American Patriot

by Robert Coram

  But McCain doesn’t appear. Later, when asked why, he says, “I know there is a lot of talk about that. But I just didn’t have time.”

  The reunion falls over Memorial Day, and a Washington radio station calls Day for an interview. The reporter wants to talk about Vietnam, so Day says, “Dan Rather and Morley Safer went over there with the idea they wanted the North Vietnamese to win.” He names the most prominent newspapers in America and says they are guilty of “yellow journalism.”

  Later he goes out to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial known as “The Wall” for a wreath-laying ceremony. The names of eight Mistys are on The Wall. Day searches out the panel with the name Edwin Atterberry, the POW who was killed after the abortive escape attempt in May 1969. Day’s lips tremble as he remembers how Atterberry’s death was the prelude for his own weeks of torture.

  He comes to attention and snaps off a salute.

  He searches out the names Connell, Cobeil, and Cameron, the three men taken away and never seen again; he remembers how he almost joined them, and again he comes to attention and salutes.

  As he walks up and down in front of The Wall looking for the names, he is frequently stopped and someone will say, “Thanks for your work on behalf of the veterans.”

  “It’s a labor of love,” he replies.

  One person says, “Thanks for the work you did in keeping Kerry out of office.”

  He laughs. “Another labor of love.”

  Later that day he and Doris walk around the corner from the hotel to the Old Ebbitt Grill for a late lunch. He is wearing slacks and a Misty T-shirt. He is stooped, and in the T-shirt his frame is gaunt. To those who do not know him, he is just another old veteran roaming around Washington. The maître d’hôtel looks at the shirt and smiles, and in what is almost a patronizing tone says, “Misty? What kind of a name is that?”

  Far back in Day’s eyes is a flicker, a glacial hint of warning. He smiles and says, “It’s the name of an outfit I once flew with.” He is shown to a table.

  Behind Day in line are several POWs. One of them has overheard the exchange with the maître d’ and tells him who Day is. The maître d’, embarrassed and very solicitous, hurries down the aisle to Day’s table and apologizes profusely.

  Day could not be more gracious. “That’s okay, pal. Don’t worry about it.”

  The maître d’ tells the waiter to give Colonel and Mrs. Day a dessert on the house. Then he goes back to his station at the door, where he can be heard telling bar patrons and diners, “We have Colonel Bud Day in the house. He was a POW and he wears the Medal of Honor.”

  IMMEDIATELY after the 2004 presidential campaign, Day and Carlton Sherwood formed the Vietnam Veterans Legacy Foundation (VVLF) to educate people about the Vietnam War and the men and women who fought there.

  The group raised some $200,000 in 2005, much of which went toward fighting lawsuits filed by people close to Kerry. When the VVLF filed a suit against Kerry for defamation, a Kerry spokesman described Day and Sherwood as “serial liars.”

  Sherwood’s pacemaker stopped in early 2005, and he went to the hospital for emergency surgery. Later he had more surgery.

  Then he went to work on a documentary about the Tuskegee Airmen, black pilots who gained glory in World War II, and how they helped desegregate the U.S. military — an odd choice for a man the media described as a “Republican attack dog.”

  Sherwood has a newsman’s sense of irony when he talks of the last few years. “This is a free-speech issue. I’m being sued for producing Stolen Honor, a documentary in which no one has pointed out a factual error. Yet no one sued Michael Moore for Fahrenheit 9/11. No one sued Jane Fonda for what she said about the POWs. It was okay for John Kerry to say American soldiers committed two hundred thousand murders a year and that they raped and cut off ears and acted like the hordes of Genghis Khan.”

  AFTER the Supreme Court refused to hear the case involving medical benefits for retirees, Day returned to lobbying Congress, urging members to pass a “Keep Our Promise to America’s Military Retirees Bill.” For several years, he made periodic trips to Washington, where he trudged the halls of Congress on behalf of his comrades.

