by Robert Coram
“I will teach you to remember.”
Day would find later that his adversary had softened up many pilots. The interrogator knew from experience that he could reduce a proud American fighter pilot to a sniveling, crying, pleading baby in a matter of minutes. If this one wanted to resist, okay.
He nodded and the guards twisted the rope tighter.
Day had always heard that when a person is subjected to sustained and severe pain, after a while the neurological mechanism that reports pain to the brain shuts down and the pain lessens. He found that was not true. The pain did not lessen; it increased. Minute by minute it increased. And after several hours, when the ropes were untied, the stinging as blood returned to his arms was as severe as the torture. The fingers on his right hand now curved into a feral claw. He could not move his fingers and he could not open his hand. He knew the nerves in his arm had been severely damaged. Day looked at his crippled hands in horror and disbelief.
His interrogator smiled. “I told you I would make you a cripple.”
“You miserable son of a bitch. You did.”
The guards punched and kicked Day as they carried him back to his room.
Down the hall, Major Norris Overly had been returned to his room with no beating. He was allowed a bath and given a generous meal.
That evening the door to Day’s room opened. His interrogator introduced the camp commander, a man who appeared to be about twenty years old. A guard handed the commander a small green stick, an innocuous little stick rather like a baton. Day ignored it.
“What organization are you from?” the young man asked.
“I was injured in the ejection. I have no recall of that.”
Whap!
The commander struck Day across the face, and Day realized that a small green stick could deliver enormous pain.
“What base you fly from?”
“I don’t remember.”
Whap!
“What airplane you fly?”
“I don’t remember.”
Whap!
After a few slices across the face, Day heard an inner voice begging for relief, begging for anything that would stop the pain. Every blow further disoriented him.
The same questions elicited the same answer for the next two hours. Before long, Day’s face was swollen and bleeding, and he could barely see from his one good eye. But he could perceive one thing with the utmost clarity: the blood and the pain from that sustained beating hardened the cement of his hatred for Communism. During the torture session he told himself that if he gave the enemy soldiers any military information, he would be a traitor. He was a career military man and he had certain standards that were inviolate, higher standards than most civilians could ever imagine. If he did not abide by the Code of Conduct, if he did not keep the faith, he could not live with himself. He could not face Doris, whose cousins had been imprisoned and tortured by the Germans in World War II. It would be better to die a bitter and miserable death in a Vietnamese village than to break the faith. And every blow made Day more determined to resist. Every blow increased his hatred for his captors.
The interrogation ended when Day’s face became so swollen he could not move his lips to say, “I don’t remember.” The camp commander was exhausted. His shirt was soaked with perspiration and he did not bother to hide his frustration.
The commander had an ominous last word. “Tomorrow you pay. Tomorrow you tell me many things.” The commander paused and repeated the camp mantra. “If you do not, I will turn you into a cripple.”
There was something about the way he said it that told Day tomorrow would indeed be different. But how could it possibly be worse?
It was barely daylight the next morning when Day was frog-marched back to the pagoda. A half dozen Vietnamese officers sat against the wall, spectators for the coming event, their faces betraying their anticipation at what was about to happen to the Yankee air pirate.
Day knew vaguely that the concept of “face” was very important in Vietnam. He was about to discover just how important. The camp commander was plying his trade in front of witnesses; he had to have results or the shame would be tremendous.
Day’s arms were trussed behind his back, locked together from wrist to elbow. Because of the rigidity of the cast, his body was twisted into a pretzel shape that, even before the torture began, was immensely painful. He gritted his teeth when he saw the guards pick up the piece of wood to twist the ropes tighter.
But this time it was different. A rope dangled from a rafter. A chair stood under the rope.
The interrogator turned to Day. “If you not immediately answer all questions, I turn you into cripple.”
Day remembered from survival school in the Philippines that each enemy interrogator would have his own style of questioning. Apparently the repertoire of the commander was limited to the threat of turning a pilot into a cripple. The North Vietnamese wanted intelligence, but so too did Bud — and now he knew something about his antagonist.
Because Vinh was a collection point for American POWs before they were shipped north, the local commander’s job appeared to be to soften up the Americans, to give them a shock treatment of brutal torture that would get their minds right and show them what to expect if they did not cooperate. And the commander took his job seriously. Day was to discover later that the commander had made many men remember and that he had crippled many American pilots.
The commander pointed to the building where Day was being held prisoner. “The other man told us everything,” he said. “There no need for you take this punishment.” He nodded and one of the guards pushed Day up onto the chair. Day did not move fast enough, and the guard delivered a brutal kick to his injured right leg, causing Day to scream in pain.
Then the guard took the rope dangling from the rafter and tied one end to Day’s wrists. He pulled hard on the other end, jerking Day’s arms high behind his back. Day had thought the session would begin with questions. But today the commander was getting right down to business.
