Captured

by Alvin Townley

  As Jerry anxiously waited for his interview to begin, he recalled a conversation he, Jane, and his son Don had six years earlier, in 1960. They’d been reading a newspaper article about Francis Gary Powers, an American U-2 spy plane pilot downed and captured in the Soviet Union. At his public trial, Powers had pleaded for mercy. He confessed he was “a human being … who is deeply repentant and profoundly sorry for what he has done.”

  “Isn’t it too bad that he wasn’t able to stand up and say something,” Jane had mused, imagining how the pilot might have defied the Soviets in public.

  “Mom,” Don had responded, “don’t you know that they can make you say anything?”

  “Yes,” Jane said, “but wouldn’t it have been great if he had found the courage to say something?”

  Now, Jerry faced the same test as Powers. He might face the same judgment from his family. Would he answer questions as instructed by his Communist captors or would he summon the courage to speak his mind, to uphold his honor, to defend his country?

  Presently, Pigeye yanked him from the bathroom and ushered him through open French doors. He walked into a veritable sunrise. Glaring television lights shone into Jerry’s eyes. He blinked. Suddenly, he knew exactly how he’d submarine the interview.

  A Japanese journalist wearing a white shirt and thick glasses motioned to an empty stool placed before a microphone; Jerry took a seat. The journalist asked Jerry to smile. Jerry just stared at him blankly. Jerry spied Cat and Rabbit seated behind the journalist alongside other North Vietnamese officers. They watched him intently, expecting him to toe their line, to answer as he’d been coached. Jerry knew they thought that surely, after weeks of indoctrination and punishment, he would cooperate.

  With his moment so near, and his tormentors so close, Jerry’s heart pounded inside his chest. He knew the price he would pay for speaking his mind. As he waited for his chance to dash Cat’s plans for the interview, his hands began to sweat and he clasped them together. The camera started filming. He began to blink, slowly and deliberately.

  One long blink followed by three long blinks; Morse code for T and O.

  “How are you treated,” asked the reporter.

  Jerry responded softly. “I get adequate food and adequate clothing and medical care when I require it,” he said. That answer would please Cat and Rabbit, but Jerry would not parrot their rubbish for the entire interview.

  He gave one short blink, a long blink, and another short blink: R. Then he sent one long blink: T.

  The reporter asked, “Denton, what is your feeling toward your government’s action?”

  He sent the letter U with two short blinks followed by one long blink, then answered, “I don’t know what is going on in the war now because the only sources I have access to are North Vietnam radio, magazines, and newspapers.”

  Straining to focus on his eyes and the journalist’s questions, he blinked quickly, slowly, then quickly: R.

  “What do you think about the so-called Vietnamese War?”

  “I don’t know what is happening,” Jerry qualified, “but whatever the position of my government is, I support it—fully. Whatever the position of my government is, I believe in it, yes sir. I am a member of that government and it is my job to support it and I will as long as I live.”

  He finished his message with one quick blink: E. Jerry had used Morse code to blink out a single desperate word:

  T —

  O – – –

  R .–.

  T –

  U ..–

  R .–.

  E .

  TORTURE.

  The smile disappeared from the reporter’s face. Jerry saw the military officers stirring, sensing the interview had gone awry. He felt certain the North Vietnamese had not noticed the message he sent in Morse code; he figured they were far more concerned with his defiant answers. He knew retribution would come soon and be painful.

  It did, and it was.

  THE CAMP AUTHORITY sent Jerry Denton back to the Zoo on June 2, having extracted sufficient revenge for the off-script statements he made during his televised interview. Jerry felt quite certain Cat and Rabbit would never let him speak with another reporter. That was fine. For now, he needed to recover. The punishment had completely exhausted him. It left his hands so crippled he couldn’t even wash his shirt when ordered; guards had to wash it for him.

  When Jerry returned to the Zoo, so did summer. He’d nearly forgotten the oppressive Southeast Asian humidity he’d found in Hanoi when he arrived the previous July. Now he once again languished in the insufferable stock-still air of a solitary cell; no breath of wind could penetrate the concrete walls, wooden door, and thatched mats covering the windows. He lived in a tiny, dirty sauna. He was often too tired to communicate with his neighbors. He spent most of his days lying on a bamboo mat, unmoving, yet still soaked with perspiration. The small ration of water he received never quenched his constant thirst. He’d helplessly watch precious fluids ooze out of his body as sweat, making him even more thirsty.

  For hours, he stared at the ceiling and the geckos that occasionally scurried across it. Sometimes, he’d lean against the wall and watch drops of sweat fall from his nose to the floor. For sport, he’d try to land them in the same spot. Each day was the same. Minutes passed like hours. Jerry continued to wonder how long his body and mind could survive.

  Cat eventually broke the monotony when he launched his “Make Your Choice” program. The announcement came over the loudspeakers after he played confessions extracted from Robbie Risner and Jerry Denton. “Now, you have come to the place where you must make your choice,” Cat told his prisoners. “You must decide whether you are going to take the good path, the path of H Ch Minh and the Vietnamese people, the path of cooperation; or whether you are going to take the bad path, the path of resistance and death.

  “Those who take the good path will receive good treatment. They will receive better food and lots of exercise and sunshine. They will have recreation. They will be allowed to read and study. When the time comes, they can expect to be released and go home to their families, perhaps even before the war ends.

  “But we know that the vast majority will not be able to take the good path because they have been spoiled by the American system. They will understand the good path but will not be able to take it because they are set in their ways. We understand that, and they will be treated humanely.”

  Cat continued, “But also there will be a very small group of diehards. These people will take the bad path. They will refuse to admit their mistakes and will refuse to apologize and cooperate with the Vietnamese people. They will oppose us and resist us and lead others against us. That group will be severely punished. We are done with the diehard criminals.

  “Now it is up to you. You must make your choice. Which way will you go?”

  Jerry thought he fit quite nicely into the die-hard group; any path Cat and Rabbit considered bad, he considered good.

  The North Vietnamese continued the propaganda offensive over the coming days. Cat and his officers repeated their promise to take cooperative POWs to “the good camp.” There, they could roam outside, wear clean clothes, and enjoy good food. They could recover. Cat cajoled, “Forget your Code of Conduct. You may never go home. Make it easy on yourself. Make the good choice and cooperate.”

  Jerry Denton didn’t believe a good camp or good food existed anywhere in North Vietnam. Furthermore, he could not let his men—his ragged, hungry, imprisoned little army—even think about softening their hard line. He would not let them stop dreaming of an honorable homecoming. The Camp Authority would have a fight on its hands. “We must all lie down in front of the train and slow it down,” he sent down the cellblock. “We must do our best each time we are tested. That is the only way to defeat their aims.” It was the only way for his men to survive mentally too. They needed a collective purpose to remind themselves they were still a unit of American fighting men. He reiterated that POWs should say nothing bes
ides name, rank, service number, and date of birth. They should make no disloyal statements. The Code of Conduct was the only thing holding them together.

  With increasing frequency, Cat summoned POWs into the Zoo’s interrogation room. There, he would ask for intelligence, propaganda, and a final choice between the good and bad paths. Torture and threats pushed many POWs beyond the Big Four, but they rarely surrendered anything of value. In fact, the POWs spun so many lies in that room, they nicknamed it the Liar’s Box. The POWs consistently made the wrong choice, at least from Cat’s perspective. Their bravery made Jerry Denton immeasurably proud.

  Jerry’s men couldn’t lie their way out of a confession, however. Pigeye soon appeared at the Zoo and plied his sadistic trade with alarming frequency. In response, Jerry ordered his men to die rather than give up classified information. Beyond that he ordered, “Take torture and before you lose your sanity, write something harmless and ludicrous.”

  The confessions extracted by Pigeye’s ropes were always insincere, yet the coerced words were still devastating to morale when played over the camp’s speaker system. Worse, every man feared his family and old squadron mates would hear the same recording. The groggy confessions would echo across the camp and through the cellblocks; pain was present in each word. Every time Jerry heard a confession, he knew an American had paid a stiff price for following his orders. He understood that nobody could hold out forever in the face of torture. He tapped out his counsel: “If you are broken, don’t despair. Bounce back as soon as you can to the hard line.” He inspired his men to do their best every time they faced Cat, Rabbit, and Pigeye. POWs had to remember they were soldiers, not criminals. Their actions and honor still mattered.

  The English-speaking host of Radio Hanoi known as Hanoi Hannah often included the confessions in her thrice-daily broadcasts and chimed in to identify the confessor. Radio Hanoi broadcast throughout North and South Vietnam, delivering a mix of popular music, propaganda, news, and taunts; Hanoi Hannah became one of the war’s best-known personalities. Americans in the South or at sea could turn off their radios, however. POWs could not. In her cheery, mocking voice, she reminded the American criminals, “You will be tried for your crimes. You will never go home.”

  When a confession from a newly arrived POW came over the Zoo’s speakers one day, another POW tapped to Jerry in disgust: “God, I don’t see how he could do that!”

  “Don’t condemn him,” Jerry responded. “There is no telling what they did to him.”

  Later that week, the same POW admonished by Jerry experienced Pigeye’s ropes. He too read a confession. He returned to his cell and tapped to Jerry, “I am humiliated. What an arrogant fool I was to say what I did.”

  Jerry tapped back, “GBU.” The three-letter acronym had become universally known and attained a meaning to POWs far deeper than the literal “God bless you.” The letters conveyed a deep understanding of everyone’s struggle. They offered forgiveness, solidarity, and encouragement. It was the closest expression to love that the POWs had.

  The volume of orders coming from Jerry’s cell and the resulting American resistance would lead the Camp Authority straight to the craggy, skinny POW from Alabama. Jerry knew the Camp Authority was especially galled by the POWs maintaining a command structure in direct defiance of all regulations. One day, Jerry heard Rabbit take to the PA system and announce, “Attention, all criminals. You know how die hard and obstinating Jeremiah Denton is. Well, we have succeeded in forcing him to confess his crimes. Those of you who remain obstinating will be forced into the same disgrace.” Then he played the recording. Jerry recognized it as one extracted several months earlier; they were trying to undermine his leadership. Hanoi Hannah’s happy voice added verification: “That was the voice of American war criminal Colonel Jeremiah Denton.” Commander Denton seethed (the navy does not have the rank of colonel) until he received a touching note in the bathhouse from his men. Using toothpaste on toilet paper, the POWs had written, “We want to express our admiration for the man who is keeping his cool under this kind of pressure. We are proud to serve under your leadership.”

  The routine of boredom and isolation with occasional moments of interrogation and pain continued through June 1966. Routine at least made prison life predictable and relatively manageable. POWs generally found that change led to worse conditions. That summer they were right.

  On June 29, 1966, a low rumble rolled through the summer air over Hanoi. It carried to the Zoo, where Jerry Denton heard it. For a moment, he mistook it for a summer thunderstorm. The rumble continued and he recognized the sound as bombing, not thunder. The POWs realized President Johnson had finally decided to bomb Hanoi itself. Never had US aircraft attacked Hanoi, and this new threat terrified the prison guards. It elated the Americans. Finally, planners had chosen a target of consequence, unlike the notably inconsequential outposts across North Vietnam that US aircraft had attacked since the air campaign began. If North Vietnam’s air defenses downed any American pilots on this day, at least the pilots would be flying a mission that mattered. The bombings of June 29 seemed to mark a turning point; America would bring the war to Hanoi. The POWs were certain North Vietnam would seek peace. Homecoming would surely come soon.

  On July 6, Jerry noticed a change. Guards seemed tense and activity at the Zoo increased. POWs began to speculate. Tapped messages flew up and down the cellblock as the men caught glimpses of other Americans outfitted in shirts with stenciled numbers on the back. Could this be preparation for a return home? Had the bombing convinced North Vietnam to negotiate? Jerry Denton’s innate optimism filled him with hope, despite his efforts to temper it with the disappointing lessons of eleven months in prison. His imagination ran unchecked in his solitary cell. When he donned his own shirt with newly stenciled numbering, he could smell the ocean at Virginia Beach. He was going home.

