Defiant: The POWs Who Endured Vietnam's Most Infamous Prison, the Women Who Fought for Them, and the One Who Never Returned

by Alvin Townley

  From the edge of the crowd, Lorraine Shumaker pointed to her husband and said to her son, “There’s your daddy.” Grant had been less than two months old the last time he saw his father; now he saw a complete stranger walking toward him. That didn’t matter. Grant bolted across the tarmac, racing to the man people had told him about since he could remember, the one they told him to be proud of, but the one he did not know at all. He reached his father at a sprint. Shu scooped up his eight-year-old son and held him tightly as Grant fastened his arms around his father. Grant’s POW bracelet—which bore Shu’s name and shootdown date, February 11, 1965—shone in the morning light.

  Bob Shumaker reunited with his family after 2,923 days in captivity.

  Holding his son, Shu walked to meet Lorraine. Then he held them both—his wife in his right arm and his son in his left—and kissed his wife. His son beamed at the thousands who’d gathered to welcome his father home—his father, Bob Shumaker, the second American aviator taken captive and the longest-serving member of the Alcatraz Eleven.

  * * *

  That same runway also welcomed home Jim Stockdale, CAG, the indomitable warrior who confounded, defied, and subverted Cat, Rabbit, and the North Vietnamese Camp Authority perhaps more than any other prisoner. Certainly, few paid such a high personal price or set such an example. His stiff leg would always remind him of the cruelty he experienced in the Mint, Riviera, and Alcatraz, but memories of Hanoi receded into the past as he flew from San Francisco to NAS Miramar. The crew gave him the copilot’s seat, and he watched California pass beneath him: Stanford, Palo Alto, Los Altos Hills; the sprawl of Los Angeles; then finally San Diego County. The C-9 settled over the dry hills ringing the city and entered the Miramar break, the familiar landing pattern Jim had flown countless times as he prepared for war. Tactical runs around Miramar had readied him for those days in August 1964 over the Gulf of Tonkin that led his country deeper into the war in Southeast Asia, but drills at Miramar had not sustained him during his seven years in Hanoi. Rather, his mind, the faith shared among prisoners, and the love of his family, who now awaited his imminent return, had kept him alive during that horrid term of imprisonment.

  On the previous afternoon, February 14, a dozen Valentine’s Day roses had arrived at 547 A Avenue for Sybil Stockdale. The accompanying card read, “God Bless You, Syb. All my love, Jim.” In the coming days, he’d learn just how much Sybil had done for him and his men. The next morning, Jimmy, Stanford, and Taylor nailed a gigantic WELCOME HOME banner across the front porch; Sid would arrive home from boarding school in time for dinner. Then a navy car pulled up to the neatly mowed yard, and the Stockdales climbed inside for the ride to Miramar, across San Diego Bay from their home in Coronado. From the Miramar tarmac, they watched a distant silver flash in the sky become an airplane that stopped yards from where they stood.

  Jim pulled and pushed himself out of the cockpit and dragged his leg toward the boarding door. Then the time came for him to exit. “Stand up straight, now,” he told himself, thinking of Sybil. “You’ve got to make her proud.” He emerged from the plane, forty-nine years old, unable to raise his left arm, scarcely able to bend his left leg. His hair had turned nearly white. Yet nobody could have borne himself with more pride than Jim Stockdale. He stepped down the stairs and strode to a microphone to address the crowd. Sybil watched him from several yards away, noting the four new captain’s stripes on his shoulder boards and disapproving of his uniform’s stiff new khaki hat. She knew that her husband had always preferred the well-worn hat of a fighter pilot.

  “For the past seven or eight years,” Jim’s voice rang out, “I doubt that there was a prisoner of war in Hanoi who did not occasionally hum that old refrain, ‘California, Here We Come.’ Well, California, we have come.”

  With sunlight warming the concrete tarmac beneath him, he closed his brief speech with a nod to the philosophers whose lessons had seen him through the gauntlets of Hanoi. Addressing the crowd of anxious families, he said, “As that Athenian warrior and poet Sophocles wrote over 2,400 years ago, ‘Nothing is so sweet as to return from the sea and listen to the raindrops on the rooftops of home.’ We’re home. America, America, God shed His grace on thee.” When Sybil heard her husband quoting Greek texts, she knew Jim—the same man she had always loved—had truly returned.