The commander looked at Day and said, “Now you pay.” He jerked the chair away and the guard pulled hard on the rope. Day thought his arms would rip from his body. The big cast on his right arm was forced against his chin. As he swung from the rafters, perspiration dripped down his face and fell from his nose and chin. He could feel blood vessels bursting in his arms. His chest bulged like a pigeon’s breast and he heard his body making wretched sounds as pieces were pulled apart. To blot out the pain, he began counting, thinking that if he resisted long enough the enemy would become discouraged and give up. He prayed. Hours passed and the pain only grew. He dangled before the curious eyes of the seated Vietnamese men.
He had sworn that he would not scream again. But then, from somewhere deep inside, came long warbling primal wails.
The guards stared impassively. To amuse the men seated against the wall, the interrogator occasionally walked over and spun Day on the rope.
About 10:30 a.m. the interrogator smiled and asked, “Now you remember?”
Day could not speak. He shook his head. One of the observers stood up and walked away. Nothing was happening. The spectators were becoming bored. The commander had to seize the initiative. He could not let the Yankee air pirate cause him to lose face. He motioned toward one of the guards. With one hand the guard seized the cast on Day’s arm; with the other he seized Day’s wrist and twisted hard. Day heard his arm snap and he felt the shards of freshly broken bones grinding against his skin. What he described as a “blue-black sea of pain” washed over him, and somewhere he heard a high, shrill scream, a sound that could not be human.
A cascade of perspiration appeared on his face. His eyes bulged. He vomited. His bowels loosened. Urine streamed from his body.
After a moment the interrogator spoke calmly. “Now I have broken your arm. I am prepared to break the other arm. When you come down you will be a cripple. You will never work again. You will never feed your family again. You will be double cripple.”
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Day looked at the man’s eyes and knew he was speaking the truth. Day wondered what it would be like to spend years captive with two broken arms. How would he feed himself? How would he bathe himself and take care of bodily functions? Could he even survive?
“Take me down. I’ll answer your questions.”
“No!” shouted his interrogator. “I not take you down until you answer question.”
Above all else, Day had to be released from the rope. He felt as if his shoulders were being pulled from the joints. He had to have relief. Somehow he found the strength to insist on being taken down.
“I will not answer any questions as long as I am hanging here.” Even as he said it, he thought, That’s not me talking. All he wanted was relief, so why had he defied the interrogator?
The guard lowered Day to the chair. Day smelled urine and excrement. Blood and pus covered his right leg, and he realized that the guard’s kick must have ruptured his wound again. Around his wrists were rope scars that would be visible for the remainder of his life.
The interrogator smiled. “I told you I would cripple you.”
“You son of a bitch. I think you did.”
Day was frightened. Both hands were locked into claws, with fingers curled against the palm. His left wrist was twisted inward. His right hand had no feeling, and he could not make it move at all. It was only with extreme difficulty that he could move his arms.
The commander stepped in front of Day, hooked his thumbs over his belt, bent forward, and asked harshly, “What political party your family?”
The first thought through Day’s mind was Damn, I got my arm broken for that? Then he said, “In America, military men are not allowed to participate in partisan politics.”
“What unit you from?”
Day invented the name of a unit and fabricated the name of an Air Force base. When asked for the names of fellow pilots, he paused a moment. “Charles Lindbergh. Wiley Post.” The interrogation lasted only a few minutes. The purpose was not so much to get information as it was to get Day talking, to start a process, to create a precedent so the next time it would be easier.
In the pagoda at Vinh, Day learned a truth not taught in survival school. American training assumed that interrogators spoke reasonably proficient English, that they were educated and sophisticated, that they had some basic knowledge of a POW’s country and of his military structure. But in many countries, interrogators might be not only young but uneducated, even not very bright. Their English might be rudimentary. Such young men can display unimaginable cruelty. Their limited facility with English makes them even more ominous, distant, remote, implacable — and dangerous.
Day was also to learn from bitter experience another truth: always tell lies you can remember. Interrogators keep detailed notes of every interrogation and instantly pounce on any inconsistency.
Day was blindfolded and marched back to his room. He counted his paces across the small compound and, when he passed Overly’s room, said, “The rotten sons of bitches rebroke my arm.”
Overly cleared his throat, signifying he heard and understood.
The next morning the commander told Day that he and the other criminal would be taken to Hanoi. “If you talk to him, you will be shot.”
That evening Day was hauled onto the back of a small truck. The truck had transported war materials into South Vietnam and was returning to Hanoi. There were no gas stations along the way, so the truck carried extra fuel in a fifty-five-gallon drum. In an obscene embrace, Day’s arms and legs were tied around the leaking and malodorous drum. Overly was tied to another drum. A guard climbed aboard and sat in the back. Ordinarily a pilot as severely injured as Day would have been tied down and the guard would have sat in relative comfort in the cab. But Day had escaped, remained at large more than two weeks, and made it into South Vietnam. He was a high-risk criminal and must be watched vigilantly.
The truck lurched into the night. Frequently the sound of a low-flying American jet was heard, and each time the truck slammed to a stop and the driver and guard jumped out and ran for the jungle. If the truck had been bombed — and trucks were favored targets to attack — it is easy to imagine what would have happened. During those times when the guard ran for the trees, Day tried to draw out Overly.
