Two Souls Indivisible (18 page)

After the operation, Cherry received antibiotics, had blood tests, and was given fresh bandages. His wounds began to heal; the soft mattress and clean sheets caressed his many sores, and the hot water seeped into every pore on his face. But he couldn't move either arm—they were both bandaged—so he was still helpless. A guard stood outside his open door and was responsible for shaving him (which was unpleasant) and bringing in his food (which he would delay). The tedium, however, was broken each night when two teenage girls cleaned the room. They moved gracefully, sweeping the floor and emptying baskets, and Cherry smiled at them. They spoke no English, so they waved back and smiled coyly. One night they brought him hard candy, unwrapped it, and tentatively walked over to him. If anyone saw them, they'd be in serious trouble. Unable to accept the treat with his hands, Cherry opened his mouth, and one of them dropped it in. It was the sweetest candy he'd ever had. The following night the girl brought a banana, unpeeled it, and tried the same routine. But this time the girl, fearing she'd be caught, shoved the fruit in so quickly it almost choked him. It was less satisfying than the candy, but he appreciated the effort.

Mostly he lay quietly in bed. But he kept his mind active.

Most POWs were forced into long periods of fierce introspection; one writer, Geoffrey Norman, distinguished between "idle daydreaming and disciplined fantasy." While the former consisted of recalling random events, the latter had more structure and purpose. Jack Fellowes, for example, replayed entire baseball games, memorized team rosters, and spent three years trying to remember who had replaced the injured quarterback Y. A. Tittle. (Someone finally told him—Earl Morrall.) Howard Rutledge built five houses in his mind over seven years of captivity, while Danny Glenn's imagined master plan for his house included the location of the joists and studs and the gauge of the electric wire. One night he awakened his cellmate for his opinion on "paneling that family room downstairs."

In the hospital, Cherry's mind allowed him to think of only pleasant things, remembrances he would have never summoned under ordinary conditions. He could see everything that he had ever done and could replay his favorite moments. His father often appeared in these flashbacks, the hot days they worked in the fields. They would not pack a lunch because they'd eat the tomatoes and cucumbers and string beans from the ground, then drink cold water directly from the spring.

He also imagined places he had never been to or things he had never done and made them more real than reality itself. He had never raced a car, but for hours at a time he envisioned himself on the racetrack, behind the wheel, smelling the oil, feeling every turn, maneuvering through the pack, positioning himself for the final lap. He also worked on the car: tuned its engines, adjusted the tires, prepared for the next race. He had never built anything, but now he tried to construct sheds, decks, and porches, each project a puzzle that he alone could solve.

While he thought about Shirley, he also fantasized about having affairs with ordinary women, with "jewels of women," with the most beautiful women in the world—Sophia Loren, Lena Home, Ava Gardner. He would pick one, think about her all day and night, sleep on it, dream about it, then think of someone else.

He imagined his children: taking them on picnics, riding with them on his motor scooter, and playing with them. His actual dreams, however, were sometimes more realistic: he always went somewhere in these dreams but had to go back. One time he was at home and his daughter was walking down a country path, crying. But he never got to ask her why. He had to return.

In later years, he would consciously think about how to keep his sanity. Elaborate mathematical equations seemed to help. He would calculate how long he had been in captivity—by the year, month, week, day, minute, and second. The next day, he would do it all over again.

One thing he thought about now was Porter. What was he doing? Did he know what had happened to him? Would he be there for him when he returned? And if not, who was going to take care of him?

After twenty-two days, the prison guards came to the hospital, picked him out of his bed, and returned him to the Zoo. No explanation was given. Blindfolded, he careened through the streets of Hanoi, sitting on an inner tube to protect his tailbone. He reached the prison, and his prayers were answered when he was reunited with Halyburton.

Halyburton was elated. "I was worried about you," he said. "What just happened?"

"They kidnapped me out of the hospital," he said.

His shoulder was wrapped well this time, and he had gained some weight, though his tailbone was still protected by only a thin layer of skin. The ride to the prison had put a splinter in the inner tube. Halyburton asked the guards to patch it, which they did. Given all the bicycles in the country, Halyburton reasoned, one thing they could do was repair a rubber tire.

