Two Souls Indivisible (13 page)

Porter and Marty, married for less than two years, gushed affection for each other like young newlyweds. When Porter was on the
Independence,
they communicated through letters and tapes, conferring about a second honeymoon "even if we don't go anywhere," Porter wrote. They dreamed about having a second child—a son, they hoped. Porter told her that in Singapore he bought her a bolt of ivory raw silk and a set of china. "I love you more than words will ever say," he wrote. "In my mind and heart, you are always with me. I miss you, I miss you, I love you ... My life is pretty grim no matter how busy I keep myself."

Marty tended to her newborn and struggled to make ends meet but was smitten with motherhood. "Did you know that the astronauts use the same soap Dabney does?" she wrote. After Porter sent a photograph of himself on the flight deck, she wrote back, "Where's your ring?" He explained in his next letter that an aviator did not wear it in combat because if shot down and captured, his marital status could be used against him.

In another letter, Marty wrote:

Julius, I'm so very happy to have you and Dabs. Everyone here has no particular happiness or even knows that it exists. They think I'm very young, naive, and innocent to be happy and living for something. It may be that happiest characteristic of youth but it isn't something you have to lose. I don't think making you and Dabs happy could ever grow old to me.

The conversations between Halyburton and Cherry reflected their different domestic lives. As a new father, Halyburton asked Cherry about raising children, and somehow the conversation veered into the question of who was more important—your wife or your kids.

"That's easy," Cherry said. "I'd take my kids."

Halyburton couldn't imagine anyone being as important as his wife. "I'd choose Marty," he said.

"After you get to know your kids," Cherry responded, "you grow to love them a lot more."

The exchange reminded Halyburton that he had barely met his daughter and knew her not at all. But in his mind her importance began to grow. Recalling his own childhood, he did not want Dabney to grow up without a father.

***

Cherry didn't know that the Zoo had showers until he met Halyburton, but even then he didn't demand one. It was never his style to push for things, and experience had taught him to be wary of a backlash. Halyburton, not so reticent, continually pestered the turnkeys and guards to allow Cherry to shower. He needed another one as well. Either because of his insistence or because the authorities just wanted them clean, in the middle of December, Cherry and Halyburton were sent to a nearby building the Americans called the Pigsty. In addition to about a dozen cells, it had a shower.

Cherry took off his shirt and sling, allowing Halyburton a clear look at his injury. It horrified him. The shoulder was simply gone, replaced by a large indentation. A dislocated bone protruded grotesquely from the sunken mass, and it did not seem connected to anything else. While the broken bones in Cherry's wrist and ankle were healing, his moon crater of a shoulder was in constant pain and on its way to ruin.

"I'm sorry about that, Fred," Halyburton said.

"So am I, Haly, so am I."

The water was cold. Using lye soap and his one good arm, Cherry washed his hair and most of his body, but he couldn't reach around to scrub his back. Halyburton saw him struggling.

"Hey, Fred, do you want me to wash your back?"

He wasn't sure if Cherry would let him, but his friend was grateful. Cherry knew he would have been too complacent to demand a shower, yet Halyburton's insistence demonstrated how much he cared for him. Cherry silently turned his back, and Halyburton scrubbed the washrag with soap and began to rub.

December 23, 1965, was Halyburton's second wedding anniversary. Though marooned in North Vietnam, he thought the day might bring him luck.

That evening, a guard told Halyburton and Cherry only that they were leaving their cell; no other information was given. Halyburton rolled up both bedrolls, and they were taken to a nearby building known as the Pool Hall. It was their lucky day indeed. Their new room had fresh green and white tile that was easy to clean. Their bunks were elevated on a low brick pedestal, which made them easier to sit on, particularly for Cherry. The walls were whitewashed, making the room brighter. After settling in, they heard the turnkey walking down the corridor, dropping things along the way. Halyburton went to the door and looked beneath.
Thwack!
Falling to the ground were two pairs of rubber sandals, which he retrieved when the turnkey opened the door.

"Fred, I think they brought us my anniversary present," Halyburton said. Green socks arrived a few weeks later.

The sandals not only protected their feet but had an unintended benefit for many of the POWs: they were placed on the ragged edges of their wastebuckets to protect their buttocks.