  Late that afternoon, guards opened Jerry’s cell, blindfolded him, and pulled him into the hallway. They fastened his rubber sandals to his feet with gauze, then handcuffed his right hand to another prisoner’s left. Guards herded the pair into a waiting truck, and they sternly ordered the POWs not to communicate. Beneath the tarp covering the truck’s bed, Jerry found other Americans. Joy rushed into him like a storm-swollen river; he was no longer alone. He and everyone else immediately began to communicate. He pressed his knee against his neighbor’s, to whom he’d been handcuffed. He tapped out, “D-E-N-T-O-N.” The neighbor tapped his knee back: “P-E-E-L.” Jerry sat next to air force lieutenant Bob Peel. Knees, toes, and fingers tapped silently but rapidly around the truck, and soon Jerry knew the roster of Americans with him. The truck’s engine turned over, and it lurched into gear. Jerry heard another truck start nearby. They were in a convoy, and Jerry was sure they were airport bound.

  They weren’t.

  The tide of optimism that had buoyed Jerry began to subside as he heard the noises of downtown Hanoi. The truck stopped at what seemed like the city’s center, and guards began pulling the POWs from the backs of the trucks and removing their blindfolds. Jerry looked around and saw the old French-built Hanoi Opera House. The colonial landmark made the scene seem momentarily Parisian. A guard shoved Bob Peel and Jerry into the fifteenth row of a column of POWs twenty-five pairs long. Uniformed soldiers with fixed bayonets spaced the pairs eight feet apart. Apparently, they were to be marched through Hanoi.

  The POWs never entirely lost their sense of humor, and one prisoner, anticipating what would come, sarcastically exclaimed, “A parade! Oh, boy, I love a parade!” The Americans snickered as guards shouted for silence.

  Rabbit soon appeared, wearing a pressed uniform and armed with a megaphone. “You must remember that you are all criminals,” he began. “Tonight you are being taken to your public interrogations so that all the world will know your terrible crimes … Today you will see the fury and hatred of the Vietnamese people. They will try to kill you. We cannot protect you. Show proper attitude for your crimes. If you repent, you will see our len
ient and humane treatment. If not, the people will decide what to do with you.”

  Homecoming had clearly not arrived. Instead, the POWs were being paraded through Hanoi so the populace could vent anger stoked by the recent American bombings. Jerry could see crowds of citizens gathering along the roadside and standing on brightly lit bleachers. The men and women were boiling. They were angry. He knew they were hurt. He imagined they felt helpless as American warplanes soared distantly overhead and rained bombs on their city. The people below could only hope the bombs wouldn’t land on them. Many had likely lost family and friends. They craved vengeance. The POWs were their nearest targets.

  The march began as dusk became night. Floodlights quickly transformed night back into day, leaving the POWs no place to hide. Jerry spied several news cameras. He grinned and flashed a victory sign, extending his index and middle fingers in a V. After several moments, he retracted the index finger and rotated his left hand, middle finger still extended. He grinned as he shot the bird to the cameras.

  As the guards prodded the Americans forward into the light, Rabbit ordered, “Bow your heads in shame for your crimes!” Guards used rifles and fists to make the prisoners comply. “Bow! Bow!” they shouted. Jerry knew images of the march would reach America, and he did not want his men looking guilty or defeated. “You are Americans!” he bellowed. “Keep your heads up!”

  His order crackled like electricity along the twin columns. His men complied instantly, holding their heads high despite blows from the guards. The march advanced toward the grandstands, where Rabbit and other officers stoked the crowd and organized chants: “Down with the imperialist American aggressors! America get out!” The Americans walked slowly, some of them limping, through the valley created by the tall stands. Yells and chants cascaded down on top of them like a demoralizing avalanche. The scene reminded the Americans how far they were from home and the protection of the United States. They may have been marching together, but they were all alone.