The code also tells us to try to escape from and evade the enemy. That wasn’t much of an option for us, because the compound was so heavily guarded, and as most of us were Caucasian, we would stand out in the Asian community rather than blend into it.
Nonetheless, Capt. John Dramesi and Capt. Ed Attabury, both U.S. Air Force, spent months planning an escape and actually got away from the compound called the Zoo. They made it to the Red River and worked their way south but were captured. It is believed that Atterbury died at the hands of the North Vietnamese from his subsequent punishment. Dramesi survived. Consequently, though, as a signal to all of us that escape attempts would not be tolerated, torture and brutality increased.
In November 1972 the famous raid on the Son Tay prison, located twenty miles northwest of Hanoi, took place and startled the enemy. The mission failed because all prisoners had been removed well before the raid, but it alarmed our captors, and about Christmas time, POWs from outlying prisons were pulled into a central location at the Hanoi Hilton. At first we didn’t know the reason for this sudden influx. But there were some South Vietnamese POWs among us who managed to get the information from the guards that a rescue had been tried.
As might be expected, religion played a major role in our lives in Hanoi. Indeed, it was the sustaining element of our lives. For the first four years, we were not allowed to conduct any religious activity. I thought it critical that we be able to do so. For a long time, each man conducted his own private service, if only in his mind. In 1972, when larger numbers of POWs were placed in bigger cells accommodating forty to forty-five men, precipitated by the Son Tay raid, we started group services. A stalwart in this effort was one of my heroes, USAF colonel (and Medal of Honor awardee) Robbie Risner. He led a service for the group that was seen by the guards, and once they realized what was happening, they panicked.
Within minutes, the guards hurried into the cell, grabbed Risner, Capt. Howie Rutledge, U.S. Navy, and George Coker, who were assisting Robbie, and hauled them away. This infuriated us, and after a brief confab, those of us who were seniors decided to go on a two-day fast. We sent word around the camp about what happened, which got everyone pumped up in anger. That evening, after the sun had gone down and things were a bit more settled, we stood up in unison on a prearranged signal and, at the top of our lungs, sang the “Star Spangled Banner” so loud I thought it might have been heard on the streets of Hanoi.
As a consequence, the North Vietnamese selected out the seniors in the group, still fasting, and removed us to small one-person cells. In essence this was solitary confinement. This gesture allowed them to save face, but the upshot was that, in time, we were allowed to have group religious services, a major victory for our side. We ended our fast after five days.
Actually, this was the second time I was involved in a fast. A few months earlier, Capt. (later Sen.) Jerry Denton had returned to Vegas from Alcatraz, and because he was senior, I turned over command of Vegas to him. He ordered a two-day fast to protest solitary confinement for certain POWs. We called Denton “Low Cholesterol Commander.” In retrospect, I have my doubts about the fasting. When you’re already receiving fewer than the required calories for sustenance, it didn’t help to go without any calories at all. Still, it had its advantages. We were not only POWs, but, as time went on, the North Vietnamese came to accept that we also were hostages, and, as hostages, we were of value to our captors. It was not in their best interest to let us perish behind prison walls.
Chapter Seventeen
SOMETHING IN THE WIND
It was personally reassuring to note that many of the boldest leaders in the camps were Navy men, and many of them were Naval Academy graduates.
BEFORE 1971 WE WERE OCCASIONALLY let out of our cells for brief periods in the Hanoi Hilton courtyard for a “horse trough” bath. The guards remained antisocial and maintained a rather cocky attitude even when strike groups swarmed in and unleashed untold numbers of bombs on North Vietnamese targets.
After the religious service fiasco, things tightened up when the seniors, including yours truly, were abruptly transferred away from the larger body of POWs and kept in two- to three-person cells. That lasted until our release. In early 1971, however, our captors began to loosen up a bit, and we were allowed into the courtyard en masse, a special treat, because it allowed us to mill about and talk to each other.
Toward the end of 1972, the seniors were released from the smaller cells and placed into larger ones that accommodated up to twenty-five POWs.
This progressive liberalization made us wonder if external political events, particularly peace talks under way in Paris, had something to do with this change. Paraphrasing the words of Winston Churchill, this wasn’t the beginning of the end for us, but it certainly seemed like the end of the beginning of our long captivity. Something was in the wind.
That something turned out to be raids by U.S. Air Force B-52s, the aging but amazingly effective heavy bombers. These raids struck close to Hanoi and its environs and dramatically changed the state of the war. Had we mined Haiphong, cut the two main rail links to China, and employed the “Buffs,” as the B-52s were called, earlier, the war certainly would not have lasted as long as it did. But better late than never.
It began one night. We heard this tremendous rumbling. It continued for half an hour. I remember somebody calling out, “God, what do you think that is?” No one perceived or even guessed that it was a bombing attack.
“Must be an earthquake,” declared another man. We just had no sense that a bombing raid had taken place.