***

On Christmas Eve the American bombing stopped, and President Johnson launched a "peace offensive," including a fourteen-point program that invited the North Vietnamese to enter into "negotiations without preconditions." Whether Johnson was more interested in public relations than peace is a matter of debate—Hanoi radio called the offer a "trick"—but Cherry and Halyburton were told during interrogations that bombs were no longer falling. Ironically, such pauses discouraged them, for they believed—like most of the POWs—that they would be released only after the United States scored a decisive military victory. But in this case the lull coincided with Christmas, which prompted the Vietnamese to lighten their treatment. For several weeks the food improved, rations were doubled, and the cell windows were opened to admit some air. Physical exams were ordered for the Americans, and the interrogations were less intense. The enemy was motivated by self-interest as much as humanitarianism. If the war did end, they wanted to present healthy POWs as an example of their magnanimity.

Cherry and Halyburton received a taste of this new spirit on Christmas Day, when they were questioned jointly for the first time. Inside the interrogation room was a small Norfolk pine draped with a string of painted light bulbs, and they were given hard candy, a cup of orange liqueur, and three cigarettes. They were told about the bombing halt and peace plan, which the Vietnamese scorned. But later, for dinner, they received turkey, fresh vegetables, salad, cookies, and fruit. It was the best Halyburton had felt in a long time, and he thought that offering a gift would be the right way to end the holiday.

"Fred," he said, reaching into his pocket for the most valuable thing he possessed, "I don't have much to give you, but here's my last cigarette."

"Well," Cherry said, "I don't have much to give you either, but here's my last cigarette."

Their expectations of being home by Christmas had been thwarted, but they felt confident that they would be released by summer, when they knew the cells would be unbearably hot. Their faith had nothing to do with any evidence about the progress of the war or possible peace negotiations. It was a matter of emotional self-preservation. To believe that their incarceration would last longer than six months would be too depressing to bear.

Before going to bed, the roommates slowly smoked their last cigarettes.

In the middle of January, Cherry was visited by a contingent of officials—a doctor, a medic, a turnkey, and an interrogator. They asked Halyburton to take off Cherry's shirt, and the doctor began feeling the injured shoulder and drawing lines with his finger. It was clear that he was discussing surgery; a robust black prisoner would be evidence that the Vietnamese treated minorities better than white Americans did.

But the prospect alarmed Halyburton. "Fred," he said after they left, "don't let them cut on your shoulder if you can help it. If you're not in great pain, I wouldn't trust these guys. If they do it, the risk of infection is really big."

Cherry was in pain but agreed he'd rather not be cut open in a country with primitive medical care. "I'd rather go with the way it is," he said.

The doctor came back two more times to examine the injury. One time, he used a pen to draw a line across the shoulder.

"Fred, it looks like they're going to operate," Halyburton said.

The Vietnamese continued to pay special attention to Cherry. They placed orange juice and cookies outside his cell to make the other prisoners believe a black man was receiving preferred treatment. The other POWs never bought it, and Cherry never actually got the juice and cookies. While the air campaign resumed on January 31, 1966, ending the prospect that the POWs would be freed en masse, Hanoi still released individual prisoners to score propaganda points, and Cherry's race made him an ideal candidate. At the time, he was vaguely aware of his special status, but on the night of February 9, he knew for sure that he was no ordinary prisoner.

The medic entered the cell and tapped his right hand on his left wrist, indicating that Cherry should put on his long-sleeve shirt. The Vietnamese called this to "dress seriously" or respectfully, the Americans showing respect to the authorities. It was typically demanded before seeing an interrogator, but not tonight.

"I think I'm going to the hospital," Cherry said.

"I think you're right, Fred. I'll be praying for you."

For Halyburton, the first night without his cellmate was lonely, and he prayed for his friend.

As Cherry was taken to a Jeep, blindfolded, he assumed that he would return to the same cell because his belongings were still there. But he wasn't sure, and he wondered who would take care of him if he ended up in some other room. He was driven through Hanoi and taken inside a building; even before the blindfold was released, he could smell the ether and the bedpans and the disinfectant. He was inside a hospital, surrounded by men and women in white smocks. He was then taken to an operating room, placed on a bed, and stuck with a needle. He feared he was being injected with truth serum to force out information on America's nuclear weapons systems. He knew a good deal, so he waited, focusing on an overhead light, and prayed that he would not reveal anything that would hurt his country. Fortunately, the injection was an anesthetic; America's nuclear secrets were safe.

When Cherry woke up several hours later, he found himself in a cast from waist to neck, including his left arm. The plaster was still wet. He was put on a stretcher, hauled back to the Zoo, and returned to his cell, groggy. Halyburton was relieved to see him but aghast at his condition. The wet cast indicated that the hospital had discharged him prematurely, and he looked stiff and uncomfortable. Halyburton helped him to his bunk, rolled up some clothes to make a pillow, and covered him with his blanket. Cherry couldn't move or talk clearly, but he thought to himself that he was grateful to be back—it felt as though he had returned home.

The next morning, Cherry tried to explain what had happened. "They put me on this table, gave me some ether or anesthesia, and I woke up in this damn cast," he said. He was in extreme pain and used his one good arm to pull the cast back. "I can hardly breathe," he said. "It's too tight."

Halyburton slid his fingers beneath the plaster. Instead of padding, he found only a thin layer of cotton to protect Cherry's skin. The cast was not just immobilizing Cherry, it was suffocating him. The surgery had left him faint and all but incapacitated. Whenever Halyburton asked how he was doing, Cherry repeated, "It's hard to breathe."

Halyburton didn't know what to do. He tapped his information to Air Force Captain Quincy Collins in the adjacent cell; Collins could only tap back encouragement. Halyburton prodded Cherry to eat, but the food, by expanding Cherry's stomach, increased the tightness of the cast. He typically pushed away the plate, depriving his body and weakening him further. Perhaps his biggest problem was using the bucket. The cast prevented him from sitting up, bending, or pulling down his shorts. But he couldn't bring himself to ask Halyburton for help, saying instead, "I really have to figure out how to use this bucket."

"I'll help you," Halyburton said.

He lifted Cherry out of bed—in Fred's words, "like a newborn"—slid his shorts down, and held him steady so he could urinate. That was relatively easy; sitting on the bucket was not. When the time came, Halyburton pulled the bucket over to the side of the bed, then positioned him so one cheek was on the side, the other hanging over. And there, he held him. It was imperfect, but it worked. Cherry could only say "Thank you."

The routine was repeated for many weeks, but with new complications. Cherry began to battle fevers and passed out while he was trying to stand. Halyburton laid him down and put a wet towel across his forehead until he revived. When he realized what happened, his words of thanks seemed shallow. Instead, he quietly wept, hoping Halyburton didn't notice. (He didn't.)

"I was crying about the kindness," Cherry said later. "I tried to restrain it, but I don't mind shedding a tear when there is good reason."

Halyburton feared that inactivity would cause Cherry to wither away, so he wanted his roommate to exercise. "You have to walk to get your strength," he said.

"Oh, Haly, I can't."

And he couldn't, at least not by himself. So he draped his right arm around Halyburton, leaned against him, and the two inched their way around the cell. It was cold, and Cherry began breathing heavily. They had walked for only a few minutes when Cherry, exhausted, grabbed Halyburton, who caught him and carried him back to his bunk, like a soldier leaving a battlefield who would not leave his buddy behind.

"I can't go anymore," Cherry said.

"That's okay," Halyburton said. "We'll do more tomorrow."

And they did, Halyburton waking him up, lifting him, imploring him to walk, and all but carrying him around the room until Cherry's body, at eighty-five pounds, frail and wasted, could no longer stand.

Halyburton did anything he could to keep Cherry awake and talking, the latter to ensure that he was breathing fresh air into his body. Halyburton recounted novels, movies, and his own life history and asked Cherry about his own family. Cherry knew he was giving Halyburton familiar answers, but he understood his purpose—to keep him alert, conscious. The mind games were appreciated, but of all the things Halyburton did, his insistence on dragging Fred's limp body around the room made the most indelible impression. "He was trying to keep me alive," Cherry later explained.