“Where you from?” It was a deceptively innocent question. I could not see the man who made the inquiry. The voice came from behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. Shining directly at me were two vertical banks of high intensity lights, with three bulbs to each bank. The bright lights surrounded the bluish cigarette haze, which swirled around as if in slow motion. I did not recognize the accent, which was not really an accent. It was more of a forced cadence with words being dropped for effect.
“Guisto, Thomas S., Ensign, 669440, March 13, 1940, sir.” I answered with no emphasis on the “sir.” “Sir” was allowed as a military courtesy given to captors. I stood at attention, my best effort since basic officer training in Pensacola, a little more then a year before.
“You in Navy?” he continued in his casual manner. Since I was in a Navy flight suit and flight jacket, complete with Navy insignias, it was a needless question.
“Guisto, Thomas S., Ensign, 669440, March 13, 1940, sir,” I answered confidently.
“What your camp number?”
“Twenty-seven,” I responded quickly.
“What?”
“Guisto, Thomas S., Ensign, 669440, March 13, 1940, 27, sir,” I blurted back.
According to the U. S. military Code of Conduct, the rules of the game, I should only give my name, rank, serial number, date of birth, and camp number. The bad guys were allowed to assign POWs individual numbers for administrative purposes. My assigned number was 27. To myself: I should have remembered that the first time I answered. I have to stay alert.
“You fly? What squadron you in?” He continued with the questions that I should not answer.
“Guisto, Thomas S., Ensign, 669440, March 13, 1940, 27, sir.” The answer was directed again to the voice behind the floating cloud of smoke. The room I was in was mostly dark; the only light that I could see was coming from the six high intensity bulbs shining into my eyes.
I assumed he was behind a desk. I was standing in a corner of a room that was a plywood box. The ceiling, floor, and the walls were all bare plywood, except for the wall behind me. The flags of Red China and the USSR were tacked on that wall; plain frame photos of Mao and Stalin were hung next to the flags. To the naïve, the wall decorations might look haphazardly arranged.
My interrogator continued asking his trivial questions. I answered them all now by rote, “Guisto, Thomas S., Ensign, 669440, March 13, 1940, 27, sir.”
Finally, I heard movement, maybe a chair scraping the wooden floor. My interrogator came out from behind his desk and was walking towards me. The bright lights still restricted my vision, but I could see his uniform. It was brown with several red star patches stitched on it. I could not determine if he was supposed to be Russian or Chinese. Beyond being a Commie, I don’t think he knew what he was supposed to be either.
The swirl of smoke got closer. I saw the red tip of his cigarette before I saw his face. He was using a small stubby cigarette holder, and holding it in what I always assumed to be in the European manner: thumb on top and other fingers curled underneath, while he pushed the cigarette in and out of his mouth. Wisps of smoke escaped each time the holder left his lips. I called it European because I remember seeing it done in old black and white World War II movies. Hollywood Nazis had effectively performed this technique of puffing and blowing smoke. My interrogator must have seen the same movies.
When we were face to face he resumed his innocuous inquiries. I kept replying by reflex; he kept blowing smoke in my face. He asked if I was from New York, I responded enunciating each word using my best English. His slight smile behind the smoky haze revealed that I could not conceal my Brooklyn accent.
Finally, after several more of his harmless questions and my bland replies, he seemed to be satisfied. He said, “Very good!” He held out his hand to shake. I knew better. The red flags and the photos of Mao and Stalin were behind me. They could be taking a compromising picture of me shaking hands with the enemy. Our training on the military Code of Conduct warned us about this trick.
Again he smiled and said, “Very good! Very good! You’ve done very well.” He did not employ his feigned accent. Good, this is not as bad as I believed it would be. The black box was much worse. He turned and started walking back to his desk. Good, the interrogation is over.
Wham! I did not hear the wham. No one said wham. But wham, the Batman cartoon wham, best describes what happened. The interrogator turned around abruptly and slapped me across my left cheek all in one motion. I lost my balance, ricocheted off the plywood wall on my right then hit the wall behind me before I crashed on the floor. I quickly scrabbled back up to position myself at attention again. My left cheek stung; I could feel it turning red. Is he allowed to hit me? They didn’t cover that in the training lectures.
“Now we start again! No friendly talk.” The interrogator said back in character. My interrogation had just started. Everything before was just friendly chitchat.
“You like killing babies?”
“Guisto, Thomas S., Ensign,” I started.
“You fly! You bomb hospitals! You kill children!” he rattled on. They were no longer benign questions, but distorted assertions.
“Guisto, Thomas,” I was interrupted again.
“You come 10,000 miles to kill women and children!”
I decided not to answer, to save my energy.
“You like sex. You come 10,000 miles to rape woman! You pay young girls money. You make them whores! No whores in America?”
He waited; I did not reply. He stood in front of me and began blowing smoke in my face again. I kept silent; the puffs of smoke persisted. For a while all was silent except for the puffing, and the thunderclaps caused by my heart.
“Why you kill for Wall Street?” he started up again. His voice was full of disgust, more than before. “Why not confess that you are tool of Wall Street?”
“Guisto, Thomas S., Ensign, 669440, March 13, 1940, 27, sir.”
We went a few more rounds, him with his vicious accusations, and me with my one line snappy repartee. Finally he said, “I’m tired of your bullshit. Stand against that wall.” He pointed to the wall on my right, the one without the flags and photos. I complied. “Now take one step from the wall and bend your head back until the top of your forehead hits the wall.” Again I complied. Immediately I could feel the muscles in my neck strain. I found myself looking up at the bare plywood ceiling. My arms were hanging limp, straight down.
