In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

18 DESOLATION WHEN THE VIETNAMESE SUMMONED A BUNCH OF POWS that winter of early 1970, we went willingly, thinking we were going to a quiz session. Only when we were in the jeep and on our way to downtown Hanoi, did we realize it was probably a propaganda stunt. They took us through the War Museum, to impress upon us their victory against the French and their resilience in the face of American military might. We passed through the section with captured French war materiel. I remembered my last visit there in 1964, when they had shown me parts of downed U.S. aircraft, trying to convince me they had shot down eight planes on the day I bailed out. Then they took us through the more recent display. I saw my helmet and uniform, clearly labeled with my name. There were many blown-up photographs and equipment of other captured pilots. Even though I did not see any cameramen , the message was not lost on us. While looking at the exhibits I felt an urgent need to relieve myself. A guard led me to the bathroom and waited outside. I stood and looked at the urinal and regular seated toilet with amazement, unused to anything but the crude jagged-edged slop bucket I had used for so long. Who would have thought that squatting on a toilet seat could induce such a feeling of comfort and well-being! But then, as I went to wash up, I sawthe mirror. It had been five-and-a-hal years since last I saw my face. I approached like a man entranced, as if transfixed by the image of my own face growinglarger with each step forward. My God! Could that be me! Delicately, as if afraid my skin might crumble, I touched my stubbly cheeks and felt my chin and then my eyes. I dragged my fingers over the furrowed lines. Something inside of me recoiled from the image in the mirror. Good God! I looked so old! With shock and astonishment I saw the flecks of gray in my hair. I could not believe it. I was only thirty-two but the man in the mirror did not look a day younger than forty. 218 DESOLATION 219 Inside I did not feel the weight of age, but I had only to look at that face staring back at me to see the ravages of time and the wear and tear of captivity. Though I still had the stout heart of a young man my outer casing was worn, cracked and middle-aged. I studied the drawn cheeks and looked deep into the lackluster eyes. They were drained and tired, colorless and empty. Gone were the flashes of youthful animation and the healthy tone of a younger skin. I let the tips of my fingers slowly stroke my jawline, trying to get a feel for my new face. But even as I struggled to adjust, my eyes balked and I felt my pulse register my inner agitation. I trembled much like any youth might have upon waking from a nightmare to find that the glimpse of his own aging face was not a dream but a reality. When I rejoined my roommates I told them I had looked at myself in a mirror in the bathroom. "Jeez," one of them sighed, "I wish I'd been able to do that." I wondered whether he was not really better off,having been spared that shocking revelation. The months went by and, in the spring, conditions took a marked turn for the better. One day the guards surprised us by going from one room to another announcing, "No more have to bow! Understand?" We were so astonished that we all bowed out of conditioned servility as they left. Bowing had become second nature in the presence of our captors. The habit was hard to break and in some instances immediately following the change of policy, the guards slapped around POWs who continued to bow. The irony of it all brought smiles to many faces. That spring they also gave us a little bread and sweet milk in the mornings. Everyone's spirits shot up. They let us out of our rooms for about a quarter of an hour a day. Not long after we heard the unmistakable sound of bricks being knocked out of sealed windows. Every little change was regarded as a signal of better things to come. Improvement in the food...

Share