Two Souls Indivisible

The Friendship That Saved Two POWs in Vietnam

A MARINER BOOK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
Boston • New York

First Mariner Books edition 2005
Copyright © 2004 by James'S. Hirsch
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

For information about permission to reproduce selections from
this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com
.

ISBN
-13 978-0-618-27348-5
ISBN
-10 0-618-27348-4

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hirsch, James'S.
Two souls indivisible : the friendship that saved
two POWs in Vietnam / James'S. Hirsch.
p. cm.
ISBN
0-618-27348-4
1. Vietnamese Conflict, 1961—1975 —Prisoners and
prisoners, North Vietnamese. 2. Cherry, Fred V.
3. Halyburton, Porter. 4. Prisoners of war—United
States. 5. Prisoners of war—Vietnam. I. Title.

DS
559.4.
H
57 2004
959.704'37'092273—dc22 2003067595

ISBN
978-0-618-56210-7 (pbk.)

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Book design by Robert Overholtzer

23456789 10
QUF

To Amanda and Garrett,
Pearls in the Constellation

1
"Better Place, Worse Place"
[>]

2
One More Round
[>]

3
On Target
[>]

4
Hanoi's Welcome
[>]

5
The
Independence
[>]

6
"No Chutes Observed"
[>]

7
Strangers in the Cell
[>]

8
No Ordinary Prisoner
[>]

9
The Hanoi March
[>]

10
The Home Front
[>]

11
"Unspeakable Agony of the Soul"
[>]

12
Change in Status
[>]

13
The Good Life
[>]

14
Divergent Paths at Home
[>]

15
Operation Homecoming
[>]

Epilogue
[>]

SOURCES
[>]

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
[>]

INDEX
[>]

"Better place, worse place."

Eagle slammed the notebook closed and gave the young American prisoner of war an ultimatum: talk to him and be taken to a camp where he could be with his buddies or refuse to cooperate and be taken to a place where he would suffer. Captured only a few days earlier, U.S. Navy Lieutenant (junior grade) Porter Halyburton didn't know the consequences if he continued to withhold military information. He was already locked inside North Vietnam's notorious Hoa Lo Prison, dubbed "the Hanoi Hilton" by the Americans, a forbidding trapezoidal structure with thick outer walls topped by barbed wire and jagged glass. Years of urine, blood, and vomit permeated the rotting crevices. The food included chicken feet and bread so moldy that it had begun to ferment. Even the prison's name suggested its hellishness—Hoa Lo (pronounced "wa
-low"
) means "fiery furnace" in Vietnamese.

Whatever was "worse" would certainly be terrible, Halyburton thought, but still not as abhorrent as assisting the enemy.

At twenty-four, Halyburton was one of the younger American POWs in Vietnam. His six-foot frame, short brown hair, and wholesome good looks fit the prototype of the dashing "fighter jock," whose love of danger and combat had been immortalized in film and literature. But Halyburton was also introspective and artistic, the product of a small college town that had nurtured his intellectual and creative pursuits. He wrote poems, carved wooden statues, and read widely on history and culture. He was also a family man, having married his college sweetheart. The couple's baby daughter was born four weeks before he left for Vietnam.

He was lucky to be alive. On October 17, 1965, his F-4 Phantom jet was shot down forty miles northeast of Hanoi, killing the pilot in a fiery explosion. Halyburton, the "backseat" navigator, ejected without injury Among many combat aviators, it was an article of faith that they would rather die instantly in a crash than be caught by the enemy. Halyburton believed otherwise, but he soon realized that the price of survival would be high.

Immediately after his capture he was sent to Hoa Lo, where his cell, seven feet by six, had a boarded window, a single dim light bulb, and a concrete bed with leg irons. Cockroaches darted through the cells, and rats, some over a foot long, prowled the premises, lending evidence to a postwar POW study that noted, "After sundown, rats and mice literally took over North Vietnam." Scribbled across the faded whitewashed walls were Vietnamese letters, but so too was something more comforting—the name of an American, Ron Storz. Halyburton wasn't isolated or completely deprived; he could whisper to Americans in adjoining cells and was allowed to shower. Interrogations became a part of daily life: he was questioned by Colonel Nam, a gray-haired Vietnamese commander called Eagle for his authoritarian manner. Using passable English, he offered Halyburton the carrot or the stick. It was his choice.

"Better place, worse place," Eagle intoned repeatedly.

Halyburton only disclosed the information prescribed by the Code of Conduct for captured American servicemen: "Porter Halyburton," he said. "Lieutenant j.g., 617514, 16 January 1941."

Further "quizzes," as they were called, produced the same response, so after two weeks a guard went to Halyburton's cell one night, blindfolded and handcuffed him, and walked him to a truck, which rumbled a couple of miles to the outskirts of Hanoi. He was left at the Cu Loc Prison, believed to be a former French film studio where the grounds were still littered with old film cans, ducks and chickens roamed, and mosquitoes buzzed. A large putrid swimming pool lay thick with water, dirt, garbage, and fish that the Vietnamese guards raised for food. When Halyburton was pushed into his pitch-black cell, he pressed his hands against the walls to discover its dimensions. The room, though relatively large—each wall was fifteen feet long—was indeed worse than his previous cell. There was no bed, no light, its window was bricked up, and it smelled of wet concrete. But at least Halyburton could still use a tap code to communicate with the POWs in adjacent cells. He was not alone.

The harassment, however, continued. In the quiz room, Halyburton sat on a stool that forced him to look up at his new interrogator, a surly, jug-eared official nicknamed Rabbit, who called the American an "air pirate" and a "war criminal." He made the same threat—"better place, worse place"—if Halyburton did not reveal the names of his ship, squadron, and plane, but the prisoner didn't give in. The threat was fulfilled: days later, he was moved across the compound to a remote storage room in the back of an auditorium. Once again feeling his way in the darkness, he discovered that this space was only five feet by eight. What's more, it was isolated, preventing any communication with other Americans. That scared him. Except for interrogations, the only time he left the cell was to empty his waste bucket, and there was no more bathing. The questioning had become more abusive; Halyburton was repeatedly harangued ("Bad attitude! Bad attitude!") and slapped across the head.

He sought comfort through prayer. He did not ask for freedom, for food, or for any material comforts. He asked for strength to survive, for companionship, and for the safety of his family. He found inspiration, literally, from above.

One morning he noticed a beam of sunlight filtering through the shutters in his cell and arcing across his cement wall. The next morning he saw the light strike the same place. So he tore a piece of coarse brown toilet paper into the shape of a cross and used rice to stick it on the cement. The following morning the light slowly passed over the cross—a radiant signal from God, Halyburton thought. He gratefully whispered the Lord's Prayer.

But the solace didn't last. Halyburton continued to refuse to provide military information and was again taken to a "worse place," this time to a nearby shed. It had two rooms, but he was confined to one that was again five feet by eight. The place had once stored coal and was later designated by the Americans as the "outhouse" or "shithouse." A few holes in the ceiling and space beneath the door supplied scant ventilation, and coal dust covered the floor. Through cracks in the wall, Halyburton could see other Americans walking together in the compound, and he didn't understand why he had been singled out for isolation and mistreatment. Had the other POWs cooperated with the enemy to receive better treatment? In captivity for a month, he had lost twenty-five pounds and had developed dysentery. It was now late November and cold, and his mosquito net provided flimsy refuge from the insects' nightly assaults. The interrogations also continued: Halyburton was questioned about his life as well as the war.

"Where do you live?"

"What are your parents' names?"

"Do you have a family?"

By now, the Vietnamese had discovered on Halyburton's flight vest the names of his squadron and ship, and they knew that he was married and from North Carolina, which he assumed they had learned from U.S. newspapers. That information, in enemy hands, felt like one more violation, and Halyburton feared he was breaking down mentally as well as physically.

