Moreover, I knew that every prisoner the Vietnamese tried to break, those who had arrived before me and those who would come after me, would be taunted with the story of how an admiral’s son had gone home early, a lucky beneficiary of America’s class-conscious society. I knew that my release would add to the suffering of men who were already straining to keep faith with their country. I was injured, but I believed I could survive. I couldn’t persuade myself to leave.
Bob still counseled me to take the offer if the Vietnamese were willing to let me go without getting any antiwar propaganda from me. So I spelled out the reasons why I should not do it.
“Look, just letting me go is a propaganda victory for them. I can tell they really want me to do this. I mean, they really want me to go. And if they want something that much it’s got to be a bad thing. I can’t give them the satisfaction, Bob.
“Second, I would be disloyal to the rest of you. I know why they’re doing this—to make every guy here whose father isn’t an admiral think the Code is shit. They’ll tell all of you, ‘We let McCain go because his father’s an admiral. But your father’s not and nobody gives a damn about you.’ And I don’t want to go home and see my father, and he wouldn’t want to see me under those conditions. I’ve got to say no.”
Bob didn’t say much after that. He just wished me well, and then we dropped the matter. Several days later, I went to tell the Cat I wouldn’t accept his offer.
I sat for some time in the same well-furnished room with the Cat and the Rabbit, exchanging pleasantries and helping myself to their cigarettes. Eventually, again using the Rabbit to interpret, the Cat asked me if I had considered his offer. “I have,” I answered.
“What is your answer?”
“No, thank you.”
“Why?”
“American prisoners cannot accept parole, or amnesty or special favors. We must be released in the order of our capture, starting with Everett Alvarez”—the first pilot captured in the North.
He then suggested that my physical condition made my long-term survival doubtful. “I think I will make it,” I replied. He told me the doctors believed I would not survive without better medical care. His response amused me, and I smiled when I told him that I found that hard to believe, since I never saw a doctor except the indifferent Zorba, whose only prescribed treatment for my condition had been exercise and the consumption of my full food ration.
Cat, who evidently did not share my sense of irony, then tried to convince me that I had permission from my Commander in Chief to return home.
“President Johnson has ordered you home.”
“Show me the orders.”
“President Johnson orders you.”
“Show me the orders, and I’ll believe you.”
He handed me a letter from Carol in which she expressed her regret that I had not been released earlier with Norris and the other two prisoners. It was the kind of thing you expect your wife to say. I didn’t believe that Carol wanted me to dishonor myself, and the fact that the Vietnamese had kept her letter from me until now angered me, an emotion that usually serves to stiffen my resolve. I was dismissed with an order to reconsider my answer, and returned, holding my wife’s letter, to my cell.
A week later, I was summoned to a third interview, much weakened by dysentery, which had worsened since our last meeting. The interview was shortened by the effect of my illness. Shortly after I arrived, I asked permission to return to my cell to relieve myself. The request greatly irritated the Cat, who accused me of being “very rude.” “I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I responded. He angrily terminated the interview, and I was returned to my cell.
During these sessions, the Cat had promised me that I would not be required to make any propaganda statements in return for my release. I had no doubt that he was lying. I knew that once I agreed, the Vietnamese would exert enormous pressure on me to record a statement, and I worried that my resolve would dissipate as I faced the imminent prospect of homecoming.
On the morning of the Fourth of July, Soft Soap entered my cell and mentioned that he knew I had received a generous offer to go home. “You will have a nice family reunion, Mac Kane,” he suggested.
“Yes,” I acknowledged, “but I can’t accept it.”
A few hours later, I faced a solemn Cat. That morning, the camp loudspeakers broadcast the news that three prisoners had been chosen for early release. The Cat had summoned me to offer me one last chance to accept his offer. This time I was not taken to the large reception room but to an interrogation room. There were no cookies or cigarettes offered. The Rabbit spoke first.
“Our senior officer wants to know your final answer.”
“My final answer is no.”
In a fit of pique, the Cat snapped the ink pen he had been holding between his hands. Ink splattered on a copy of the International Herald Tribune lying on the table, opened to a column by Art Buchwald. He stood up, kicked over his chair, and spoke to me in English for the first time.
“They taught you too well, Mac Kane. They taught you too well,” he shouted as he abruptly left the room.
Yes, they had.
The Rabbit and I sat there for a few moments staring at each other in silence before he angrily dismissed me.
“Now it will be very bad for you, Mac Kane. Go back to your room.”
I did as instructed and awaited the moment when the Rabbit’s prediction would come true.
That same day my father assumed command of all U.S. forces in the Pacific. I wouldn’t learn of my father’s promotion for nearly a year, when two recently captured pilots were brought to the Plantation. A few months after they arrived, one of them managed to get a one-sentence message to me:
“Your father assumed Commander in Chief in the Pacific, July 4,1968.”
–– CHAPTER 20 ––
Lanterns of Faith
At the end of the Korean War, America was shocked when a number of American prisoners of war chose to live in China rather than be returned to the United States. Reports about the brainwashing of POWs were publicly disclosed, along with even more disturbing accounts of some POWs who had treated their comrades inhumanely. Consequently, the military began to instruct American servicemen about what they could expect should they be captured and, more important, about what was expected of them. Toward that end, the Code of Conduct for American Prisoners of War was drafted. It reads as follows:
I am an American, fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense.
I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command, I will never surrender the members of my command while they still have the means to resist.
If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.
If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners. I will give no information or take part in any action which might be harmful to my comrades. If I am senior, I will take command. If not, I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and will back them up in every way.
When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause.