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

TORTURE THERE WAS NO LET-UP IN THE BRUTALITY OF THE GUARDS after the Hanoi parade. The excesses of that public frenzy seemed to have whet their appetites and now they came at us more often. They demanded we bow whenever in their presence, just as they had done back at the Zoo. It infuriated all of us and we decided to ignore them. A few days after we got back from Hanoi, Tom and I were talking in subdued voices, as always, when a guard sneaked up to our window. "Bow!" he ordered. I looked out and saw it was the guard we called J.C., because he strutted around as if he were Johnny Cool or Jesus Christ himself. A wiry, nasty thirty-year-old, who spat through moss-colored teeth, J.C. was always dressed in dirty khakis with rolled-up sleeves. "No bow! No bow!" I shouted back. He turned and left, but moments later came back armed with a branch and thrashed at us through the window. I grabbed the branch and yanked it away from him. J.C. screamed and cursed before stalking off. It was a dangerous move on my part; I had acted on impulsewithout weighing the consequences. All night long I waited for the repercussions, but nothing happened until the following morning when the keys rattled in our door lock. There was nothing we could do but brace ourselves for a beating. J.C. flung the door open and, accompanied by other guards holding rifles and fixed bayonets, stormed in. While some of them held Tom at bay, J.C. motioned me outside and quickly set upon me, lashing out with clenched fists and pounding my head and body with wild swings. A succession of blows slammed into my jaw and I felt it give as I tried shielding my face with open hands. To have struck back or tried to block his attacks would have invited a punishment far worse than the pain he was inflicting. It would have done no good pleading for leniency. Most camp guards, like J.C., were thugs with little or no education. After he had spent himself, he stood over me, a little out 158 12 TORTURE 159 of breath but mean and wild-eyed. He and his cohorts let loose a torrent of insults then hauled me back into the cell and pulled Tom out to work him over. While I nursed my own wounds my heart went out to Tom as I heard the fury of his attackers and the crack of their fists. After they pushed him back in they eyed us furiously then slammed the door shut. At times like this it was good to hear the key turn. It meant we were locked out of their reach and safe again. My head spun and my ears hummed. With my fingertips, I gently touched my face, trying to dull the stabbing sensations of pain. It felt like an unskilled acupuncturist had skewered my jaw with sharp needles. My jaw in particular was so sensitive that for several weeks I could open my mouth only a fraction, to sip liquid or slowly swallow rice. The blows had dislocated my jaw bone and I was slurring my speech. In the years ahead it occasionally popped out of place, sometimes slipping back of its own accord, failing which, I had to open my mouth as wide as possible, like a snake after devouring its prey, to align the jaw so that I could close my mouth. A week later they walked me down to a quiz room and Mr. Blue told me to write a letter to the American soldiers in the South, emphasizing the receipt of mail and Red Cross packages and reporting favorably on my treatment. I steadfastly refused to budge. They left me alone throughout the day, denying me food and drink, but made no threats. In the evening they led me back to my room. It took me a few days to connect this attempt at eliciting a propaganda letter with the faint but distinct sound of screams which broke the silence of the nights. It was difficult to pinpoint its source, for every one of the six huts in my area of the Briar Patch was surrounded by its own wall, which deflected sound, and each hut had four rooms, allof whose doors faced different directions. More likely,the gut-wrenching shrieks came from the larger buildings which...

Share