Halyburton and Cherry were then moved to another cell and the following day were moved again, this time to a building known as the Stable. Their new cell had once been a projection room, with a hole in the wall through which the movie was beamed.

Banana trees covered the compound, and many prisoners would mark time by watching the fruit grow, sometimes even getting a few. Halyburton was pleased when he saw guards digging two holes and planting the trees. But they never returned to water them. Day after day the trees baked in the sun, withered, discolored, and died. Their neglect, to Halyburton, seemed to typify the indifference of the Vietnamese to preserving life.

"We're a lot like those trees," Halyburton told Cherry.

No need of Cherry's was too small for Halyburton to fill. One day, for example, he saw that Cherry's fingernails were quite long, so he got clippers from the turnkey and cut the nails on his hands as well as his feet.

One morning, an explosion erupted in the cell.

"Fred, what the hell was that?" Halyburton asked.

Cherry turned to him and said in a small voice, "My tube blew up." The tube that he sat on continually needed to be patched and inflated again, but now it was beyond repair. Halyburton had never seen Cherry look so forlorn, so he grabbed a sweatshirt and placed it, as he had in the past, beneath Cherry in the same position as the tube. Cherry slept on it, and the following morning it was soaked with pus. Halyburton wrung it out and gave it back to him, morning after morning.

Cherry had not washed his hair in more than four months, and when he ran his hand through his thick afro, he pulled out a gob of oil and smeared it on the ground. The oil was set upon by a platoon of ants, who entered the cell from cracks in the wall. Cherry's bunk was right next to these cracks, and the ants soon began to clamber over him in search of his scalp. With his right arm, he tried to swat them off. Halyburton smashed as many as he could and tried to fill the cracks with paper. He made some progress, but the effort was useless as long as Cherry's gooey hair remained a delectable target. Halyburton asked the guard several times if Cherry could wash or take a shower, and he was finally given permission. (Halyburton, who got around the camp more, had periodic showers.)

A water boy nicknamed Johnny Longrifle—he was only fifteen years old and shorter than the rifle he carried—took the prisoners to a shed with a shower room. It had no windows, and when the guard closed the door, they stood in the dark.

Halyburton yelled, Johnny Longrifle opened the door, and Halyburton motioned him to turn on the light. But there was no electrical switch; the bulb was activated by connecting two loose wires that hung near the shower head. The guard, wearing sandals, walked across the wet floor, reached up, and—to Halyburton's amazement—connected the wires. Sparks flew, though no one was shocked.

Cherry was instantly repulsed. Snails were crawling all over the walls and floor, leaving a quarter inch of slime that they were now both standing in. Nonetheless, it was still a shower. Cherry couldn't move his arm, so Halyburton took off Cherry's shorts and turned on the cold water. He soaped his hands and rubbed them into Cherry's hair. At first, nothing much happened, but the lye served as an activating agent, turning the dirt, grease, and water into a paste. He scrubbed it, and gobs of oil and hair and dirt fell out. He rinsed hard as they stood together in paste and slime and soap and cold water, all mixed together like some primordial ooze. But he barely made a dent in the grease on the scalp, which lay a quarter inch thick.

"You won't believe this," Halyburton said. "I'm going to have to wash your hair again."

"You wash it as many times as you need to."

Halyburton washed it again, and again, and yet again, until he could feel Cherry's scalp.

"I think I finally broke through the grease," he announced.

It occurred to Halyburton, at the end, that this was something new for him, scrubbing a black man's hair with his fingers. But Cherry had ceased being black. He was just another American pilot.

Cherry also considered how strange, how unthinkable, this shower would have been in America. Remarkably, the POW camp had made it possible.

As the summer approached, the Hanoi media increased their attacks on the POWs. They had always been called "criminals," "air pirates," or "mercenaries," but now they were being compared to Nazis and alleged to have committed war crimes, punishable by execution. The Vietnamese hoped to attract attention abroad, and to some extent they did. American antiwar activists in 1966 recounted the "crimes" of U.S. pilots at teach-ins, marches, vigils, and campus demonstrations. The accusations also caught the attention of the Johnson administration, which scrambled to develop a legal brief defending the POWs in case of a trial.