I could feel him close to me, inspecting me. “Good,” he said, apparently satisfied with his handiwork. “When you ready to talk, to confess, let me know.” I heard him walk away. The strain in my neck slowly became a pain. I no longer thought about the sting of my left cheek. The pain in my neck became more severe. The pain began to spread down the backs of my legs. I felt myself becoming light headed.
From afar, “Are you ready to confess?”
I could not respond; I didn’t even try. I could not tell how long I spent in that position, but most of my body was now in agony. He seemed willing to let me stand there looking up at the ceiling forever. Didn’t he have some others, my classmates, to interrogate? Didn’t he have any time restraints? The pain was almost unbearable; I had to do something.
I started to waiver a little, and then I decided to fall down. What can he do? I slumped rather unceremoniously to the wooden floor. My interrogator was quickly by my side. He gave me a few swift kicks to one of my thighs. When he stopped kicking, he shouted, “Get up baby!”
I stood up. It was worth a few kicks. The pain eased a little; I felt my blood circulating again. I stood in place acting dumb. I knew what he wanted me to do.
“Get back into position!”
I placed the top of my head on the wall, and once again I was looking directly at the ceiling. I stood there until the pain grew too severe. I dropped to the floor again; I got kicked a few times; and I stood up and repositioned myself, placing the top of my head on the wall. I could keep doing this all day.
He kept asking me to sign a confession. But I was still in training; I haven’t even been out of the country yet. How can I confess to dropping bombs on women and children? All I’ve ever dropped were dummy shells on artificial targets. But I also knew that I could stop the interrogation, the pain, if I just signed a confession. The only way to flunk was to sign. If I signed I would not only be flunking out of the training, but also out of the Navy.
I slipped down for a third time. This time he high stepped on my stomach a few times, calling me baby and worse. I stood up and just when I positioned my head on the wall, he kicked my feet. My legs buckled. This time I landed with a thud. Before I could scramble up, he was on top of me. He straddled my legs and started slapping my face, using both hands.
His slaps stung. My cheeks started to burn. I was able to maneuver my arms up to protect my face. He kept on slapping. Most of the slaps fell on my arms, but some got through to my head. His hands were quicker than my arms. He kept calling me names and telling me to confess.
He finally got tired of hitting me in the head; he started punching my stomach. I was able to move my arms to protect my stomach. Of course he went back to slapping my unprotected head. We kept this contest up for a while. I noticed that he was no longer talking when he was hitting me. Was he getting tired?
With his hands still, he started calling me names again and telling me to confess. He than shouted, “You drop chemicals, gas bombs on our children!”
I mumbled, “No.”
Slap, slap, one for each cheek. The slaps stung. I knew I made a mistake.
“Guisto, Thomas S., Ensign, 669440, March 13, 1940, 27, sir.”
Slap, slap again. They came right after the “sir.”
“No chemicals! How ’bout biological warfare! You drop germs on babies!”
“Guisto, Thomas S., Ensign…”
Slap, slap. He did not wait for the end of my spiel. Finally, still straddling my legs, he took a deep breath. He then stood up and walked towards his desk. He yelled back to me, “Stand up, you fool!”
I tried to stand at attention. But I knew he was right; I must have looked like a muddled buffoon. I throbbed all over; my legs were wobbly. I had to concentrate to keep from falling down. I felt that the interrogation was coming to an end. What is next? I hope it isn’t the black box again.
I saw the smoke swirling again. After a while he said, “That’s all for now. I may interview you again. Yes, I will like to talk to you again.”
The day must still be young, still early afternoon. There would be the rest of the afternoon and even the whole night for him to call me back. I did not want to be interrogated again. The black box was bad, but the next interrogation might be worse.
“When you dismissed,” the voice behind the smoky haze started again, “you turn right outside the door. Walk to tower. Report to tower guard that you come from interview. Remember this not interrogation. People’s Republic do not interrogate. Do not say interrogate.”
All was silent. I waited. I tried not to sway. Finally he said, “Number 27, dismissed.”
I turned; looking for the door I had come through what seemed to be so long ago. I saw it in the shadows and walked towards it as steadily as I could. I opened the door and bright sunlight rushed into the plywood room. For several seconds I could not see.
Before I could leave I heard, “Oh, Ensign! One more thing.” I stopped and so did every organ in my body. I turned towards the now so familiar voice. “Navy officers don’t cry,” he scoffed without using a phony accent.
It was then that I felt a teardrop running down my cheek. I had to control every instinct not to rub my face. I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. I may be a baby, but I didn’t want him to see me act like one.
“Get out of here!” again without using an enemy’s accent. I didn’t hesitate. I went through the door and down the few steps. There was a guard with a rifle waiting by the bottom step. He did not say anything but pointed his rifle to the guard tower to my right.
I marched down the short muddy path leading to the tower. I stamped my feet to get the blood circulating. I finally stopped at the foot of the tower, coming to the best attention I could accomplish. I felt my feet sink slowly into the mud. Since it hadn’t rained in over week, I knew that the mud was manmade.
I looked up at tower guard and yelled as loud as I could, “Number 27 reporting from interrogation!” Oh, no. How can I be so stupid? It’s too late to correct myself. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. I waited.
Finally he called down to me, “Interrogation? We interview, no interrogate! Give me twenty!”
I knew what he wanted twenty of. I got down in the mud and into position to start doing my twenty pushups. My hands oozed deep into the muck. “One, sir. Two, sir,” I started my count to twenty. I knew that the tower guard was enjoying the show.