But he hadn't broken, and he still refused to answer questions beyond his name, rank, serial number, and date of birth. Rabbit presented the familiar choice: "Better place, worse place."

Halyburton didn't respond and was taken back to his filthy cell.

He slumped down in despair. He doubted the Vietnamese would purposely kill him. Dead, he was useless to them; alive, he could still, in theory, provide military information or propaganda statements. But Halyburton knew he could perish from abuse or neglect, and it occurred to him that his isolation could doom him to an ignominious end. He could die in his cell, quietly, with the geckos, rats, and mosquitoes whose musty space he had shared. His death would be one more inconvenience for his Vietnamese guard, who twice a day received rations for the prisoner but waited at least an hour before sliding the food in, allowing ants to infest the rice and cool air to congeal the pig fat in the watery soup. His death would be his final deliverance, but beyond the enemy, who would even know?

The lock turned and the wooden door swung open, allowing the guard and a commander to enter. It was November 28, nighttime, forty-two days after Halyburton's plane had been shot down. He knew that a visit at this hour meant he would be moved to another cell—a worse place—but he wasn't sure how much more he could endure. He used his blanket to roll up his mosquito net, some clothes, a tin cup, and his toothbrush, and he followed the guard and interrogator through the compound. The air was cool and refreshing, and the soft grass massaged his bare feet. Something was alive, he thought, something that wasn't caked with dirt. They walked about thirty yards, turned left, and approached a one-story building known as "the Office," whose five rooms had been converted to prison cells. It was, in fact, the same building he had initially been taken to. They went up two concrete steps and reached the door to cell number one. Halyburton's mind raced with thoughts about the misery that awaited him. What could be worse than a dark, claustrophobic room with coal dust, rats, and lizards?

The door opened, and Halyburton walked inside. A faint bulb emitted just enough light for him to see a man sitting on a teak board that served as a bed. He was thin, unwashed, unshaven, and injured, his left foot wrapped in a cast and his left arm hanging in a sling. He was black.

"You must take care of Cherry," the guard said.

The door was slammed shut. After a long pause, the newcomer stepped forward.

"I'm Porter Halyburton. I'm a Navy j.g. F-4. Backseater."

"Major Fred Cherry," the black officer said. "Air Force. F-105 Thunderchief."

Halyburton soon realized that his new torment had nothing to do with grimy cells, unpalatable food, or sadistic guards. His new punishment—the "worse place"—was to care for a black man.

The Vietnam War was the longest in U.S. history and, with more than 58,000 Americans killed, the third deadliest. It was also a wrecking ball through American society, igniting passionate protests in town squares and campuses, radicalizing a youth movement, tormenting political leaders, and stymieing a great military that could not subdue a peasant nation. It spawned cynicism toward public institutions, disdain for veterans, and doubt about America's role in the world. By the time the war ended in January of 1973, most Americans had concluded that the effort had been ill defined and poorly executed, and the country would spend the rest of the century debating "the lessons of Vietnam."

But on one matter there was no debate—the POWs. When the Democratic Republic of Vietnam released 591 U.S. prisoners at war's end, their return represented a singular accomplishment in a conflict without defining victories or tangible gains. The POWs' sacrifice, perseverance, and patriotism were celebrated by countrymen whose faith in the armed services and in America itself had been shaken. The returning prisoners were feted at the White House, saluted at homecoming parades, and acclaimed as heroes. California's governor Ronald Reagan said: "You gave America back its soul—God bless a country that can produce men like you."

For all the attention they received, the number of POWs in Vietnam was actually quite small compared to those from the century's other major wars (130,201 in World War II, for example, and 7,140 in the Korean War). Yet the fate of the Vietnam prisoners was a national melodrama, driven in part by the POWs' wives, who orchestrated a savvy publicity campaign that pressured the country to place their husbands' return at the center of any peace accord. The POW bracelet, launched by a private organization, was another brilliant publicity gambit that allowed Americans to view the captives as individuals and support them without endorsing the war itself.