Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (Novels of the Jet Age)

by Walter J. Boyne

  The tap code was utterly simple. Twenty-five letters of the alphabet, with K excluded, were laid out in a matrix of five lines and five columns, with A through E in the first line. One tap indicated the first line; two, the second; and so on. Thus one tap followed by one tap was A; two taps followed by one tap was F. While they never reached a telegrapher’s speed, the prisoners soon could “read” transmissions as fast as they were given. When the Vietnamese cracked down on the tapping, sneezes, coughs, hacks, throat clearings, et cetera, were all substituted for taps. Hand movements, flashing a scrap of paper or a twig, worked equally well. Tom was amazed by the facility he gained in just a few weeks. Still, the other Americans occasionally got a chance to talk to one another. He could not remember when he had talked to another American besides poor Pavone.

  There was a lag time in prison news. New arrivals came in but were sequestered for weeks or months. Then it took a long interval to get them into the tap-code circuit. Once that was done, they were pumped for all news of home, not only political events, such as President Johnson ordering a halt to the bombing of North Vietnam.

  The bombing halt was inexplicable to Tom. He knew that it was intended to send a signal to Hanoi that negotiations might be preferable to further bombing, but it missed its mark. The halt gave the North Vietnamese an immense boost to their morale. Instead of interpreting it as a gesture of peace, a possible basis for negotiations, they saw it properly as a sign of weakness. The North Vietnamese very sensibly used the “time-out” to vastly strengthen their anti-aircraft artillery and surface-to-air-missile strength, especially along the southern portions of the infamous Ho Chi Minh Trail.

  Pavone was not adapting well. Tom feared that his last beating had caused some brain damage. Pavone could do the tap code only if he went so slowly that it was agonizing for the party on the other end and too often interrupted by a passing guard.

  The communication, primitive as it was, was essential for security and morale. Just knowing who some of the other prisoners were made a lot of difference. Knowing how long they had been here was not. A Navy A-4 pilot, Ev Alvarez—Alvey, they called him—was the first American shot down, and had been a prisoner since 1964. Most of the names were unfamiliar to Tom. There was no reason to know the Navy pilots, but among the Air Force pilots the only name he recognized was that of Robby Risner, an ace in Korea whom Tom had flown with on more than one occasion. Most of the other men were younger, and he did not recognize their names.

  Despite the mindless beatings and torture that had been meted out to him, Tom was still defiant, his resolve stiffened by the painfully tapped-out stories of Alvarez’s and Risner’s epic resistance to torture. Risner had been tortured continuously for twenty-six days and gave up nothing. Tom swore that if Robby could do it, he could, too.

  Tom was amazed by the general optimism of the prisoners. Most of the tap-code conversations related to either resisting or the prospects of going home. There were few complaints about the wretched food and the uncertain length of their stay, although sometimes they give in to describe a fantasy meal. Contemptuous but apt names for the guards were coined, as in “Dipshit,” “Eagle,” “Cat,” and “Rabbit,” and these were the subject of usually wry jokes.

  Tom learned early on that face was extraordinarily important to the Vietnamese and that it was wise always to be polite no matter how stressful the situation.

  Pavone and he had been kept isolated for their entire stay, but he knew from the tapped “office gossip” that they would be meeting some of the others soon. Half the tapped messages concerned this new sense of change, and no one could tell whether it was for good or ill.

  With the relaxation of the beatings there came a new phenomenon, the utter boredom of being confined to a tiny cell with nothing to read. Tom knew how much he owed Pavone—his life, for openers—and busied himself caring for him. But it left time for thought and self-reproach. Tom now spent hours grieving that he had been so selfish as to leave Nancy with V.R., not because of the discomfort of being a POW, but because they must be suffering not knowing his fate. He also regretted his attitude toward Rodriquez. Tom’s anger had made his father’s life much more difficult than it should have been, for no reason other than jealousy, perhaps, or a desire to protect his turf.

