He didn’t particularly care. Unable to sleep, he shuffled back and forth in his cell, his mind buzzing with unanswerable questions.
What classified materials had the North Koreans salvaged besides the documents he’d been shown? How many sailors had signed phony confessions? Had the U.S. government seen through the ludicrous propaganda sham that was Bucher’s own statement? He reproached himself for not radioing Japan while the ship was under attack and specifically stating that it had never trespassed in North Korean waters. Was the Pentagon’s uncertainty over the ship’s whereabouts the reason for the absence of retaliation?
He struggled to understand why the communists grabbed the Pueblo in the first place. The only explanations that made any sense were that they wanted to start another war with South Korea or to distract the United States from Vietnam. Why didn’t they seem interested in using him for anything other than propaganda? When they’d pounded enough “confessions” out of him and his crew, would the seamen be freed or left to rot for years in this miserable sty? Or simply taken to an empty field and shot?
The more he thought about it, the angrier he got at the Navy for ordering him into the Sea of Japan with such poor preparation and equipment. His request for a specially designed destruction system for the SOD hut had been rejected. He’d been saddled with too many secret papers and given peashooters to defend against 57-millimeter cannon. Worst of all, he’d been lulled into a false sense of security.
In the final analysis, though, the disaster had happened on his watch. And according to the age-old custom of the sea, a captain was solely responsible for everything that took place on his ship. At least one of his men was dead and the rest reduced to quivering hostages. His ship had been stolen, his country’s security compromised, and he had to shoulder the blame. He should’ve off-loaded more classified material in Japan, he told himself, no matter how much higher-ups complained. He should never have put to sea until he had enough dynamite to blow the SOD hut sky-high. Why hadn’t he ridden Steve Harris harder during the attack to get rid of his electronic gear? Why hadn’t he ordered secret documents stacked in a compartment, doused with diesel fuel, and set on fire, even if the blaze spread uncontrollably and burned the ship to the waterline?
The skipper had only limited time for such self-flagellation, however. At any hour of the day or night he might be pulled from his room and brought before Super C, invariably chain-smoking and looking immaculate, for another arduous round of questions and threats. Bucher had to admire the colonel’s endurance. He’d grilled the skipper again and again in the past few days—often for hours on end, in the dead of night—yet his alertness and ramrod bearing never faltered.
Super C always greeted his quarry the same way, asking through his translator: “How is your life these days?”
Filthy, bone-tired, and in constant pain, Bucher studied his antagonist to see whether he was mocking him. He decided to concede nothing.
“I am only interested in the condition of my men, especially the wounded ones,” he replied during one session.
Super C ignored his request for news and launched into a long speech.
“You must be aware of the tortures which the Korean people suffered during the Fatherland Liberation War with the United States,” he began, using the communist name for the Korean War. “Every Korean lost relatives in the war. CIA tortured them, killed them. Koreans hate the lackeys of imperialism, not the American people.” He went on to blame the United States for keeping the people of North and South Korea divided for so many years. He characterized President Johnson as a CIA puppet and “murdering enemy of Koreans.”
Super C’s translator was proficient in English but hardly fluent. Bucher nicknamed him Wheezy, for his habit of coughing and wheezing to cover up his frequent stumbles. As long as Super C spoke in a calm, measured fashion, Wheezy did reasonably well. But he fell behind as the colonel’s harangues gathered speed.
The American people, Super C charged, were “in the clutches of the Johnson murder clique and the Rockefeller gluttons and bloody-handed Wall Street warmongers—and kept oppressed with vicious murder by paid running dogs of CIA! We know that American workers are whipped slaves of Morgan Steel! We know that Americans will be our friends when they overthrow the CIA.”
The colonel paused to let Wheezy catch up, and then went on in a more personal vein.
“You must show your gratitude and sincerity to the Korean people by honest confession of your crimes. Then you may go home to your loved ones. You will soon see what I mean. You see, I have a message for you from your wife, Madame Rose.”
The mention of his beloved spouse hit Bucher like an emotional right hook. Was it possible that she’d gotten a message to North Korea so fast? He doubted it; this had to be another attempt to manipulate him.
Wheezy began reading from what sounded like an American news interview with Rose. She spoke of the agonizing ordeal of not knowing what had become of her husband, and her hopes for his rapid release and safe return home. The translator mentioned that a friend named “Hemmel” had appeared with her at a press conference in San Diego. The captain knew no one by that name and stared suspiciously at Wheezy, who tried another pronunciation: “Hemple.” Bucher brightened. It had to be Lieutenant Commander Allen Hemphill, who’d served under him on the submarine USS Ronquil. Since there was nothing aboard the Pueblo to indicate they were friends, the news story had to be true. The skipper’s heart filled with immense yearning for Rose, along with gratitude toward his old buddy for standing by her.
Super C didn’t miss Bucher’s reaction. “Very nice message from Mrs. Rose and your friend,” he said. “Now we will help you every way to be sincere and make forgiveness from peace-loving Korean people so you can go home.”
The captain, feeling he was being played again, angrily shouted, “How about my man Hodges whom your people murdered? What have you done with his body? We did nothing to provoke your ships into firing on us—nothing!”
As Wheezy’s translation sank in, Super C’s face turned a dark, furious red. He ordered Bucher to stand at attention. For the next three or four hours the North Korean ranted, raved, and emoted over the full catalog of American imperialistic sins: the CIA, the Vietnam War, the craven U.S. puppets running the Seoul government. Though he felt a grudging admiration for the colonel’s staying power, Bucher was never quite sure what to make of these endless declamations. Sometimes Super C struck him as little more than a buffoon in uniform. Amid one extended tirade, the colonel nearly tied himself in a knot trying to haul a foot over his head to simulate how GIs supposedly strung up North Korean civilians by their heels during the Korean War.
But there was no denying Super C’s intelligence: He’d read Shakespeare, was familiar with Greek and Roman mythology, and spoke of attending a Moscow military academy. His one vanity seemed to be a fondness for luxurious, Western-style leather shoes, possibly purchased in Shanghai. He was relatively well-informed about U.S. history and current events, although his knowledge was filtered through, and distorted by, his Marxist ideology. After several sessions with him, Bucher realized that an interesting dynamic was at work during these verbal marathons. No matter how long he bellowed and blustered, the colonel always paced himself, carefully gauging the impact of his performance on his captive. And while the skipper had no illusions about Super C’s capacity for violence, he never seemed to apply more than necessary to achieve his ends.