Also noteworthy was the absence of amputees, leading some to believe that the Vietnamese simply shot those POWs who were badly injured.
Less easy to document were the emotional scars, but the damage for some was clear immediately. Two former POWs committed suicide in their first four months of freedom, and mental health experts at the time predicted that every prisoner who had had a long period of captivity would suffer psychologically. "It is not possible for a man exposed to a severe degree of abuse, isolation, and deprivation not to develop depression born out of extreme rage repressed over a long period of time," said John E. Nardini, an Air Force psychiatrist who was himself a POW during World War II. "It is simply a question of when and how the depressive reaction will surface and manifest itself."
Halyburton, now thirty-one, emerged remarkably fit for his seven and a half years in prison, checking in with a few chipped teeth, some parasites, and a sore back. He weighed 159 pounds, 21 less than when he was captured, but he had gained about 20 pounds from his low point. At five-eleven, he was an inch shorter, apparently the result of vertebra damage from the ejection. He was also lucky. When he was on the Independence and a wisdom tooth had begun to hurt, a medic said he would be okay for a few months but would then need to have it removed. The tooth, however, never bothered him in prison—a blessing, given that the Vietnamese used pliers in dentistry. Halyburton had his tooth removed on his return to the States.
When he initially arrived at Clark, he saw the other prisoners calling their families, but he was told he had to speak to the chaplain first. He assumed that his grandparents, both of whom would be in their late nineties, had died, and he feared his mother may have passed away as well, for Marty had rarely mentioned her in her letters. But the chaplain was slow to arrive, and when he did appear, he was uncomfortable telling him the news. Instead of talking directly, he spoke elliptically, and he irritated Halyburton to the point where Porter almost felt sorry for him. When the chaplain finally said it—your mother and grandparents are deceased—Halyburton was determined not to display any emotion, as if to deny the chaplain any chance to comfort him. He just wanted to be alone. When he returned to his room, the news sunk in—the people who had raised him and loved him had died; his entire immediate family, except for Marty and Dabney, was gone. He'd never had a chance to say good-bye, and he didn't know if they had passed away believing he was dead or alive. In his room, he allowed himself to cry.
He finally called Marty.
"I love you and I miss you and I'm okay," he told her.
She responded in kind. He said he had just been told about his mother and grandparents.
"Yes, they didn't want me to tell you about that," she said. She soon asked her first question: "Are you going to fly again?"
Halyburton didn't want to continue as a navigation officer, forever in the back seat, but he didn't want to retrain as a pilot. In truth, he wasn't sure what he would do next, but he knew what to tell his wife.
"No," he said. "I've had enough of that."
As Marty later said, "He hadn't been away from being a husband so long that he didn't know what the right answer was."
Fred Cherry's return had already sent alarms through the Pentagon, which had a thick file about his family: the death of his mother, Shirley's living with another man and having a baby, the depletion of his savings account, the legal troubles of his oldest son. Air Force Colonel Clark Price, an old friend of Cherry's, took these problems to Air Force Major General Daniel "Chappie" James, a highly respected black officer who had developed close ties with POW families.
"We have a brother who's going to face some strong music when he gets back, and he doesn't know what's going on," Price said.
"Is Cherry violent?" James asked.
"Not when I knew him," Price said.
James dispatched Price to the Philippines on a special escort mission.
When Cherry arrived at the hospital, he weighed 132 pounds, which was close to his weight when he was shot down, but he had gained about 20 pounds in the last couple of months and about 50 pounds from his low point. He had had open sores or infections for six years, but they had all healed, as had his broken wrist. He hoped the surgeons would be able to restore mobility to his left arm; he could move it only about thirty-five degrees in front and seventy degrees in back. But the bones in his shoulder, now tightly fused, had previously been infected, and the surgeons concluded that opening up the shoulder would be risky. So Cherry learned how to use one hand for such tasks as buttoning a shirt and changing a light bulb. He also returned with blind spots in his left eye and hearing loss in his right ear, the result of exposure to jet engines and slaps across the head.
When Price visited him in a private room, he brought a folder with the litany of woes, and he started with the easiest.
"Your mother died on May 28, 1970," he said.
"I already knew that," Cherry said. He had spoken to Beulah, who had told him only about their mother.
Then Price described the betrayal of his wife, the problems of his children, and the raiding of his finances: during his years of imprisonment, he had earned $147,184 in pay and allowances, but he now had $4,720.98 to his name. He absorbed each piece of news as he had the threats and taunts from the Vietnamese, without emotion or anger. He just made the same comment.
"I can handle that."
"I can handle that."
"I can handle that."
Clark also told him that his sons were in the Army, not in college as he had hoped, but he wasn't upset. He was just glad they were not in jail.
Some returning POWs were devastated by the breakup of their marriages, but Cherry believed that, given what he had endured as a prisoner, he could survive any personal setbacks. He never said an unkind word about Shirley; fearing the worst about her health, he was just relieved that she was alive.
For that matter, Cherry refused to criticize the Vietnamese, even those who tortured him. He said they were "just doing their job." His friends concluded that he was incapable of hatred.