  But even in prison he could take satisfaction for the way in which he had turned the Sixth Tactical Fighter Wing around, converting it from a poorly performing, low-morale outfit into one that was, in current tap-code parlance, “S.H.” for “shit hot.” He remembered with pleasure breaking the back of the North Vietnamese MiG-21 strength with Operation Toro, even though that was now long years ago. He didn’t dwell on it because of an irrational fear that the enemy might somehow pick up on his thoughts and torture him to reveal details.

  Almost on cue, he heard the sound of footsteps in the hall, and the usual visceral fear gripped him. He waited hopefully for the sound of another door being opened, realizing he was wishing punishment for someone else but not able to resist doing so. Then he heard what all prisoners dreaded—the turn of the key in the lock.

  It was Fidel, with two guards.

  “This time you will talk.”

  Tom pulled himself to his feet. The two guards grabbed him by the arms and forced him to run down the hallway, the Cuban following slowly behind, knowing that a prisoner’s apprehension was a key element of successful torture.

  It started simply enough. The cell was about fifteen feet square, with a desk and table at one side. In the center of the room, directly under a suspended electric light, a bare bulb, a white circle about two feet in diameter was painted on the floor.

  The guards deposited him on the circle and the Cuban barked, “Stand at attention. Do not move out of the circle.” He spoke in a strangely accented Vietnamese to the two guards, who took up positions in front and in back of Tom. Fidel then left the room.

  Though nothing had been said, Tom had learned from the tap-code circuit that stepping outside of the circle would be punished by blows from the long thin, round sticks carried by the guard. They were like pool cue sticks but not tapered and operated more as a cat-o’-ninetails than a two-by-four. Supple, they tended to chew up the flesh rather than break bones.

  Like many of the other prisoners, Tom had long since turned to prayer, and never more than when under this sort of acute stress. He ran through the prayers he remembered. The Lord’s Prayer, both the Catholic and the Protestant versions. Hail Marys by the score. And most often, most ardently, Acts of Contrition.

  Tom kept his eyes focused on a light spot in the paint on the wall opposite him. He flexed his toes and his knees as unobtrusively as possible, tried to move his muscles without obviously breaking the posture of being at attention. Memories of the old Charles Atlas system of dynamic tension came to him, and he tried working one muscle against another internally, without external movements. Pressure built in his bladder and he felt his bowels turning to water.

  He put up his hand and said, “Latrine,” and the guard on his right jabbed his stick into Tom’s belly. He voided, and the guards roared, it was forbidden, and they both picked up a baseball stance, setting their feet, whipping their sticks back behind them, then simultaneously striking him front and back.

  The pain ripped through Tom and he staggered back. The guard on the right stepped forward and swung again. Tom sidestepped, grabbed the stick, and struck the smaller man across the throat with it. He turned to hit the other guard, who dropped his stick and ran from the room screaming, slamming the door behind him.

  Within a minute, the door burst open again, the burly Cuban leading the way. He charged directly into Tom, slamming him into the wall, knocking the wind from him.

  The Cuban then stood over Tom and began kicking methodically, moving up and down his body with his boots as if he were playing a marimba, dealing out the punishment with a fierce gleam of pleasure in his eye. The pain was excruciating. Fidel knew where Tom had been most injured and kicked those places—his back
, his arms and legs, with greater ferocity.

  Just before he became unconscious, Tom thought, I’m not going to live through this one.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  December 24, 1969

  Palos Verdes, California

  Jill ran to the door. V.R. was beaming in through the glass side panels, and outside Nancy was standing with Mae and Bob, almost collapsing under the weight of their presents.

  They poured in, all incredibly happy with the news—Vance’s beaming mailman had delivered a letter from Tom. The only thing it proved was that he was alive when he wrote it, and there were dark hints of ill-treatment within the letter itself, but the relief from uncertainty was so great that they could not be less joyous.

  “How is Vance taking the news?”

  “He’s in the library now with Harry and Anna, poring over the letter, trying to figure out what Tom might have meant, but he is deliriously happy; he’s been a changed man since the letter came this morning.”