America's bombing campaign escalated significantly on June 29, when 116 U.S. jets dropped nearly a hundred tons of bombs and rockets on oil depots in and around Hanoi and Haiphong. For fifteen minutes, planes could be heard climbing and then screaming down toward their targets. Bomb blasts and antiaircraft fire shook the earth while air raid sirens wailed. Halyburton and Cherry heard them and felt them: plaster fell from the ceiling; cluster bomb pellets raked the roof; the cell vibrated.

They were elated by the attack, believing the war would end only if the enemy was bombed into submission. But the onslaught cost them dearly.

The guards had collected a shirt from each prisoner, then returned it with a three-digit number stenciled across the back. Some numbers ran into the five hundreds, suggesting that Hanoi held more prisoners than it actually did. The motive for the shirts became clear on July 6.

In the late afternoon, the monotony of a hot, humid day at the Zoo was broken by a loud drum. Trucks rumbled into the courtyard; Halyburton and Cherry knew that any change in routine was a bad omen. There was nervous tapping between cells, and the guards on their rounds were more tense than usual. By the early evening, the guards began opening the cells and telling the POWs to put on their shirts.

When a guard reached the cell holding Halyburton and Cherry, he motioned for Halyburton to come alone. Outside, he was blindfolded and led to one of the trucks, which he climbed inside by feeling his way over the tailgate. No one was allowed to talk, but the Americans, using the tap code, communicated by nudging each other with their knees, elbows, or feet, even by coughing. They tried to guess their destination, with the optimists saying that the recent air raid had defeated the Vietnamese and they were now being taken to the airport. The pessimists feared torture sessions in some remote locale. Halyburton leaned toward the latter. In recent interrogations, the Vietnamese had clearly been angry over the raid, threatening to try to execute the Americans. He didn't know where they were going, but he thought nothing good would come of it.

The truck was covered by canvas, so they could hear car horns and bicycle bells, indicating they were in downtown Hanoi. When the truck stopped, they climbed out, had their blindfolds removed, and found themselves in a small park in the middle of a large intersection. There were about sixty Americans, and they searched excitedly for familiar faces. They were soon paired off and handcuffed, and a familiar face—Rabbit's—emerged from a group of officers; he was gripping a battery-operated megaphone.

"You must obey all orders," he yelled. "You must show courtesy. You must be careful. You must bow your heads. Otherwise it could be very dangerous for you.

"You must remember that you are all criminals," Rabbit continued, "and that tonight you are being taken to your public interrogations so that all the world will know your terrible crimes." They were, he said, "about to meet the Vietnamese people." The Americans knew they were in real danger.

They lined up in two columns and separated into four groups. Halyburton and his partner, Air Force Captain Arthur Burer, stood near the front of the second group. Guards in crisp uniforms stood alongside, rifles with fixed bayonets held across their chest. When the prisoners were prodded to march, Air Force Captain Bob Purcell mocked, "Oh, boy, I love a parade!" Rabbit ordered them to show humility by bowing their heads, but Jerry Denton, one of the senior officers, yelled to his troops, "You are Americans! Keep your heads up!"

They walked out of the intersection and headed down a main street. Following them was a long flatbed truck with bright floodlights, whirling cameras, tripods, reflectors, and technicians. The sides of the streets were crammed with people, some standing, others sitting in a grandstand, and most of them yelling. Clusters of foreign journalists, including photographers, were also waiting. Political officers with red scarves escorted the procession, taking it past the Soviet and Chinese embassies to impress officials there with the number of prisoners. Prompted by Rabbit and the loudspeakers, the crowd screamed, "Black criminals!" "Baby killers!" The political officers, meanwhile, kept yelling, "Bow your heads! Bow your heads!"

The intensity of the chanting increased as the throng responded to the officers, some of whom exhorted instructions through bullhorns. Many of the men were dressed alike, in dark blue coveralls, as if they had just left a factory. The women, wearing traditional white blouses and black pants, also raged against the Americans.