Each time I went down, I felt my body slump down into the mud. It took a lot of effort to keep my face from touching the ground; however, I felt my nose strike the wet grime a few times. When I got to twenty, I jumped up and tried my best to be at attention again.
I sensed the mud on my nose. But I did not wipe my face. I was at attention. I knew that the fronts of my flight suit and flight jacket were coated with the muck. If before I looked like a muddled buffoon, I now looked like a muddled buffoon coated in mud.
It took a while before the tower guard called down, “Continue to compound!” I looked up and saw the guard pointing his machine gun towards the only path away from the tower and interrogation building. The dirt trail had barbwire fences on both sides and a gate at the end of the well-worn path.
When I got to the gate, there were two guards: one with a rifle and the other with a clipboard. Again I came to attention, but this time I announced, “Number 27 reporting from interview, sir.” Both guards looked me over. The one with the clipboard checked my name off a list, which I assumed was on the board.
The guard with the clipboard opened the gate and told me to proceed. Silently I walked forward into the compound. I quickly surveyed the large compound surrounded by a high cyclone fence topped with barbwire. The sound of the “Volga Boat Song” drifted down from two loudspeakers attached to the guard tower. So the bad guys are supposed to be Russians.
There were about twenty fellow POW-students standing around looking pathetic. Since our class had 70 men going through the training, I was among the first to complete the interrogation. Of course, that is if they are processing us in some sort of order and I was actually finished with being interrogated. I recognized a few of the guys, but I didn’t know them well so I did not join them.
I was hoping to see my buddy, also named Tom. We were Navy Flight Officers going through advanced ASW (Anti-Submarine Warfare) training together at Navy Air Station, North Island in San Diego. A one-week SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape) training was included as part of our training before we would join our squadrons. It was 1965 and all Navy and Marine flight crews, officers and enlisted men alike, had to go through a SERE training course.
For most of the week we had concentrated on the survival portion of the training. It started on Sunday afternoon with water survival at North Island, practicing getting into life rafts, fishing, and clamming. Sunday night we had plenty to eat. The steamed clams were good even without the melted butter and beer.
Then we were bused to the Warner Springs, in the foothills east of San Diego. We spent the next four days seeking food, hiking and navigating the terrain, repelling off cliffs, and receiving first aid and SERE training lectures. With classes of sixty to seventy men scrounging the land each week, rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, berries, and other edible wild food were hard to find.
At night we made tents and sleeping bags out of parachutes and slept on the hard ground. It was April and nights in the hills still got cold. I used my canteen as a pillow, and one night the water in it froze. When we were allowed to build a fire, we took turns standing a fire watch all night to make sure that the fire did not go out. Even though we were tired, sleep did not come easy. We kept thinking about Friday when we would be POWs for a day.
During the lectures they told us about the need for the Code of Conduct and the SERE training. In the Korean War, 40 percent of the American POWs died under captivity. Many just gave up. POWs from other United Nations countries, such as Greece, Britain, Turkey, and Australia, had nearly no prisoners die even though they were treated the same as the Americans. Some of our instructors were former Korean War POWs. They told us how some Americans just coiled up on the ground, with all resistance drained from their bodies and minds, and died.
The hiking and climbing over rugged terrain wore us out. We could not shower or shave and did not have any clean clothes to change into. By Friday morning we were exhausted, hungry, and dirty - and also very anxious. We were to start the ERE (Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) portion of the training and play POW for twenty-four hours or longer.
We were up before dawn. I had a breakfast of water and some blackberries that I had squirreled away the day before. Soon the sun was up and we were assembled for our final briefing. The evasion part was to begin first. We were to consider ourselves as Americans down in hostile territory and evade the “enemy” soldiers sent to capture us. Our goal was to traverse the countryside without being captured and locate an old roofless farmhouse that was designated “Freedom Village.” We were told that the farmhouse was about two to three miles from the starting point and that we had until ten o’clock to get there. Our reward for getting to Freedom Village safely would be all the water we wanted.
At ten a loud horn would be used to signal the end of the evasion exercise. Those of us who were not already captured were to surrender to the enemy. We would then be taken to the POW camp where we were to resist and escape, if we could. The instructor gave us one final warning: students who sign any confessions would flunk the course. He did not need to tell us what that would mean. We would never fly again in the Navy.
We all knew that our careers would be over, and we all knew guys who flunked out – signed confessions. During our training at North Island, each week we would see senior students coming back on Saturday nights from the SERE exercise. All were disheveled with a need for a shower and shave. Most were laughing and joking around. A few were quite, staying by themselves. We were told how many did not pass – usually several in every class. By Monday morning, these officers and enlisted men were transferred to another base; many just long enough to be processed out of the service.
At about seven o’clock we were lined up at the starting point about a hundred yards long. I teamed up with my friend Tom. We had been going through navigation and ASW training together for almost a year, starting at Corpus Christi. There was an unspoken agreement between us that we would get through the POW training together.
A gun was fired and 70 Americans dashed directly ahead, eventually scattering into the countryside of the enemy. Tom and I picked out some terrain that we thought would provide good cover from the enemy soldiers that would soon be scouring the area.
In a little while Tom and I were alone, zigzagging our way through the trees and green bushes. Sometimes crawling, sometimes running, but always moving. When the brush got too thick, we had to detour around it, hoping that we were still heading towards Freedom Village.
From time to time we would hear other Americans making their way through the underbrush. Too much noise! I hope Tom and I aren’t making that much of a racket. Staying away from the noisy Americans, Tom and I would take turns leading the way. Silently we would point or just nod our heads, guiding our way across the countryside.