  V.R. had already run down the hall to throw himself into “Grampaw Vance’s” arms, with Bob Junior following close behind him.

  “How are you taking it, Nancy?”

  “It’s unbelievable. I’d almost given up on him. Not a single word since his last letter from Thailand. And now this. It’s wonderful.”

  After the tumultuous round of greetings and laughter, they passed the letter around so that each one could see it. It was obviously written to a North Vietnamese format, seven lines only, and Tom’s normally bold script was compressed into tightly spaced printed letters, so that he could jam the maximum amount of information into the space available.

  Some of it was obvious North Vietnamese propaganda, but there were some sentences that had both Vance and Harry stumped. Anna, who had taken up photography as a hobby, had photographed the letter, enlarged it, and made it into a transparency. Harry set up the overhead projector he used for contract briefings and shined the letter—more difficult to read now but still legible—on the motion picture screen that dropped down from its roller above the fireplace.

  Vance’s voice, a little weak and shaky in recent weeks, was strong, and his hands were trembling with excitement. He had already read the letter a half-dozen times, but there was a curious quality to it. He knew Tom was telling them something that would not be obvious to the enemy censors.

  The letter was written on a single sheet of paper, with a Vietnamese phrase at the top next to the date, “October 15, 1969.” Beneath the seven lines of the letter were some instructions, in Vietnamese and English. The English lines read: “Write legibly and only on the lines” and “Notes from families should also conform to this pro forma.”

  On the screen, in tiny cramped letters, they could read:

  Dear Nancy and V.R.

  Nancy’s trembling voice asked, “Why did he write to me but send it to Vance?”

  Harry replied, “We don’t know, but it may have something to do with your security.”

  I love you and miss you. Please write and tell me you are all right. I am well. I am being treated well by the North Vietnamese even though I bombed their innocent villages. The food is unusual but good like at Armenian Joe’s. I was wounded when I bailed out but I’m better now, Ollie. They have good medical treatment, just like the Revolutionary War. I hope that the war ends soon the way I know Dad will want it to end. Tell Dad and Jill and Harry and Anna I love them all. I guess V.R. is a big boy now; tell him his Daddy loves him. It’s like from Memphis to Mobile here most of the time. Vlad would be right at home. I will endure. I love you all. Tom.

  Vance, his eyes filled with tears, said, “Some of the first lines are just propaganda; they must tell them that they have to say that.”

  “What does he mean by ‘Armenian Joe’s’?”

  “There used to be a restaurant just outside of San Diego called Joe’s Armenian Palace. It was shut down after a series of foodpoisoning incidents. The food must be really rotten.”

  “Poor Tom—and the way he likes to eat.”

  Harry grimaced and said, “You know how he loved Laurel and Hardy. That phrase ‘I’m better now, Ollie,’ is what Stan used to say when he had done something else dumb. It must mean that he’s not better, that he’s not getting the right treatment. And saying that the medical treatment is like the Revolutionary War is a dead giveaway.”

  Bob spoke up for the first time. “I’m surprised they let that go through. They are probably thinking it means their revolutionary war, so it doesn’t sound so bad. But I hate the sound of this. He’s been injured, they are not feeding him, and his injuries have not been taken care of properly.”

  Mae dug her elbow in his side and gestured to Nancy, sobbing quietly, stroking V.R.’s head. Even V.R. was affected by the charged atmosphere that combined glee at Tom’s being alive with grief at the conditions he was enduring.

  Nancy spoke up. “I think ‘from Memphis to Mobile’ must mean ‘blues in the night.’ They must be torturing him at night. But who is he talking about when he says: ‘Vlad would be right at home’?”

  Bob spoke again, his voice quiet, under control, but seething with anger. “He must mean Vlad the Impaler, the Transylvanian count who is the source for the Dracula legends. He was famous for his tortures.”

  Mae’s elbow dug into Bob’s side again.

  Vance spoke up, carefully controlling his voice. “We have to look on the bright side of this. I never thought we would ever learn what happened to him. To find that he is alive, even if he’s a prisoner, is a godsend. And look at his last line; he says: ‘I will endure.’ You can bet on that; he’s a tough cookie. I just hope we get him out of there soon.”

