had not lost his passion for life and couldn’t wait to see his father.
In his first phone call, Jim Stockdale explained to Sybil, “I have a stiff leg, but I think it gives my walk a little style.” Sam Johnson told Shirley of his injured arms and right hand; Shirley asked if his hair had grayed, as hers had. Lorraine Shumaker—just twenty-two years old when her husband left—heard Bob’s voice and felt her protective emotional wall crumble. She’d spent eight years steeling herself for what this first conversation might bring; during all those years, she’d only received eight letters. Yet when they first spoke to one another, neither Lorraine nor Shu felt as if a single day had passed since they’d parted.
Jim Mulligan felt only a boundless joy as he listened to an operator connect him with his family in Virginia Beach. “Is Mrs. Mulligan there?” Jim heard the operator ask one of his sons. “She has a call from Captain Mulligan in the Philippines.”
“Mom, it’s Dad!” the boy screamed. Jim listened happily from afar as his whole family began to celebra
te. “Jim?” Louise’s voice asked. “Jim, is it you?”
“I love you, Louise,” he said, and he heard her cry with relief. Jim talked with his wife and then his sons, whose voices he could no longer recognize. When the conversation ended, handsets on both sides of the Pacific were wet with tears.
Every POW had been assigned an aide, and Jim looked at his and said, “Let’s get moving. I’ve got to get out of this place and get home.”
When this first day of freedom ended, George McKnight retired to his room at the base hospital and pulled back clean blankets to reveal crisp sheets covering a soft mattress. For once, he had a pillow. He lay down for his first secure night’s sleep in years. The next morning, he would learn that several men, so used to sleeping on hard concrete, had trouble falling asleep; George had not. The next day, he woke early simply to enjoy his freedom. Tailors arrived to take his measurements. Not long thereafter, he buttoned up the blue jacket of an air force uniform, his eyes moist like many others.
By April 1, 1973, 456 American servicemen held in North Vietnam would pass through Clark Air Base; 27 had died in captivity. Others would come to Clark from South Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, and China. In total, Operation Homecoming would see the return of 566 military personnel—164 from the navy and Marine Corps, 325 from the air force, and 77 from the army.
On February 13, Jim Mulligan pressed his aide to speed his processing. As the military physicians and psychologists weren’t sure what physical or emotional injuries the POWs had sustained, they planned a stringent four-day quarantine to observe the men’s health and state of mind. Captains Mulligan and Denton wouldn’t have it. When Jim Mulligan completed his final physical, he made his doctor call the officers coordinating flights home. “This is Captain Mulligan,” he said. “Now hold on.” He passed the phone to his doctor and said, “Tell ’em, Doc.”
“Captain Mulligan is released,” the doctor said with resignation.
Mulligan phoned Jerry Denton’s aide and ordered, “Lookit, I’m released. You get Denton ready and get him on that first plane with me!”
Headstrong until the last, these two officers would catch the first ride home. Others followed soon after as once-skeptical doctors conceded that these men had survived years of imprisonment with their minds intact.
* * *
In the coming days, the men departed Clark for the United States on transports that each carried twenty POWs, twenty escorts, a medical crew, and a public affairs officer. They first flew across the Pacific to Hickam Air Force Base (AFB) adjacent to Pearl Harbor on Oahu. After an arrival ceremony, an hour-long layover, and a press briefing, they left in another C-141, bound for one of four air force bases on the U.S. mainland, where they would transfer to smaller C-9 Nightingales for the last segment of their trip.
Although most were on separate flights, Bob Shumaker, Jim Stockdale, George McKnight, Howie Rutledge, and Harry Jenkins all flew to San Francisco’s Travis AFB in the coming days. McKnight disembarked there; the others flew on to San Diego. Sam Johnson returned to Kelly AFB in San Antonio, then hopped to Wichita Falls. Jerry Denton and Jim Mulligan landed at Scott AFB, just east of St. Louis, then traveled on to Norfolk. Several weeks later, in early March, Nels Tanner and George Coker would land at NAS Memphis and JFK International in New York. At every landing, news crews swarmed the family reunions, broadcasting them to national audiences who clamored for updates on the POW story.
As Jim flew eastward across the Pacific from the Philippines to Hawaii, Louise received a phone call from President Nixon. The president thanked her for her service and officially informed her that Jim had begun his long journey to Virginia Beach. Feisty until the last, Louise pointedly replied, “There are some of us who didn’t agree with your policies, Mr. President. The war went on far too long.”
“Yes, I understand that,” he replied, “but we can be glad they’re coming home.”
When Louise had said good-bye and hung up the phone, she closed that chapter in her life forever. Other families received similar phone calls, not from the president himself but from Pentagon contacts, informing them that their long wait was at last nearing its end; their husbands were coming home.
* * *
In the early morning hours of February 15, 1973, the airplane bearing Jim Mulligan and Jerry Denton winged over the port community of Norfolk, Virginia. The returnees saw the dark expanse of the Chesapeake Bay, outlined by the lights of the surrounding cities. On these very waters, only sixty-two years earlier, aviation pioneer Eugene Ely first flew an aircraft off a ship, beginning the proud tradition that Jim, Jerry, and so many other POWs had carried forward. In the shadows of Hỏa Lò Prison and in the solitude of Alcatraz, naval aviation had tallied some of its greatest victories.