  CAG returns.

  Jim Stockdale had served the proudest command of his career, leading the incorrigibles of Alcatraz against a determined foe. When those words fell from his lips, he had completed the final task of the longest deployment and toughest assignment he would ever have. His duty faithfully discharged, he turned to his family and stepped toward them. Husband and wife held each other in an embrace that they had imagined for nearly eight years. Then Jim felt the arms of his sons encircling him, welcoming him home.

  * * *

  By early March, the ten survivors of Alcatraz had all arrived on U.S. soil. On tarmacs from San Diego to Norfolk, they met their families in joyous planeside reunions followed intently on television and in print by an enthralled public. The plight of the prisoners and their families had, in many ways, become America’s plight, and both had endured. For a time, the POWs’ return consumed the country. A decade of war abroad and unrest at home had torn at the very seams of the republic. In February of 1973, the haggard yet resilient men who walked off those C-141s at Clark Air Base brought the nation together again, however briefly. In a war that had no clear ending, no moment of ultimate triumph, their return brought sorely needed closure. America briefly forgot about her divisions, as citizens of all stripes paused to honor the POWs returning from Vietnam. For many in the United States, their homecoming marked the end of a long and painful era.

  In numerous ways, the Alcatraz Eleven were unlucky. Shot down, they endured years of solitary confinement and brutal torture, the likes of which they’d never even contemplated. Yet the ten survivors fulfilled the sincere promise they’d made when they departed home so many years ago: they would return. Vietnam had claimed more than 58,000 American lives—young men who would never walk off a plane to public fanfare. Many of their families would not experience the same outpouring of compassion that their POW/MIA counterparts received. More than 300,000 soldiers returned wounded, some disabled for life. Others returned physically intact but emotionally shattered. Many never received a welcome of any sort. The New York Times framed the public fervor surrounding Operation Homecoming by comparing Vietnam to Korea: “[The Korean war] was not so divisive as the Vietnam war. That war had heroes and a somewhat sympathetic press. The Vietnam war has had neither until now.”

  * * *

  By the time they began their journey home from the Philippines, the Alcatraz Gang all knew Ron Storz had died in the desolate prison that had tested them for more than two years. They had all suffered, lost weight, staved off depression, and occasionally wished for death. They had all come close to sharing their friend’s tragic fate. They would never forget him. Those tiny cells had welded them together, creating an eternal bond.

  These surviving ten left Alcatraz and Hanoi believing that because of one another and for some higher purpose, they had survived. Yet they had not struggled in the torture rooms of Hỏa Lò or in the cells of Alcatraz simply to get home. They had fought valiantly—often desperately—in order to uphold their nation’s Code, which had become their own. Through all their trials, they remained devoted to their brotherhood of fierce Americans, bound together by unparalleled adversity and unequaled sacrifice. In the winter of 1973, after long years of battle, the survivors of Alcatraz emerged victorious and proud, bodies scarred but consciences unblemished. With their fellow veterans at their side, they once again set foot in their beloved country and faced a grateful nation with heads unbowed. They returned precisely as they’d hoped: They returned with honor.

  EPILOGUE

  It was a bright March day at Arlington National Cemetery. The sun had chased away the winter clouds, and its rays fell on the Old Post Chapel, where Geo
rge McKnight delivered a eulogy over a flag-draped casket that held the repatriated remains of Ron Storz. George spoke about his friend, the one who did not return. Sadly, he couldn’t say—nor would he ever fully know—exactly what happened to the ardent patriot who suffered inside Cell Five at Alcatraz.