"I was frustrated by his lack of bitterness," Price said, "but I've never heard him say a bad thing about anyone." As if to humanize the enemy, Cherry gave Price some cigarettes from Vietnam.
"They taste just like Camels," Cherry said.
He did receive one piece of good news in the hospital. Two months earlier he had been promoted to colonel. That meant more prestige, control, and money, but they did not compensate for his biggest loss: his piloting days were over.
When Halyburton went to the PX to buy clothes, he got a sense of how much America had changed. Escorted by a young ensign, he saw a bizarre array of bellbottoms, floral shirts, shoes with brass buckles, white belts, orange hot pants, and miniskirts. He later called Marty and told her he had gone shopping. That evening on the national news, she watched a story about an unnamed former prisoner shopping at the PX and wearing a garish outfit. As the camera zoomed in, she felt faint. "Oh my God, it's Porter." He was wearing plaid bellbottoms with a red shirt—for the last time.
***
One night in the hospital, the emergency bell rang, and someone yelled, "Fred Cherry's dead! Oh my God, he's dead!"
The nurses sprinted down the hall, opened the door, and saw Cherry lying on his bed, motionless, his hands folded over his chest. They tried to revive him as other servicemen watched in apparent disbelief. Doctors hustled into the room while orderlies rolled in special equipment. No one seemed to notice that his bed was surrounded by four burning candles and vases stuffed with flowers. Everyone was thinking, how would it look if a legendary survivor of the Vietnam POW camps died in an American military hospital?
Cherry wasn't dead but he was out cold, the victim of a drunken stupor and a practical joke. Some other former prisoners smuggled Scotch into their rooms—drinking was forbidden—and they had a party. His body long denied alcohol, Cherry promptly passed out, so his friends used the flowers and candles to turn his room into a funeral parlor and then alerted the nurs
es to his demise. Cherry soon woke up, dazed, but able to confirm he was not dead. The hospital personnel were not amused, but Cherry found the prank quite funny and consistent with the raucous subculture he had long inhabited: they were fighter pilots being fighter pilots.
The halls were covered with Valentine's Day cards, and Halyburton read one that touched him deeply. "Dear Sir," it began, "I sure am glad you're all done. I said a prayer every night, and it finally came true. Welcome home sir. I would have gave my life to get you guys out of there. But I don't think my parents would like it. I think you'll like being home with your family. I'm a six grader. Gary."
One card of thousands, it was later immortalized in a book of letters about Vietnam.
***
Halyburton and Cherry had not spoken to each other since their last night together more than six years earlier. They had kept abreast of each other's well-being from other prisoners, but both had worried about how the other had endured the torture immediately after their separation.
When they saw each other at the hospital, they embraced, bringing tears to Cherry's eyes. He was amazed at how good Halyburton looked; physically, he appeared to have been unaffected by all his time in prison. Halyburton, on the other hand, was startled when Cherry lifted his shirt and revealed the new scars he had accumulated. He reminded Cherry how he used to count his old abrasions to pass the time, but now Cherry had several more, including one large one.
"What the hell was that from, Fred?"
Cherry told him about the lung operation to remove the bone fragment. Halyburton lifted his hand and ran it over the scars, the old ones and new, and was once again amazed by his friend's durability. He expressed regret that Fred had had to suffer so much. Cherry explained that the surgeon had left a stitch in him that he coughed out a year later, but he didn't complain about the mistreatment. Now he could laugh.
On his return, each former POW was admitted to a hospital for additional tests, and Cherry hoped to settle at Norfolk Naval Hospital in Portsmouth, Virginia, close to home. Given his family problems, however, he was sent to Andrews Air Force Base, outside Washington. "I guess many people were afraid I might have been crazy enough to do something violent," he later said.
His plane, which included a group of former POWs, landed at Andrews on the night of February 17, and the men were met by a crowd. As the senior officer in the group, Cherry was asked to give a statement. He had written down some remarks on the plane, but when he stepped up to the microphone, he saw his sons standing in their Army uniforms, as well as nieces, nephews, and Beulah. He was silent for almost a minute, and his lip trembled as he struggled to control his emotions. Finally he spoke: "We have been away for a long time ... We accept this break in life as a necessity ... We accept this break because we had a job to do ... And we did that job to the best of our ability ... We have come back to you with our honor, our dignity, and our pride ... We were able to do that because we kept our faith in our God, our president, and our country."
Beulah, crying, hugged him. "Thank the Lord you're home. Thank the Lord you're home."
He saw that Fred Jr. looked just like him, and he was proud to see his sons in uniform: if he couldn't defend his country anymore, he was glad they could. He was disappointed they were in the Army instead of the Air Force, but he believed they would carry on the family name. As they were walking, he said, "I'm an officer. You privates walk on my left."
Cynthia had last seen her father when she was five years old, and in her mind he was "tall, dark, and handsome." Now she went to see him with her mother and sister, and when she walked into his hospital room, she was stunned by his size.
"What happened? Did he shrink in Vietnam?"
"No, that's his height," Shirley said.