Jerry and Jane Denton, February 15, 1973.
As the airliner descended toward the runway, the two new captains looked over the warships moored at Naval Station Norfolk. Jim saw Pier Twelve, where he’d kissed Louise good-bye on October 24, 1965. That was the first time she had cried when he left for sea. As he boarded the Enterprise that day, he had wondered if her tears were a bad omen. In the end, perhaps they portended good. Jim had come home after all.
When the turbines of the C-9 had spun down, Jerry Denton and Jim Mulligan emerged from the doorway. They looked out over a crowd that seemed comprised of every navy family in the area. They saw friends from Naval Station Norfolk, NAS Oceana, and Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek. Representatives from Fort Eustis and Langley Air Force Base added army and air force uniforms to the picture. Floodlights gleamed on the ramp, still wet from an evening rainfall. A band played. A line of police cars stood ready to escort the returning heroes; Jerry had never seen so many flashing lights. The two friends walked down the floodlit stairs from the cabin. Shortly after 2:35 A.M., they each stepped onto Virginia soil, delivered a brief speech, then faced a small mob of family. The seven Denton children, followed by Jane, bolted across the tarmac to meet their father. Louise and the six Mulligan boys rushed to embrace Jim. The two captains could scarcely recognize some of their children. A joyous reunion took place in the chill of that wet February night. Minutes later, in their private car, separated from the noise of the crowd, Jerry and Jane wrapped themselves in each other’s arms, scarcely believing they were together again. They did not want to let go.
* * *
Looking out over the Hill Country, Sam Johnson savored his return to Texas airspace. He gazed out across a blanket of fresh snow—something he hadn’t seen for seven years. He produced a cigarette, a habit he picked up in Hanoi. He lit it, stared at it thoughtfully, and decided not to smoke it. He would never light another. As the plane neared its next destination, an air force officer approached Sam and said, “Colonel Johnson, we’d like you to say something to the press.”
“It ought to be Robbie Risner,” Sam said. “He’s the senior officer [on board].”
“We’d like it to be a Texan, sir,” replied the officer, who knew Risner would not disembark until he reached Oklahoma. Minutes later, the plane’s wheels squeaked onto the landing strip at Sheppard Air Force Base and rolled to a stop before a gathered crowd of friends, strangers, press, and family. Wearing his air force blue, with a colonel’s silver eagles on his shoulders and cap, Sam stepped out of the plane to cheers. At the stairway’s bottom, he faced a swarm of cameras and microphones. “It’s the greatest feeling in the world to be back on Texas soil,” Sam said, eyes brimming. More microphones and cameras closed in; reporters peppered him with questions. Sam tried to look past them, just wanting to see his family. He swatted at a microphone, and a public affairs officer announced, “I think we have had enough of this for now.”
Sam pushed through the crowd of media. Suddenly, his son, Bob, appeared and embraced him. Seconds later, his daughters, Gini and Beverly, reached him, too. Then he saw Shirley, the woman he married twenty-two years ago. The family embraced each other tightly, as if Sam might be taken away again at any point. A long reunion had begun; Sam
would get to know his family once again. His children—fifteen, twelve, and nine when he left—were now twenty-one, eighteen, and fifteen. He’d missed so many memories, so many firsts, but by God, he’d come home. As he started his life anew, he did what he could not at his base in Thailand, in the Hanoi Hilton, or at Clark Air Base in the Philippines: Sam Johnson ate Tex-Mex for five days straight.
* * *
In December of 1964, twenty-two-year-old Lorraine Shumaker had waved good-bye to her husband and returned home with their newborn infant. She never dreamed she’d spend eight years raising Grant by herself. She’d expected to watch her husband fly over NAS Miramar as his squadron returned eight months after deployment. Now, eight years later, Lorraine found herself preparing an eight-year-old boy to meet his father for the first time. That morning, as she applied her makeup in the bathroom, her son walked in and looked up at his mother—the only parent he had ever known. She sensed concern in her shy child and worried that he wouldn’t hug the man who would arrive in several hours’ time. Lorraine turned to Grant and asked, “What are you going to do when you see your daddy?”
Grant didn’t comment; he just shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’m going to run up and give him a big kiss,” Lorraine said. Then she added a challenge, “And I’ll beat you to him.”
Hours later, on the tarmac of NAS Miramar, Lorraine and Grant watched a U.S. Air Force jet bank over the California hills and glide toward the airstrip. When it had arrived at the ramp and powered down its engines, an air crew rolled a set of stairs to its passenger door. Wearing a khaki uniform with three gold commander’s stripes on each black shoulder board, Bob Shumaker stepped into the warm California sunshine. He jogged down the steps and met two naval officers, who then escorted him toward a podium and the waiting color guard—but he would never deliver the speech he had planned.
Defiant: The POWs Who Endured Vietnam's Most Infamous Prison, the Women Who Fought for Them, and the One Who Never Returned Page 41