  Part of the effort was the “Brown Bag Campaign,” in which veterans from all over America tore away part of a paper bag, wrote a note on it urging support of the bill, and mailed it to a congressman. More than fifty thousand such notes were sent.

  In early 2005 Undersecretary of Defense David Chu was quoted in the Wall Street Journal saying military pensions and health insurance “have gotten to the point where they are hurtful. They are taking away the nation’s ability to defend itself.”

  It is true that health benefits have become more expensive. But to make retirees the scapegoat, to say that keeping the promise is deleterious to America, is arrant nonsense. If America is losing its ability to defend itself, it is because the Pentagon is buying ever more expensive — and often irrelevant — weapons systems. It is because of flagrant corruption in the weapons-acquisition system.

  Nevertheless, as the Pentagon drumbeat of “runaway health costs” continued, Day could sense the retirees were losing the battle. Congress passed bills including hundreds of millions for tsunami relief, for the Sudan, for Iraq, for New Orleans, but nothing for the retirees.

  Representatives privately told Day that all of these expenses, the war in Iraq, and now billions for Louisiana, meant there was no money for the retirees. Then the Department of Defense indicated it would raise the TRICARE premium for veterans under sixty-five. Day knew it was only a matter of time before premiums were raised for veterans over sixty-five.

  In early 2006 Day sent out word he was folding his tent and leaving the field. Even though he had restored 95 percent of what he wanted for the retirees, the battle over Part B in Medicare was lost.

  For the rest of his life, Day would feel he had let down his comrades.

  But the retirees are pragmatic people. They knew Day had done his best. They knew what they owed him. So they gritted their teeth and soldiered on.

  And they thought rather highly of Bud Day.

  BOB Reinlie, the surviving plaintiff in Day’s suit against the government, has good days and bad days. On his good days, he comes to Day’s law office, where an office has been set aside for him. Almost daily the letters still arrive, letters from widows of retirees. There is great fear in the letters. These women do not know how they will pay their medical bills. “Thank you for fighting for us,” they write.

  Reinlie pounds the desk and moans, “What is my government doing to these people?”

  But his is a lonely vigil. His cause is unknown to the public and is ignored by the media and politicians in the Capitol and at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  THE Mistys are having a reunion in Colorado Springs and visit the Air Force Academy, where they pay particular attention to a memorial for the Doolittle Raiders of World War II. A large shadow box holds small silver cups engraved with the names of every Raider. Only a few cups are upright; all the others are inverted, signifying the Raider is dead.

  Later, at a business meeting, a member points out that the Mistys are growing few in number. Perhaps the Mistys, like several other Vietnam-era military groups, should open up the membership not just to those who were there but to active-duty military officers or even civilians. This will ensure the group lives on.

  Dick Rutan jumps up in opposition. He says when he attends a Misty reunion, he wants to look around and be able to say, “I flew with that sonofabitch.”

  Bud Day smiles and nods in approval. The idea is squelched. It doesn’t matter if members are dying and membership declining. It doesn’t matter if, like the Doolittle Raiders, the time comes when the Mistys can be counted on one hand. When only one Misty is left, that man will have his own reunion, and he will hoist a glass to his brothers who flew up north and who were in the shit on every mission. He will drink to those who never came back.

  And when the last Misty wakes up on the wrong side of
the grass, the book will be closed and that will be that.

  But the Mistys will live on. Their story will be told for as long as fighter pilots gather to talk of the long ago, to remember their departed brothers.

  It is all part of the continuum.

  DAY is in Phoenix attending a reunion of MOH recipients. Some are on crutches or use walkers. Some are too ill to attend.

  America is running out of heroes.

  On Friday afternoon a retired general picks up Day and brings him out to nearby Luke AFB. There, a colonel drives him down the flight line and tells him of all the squadrons based there, one of which is the “Top Hats,” the 310th Fighter Squadron, which is the training squadron for F-16 FAC pilots. Coincidentally, Friday afternoon is when the pilots of the 310th gather for a weekly debriefing by the squadron commander.

  Would Colonel Day like to visit, maybe say a few words to the young pilots?