“Bang! Bang! Bang!” boomed around us, rifle fire echoing over the land. Tom and I fell to the ground. By looks alone, we questioned each other on the direction of the shots. Then there was rapid fire from a machine gun. This came from a different direction. More shots were fired, but these seemed further away.
“Americans! Surrender! Surrender! You’re surrounded!”
“Yankee pigs! Give up! You can’t get away!”
The shouts came from all around us, not too far away. Tom and I crawled quietly under some nearby bushes. Shots continued sporadically and there were more shouts to surrender. Then I heard, “Okay! Okay! I surrender! I surrender!” Americans were being captured.
After several minutes the shouts and shots seemed more distant. Tom and I moved out again, staying close to the bushes and bramble, crouching or crawling the whole way and hoping we were going in the right direction. Following the cover of the contour of the bushes, we ended up on the side of a hill, near the top.
There were shouts of “Stay in line! Stay in line!” and “Keep moving! Move faster!”
Tom and I froze again, lying flat on the hillside. These shouts came from the valley below us, only a few hundred yards far away. Looking down I saw a line of ten American captives being marched off by three enemy soldiers armed with rifles. The captives were in single file, each man with his arms stretched forward holding the shoulders of the man in front of him. The soldier guarding the rear kept kicking or pushing the last man in the line. From time to time the man would stumble and fall. When he was down the guard would poke him with his rifle.
Since I was wearing the same flight suit outfit as the men in the line, it was too easy for me to picture myself as one of the captives. Of course, with my luck, I would be the last guy, stumbling and being kicked and poked all the way to the POW camp.
Once the soldiers and the hapless line of captives passed, Tom and I moved to the other side of the hill where there was more cover. Crouching, we kept moving at a fast pace. We both thought that we should be getting close to Freedom Village – that is if we were still going in the right direction.
“Crunch,” there was a crackle of someone moving through the underbrush. He was very close and getting closer, maybe only ten or fifteen yards away. Tom and I lay down as softly and quietly as we could. Luckily bushes surrounded us, and our olive-green flight suits and brown flight jackets provided good camouflage.
“Okay you pigs! I see you! I see you! Come out!”
Tom and I did not move. My chest was pressed to the ground; I could feel my heart beating against it. Again there were some more shouts to surrender. We still did not move. If he really did see me I thought: The bastard could come and get me – come poke me with your damn rifle!
But he did not come and get us and soon his footsteps faded away. Once we sensed that the danger had past, Tom and I got to our knees and looked around. All was clear. We both rolled our eyes in recognition of the close call that we just had encountered. Then we were off again crouching, searching for our holy grail – Freedom Village.
We came to a clearing. On our knees, looking from behind a tree we saw an old farmhouse about fifty yards away. Actually it looked more like a shell of a house. Besides not having a roof, it did not have any doors or windows. It had to be Freedom Village!
All was quiet; we did not see anyone. Are enemy soldiers waiting for us? To capture us so close to our goal? That wouldn’t be fair. But all’s fair in love and war games. Tom and I exchanged quick nods and decided to go for it.
We made a direct dash to the front entrance, running as fast as our exhausted bodies and heavy boots would let us. There were no shouts to stop, no rifle shots. I followed Tom through the door-less doorway; immediately we hit the dirt floor and scrambled to the cover of a sidewall. Looking around we saw eight of our classmates sitting on the ground. They greeted us with slight smiles and a few thumbs-up. We made it to Freedom Village!
Several of the guys pointed to a giant gray container that had U.S. Navy stenciled on it. There was a spout and tin cup. Water! Our reward for making it to Freedom Village! Tom and I took turns sharing the cup; drinking and pouring some water over our heads and faces to cleanup a little.
Once back at our personal wall space, all exhilaration of being in Freedom Village evaporated. We were now waiting for the horn to blast, the signal that would end the evasion exercise. Then we were to be taken to the POW camp. We heard rumors about the black box and being interrogated. An instructor during one of the lectures even briefed us on what we could expect in the camp. But no details were given, only that we would be placed in a black box, and that we would be asked questions that we should not answer during the interrogation.
Except when some one would stumble though the doorway, there was stillness at Freedom Village. No one was talking. Our faces were blank, each man deep in his own thoughts. I knew I could brag about making it to Freedom Village, but of course that is only if I made it through the black box and the interrogation. Only if I didn’t sign a confession.
When the horn sounded there were sixteen men in Freedom Village. I heard a truck pull up, the doors open, and heavy footsteps coming towards us. Two enemy soldiers stood in the doorway; they did not have rifles.
“Wow! Sixteen!” one soldier said, talking to no one in particular, “That’s more than we can fit. We’ll need to make two trips.”
“I need some volunteers,” the other soldier quickly added.
Tom jumped up shouting, “Let’s go!”
Tom! What the hell are you doing? But I followed him. He was right. We were officers. We had to set the example. Damn it!
Outside a truck that looked like it was a World War II veteran was waiting for us. There were two more soldiers who helped us climb into the back. Apparently they were the kinder, gentler enemy. The truck was soon filled with eight other volunteers. Two soldiers climbed in the back with us, while the other two got in the front cab.
It was a bumpy ride. It was hard staying on the wooden panel seat. On the way I tried to think of the good side of making it to Freedom Village: At least I’m not marching single-file being kicked or poked with a rifle. Things could always be worse.
The truck stopped and the two soldiers jumped out. There were shouts for us to get out of the truck. Tom was first to the rear to get out, but he hesitated trying to determine the distance to the ground. Before he could jump a soldier grabbed his arm and yanked him off the truck. Tom landed on his butt with a thud.