  On that warm day in 1974, surviving members of the Alcatraz Eleven and other returned POWs had gathered at Arlington to bury their brother-in-arms. After the service in the chapel, the mourners followed a horse-drawn caisson to an open grave in Section Eleven; all agreed the section’s number was particularly fitting. In their dress uniforms, veterans saluted the casket that carried their friend. A rifle detail’s volleys echoed against the hillside; jets thundered overhead. A bugler played “Taps.” An officer presented Sandra Storz an American flag and expressed the nation’s gratitude. Amid the beautiful yet heartbreaking ceremony, Sandra and her two children drew comfort from the presence of Ron’s fellow officers and his brothers from Alcatraz. His family at long last found closure as his remains were committed to American soil.

  After the service, George McKnight penned a heartfelt letter to Ron’s children, hoping to help them understand their father and the sacrifices he made for his country and fellow POWs. Ron’s partner from the Hanoi March, Wes Schierman, spent several days with the Storz family, sharing stories of the courage and loyalty that distinguished Ron during his years in prison. Schierman and Orson Swindle would become father figures to Mark and Monica, doing their best to pass along Ron’s strong values and abiding patriotism. Mark received the silver cross and chain his father had worn during his incarceration, which were returned with his remains. Monica had already inherited his brilliantly blue eyes. At a reunion years after Operation Homecoming, former POW Ed Davis, who’d once tapped “agony” to Jerry Denton as he’d expressed the pain of torture, began crying when he first saw her. “I know exactly who you are,” he said through tears. “You have your father’s eyes.” Ron’s memory would live on.

  * * *

  Finally home, these heroes quietly returned to work, to life, putting their days in Hanoi behind them. Within three months, all received new commands and returned to active duty; Sam Johnson, George McKnight, and George Coker received new flying assignments. Each tried to reprioritize his life around the values they had contemplated and relied upon during their years of solitude. While such trials would have likely proven impossible for many to survive, the American POWs had faced them like any other mission and had endured them like elite soldiers. Their actions and unity not only ruined the Camp Authority’s plans but also enabled these men to keep their wits and self-confidence and to recover quickly upon their return. They gracefully blended into their families and neighborhoods, neither requesting nor expecting any special favor for their unique sacrifice.

  In the whirlwind of homecoming and their quick returns to duty, the men began to move past the bitterness of imprisonment and isolation; the faces and voices of the men who tormented them started to fade. They received grateful letters from strangers; churches, schools, and civic clubs invited them to speak. From across America, hundreds of people happily sent their POW bracelets back to the men whose names they’d worn and not forgotten. For years, at many of their speaking engagements, Alcatraz POWs would be approached and handed a well-worn bracelet bearing their name. The survivors and their children still have many of the bracelets; they occasionally find yet another one waiting in the mailbox.

  While they all moved on, nobody who suffered through the tribulations of imprisonment in Hanoi would ever truly forget the guards, the pain, or the cells and prisons that siphoned away years of their prime. Nor could they forget the men with whom they served. Of the Alcatraz survivors, only Sam Johnson and Jim Stockdale ever returned to Vietnam. The others simply had no interest in revisiting that country or Hỏa Lò Prison, which today stands as a museum. The forlorn buildings and courtyard formerly at Number Four Phố Lý Nam Đế—the place that they knew as Alcatraz—are gone forever. While none of the Alcatraz POWs would be called upon to fight another war, the surviving members of the Eleven know that they ran the gauntlet once; they could do so again for their country, for their families, for each other.

  “I wouldn’t trade it,” says Jim Mulligan of his experience. “Now, I wouldn’t volunteer to go through it again, but if I was on the cat [catapult] and knew I had to go through it again, I could handle that.”

  As for Jim Stockdale, he would always maintain, “That was where I was supposed to be.” His wife, who had undergone such an ordeal at home, didn’t necessarily agree.

  Mulligan, Stockdale, and the other Alcatraz veterans view their days in captivity differently, but none feel the regret one would expect. With no way to recover those years, the men choose to view them as a growth experience; they had time to reflect on their lives and priorities in ways their stateside peers never did. After enduring years of unspeakable trials neither they nor their countrymen could have anticipated, these POWs left Hanoi with their heads held high, their loyalty tested and proven, and their faith strengthened—something that would guide them for the rest of their lives. All the POWs suffered greatly; most survived and fought heroically. No one group endured any more than the eleven brothers of Alcatraz. No other band of prisoners underwent such a defining shared experience—certainly not one so horrendous and so long. Consequently, more than any other group of POWs, the survivors remained close, bound by their collective time in the cells behind the Ministry of National Defense and their dedication to helping each other survive. Yet these ten survivors never saw themselves as different from other hard-fighting captives; they knew that all POWs had made deep sacrifices. In the tradition of America’s great heroes, the men of Alcatraz are humble, they are gracious, and they count their blessings.