  “You bet.”

  For more years than anyone can remember, every graduating class of FACs has a party, a ceremonial and tradition-wrapped party, the highlight of which is “the drink of the white smoke.” The new FACs begin the ceremony with a toast to the Mistys. Then they toast the F-16. There are more toasts. They put dry ice in their glasses and drink to the white smoke that marks the target. The room fills with white smoke, and then they drink to Bud Day and recite one of his sayings: “Gentlemen, clear the smoke and continue the honor of those before you.”

  As Day walks down the hall, he passes a plaque on the wall that bears that very quote.

  The colonel accompanying Day opens the door of the auditorium where the pilots are meeting and summons the squadron commander. He introduces Day. The squadron commander steps back inside and, with a slight tremor in his voice, says, “We have a very special treat this afternoon.” He pauses. “Colonel Bud Day.”

  Day walks in, the Medal of Honor visible against his white shirt. He smiles that boyish smile and waves.

  The young pilots, men born around 1980, stare in stunned silence for two or three seconds. Their thoughts are written on their faces:

  That frail and stooped old man is Bud Day. That is Misty 1.

  The sound of their boots hitting the floor is a thunderclap. They snap to attention. Even after Day waves for them to be seated, they remain at attention for another few seconds.

  For the next hour they listen in rapt attention as he tells what it was like to fly FAC missions up north, to muscle that old F-100 down in the weeds and go trolling for trouble at five hundred knots, to scramble for sky when the air was filled with bursts of 57 mm shells.

  DOWN on the Mexican border in McAllen, Texas, in a small house in a neat and crisp little subdivision, Norris Overly lives.

  Until Robert Timberg’s The Nightingale’s Song was published in 1995, Overly was generally unknown. But in that book he was identified as the man who saved John McCain’s life, and almost overnight he became something of a local celebrity. The newspaper came calling and made him McAllen’s expert on military matters. After all, he was a POW.

  When John McCain ran for president in 2000, Overly was flown to New York to be interviewed by 60 Minutes. The only quote used in the program was when he was asked if he had seen McCain since he left Hanoi, and he said no. When asked why not, he said, “You’ll have to ask him.”

  Overly’s disingenuous reply left the impression with viewers that McCain had turned his back on the man who saved his life. And CBS, because no one connected with the program knew about the early releases, let it stand.

  Veterans who live in McAllen seek out Overly. Occasionally one of those veterans will be traveling or will call a friend in another part of the country and say he has met Norris Overly, the POW who saved the lives of Bud Day and John McCain. Afterward, that veteran will phone Overly and say, “I was talking to a friend and he told me another story about you.” Overly will never again hear from that veteran. And they will not again visit him.

  “I have nothing to hide,” Overly says. “I’m a confident person in that I harmed no one. I have a sense of pride about my life and career.”

  ROSS Perot is in semiretirement, but he comes to the office daily. He still spends large sums of money on military-connected causes. He is the featured speaker at NAM-POW reunions. And when POWs come through Dallas, they often visit with him.

  In the spring of 2006, Perot flew to Sioux City, where various events were being held to honor Day: a street was named for him, a college scholarship in Bud’s name was announced, and the newspaper said his life story now would be part of the curriculum at local schools. Day was the featured speaker at the Rotary Club. As the program was about to begin, the master of ceremonies announced a special visitor. The rear doors to the room opened and Ross Perot came in to a standing ovation. He made a stirring speech about how important it was that Sioux City was recognizing its native son. Doris and Bud went out to Riverside, where several hundred elementary school children sang a song written for him. It was a stirring and moving visit for Day.

  IT is not a widely known fact, but military people are weepers.

  They weep when they watch a parade and the flag goes by.

  They weep when they hear the National Anthem.

  They weep at tales of valor and sacrifice.

  And as they get older and their emotions rise closer to the surface, they weep at the memories of the brave men they have known. Bud Day still cries when he tells the story of the first time he saw Larry Guarino.