I jumped off, not waiting to figure out the best way. I ended up rolling on the ground without too much pain. I jumped up and stood at attention. The other men stumbled out of the truck exhibiting various degrees of gracefulness. All the while Tom was being twirled around in circles. The men dressed in enemy uniforms were laughing. Some added shouts of “Yankee pigs!” in between their laughs. They were back being the bad guys, no longer the kinder, gentler enemy. But I realized that their roles had also changed. They were no longer soldiers; they were now prisoner guards. And I was now a POW.
The bad guy spinning Tom around finally let him go. Tom spun out, rolling over several times before coming to a stop. The guards laughed some more. In a perverse way I was relieved that their attention was on Tom and not me.
When they stopped laughing they started shouting orders, but some words were just gibberish. I and the other POWs from the truck determined that they wanted us to form a line. We formed a single line with the help of the guards who used their rifles to direct us. Some guards preferred poking us with the rifle barrels, while others used the butts. Either way, we got their point and once in formation we came to attention.
A guard with a clipboard came down the line and asked our names. When it was my turn I answered with my name, rank, serial number, and date of birth. The guard assigned me the number 27 as my camp number and asked if I understood. I replied, “Guisto, Thomas S., Ensign, 669440, March 13, 1940, 27, sir.” This was the first time I uttered the line. I did not realize how often I would be repeating it during the next 24 hours.
Once the eight of us were assigned our camp numbers, we got the orders to strip. I knew we were to be searched to make sure that we did not try to sneak in knives or other weapons. But I did not think that we would have to take our clothes off. But the real enemy, I suppose, would have us strip down. We sat down on the ground and started taking off our boots and socks.
The guards were laughing again and telling us to strip faster. One guard asked, “Comrade, do you want them completely naked?”
“No! No! Just down to their shorts. I don’t want to get jealous,” replied a guard who was apparently in charge of our stripping and providing the comical relief. The guards kept laughing while we stripped to our underpants. When I jumped back to attention, I was wearing only my shorts and dog tags. The last man was ordered to strip completely for being too slow.
Then the guards started shouting in gibberish again and poking us with their rifles. The guard poking me had a preference of using the rifle butt. I looked towards where he apparently wanted me to go, it was a barbwire cage. The cage was about ten yards long, three feet wide, and three feet high.
Soon all eight of us were crawling on all fours into the cage. Once inside and the barbwire gate locked, I noticed the guards searching our piles of clothing. One guard came up to the cage and shouted, “You from Freedom Village! You like water!” He started squirting us with ice-cold water. Still on all fours I tried not to move, deciding that getting wet was better than getting pricked by the barbwire.
Once the search of our clothes was finished and our humiliation made certain, the guards moved us out of the cage. I dressed quickly, not wanting to be last. Putting on my flight suit on over my wet and muddy body was made more difficult since the guards continued their barrage of shouts of unrecognizable utterances and occasional pokes.
Soon we were marched off. We stopped by a wooded building that had several doors with locks. The doors were opened; they were unlit cells with some other POWs already inside. Our little group from Freedom Village was dispersed and flung into several of the cells. I was now separated from my friend Tom. The cell I was in had about seven men inside. It was completely dark. This can’t be the black box? Then someone said, “Must be a holding cell.” I added my yeah to the several others in agreement. Holding for what? What’s next?
From time to time the cell door would open and numbers called out, and POWs marched off. Finally I heard “27” and stepped outside. I was lined up with six other POWs. We were lead away with the customary shouts of gibberish and poking of various body parts.
Then I saw them. A line of wooden boxes with adjustable sidings painted black inside and out. The boxes were about five feet long and less then three feet wide. A guard, apparently in charge of the black boxes, started pushing us in front of the boxes according to our body sizes. I looked at the box in front of me. I can’t fit in that!
The POW to my left, a tall broad shouldered guy, was poked into his box, which was just a little bigger than my assigned box. Since I was only five foot eight inches tall and had a slight build, my black box started to look roomy. With some resistance the tall guy climbed into his box. Once on his knees, he hunched his broad shoulders, and tucked in his head to fit his big body into the box. But his back was still above the side panels; the top cover panel could not be closed. The guard shouted for him to crunch down further. The POW did, but his back was still too high. The guard laughed, and then sat on the POW’s back. After a few bounces by the guard the cover was closed.
I was poked next. I climbed in without resistance, kneeled down, and tucked in my shoulders and head to fit in the black box. There were shouts to crouch down further and I did. Since my slight body did not need the full weight of his body, the guard just stomped on my back with his foot and closed the top cover.
Once covered it was completely dark. Even with my eyes wide opened, I could not distinguish even the slightest shade of black. I started breathing heavily, I felt my heart beating against my tucked in arms. Tom, take it easy. Get control of yourself. My fingers felt some air holes, apparently being well blocked from any sunlight. Finding the holes somehow made me breathe easier.
There was a tap on my black box and a shout, “What your number!”
“27, sir,” was my short reply. They were checking on us, making sure that we had not passed out. That’s nice of them.
I decided to count numbers to pass the time. After counting to a hundred several times my mind started to wander. What the hell am I doing here? “Ask not what your country can do for you….” “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” I started counting again. After I counted to a hundred a few more times, my mind wandered again. What would Mom think if I would quit? Would she still cook me meatballs? Boy, I would love to have just one of her meatballs now. Plain or covered with her tomato sauce! Which way is better? I loved them both ways. I’ll sign anything for a meatball. Stay focused, Tom! I have to stop thinking about quitting.