The guards began to wear worried expressions. You could see fear in their faces, particularly after a thunderous peel of iron bombs exploded in sufficient proximity to shake the earth. The propaganda broadcasts continued, and the North Vietnamese revealed their country was being bombarded by the B-52s. Their confidence became a fragile thing. They frantically began digging holes in the ground as refuge points against the bombing. With the onset of dusk, they scurried into these makeshift bomb shelters.
“Why is your country doing this to us?” one guard cried out. For me that was a question that needed no answer.
Did we fear the prison itself would be hit? Not really. I suppose we were inherently eternal optimists. The bombing had been going on for years, albeit not in the immediate vicinity of the Hanoi Hilton, and we were never hit. U.S. intelligence certainly knew where we were, and the prison certainly would not be considered a strategic target.
Not too long after the B-52 raids began, the food began to improve. I had lost forty pounds since the shoot down but started to gain some of them back. While anxiety began to embrace our captors, we had a sense that maybe, just maybe, the end was near. Visions of a return with honor to friendly shores were on the horizon. Then, in late January 1972, the propaganda broadcast proclaimed that a peace treaty had been signed between the United States and North Vietnam.
One of the stipulations of the treaty was that POWs were to be provided details of the treaty. This information was conveyed via the normal broadcasts plus a mimeographed sheet. It did not specify a release date, but it certified that we would be released in the order that we were shot down. Obviously, we were delighted but remained subdued. It was too early to shout with joy. On the one hand, we were optimistic, but on the other hand, skepticism lingered. We were still enclosed by those thick and formidable walls of the Hilton.
I began to contemplate the heroes among us during our lengthening captivity. Men like Jim Stockdale; Jerry Denton (for whom I served as a deputy commander in our area of the camp for a time); John McCain, a very strong and active resistor; Jim Mulligan; Harry Jenkins; Howie Rutledge; Jack Fellowes; Red McDaniel; Bob Shumaker; and so many others who each in his own way was a tower of strength. Robbie Risner of the Air Force, a Medal of Honor recipient, was a standout and inspiration to all.
It was personally reassuring to note that many of the boldest leaders in the camps were Navy men, and many of them were Naval Academy g
raduates. I later calculated that, although Naval Academy graduates composed less than 5 percent of the POW population, they earned 50 percent of the Medals of Honor (Jim Stockdale) and Distinguished Service Medals.
It seemed the senior naval officers were more caught up in the aspect of taking command, which is inherent in our training from the get-go. In my view, Air Force officers, in contrast, considered themselves pilots first, with leadership a second duty. This is not intended as a slight, but rather an observation of the “way it was” from my perspective, and reflective of Air Force training policy rather than a matter of courage or determination. Commanding a squadron, an aircraft carrier, or any unit in the Navy is a foremost goal. At the time, the Air Force didn’t have screening boards for command as does the Navy. My sense was that commanding a squadron in the Air Force was considered less critical to career progression than in the Navy.
The Air Force Academy produced its first graduating class in 1959. As a result, there were several Air Force captains in captivity who were graduates and who demonstrated superlative toughness, like Medal of Honor recipient Lance Sijan, mentioned earlier in this narrative. In a way, these younger officers seemed better prepared to withstand the challenge of captivity, a tribute to the Air Force Academy curriculum.
From the announcement of the signing of the peace treaty, we knew our prospects were more positive than at any other time. We had become masters of patience over the years and would have to exercise that attribute a little longer.
Chapter Eighteen
GOING HOME
With the utmost kindness and sensitivity, Ross said, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Captain, but your wife divorced you while you were a prisoner of war.”
STIPULATIONS OF THE PEACE TREATY signed in January 1973 were read to us over the loudspeaker system several times. Concomitant with the issuance of the treaty, a strong sense of urgency came over the North Vietnamese with respect to getting us out of their country as soon as possible. It would take some weeks, but preparations quickly began for our release.
We were to be let go in a sequence of four groups in order of our shoot-down dates. Those who had been imprisoned the longest would get the first flight out. About a month before release, we were sequestered by chronological order, regardless of rank. The first group left in February, and I was let go in March, with the third of four contingents.
We were an emotionally hardened assembly of military men, so we took the treaty and the subsequent actions with some trepidation or disbelief. Peace talks had begun way back in 1968. We got up for that, only to be let down. When the food improved at one point, we figured this a good sign, only to be let down. Up until the time we actually stepped out of the buses onto the tarmac at the Gia Lam airfield in Hanoi, we were skeptical.
I trained my mind to deflect any visions of reuniting with Anne and the children. I didn’t want to get excited about seeing them again only to have the carpet hauled out from beneath me. Wait and see, I told myself, wait and see. I’d received but a handful of brief letters from my parents containing hardly more than mundane remarks. I did not receive any mail from my wife or children for the whole six years I was there. In the last three years of imprisonment, I mailed ten very brief letters to Anne but got no response.
I had absolutely no idea how Anne and the kids were doing. Nevertheless, I held the optimistic hope they were all OK, that the government and other family members would have pitched in to ensure their well-being.