  Harry stood up and flicked the overhead projector switch off. “They will, Dad. The country will not put up with having our people being treated like this.”

  Mae was usually very quiet at family discussions, knowing that Bob was really a latecomer, an outsider in fact, and that Tom resented him in particular. But she could not resist. “Harry, I hope you are right, but I’m afraid that the anti-war movement here is going to stiffen the Vietnamese resistance. I don’t think they will ever let our prisoners go unless we pull out.”

  Vance said, “If Tom were not there, if they didn’t have our other prisoners, I’d say nuke them and be damned. But we cannot.”

  Harry furrowed his brow and responded, “No, we cannot nuke them, Dad, but we can put enough conventional bombs on them to make them surrender. General LeMay tried to stop us getting into the Vietnam War, but once we were in, he wanted to take out ninety-four important Vietnamese targets and win the war. We could still do that.”

  Vance, angry now, “Then goddammit, let’s do it! What’s holding us back? These rotten peaceniks, parading everywhere?”

  “Sadly, you are exactly right. I don’t think the government has the will to do what is necessary.”

  “Well, God have mercy on us and on Tom.”

  Jill had stayed in the background for the entire meeting, her eyes never leaving Vance. She stood up, saying, “God has already had mercy on Tom; he’s alive when he could so easily be dead! If he’s alive, he’ll endure, just like he says, and he’ll come back to us. Let’s be thankful for that. Now, the last thing Tom would want is for food to go to waste! We’ve got a big spread in the kitchen; come on in and help yourself.”

  As they filed out, Vance grabbed Harry by the arm. “Harry, you know that ops research contract you have with SAC?”

  Harry stopped, concerned that his father’s memory was acting up again. Harry had done some consulting work with the Strategic Air Command a few years before, once doing an involved operational research study on targeting in the Soviet Union. “That was some time ago, Dad.”

  “I know that, dammit; do you think I’m daft? Just a few years ago, you were working with a young guy, a famous ace from World War II, what was his name?”

  Harry remembered. “That was John Meyer, Dad. He’s no longer with SAC; he’s the Vice Chief of Staff of the Air Force
.”

  “Even better! I want you to get me an interview with him. I don’t care where it is; I’ll go see him anywhere. I’ve got to talk to him about this business with Tom.”

  The intensity of Vance’s gaze frightened Harry. Was Vance slipping round the bend? Or was this the old fighter, picking up his arms for one last charge? It didn’t matter.

  “I’ll do that, Dad. It might take a little time; he’s awfully busy now.”

  “Tell him to get unbusy. I want to see him.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  February 18, 1970

  The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

  Harry had hoped that Vance would relinquish the idea of talking to General Meyer, particularly since he would not share what he intended to talk about. He had tried for weeks to get an appointment with General Meyer but never got past his staffers until an old friend, Colonel Harvey “Cobra” Connelly, showed up on Meyer’s staff and took Harry’s call.

  “Harry, you have to understand, General Meyer is completely snowed under the pressure of the things going on in Vietnam, getting the budget ready, and testifying to Congress. The poor guy was a lot better off when the Luftwaffe was shooting at him.”

  Meyer had destroyed thirty-seven and one-half enemy airplanes in the air and on the ground and was the leading American ace in the European theater. Then he had gone on to shoot down two MiG-15s in Korea.

  “Cobra, he probably knew my brother, Tom, in Korea, or at least knew of him. And I have to tell you, my dad’s dedicated his life to aviation, and to the Air Force. He’s asking to see General Meyer about Tom, and it’s important to his health.”

  As it turned out, Connelly had an easy time of it once he told Meyer that the request was from Tom Shannon’s father. “Vance Shannon? He’s a real living legend. And I knew Tom in Korea, met him several times, flew with him once, a great pilot. I’ll be happy to talk with him. I’d go out to the coast to do it if I could, but see if you can set something up here in mid-February.”