There was another tap, and I shouted “27, sir,’ and then I was back in the solitude of my own ambling thoughts. Come on, think Tom. What did the instructor say in the lectures? To get through the POW training we would need to believe in something. And strongly believe in it! Most real POWs said that faith in God pulled them through. Some said love of family, while others said old fashion patriotism. A few even said a strong belief in themselves, some strength from deep within, pulled them through.
But the only thing I found deep within myself was counting to one hundred. Patriotic quotes from dead presidents, no matter how great, also did not help. Even Mom’s meatballs had failed me.
Even though I stopped going to mass years before, I still believed in God. I started saying the Rosary, the first time since my school days. Beginning with the “I believe in God,” then an “Our father.” Continuing, I kept count of my “Hail Mary’s,” then said the “Glory be’s,” hopefully at the right intervals. I said my “Amen’s” aloud.
I was saying my fourth Rosary when there was another tap. But before I could respond with my camp number, the top-side of the black box was removed. A poke in my back told me that they wanted me to get out. Blinded by the sunlight and with my legs as weak as rubber bands, I stumbled out of my black box and fell to the ground. With a few more pokes I was standing again.
I wobbled off in the direction with the guard pointing the way with his rifle. My legs were still weak; I thought that I was going to fall. The guard very softly said, “Stamp your feet.” I did and my legs start moving the way I wanted them to. Maybe the guard was one of the kinder ones, or maybe he just did not want the trouble of picking a fool up.
With the appropriate pokes of the rifle barrel, he guided me around a maze of one-story wooded buildings. Stopping in front of an open door of one of the buildings, the guard marched me up the two steps and into a room. Once in the room he had me face the direction of the high intensity lights. Without a word the guard left, shutting the door behind him.
It was then that I saw the swirling cigarette smoke and heard the question from my unseen interrogator, “Where you from?” It was the beginning of my “interview.”
Now as I entered the inner compound looking for my friend Tom, the black box seemed like several hours before. We were not allowed to wear watches, so the passages of time were just guesses. My guess was that the time inside the black box was less than an hour and the interrogation must have taken only about an hour. With so many POWs to be processed, it was hard to believe that the interrogators would spend more then an hour with each of them. But after the black box and the interrogation, I really did not have any idea what time it was.
I wandered to a remote area of the compound; I needed to be by myself for a while. Once alone I tried to tidy myself up. Then I remembered the tear. I hoped the guards along the way did not see any tear stains on my face. But my interrogator clearly saw at least one. That damn tear. I hope he doesn’t call me back. With my bandana and a little spit, I started wiping my face, hoping that I smudged my face enough that the other POWs would not notice any tear stains. I rubbed a little harder just to make sure.
I wandered back and joined a woeful group of POWs. I nodded to them and they nodded back in acknowledgement. We did not talk much except to exchange a few well-chosen curse words. We were too worn-out to do much more. We asked each other what time it was. We weren’t sure, but the consensus was that it was about three or four in the afternoon.
More POWs were drifting into the compounded. I continued searching the empty faces, looking for my friend. Then I spotted Tom; rushing towards each other, we slapped each other’s shoulders several times and exchanged more then a few curse words.
“How’d it go?” I asked the stupid question. His answer was a string of curses. I voiced my agreement echoing the same words. We then briefly exchanged our experiences being in the black box and being interrogated, again using the appropriate curse words as adjectives. We discussed the advantages and disadvantages of each experience. “At least in the black box you weren’t being slapped around.” “Yeah, but being in the black box, not knowing what’s coming next, could really drive you crazy.” “If they left me in there long enough I would have gone mad.” “Well, if they slapped me around long enough, I would have signed anything they put in front of me.”
Thinking of that damn tear, I asked Tom, “Do you think that they’ll call us back?”
“They may! My interrogator said that he might.”
A little relieved I responded, “Mine did too. And they have the afternoon and all night to call us back.” But I didn’t mention the tear. Looking at his face I could see red puffy cheeks under the grime and five-day beard. “Are you hurt?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. He was slapping me with his hands cupped,” Tom replied. I then realized that my interrogator also was just slapping me with cupped hands. The slaps really stung, but they didn’t break anything.
Tom added, “You know the senior officers are going to go through hell. They’ll try to break them. Try to break the chain-of-command.”
“Thank god we’re only ensigns,” I said, truly happy that we were very junior officers. The senior officers would be in charge of the American POWs and usually took the brunt of the harshest punishment. This was true in real POW camps as well as for training exercises.
“Do you think we should try to escape?” Tom asked.
“Hell no,” I blurted out, “I can’t see how we can.” The compound was completely surrounded by a fence ten or fifteen feet high and topped with barbed wire. Plus there was an outer barbed wire fence that may have surrounded the whole camp. Guards with rifles patrolled the perimeter of the camp. A guard tower with an armed sentry was watching us from above. I also spotted a dirt dugout with a wide entrance, but I wasn’t sure what it was for.
“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t see how anyone can escape,” Tom agreed.
“They said those SEALs did a few months back,” I said remembering a lecture when we were told twenty SEALs escaped from the camp and weren’t found until Saturday, after the POW training exercise was over. “But they’re SEALs, and we’re navigators, sub-hunters. Can they hunt submarines?” I said trying to restore some pride in being in the same Navy as the SEALs who escaped.
“Besides, it not mandatory that we try to escape,” Tom added.
It was almost tranquil standing in the middle of the POW compound talking and exchanging good old fashion curse words with Tom. But it did not last. A loud clinking of an old ship’s bell broke the calm. The guards started shouting gibberish again. One yelled “Formation! Formation!”