When the time came for our departure, we shed our striped prison garb and were issued cotton trousers, shirts, jackets, and leather shoes—quite a treat after living with sandals. We were bused to the airfield and moved in formation. As our names were called, we proceeded to a desk, where a North Vietnamese officer checked our name from a register, with a U.S. Air Force officer monitoring. As soon as I was cleared, another Air Force officer took me by the arm and escorted me to the waiting C-141 transport, a remarkable, bigger-than-life experience. We remained silent throughout the process, uncertainty lingering in the mind of each and every one of us.
I had served over six years in captivity, which included fourteen months in solitary confinement.
Once on board we were still a bit insecure and itching to get into the sky. With all hands on board and ready to go, the C-141 taxied to the approach end and took the runway. When those engines powered up and the huge bird lumbered forward, we knew the long-awaited day had come. But it wasn’t until we lifted off, started a magnificent climb away from the country of North Vietnam, and shortly went feet wet over the Gulf of Tonkin that all the pent-up exuberance released itself. Collectively, we shouted for joy. It was a long, continuous happy hollering, the memory of which has stayed with me to this day. Next stop Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines.
En route to Clark, an Air Force lieutenant colonel approached and told me, “You know, my wife is from your hometown of Nashville.” He mentioned her maiden name.
“Yes,” I said, “I remember that family.”
“Well,” he continued, “I understand that you’re going back to the naval hospital in Memphis.”
I was momentarily startled. I thought, why I am going to Memphis when my family is in Solana Beach? Moreover, my squadron was based at Miramar. I had figured I was destined for the Balboa Naval Hospital. Curious.
Our reception at Clark was very, very warm. Adm. Noel Gayler, commander in chief Pacific Command, and Air Force lieutenant general Bill Moore, his deputy, greeted us as we descended the ladder of the C-141. I learned I had been promoted to captain, which was a plus. Television cameras were all about, and a large crowd cheered our arrival.
We were bused to the base hospital, where a large assortment of amusing, uplifting, and heartfelt welcoming posters created by schoolchildren were all over the place, a pleasant touch. It was late afternoon by the time we were taken to our assigned ward, four men per sizeable room. There were no activities scheduled for us, so we loitered in the passageway, chatting, with hospital personnel amongst us, ready to assist in any way.
It was during this lull that I inexplicably developed a sense that I was being observed in a peculiar way. There was nothing specific about a gesture or expression here and there, but something in the looks of the staff members, if conveyed only with a fleeting glance, fueled my curiosity. However, I let it go, faulting my imagination. Perhaps the excitement of being on friendly soil was getting to me.
After a time, Capt. Ross Trower, a chaplain from the Service Force Pacific Fleet Staff (who later became the Navy’s chief of chaplains), came up to me, wearing a serious expression, and said, “I’d like you to come with me.” I followed numbly as we entered a nearby private room. He asked me to sit down. He remained standing.
With the utmost kindness and sensitivity, Ross said, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Captain, but your wife divorced you while you were a prisoner of war.” He let that set in for moment, and I eyed him in stunned silence. He then added, “She is now married to a minister of the Episcopalian church named Ralph Haines. They are living in Encinitas, California.” I insisted he repeat what he had just said. I was bewildered. I felt my whole body shiver. This was such an unbelievable announcement that I couldn’t immediately react.
As the shock of the moment swept through me, I remembered Tom Kirk, my POW roommate for over three years, who never stopped worrying that his wife would divorce him while he was in the Hilton. “Quit tormenting yourself,” I reassured him, day after day, “she’ll be there for you.” And she was.
Now here was I, totally discombobulated over the very fate Tom Kirk feared but happily avoided. What had Anne done? Who was Ralph Haines? How were the children? The elation that came with the end of my ordeal was obliterated by this dark and totally unexpected news.
Ross sat with me for quite a while as the weight of this terrible truth and destroyed plans for the future swept over me. My Anne had been an honorable person and a devout Christian. I had been totally confide
nt she would measure up to the challenge of caring for the children and maintaining the family unit without my presence. Somehow I went to bed, but I wept through a night of fitful sleep.
When morning came, my brain must have been working overtime through the night, because I remember saying to myself, “I’ve been through a hell of a lot for six years, but I’ve got to face up to this problem and somehow get it behind me. I cannot let it pull me down and out.” This may be difficult to believe, but it’s the way it was. For the most part, I was able to discard, temporarily at least, the dreadful emotional impact of the divorce. After all, I had the tools to make a good life for myself: my loving parents, brothers, the children, an excellent education, and the hope of continuing my naval career.
In a telephone call to my children the next day, all three seemed stoic. I expected a bit more enthusiasm from them, but my perception was they were in a state of bewilderment over my return, coupled with what happened to their mother. They were fine and exuberant kids when I left but didn’t seem so now. I realized right away that, on my mental checklist of things to do, the first priority was to get straight with Bill, Laurie, and Wendy.
In a telephone call to my parents, I explained I would be in Memphis in about three days. The children would be sent there to meet me. In a subsequent phone call, there was a measure of joy in the voices of the kids, which was uplifting.
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