  * * *

  None of these veterans could have endured their ordeal without their families, the hope of returning to those they loved. In many ways, those they loved ultimately brought them home. The organization founded by the Alcatraz wives and other POW/MIA family members had, in fact, helped bring the POWs home alive. In an era when society, particularly the military, largely expected women to follow the rules, the wives and mothers of America’s captured and missing servicemen crossed barriers and founded one of history’s great women’s movements, although male family members were also involved. The National League and its resolute members made the world focus its attention on Hanoi’s behavior, and the Camp Authority’s policies quickly changed in response, sparing men who’d neared the end of their strength. The League would not let the U.S. government or its citizens forget our prisoners of war. The POW wives stepped aside after their husbands’ 1973 repatriations, and MIA family members began leading the organization, committed to accounting for every missing man, working alongside the Defense Prisoner of War/Missing Personnel Office, which remains active today.

  Like VIVA’s POW/MIA bracelets, America’s first cause-related wristbands, the National League’s black-and-white flag came to symbolize the Vietnam War and the men who fought it, long after the conflict’s end. In 1979, on the first national POW/MIA Recognition Day, theirs became the first flag other than the American flag to fly above the White House. By 1998, federal law had decreed that it fly each year on Armed Forces Day, Flag Day, Independence Day, Memorial Day, National POW/MIA Recognition Day, and Veterans Day. On those days, the flag waves above major military installations, national cemeteries, national war memorials, the White House, U.S. Postal Service offices, and offices of the secretaries of defense, state, and veterans affairs. Many state governments follow suit. The black-and-white flags also line the halls of Capitol Hill’s office buildings, where one welcomes visitors to the office of Congressman Sam Johnson.

  Most days, Sam and the other survivors don’t even think back to their years spent across the Pacific. They have forgiven their captors, or at least chosen not to dwell on them. They have moved on from being soldiers; they are now citizens and neighbors first. Most people who
live on their streets have little idea what the gray-haired couple next door endured during Vietnam. Scarcely anyone ever mentions the Alcatraz Eleven outside the circle of returned Vietnam POWs, and rarely within it. Typically, the memories and stories only resurface when they’re together, and while visits have become less frequent as they’ve aged, the surviving members of the Eleven still visit each other as often as they can. Yet even when they’re together, their wives prefer to let the war remain in the past, a closed chapter of their lives.

  Against the odds, these couples’ marriages endured not only the long separation of Vietnam but also Hanoi’s lingering demons and the POWs’ returns to regular life. Perhaps more than other spouses, the Alcatraz wives all steadfastly protect their husbands and display the loyalty and understanding only such an arduous mutual ordeal could engender. Alcatraz’s two bachelors, George Coker and George McKnight, both found wonderfully devoted wives to whom they’re still married today.

  Coker, the youngest inmate at Alcatraz, arrived at JFK International Airport in early March 1973. He spent some time with Nels and Sara Ann Tanner in Covington, Tennessee, before returning to active duty as a flight instructor at NAS Oceana, Virginia. He later transferred to NAS North Island in Coronado to serve as flag aide to Rear Admiral Jim Stockdale. While in San Diego, George smartly surrendered his bachelor status to Pam Easton; they married in April 1975 and had three children. George retired from the U.S. Navy in 1986 as a commander after a long career that concluded at the Atlantic Fleet Command Center. He became a scoutmaster and watched his own son achieve the rank of Eagle Scout, just as he had decades before. Today, George and Pam reside in Virginia Beach, not far from the Oceana break, as naval aviators call the air traffic pattern. From his shaded back porch, George can spend long afternoons listening to the sweet noise of navy jets.