There were about forty POWs in the compound now. We formed up in four lines ten men abreast and came to attention. We all had minor cuts and bruises, but some of the guys looked pretty banged up. There were several black eyes and swollen lips, and I spotted one bloody and puffed up nose. Some favored a shoulder or arm, others walked with a limp. Then I remembered from a lecture: Expect to be treated as a Russian pilot would be treated if he were captured in the foothills of Pennsylvania after bombing Pittsburgh.
The guard who now seemed in charge yelled, “Senior officer present?” He was standing on a tree stump in front of us. Out of the formation an officer with the rank of commander marched forward with a slight limp. “Take him away!” shouted the guard. Two other guards took him away, most likely to be interrogated again. “Next in command?” shouted the guard again. Another commander with less time in grade came forward.
“How many prisoners?” the guard asked.
The commander did an about-face to face the formation and ordered, “Give me a count, men.” Starting with the left side of the first row we started our count, “One, sir!” Going through the lines, we stopped at forty-one. The commander did another about face, added one to the count for himself, and reported “Forty-two, sir,” to the guard.
The guard in charge then proceeded to explain what seemed to be the rules for the “game” inside the POW compound. On the ringing of the bell we were to establish our formation with the senior officer in front. A siren would be used to signal an “air raid” and we were to take cover in the dugout. The siren would be sounded again for the “all clear.” In between the formations and the air raids we were to be on work details and to follow the orders from the guards.
Tom and I grabbed a couple of rakes and started scratching the dirt. Other guys placed stones, making a border for us. We were creating a make-believe garden. Around the compound several other gardens were springing up. I also noticed other men were doing general cleanup duties, while several others were digging latrines.
I remembered during one of the lectures, we were told that boredom was a big problem for POWs. These make-work details were to keep us busy and to break the monotony of being a prisoner. But soon the simple task of raking became tedious, even if I was only a make-believe POW. I decided to make a design in my part of the garden. Using the prongs of my rake I etched perfectly straight, parallel lines in the dirt.
Just when I was completing my garden with the perfect lines, the siren blasted over the PA system. The guards were shouting, “Dugout! Dugout!” I dropped my rake and ran with the other POWs into the dugout. The dugout was nothing fancy. There were wooden beams holding up a bare wood ceiling, which I knew was covered on the outside with dirt. The floor was just dirt, but at least it was dry and not muddy. The walls were also mostly made of solid dirt.
Once inside we just stood around waiting for the siren to sound the all clear. The further in we were, the darker it was. The only light we had was the daylight coming through the open entrance. The few conversations that did startup involved guesses about what time it was. We did not want to talk about anything substantive because we knew that there might be “bad guys” planted in with us.
The siren sounded the all clear and we all ran out of the dugout and quickly completed our formation and conducted a count. There were still less than fifty of us in the formation, which meant that there were still approximately twenty men being interrogated or confined in the black boxes.
After the muster we broke our formation, but other POWs had all ready gotten to what Tom and I considered our garden. I was saddened to see my perfectly parallel lines being raked over. With nothing to do Tom and I joined a group of men that we knew.
I noticed that Chinese music was now filtering through the compound. At less I thought that it was Chinese music; it was similar to music that I had heard in Chinese restaurants. But the high-pitched singsong sound of the song was a welcomed break from the bleak, dreariness of the Russian folksongs.
Deciding not to join any of the make-work details our little group made small talk to pass the time.
“I sure wish I had a watch. The sun is getting pretty low. It must be getting close to evening now.”
“God, I hope so!”
“It looks like we’ll be spending a sleepless night. There’s no room to lie down in that dugout.”
“I guess the ‘bad guys’ are supposed to be Chinese now.”
“Does anyone know what Vietnamese songs sound like?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t have any pictures of Ho Chi Minh in my interrogation room.”
“Yeah, there should have been. I wonder if they’re playing any music for Alvarez.” We all knew who Alvarez was; Lieutenant Junior Grade Everett Alvarez was the first Navy pilot captured by the North Vietnamese only eight months before.
Before anyone could reply we heard the clinking of the bell. We quickly joined the formation. Before we could conduct our count, the guard in charge was standing on the tree stump, waving a sheet of paper and shouting, “Good news! Good news, comrades! We have our first confession! He confessed his sins against the People’s Republic. Why don’t the rest of you do the same! Then we all could go home!”
The guard in charge appeared genuinely happy that one of us signed a confession. Since he was not speaking broken English, it also seemed that he was wishing that we all would sign confessions so that we could truly go home. The guard, laughing and still waving the purported signed confession, continued, “Anyone want to join the People’s Republic?”
Of course none of us responded. The guard then just slowly looked us over and smiling said, “We shall see. Yes, we shall see.” He then jumped off the stump and we broke our formation. We all had realized that one of us had just flunked out.
Things started to become routine. The next several hours were spent running to the dugout, forming our formation, and performing make-work tasks. The formation count of the POWs kept rising; first into the fifties, then it was in the sixties. The senior commander was returned to the compound, and his face was red and puffy. From time to time other signed confessions were waved in our faces.
Also, from time to time, POWs were pulled from the compound to be taken for further interrogation. Each time I thought about my damn tear; each time I felt relieved that I was not called back. I preferred the boredom of the compound to the solitude of the black box or the physical and emotional tortures of being interrogated.
During one of our formations the guard-in-charge announced that we had a special guest visiting the camp. He then introduced us to the “Commissar.”
Into the compound walked our lead instructor of the week’s lectures. He was dressed in a Russian uniform complete with a dozen or more medals on his chest. He played the role of Commissar with gusto; with a slightly effeminate walk, he was smiling broadly and carrying a daisy. He was supposed to be one of the “nice” bad guys.