"No, he shrunk!"
Fred was wearing a robe. At first he was smiling, but then he cried as Cynthia ran up to him and threw her arms around him.
There would be no reconciliation with Shirley. According to Fred, she did not want a divorce (which would end her financial support from the military), but the marriage was clearly over. The family's house was in his name, but when he visited it for the first time, most everything was unfamiliar. His own stereo, golf clubs, and silver coin collection, as well as most of the furnishings from their house in Japan, were all gone and never reclaimed. When he saw Shirley's boyfriend's bowling trophy on a shelf, he flung it against the wall, putting a hole in it. It was the first time his children had seen him lose his temper. "I thought, 'He's got a little spunk in him,'" Cynthia said.
The breakup of his marriage also divided the children; Fred Jr. and Cynthia embraced their father while Donald and Debbie were closer to their mother and adopted her hostility toward him. Not long after Fred's return, Debbie said to him, "I wish you had never come back. You ruined everything."
Fred suffered his pain silently.
The breach has never been repaired. While the war itself did not destroy the marriage, Cherry's absence did contribute to the family's dissolution. As Fred Jr. said, "We were all POWs."
On the Independence, Porter told Marty that he did not want family and friends at the dock when he returned because their reunion should be their special time together. Now, as he prepared to fly to the Naval Air Station in Jacksonville, Florida, he said the same thing: he wanted to meet her in the privacy of his hospital room. He had seen other returnees get mobbed at the airport, on national television, and he did not want to share such a precious moment.
Marty waited for Porter's plane in the control tower, where she saw the airport fill up with banners, a band, and crowds. The plane landed and a handful of returnees, including Porter, walked off. As the senior officer addressed the crowd, Marty ran down the tower's stairs, got into a car, and was driven to the base hospital. She reached Porter's room moments after President Nixon had called to congratulate her, a gesture he made, no doubt, to many of the wives who had supported him. A furniture store had equipped the returnees' rooms with television sets, living room furniture, a bed, and other appointments, while Marty had added flowers, telegrams, and photographs of Dabney.
Porter arrived. They were together again.
His health was so good that he did not have to sleep at the hospital. He and Marty were allowed to stay at an apartment on the base, and, using a donated car, she could drive him around town, his license having long expired. He gave her a diamond and sapphire ring that he had purchased at the PX in the Philippines. Dabney had come to Jacksonville as well, but she stayed with a Navy officer's family so her parents could have some time alone.
After a day, Porter wanted to see his daughter, so they drove to the house where she was staying. She was playing with other children outside, and Porter recognized her from her pictures. She had short blond hair and wore a blue dress with short sleeves, white socks, and black party shoes. "I thought she was the most beautiful child I had ever seen," Porter recalled. He hugged her, told her how much he loved her, and gave her a portable radio.
The family loaded the car and prepared to drive to a friend's beach house. Maybe it was because Marty had talked so much about Porter or maybe some children are just unfazed by such events, but the first encounter unfolded as if the family had never been apart. Once in the car, Dabney turned to Porter and asked, "Daddy, can I sit on your lap?"
Not everyone cheered the returnees; the most strident opponents of the war still found reason to fault them. The Reverend Philip Berrigan called the former prisoners "war criminals," while Jane Fonda, disbelieving claims of torture, said they were "hypocrites and liars." But such attacks carried little weight amid the testimonials of strength, stamina, and patriotism. For a war that had torn the country apart, had helped drive a president from office, and had ended without the conquering of territory or the removal of a government, the safe return of the POWs represented a scrim of redemption. They appeared on television and radio shows and were honored by the president in what was described as "the most spectacular White House gala in history." M
ajor League Baseball gave each man a lifetime pass to any game. Mayors gave them keys to their cities. Car dealerships gave them their latest models. Airlines gave them free passage. As a veteran journalist who had covered the Korean conflict said, "That war had heroes and a somewhat sympathetic press. The Vietnam War had neither until now." Or, as the New Orleans Times-Picayune wrote: "The nation begins again to feel itself whole."
Davidson celebrated Halyburton's homecoming on March 17, a windy St. Patrick's Day that saw Porter's old street blocked off. Picnic tables were set up, banners hung, and flags distributed. A keg of beer was rolled out, and the front porch of the house that Porter grew up in was turned into a speaker's platform. Porter, Marty, and Dabney arrived in a new Ford LTD. Hundreds of people started gathering at 11:30 A.M.—Governor James Holshouser arrived in a black limousine—and amid a band's patriotic tunes, the Halyburtons appeared on the street. Porter wore a red turtleneck and was, according to the Charlotte Observer, "in danger of being hugged to death by an army of smiling women." Marty, her blond hair tousled by the wind, smiled as she moved through the crowd, never more than an arm's length from her husband. Dabney was at her elbow, carrying a teddy bear.
Will Terry, who had delivered the "meditation" at Porter's memorial service, spoke first. He said he was the only person he knew of "who preached at a person's funeral and then welcomed him back." He presented a gift to Dabney and then said to Marty, "I'm sorry we don't have anything for you but Porter."
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