But Overly would not talk. He believed the threat about being shot.
Early in the morning of the third day, the decrepit truck entered the outskirts of Hanoi and labored through the labyrinthine streets before coming to a stop in front of a foreboding structure: fourteen-foot-high walls topped with broken glass. The gate opened and the truck eased inside.
Day had entered Hoa Lo, one of the most infamous prisons in the world, a place American POWs called the “Hanoi Hilton.”
10
The Bug
IN the brotherhood of the military, no act of bravery is an isolated event. Each generation of American military men stands on the shoulders of those who have gone before and is at one with warriors yet unborn. Valorous deeds, heroism, and selflessness, along with pain, suffering, and deprivation, all are part of a continuum that began when George Washington entered Valley Forge in the bitter winter of 1777; pressed on through the heat and hardships of the Mexican-American War; was bound tightly by the fratricidal Civil War; was raised to a new level in the trenches of World War I; and was immortalized on Omaha Beach and Iwo Jima. By the time the Vietnam War began, the blood of American men at arms had soaked the soil of their native land, the sands of a dozen Pacific islands and half the countries in Europe, and the snows of Korea. Thousands of American warriors were buried under simple white crosses in cemeteries around the world.
The gates of Hoa Lo opened and embraced a new generation of Americans.
These new POWs were acutely aware that under those simple white crosses, the spirits of American patriots were stirring restlessly. These new prisoners were mostly pilots. Many were strutting, boastful, independent, and over-the-top prima donnas, self-centered and egotistical men who fought their wars at five hundred miles per hour and, after their missions — at least in the Air Force — drank scotch and ate steak in the officers’ club and then slept in air-conditioned comfort.
No American POWs in history would be subjected to such institutionalized brutal and prolonged torture sessions as were the men in Hoa Lo.
Did these men have the strength and the character of their brothers who had fought in the mud and who had given what Lincoln called “the last full measure of devotion”? Were these pilots as tough as the infantrymen who had fought in Europe? As tough as the Marines who had fought in the Pacific? Would they uphold all that is noble about the U.S. military? All that is noble about America? Or would they break the proud continuum?
THERE were no good times to enter Hoa Lo. But Bud Day arrived at a particularly bad time and under a particularly bad set of circumstances.
The French built Hoa Lo in 1901. “Maison Centrale” was the original name, but over the years the prison became known by the street on which it was located. The purpose of the prison was to incarcerate, torture, and execute the Vietnamese who opposed French colonialism. Until 1954, when the French were defeated at Dien Bien Phu and left Vietnam, thousands of Vietnamese, including some who now were national leaders, lived a sub-human existence within the walls of Hoa Lo. Earlier inmates knew firsthand that to mount any sort of resistance, prisoners must have two things: a strong military structure and good communications. In 1966, North Vietnamese guards discovered that the American POWs were tightly organized according to rank and had established a very effective communications system. The guards had reacted with a prolonged and violent purge. When Day arrived in late 1967, the prisoners remained subdued and the guards remained brutal.
The guards had been waiting for Day. Because of his escape, he was a notorious and unrepentant “air pirate” and “criminal” with a “bad attitude” who had to be “punished.” (Prison officials never used the word “torture”; they favored instead “punishment.�
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The initial interrogation of new prisoners took place near the front gate in a building known as “New Guy Village.” The idea was to take a POW who probably was injured during his ejection, who may have sustained wounds from the local militia after he was shot down, who was exhausted and confused by the arduous nighttime travel and apprehensive about his future, and immediately subject him to torture. It was a sound and effective method of interrogation designed to break the spirit and force a “surrender” and then a “confession” of his crimes. Many a fighter pilot found that in the space of a half hour he was crying and screaming, pissing all over himself, and pleading for mercy.
The North Vietnamese Army had lost much face because a severely injured Bud Day not only had escaped but had been on the loose some three weeks in an area teeming with their soldiers. Thus, when Day arrived in late October 1967, it was imperative that the North Vietnamese regain face — a process that is always out of proportion to the original offense.
A guard jerked Day and Overly off the rear of the truck and hustled them in different directions: Overly into a solitary cell about six feet by six feet, and Day into Room 18. The room had knobby plaster walls to muffle screams, and the floor was splattered with blood.
There Bud Day met the Bug.
Because American prisoners did not speak Vietnamese and because the names and ranks of their captors were a closely guarded secret, POWs assigned each jailer a nickname, usually based on a physical characteristic. The Bug was about five foot three and plump. He was probably in his early thirties. He got his nickname because his right eye was cloudy and drifted up and to the right, which reminded some of a wandering bug’s. When he worked himself into a rage, which was frequently, he waved his arms and contorted his face and jumped about in an irrational manner.
The Bug was the most vicious and feared of all the interrogators in Hoa Lo.
Day was barely in the interrogation room before his legs were clamped in rusty irons and he was pushed to his knees and ordered to hold his left hand high overhead. Usually a prisoner on his knees held both hands high over his head. But Day’s right arm was in a cast and could not be straightened.