Our lead instructor, as the Commissar, took his place on the tree stump. For several moments he just smiled sniffing his daisy, which I suspected to be plastic. He then started his spiel. He welcomed us to the People’s Republic and told us how happy he was to see us. He explained how truly fair Communism was; all people were treated equally. There was no racism and no segregation in the People’s Republic. He concluded by asking us to stop fighting for Wall Street and join the People’s Republic. He then departed the compound as he came in, smiling and sniffing his flower.
We then went back to our routine of responding to the siren and the ringing of the bell. The music over the PA system switched back and forth, between the gloom of Russian songs and the shrill of the Chinese melodies. Finally the sun went down and several high intensity lights were turned on which brightened the compound. The contrast between the natural darkness and the artificial illumination only added to the surrealism of the POW camp.
The bell rang and we formed up in front of the guard-in-charge. He was extremely happy and told us that another American POW confessed his sins, and added that the American wanted to read his confession in front of all of us. The guard then ordered the POW to stand on the tree stump.
The POW who stepped onto the stump was a young sailor, still a teenager. He was tall and lanky with his head bowed and tears flowing down his cheeks. The guard ordered the sailor to start reading his confession. Holding his confession in trembling hands, the young sailor started reading. The guard immediately stopped him and yelled at him to speak louder.
The sailor started over again, speaking loader but still head bowed and tears flowing from his red eyes. Reading from his confession he told us how he dropped chemicals on civilians and committed other war crimes. Pausing to wipe the tears from his eyes the sailor continued to read. Besides the war crimes the sailor also “confessed” to having sex with his mother and sister.
By time he stepped off the tree stump, the sailor was a completely broken man, or more accurately, a broken boy. The senior commander, along with several other POWs, went up to the boy sailor to offer words of encouragement. I took my turn and said, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.” However, he just continued to sob, and I understood that the bastards did get him. His career in the Navy was over.
We spent most of the night in the dugout. We could not sleep, only squat down or lean against the dirt walls. About once an hour the bell would be rung and we run outside and form up. The guards would take muster by calling out our camp number and we would respond by giving our name, rank, serial number, and date of birth. But there were no more confessions.
The crisp night air gave way to the early sunlight of the dawn. The morale of the POWs seemed to be increasing. We were now sensing that the POW exercise was near the end. Guys were joking and talking about food, usually thick steaks cooked medium rare. But we could not be sure when the exercise would end; the bad guys could still keep us much longer – into the afternoon or even another night.
Another day without a shower or a shave did not help our appearance either. Plus the addition of running through thickets and being slapped around made us look worse. But it was our eyes, dark and hollow, that truly reflected the physical and emotional roller coaster that we all have been going through.
There was no more wailing of the siren and running into the dug out. But the bell would ring a few times an hour. Each time we made our formation we thought that the guard-in-charge was going to tell us that the exercise was over. But we kept being disappointed. The make-work details in-between the formations were truly becoming monotonous. The joking that started at sunrise subsided; moral was sinking.
But then during a formation while we were taking a muster I noticed the lead instructor walking into the compound. This time he was wearing his U. S. Navy uniform; he was no longer playing the role of the Commissar.
After we finished the muster, the lead instructor took his place on the tree stump. He paused, smiled then said, “First the good news. The exercise is over! Everyone present passed!”
We all broke out and cheered. I shook hands with Tom, and we slapped each other’s shoulders a few times. Then I repeated shaking hands and slapping shoulders of the guys around me.
After giving us a few minutes to celebrate the lead instructor continued, “Now for the bad news. Seven guys flunked; they signed confessions. We’ve already taken them back to their bases.” Then I realized that I had not seen the young sailor who read his confession since I offered him my inadequate words of encouragement. Even though I felt sorry for the sailor, I knew that I would not want to fly with him. But if I signed a confession, I wouldn’t want to fly with myself either.
The instructor then told us that five men attempted to escape, and two of them actually succeeded. He pointed out the two men who were successful and we all gave them a well deserved round of applause. I still did not have the slightest idea how anyone could escape the camp, with its guard tower, multiple high fences topped with barbed wire, and guards everywhere.
Before dismissing the class the instructor warned us that we should not try to eat too much because our stomachs had shrunk. He then wished us well in our careers and added that he truly hoped that we would never need the SERE training we received. I hoped he was right, but news about the fighting in Vietnam was now being reported on the evening news almost every night.
Soon Tom and I were on our bus taking us back to our Bachelor Officers’ Quarters at North Island. But we stopped along the way at a small roadside café for a welcomed quick bite. Tom and I sat at the counter while others filled up the tables and booths. Those who could not sit ordered takeout. We, like most of the guys, just ordered a burger, fries, and a coke. The café seemed ready for us, and shortly we were back on the bus and on our way.
Once back in my room I spent several minutes just looking into the mirror. I looked worse than I thought and I felt worse than I looked. I spent thirty minutes in the shower, sometimes standing, sometimes squatting; just letting the warm water splatter over me. Then I shaved. It was not until I splashed some English Leather on my face that I felt even close to normal.
By early evening I was in our favorite steakhouse with Tom and two other survivors of survival. Tom and I did our bragging about getting to Freedom Village. But I never mentioned my damn tear.
We ordered our steaks medium-rare, and throwing the caution about shrunken stomachs to the wind, we all selected one pound porterhouses, with baked potatoes and salads. We also consumed the appropriate amount of beer to wash everything down.
We talked about our day as a POW and what we considered worse: being in the black box or being interrogated. There was no consensus.
Today I still cannot decide. It’s just like my mom’s meatballs – better with or without her tomato sauce. But only in a perverse, a very perverse way.