Two Souls Indivisible: The Friendship That Saved Two POWs in Vietnam - Softcover

Hirsch, James S.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0618562109 ISBN 13: 9780618562107

Publisher: Mariner Books, 2005

Synopsis

How two Vietnam POWs, one white and one black, formed an unexpected friendship that saved them both: "A moving story."--John McCain

Fred Cherry was one of the few black pilots taken prisoner by the Vietnamese, tortured and intimidated by captors who tried and failed to get him to sign antiwar statements.

Porter Halyburton was a white southern navy flier who the Vietnamese threw into a cell with Cherry at the famous Hanoi Hilton, hoping that close quarters would inspire racial tensions to boil over. Instead, they fostered an intense connection that would help both men survive the war--and continue for the rest of their lives.

An unforgettable story of courage and friendship, Two Souls Indivisible is a compelling reminder of what can be achieved, in the face of incredible odds, when we put our differences aside.

"A riveting tale . . . Two Souls Indivisible joins the small list of essential tomes on the war, race, and to an even larger degree, books that describe the true meaning of heroism."--Seattle Times

"A moving story of two men whose courage, sense of duty, and love proved greater than the depravity of their captors."--Sen. John McCain

About this title

About the Author

JAMES S. HIRSCH is a former reporter for The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, and he is author of ten books, including biographies of Willie Mays and Rubin "Hurricane" Carter.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Two Souls Indivisible

The Friendship That Saved Two POWs in VietnamBy James S. Hirsch

Houghton Mifflin Company

Copyright © 2005 James S. Hirsch
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780618562107
1
"Better Place, Worse Place"

"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 .lm 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 .lm 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.
Of course, some of the captured Americans did not return. At
least eighty-four died in Southeast Asian prisons and jungle camps, usually
from torture, untreated wounds, or execution. But the survival rate was high,
given the abject living conditions and the sheer length of their confinement.
Unlike common criminals in civilian prisons, the POWs were not serving a
defined sentence. Their confinement was unknown and indefinite. Until
Vietnam, no U.S. military prisoner had been held in captivity for more than
four years, but the Vietnam War saw more than three hundred Americans
incarcerated for five or more years; two men were held for nine years. Their
experience had no precedent in American history.
The prisoners in Hanoi had a very different profile from those of the
grunts fighting in South Vietnam. They were professional soldiers and tended
to be older college graduates whose maturity and experience sustained them
through the lowest moments of their ordeal. These officers found unity and
strength by developing an elaborate military command structure, a secret
communications network, and a rigorous code of conduct, and many returned
with extraordinary tales of survival, overcoming years of abuse and privation
while finding value in their own suffering.
But in the many personal narratives of courage and defiance, the
story of Porter Halyburton and Fred Cherry stands apart. They were locked in
the same cell because the Vietnamese believed their racial differences would
torment them — a not entirely naïve assumption. While the two officers were
separated by age, rank, and military service, each man"s race had produced
a dramatically different life experience. Cherry, descended from a Virginia
slave, was a pioneer in the integration of the armed services; though
sustaining many racist slights along the way, he became one of the Air
Force"s best combat pilots. Halyburton, whose forefathers fought for the
Confederacy, was raised in the segregated South, where blacks were poor,
deferential, and inferior; his was not the virulent racism of the demagogue but
the more insidious bigotry of condescension and paternalism.
Each man, ultimately, carved a distinctive legacy in Vietnam
during a confinement of seven and a half years. Cherry was renowned for his
resolve against the Vietnamese, who showed no mercy in trying to convince
him that he should repudiate "the American imperialists" and support the
colored people of Asia. Cherry suffered as much physical pain as any
prisoner who survived, yet he appears to be the only tortured POW who never
made concessions to the enemy. Halyburton was respected as a creative
scholar, who invented such games as invisible bridge — played without
cards — and whose imagination allowed him to find a meaningful life in the
bleakest of settings.
Halyburton and Cherry returned home to very different
circumstances, which mirrored the range of experience for all the POWs on
their repatriation. Halyburton"s wife, Marty, was initially told that he had been
killed in action, and a memorial service was held to honor his memory.
Sixteen months later, learning he was alive, she remained loyal to him,
speaking out on his behalf and becoming stronger and more independent
from the adversity. But Cherry"s marriage, already on shaky ground when he
was captured, did not survive. His wife quickly turned on him, spent his
money, and splintered the family. Both the Halyburton and Cherry families
learned, through years of estrangement, fear, and hope, that the inmates in
Hanoi were not the only prisoners. "We were all POWs," said Cherry"s son,
Fred Jr.
Halyburton and Cherry were in the same cell for less than eight
months. They were grateful to have a roommate, though each was initially
wary of the other. Cherry thought Halyburton was a French spy, while
Halyburton doubted that a black could be a pilot. But they overcame their
misgivings and preconceptions and found common ground in this uncommon
environment — a friendship in extremis that inspired many of their fellow
prisoners. As Giles Norrington, a Navy pilot shot down in 1968, recalled, "By
the time I arrived, Porter and Fred had already achieved legendary status . . .
The respect, mutual support, and affection that had developed between them
were the stuff of sagas. Their stories, both as individuals and as a team, were
a great source of inspiration."
Many of the POWs had to cross racial, cultural, or social
boundaries to exist in such close confines. But Halyburton and Cherry did
more than coexist — they rescued each other. Each man credits the other
with saving his life. One needed to be saved physically; the other,
emotionally. In doing so, they forged a brotherhood that no enemy could
shatter.

Copyright © 2004 by James S. Hirsch. Reprinted by permission of Houghton
Mifflin Company.



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Excerpted from Two Souls Indivisibleby James S. Hirsch Copyright © 2005 by James S. Hirsch. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Mariner Books
• Publication date: 2005
• ISBN 10: 0618562109
• ISBN 13: 9780618562107
• Binding: Paperback
• Language: English
• Number of pages: 296