  Day still speaks at Dining Outs. Much has been written about him and much of it is wrong, but it doesn’t matter. He is one of those men who, during his lifetime, has moved into the realm of legend.

  At every Dining Out, an officer will rise and ask, “Colonel, was it worth it?”

  Day stares in disbelief that someone would ask such a question. Then he talks of the greatness of America, how enduring are its values, and finally, in a trembling and emotion-choked but powerful voice, he utters the final words that reach to every corner of the room: “God . . . bless . . . America.”

  And there are few dry eyes in the room.

  DAY lives in a part of the Florida panhandle that is hit with some regularity by powerful hurricanes. Over the years, homes along his street have been severely damaged. Because his house is built so high, he has sometimes been surrounded by water, but the only damage he has experienced has been a slight bit of water seepage. And that happened only once.

  Neighbors emerge from the wreckage of their homes and look at Day’s house with some bewilderment. After the last big hurricane, when the street was blocked by fallen trees and parts of houses, a neighbor looked at Day’s undamaged house and said to him, “God must be protecting you.” He put his hands on her shoulders, smiled, and said, “You are right. God realizes I have been through enough. He is not going to let a hurricane harm me.”

  DAY wheels his white Cadillac into a gas station in Fort Walton Beach. The Cadillac is well known around town, in part because the Medal of Honor license plate with the single digit “9” reveals his identity but more so because Day has a heavy foot and darts into traffic with all the verve of a twenty-five-year-old jet jockey.

  The driver of a passing car sees Day, brakes, and stops beside him. The two confer intently for a few minutes.

  As the man is driving away, the same thing happens again. “Drop by my office and we’ll work out the details,” Day says.

  He finishes refueling and slides into the driver’s seat with a satisfied smile. “Two new clients while I was gassing up. Good clients too. Maybe I should gas up here more often.”

  BECAUSE he is a U.S. senator, no man is more closely associated with the POWs than is John McCain. And although he has said that talking about his POW years “bores the shit out of me,” the POW card is his hole card; he plays it when he must and he plays it well.

  He confronted President Bush over the issue of torturing terrorist suspects, and he won. Bud Day and many of the POWs disagreed. They believe that to win the war
on terror, America must use every possible means to obtain information. And they know that torture does yield information.

  The POWs vigorously lobbied McCain not to oppose President Bush on this issue. When he continued, they were bitter in their private denunciations of him.

  A New York Times reporter was told that Day opposed McCain on the issue. When the reporter called Day, all he got was a quote saying that McCain knew a lot about torture.

  Larry Guarino was not so diplomatic. He still thinks of McCain as a cocky little smart-ass who somehow became a U.S. senator. He wrote a letter to Florida Today, his local newspaper in Melbourne, Florida, saying that he had been McCain’s superior officer in Hanoi and that he was “disappointed” in McCain, who “has become a media darling and the consummate politician.”

  With the exception of the one-day drive-by he did in Texas in the mid-1980s, McCain has never attended a NAM-POW reunion. (He did another drive-by in 2006.) And many POWs have grown weary of his stance as POW 1. Guarino’s column received wide distribution on the military side of the Internet. He received dozens of e-mails from veterans who believe “McCain has gone overboard” or “McCain has lost his way.” Some e-mails point to McCain’s low academic standing at the Naval Academy, saying he is defensive about his intellectual reputation and easy prey for those who pander to that weakness.

  This has not affected the deep friendship between Day and McCain. They remain two headstrong guys who see things differently but who remain very close. It seems that each time Day is having particularly horrific nightmares about the Bug, or having a bad day physically, the phone will ring, he will pick it up, and the first thing he will hear is McCain saying, “How you doing, buddy?” And if McCain is taking flak or is hurting from his old wounds, somehow Day knows and is on the phone boosting him.

  Swindle sometimes is caught in the middle. He explains that Day is a lawyer and a fighter pilot — a mixture of two of the most aggressive personalities on earth — and his battles are inevitably mano a mano. His outlook is that of an advocate. But McCain is trying to get along with senatorial egos and reach a consensus.