Surviving Hell (16 page)

Over the years in prison, I had learned how to walk fairly well with two destroyed knees and a back broken more than once during torture. We had been told television crews would be filming our exit from the plane. One of those good-looking nurses insisted that she would help me down the stairs. I insisted harder that she would not. I knew Gaylee, Dawn, and other family members would be watching. I wanted my visual message to them to be that I was okay. They had worried about me for six years; it was enough.

As each of us exited the door, a loud cheer went up. We stopped at the bottom, saluted the ranking general, shook hands with the other officers in line, and boarded the bus. A short ride and we were at the hospital. The American kids attending the Clark Air Base elementary school had worked hard. Every hospital hallway had dozens of welcome home crayon pictures.

Three of us were assigned to a room. The floors were shiny and clean; the walls were painted white and adorned with pictures. The windows had glass and went up and down; we had forgotten about that. And oh, those beds—mattresses, pillows, and perfectly white sheets tucked in smartly at the edges. I opened the door on the side of the room. There it was—round, white glistening porcelain with a donut lid and cover: a toilet. I pushed down on the handle and the water left with that beautiful gushing sound. It was addictive—I flushed it again, again, and again. Jack Bomar grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, pulled me out, and took his turn flushing . . . again and again.

 

 

Next came what I had thought about for six years. In 1973 there were still operators in the phone system. Our families were briefed that if they were on the telephone and a call came from “their” POW, the operator would break into the call and hook us up. There were limited overseas lines so we had to hold our first call to ten minutes. After that, whenever a line was available, we could talk and talk.

I had thought for six years what my first words to Gaylee would
be. When my turn came, I was ready. The operator said, “Just a moment, sir,” I rehearsed my words again. As the phone rang, my heart pounded, and I swallowed hard. Her beautiful voice hadn't changed, “Leo, is that you?” I stuck with my plan. “Gaylee, I would have called sooner but I've been all tied up.”

We had so many questions; so many things to say to start our six-year catch-up. We struggled. It was a massive mountain, and we couldn't find the path to start climbing it. That first phone call was difficult, but, on the second call later that day, the dam broke and words flooded out. Our love, our bond, our family would soon be together after so many difficult years.

 

 

After the phone calls, it was into the doctor's office for a cursory check—full medical needs would be met later at the major military hospitals in the States. I was still running a high fever. Initial diagnosis was it was some form of malaria. The doctor ran a couple of tests and decided it was not infectious. “If you can walk, you can go,” he said. I told him I could have been the walking dead and still would have made it onto the plane.

The mess hall had never served all three meals at 3 p.m. But on this day they served us everything except green weed soup and dirty steamed rice. We had breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the same time. The doctors warned us not to overeat but acknowledged, correctly, that we probably would.

We were issued our new uniforms, given a cash advance, and taken back to our hospital room for a rest. We were just settling in for a snooze when an echoing sound filled the hallway. Although it was six years since we had heard that sound, there was no mistaking it. It was a woman in high heels. Our POW hospital wing had rooms on each side of a long hallway. As if on command, POW heads popped out of every room. No one was disappointed. When we left the States in the mid-1960s, adult clothing was still conservative. The miniskirt, a fad we had missed, was still happening in the Philippines. Down the hospital hallway came a beautiful young Philippine woman whose skirt was
maybe
12 inches long. Every
POW head turned to follow her body from one end of the hallway to the corner at the other end.

They opened the PX just for POWs at 6 p.m. I bought nice pieces of jewelry for Gaylee and Dawn and then something for myself. I've always been time conscious, and it had been a hardship to live six years without a watch. I asked, “What color watches—silver or gold—are in fashion nowadays?” The saleslady judiciously replied, “Well sir, that depends on what you wear.” I bought one of each.

Day two at Clark Air Base was the start of the debriefing that would be concluded back in the States. Day three began the long trip to Hawaii. Our flight plan was to stop in Honolulu, where we would then separate, with Air Force and Navy POWs going off to the major Air Force and Navy hospitals nearest their homes. I was for Scott Air Force Base, just outside of St. Louis. With tailwinds, the 5,280 miles from the Philippines to Hickam Air Force Base was eight to nine hours.

Still running a fever, I was in a litter in the back of the plane. It's hard to tell if your temperature is high just by touching your own forehead. But when your thoughts start getting fuzzy, you know it is really getting up there. When I left Clark, it was just over 100. A couple of hours out: 102. Five hours into the flight—I knew the time because I had a silver watch on my left wrist and a gold one on the right—it was 103 degrees. We were still a couple of hours from Hawaii, and my thoughts were no longer orderly. I had a hard time reading the thermometer, but it looked to be over 104 degrees. I motioned to the nurse and said, “This close to home, I'm not going to expire now!”

“We'll make sure you don't,” she replied, but the words seemed to lack confidence. Thinking as clearly as I could, I asked them to pack me with ice, and they did.

As soon as the plane landed, my litter was carried to a waiting helicopter. I don't recall the helicopter trip to Tripler Hospital, but I do remember that they were prepared for the worst and had an entire ward reserved just for POWs. But there was only me. When I entered prison, I was in solitary confinement. Now that I was
home in the United States I was back in solo. In a fuzzy state of high fever, I pitched a fit.

“How long will I be here before going to Scott?”

They gave a truthful response, “You will be heading home as soon as we get you ready to travel.”

“That is no answer; I want to know exactly, I want to see my family.”

“Sir, we assure you, it won't be long.”

“Okay, get my family here on the next plane.”

The doctor said, “That is not a good plan, you will get to Scott soon.”

“Soon is not my plan—I want to see my family today. It can't be more than eight hours from Scott to here.”

There was more discussion; they would not commit to fly Gaylee and Dawn to Honolulu. I asked them to call “Homecoming Headquarters.” To my surprise, in ten minutes I was connected to the Homecoming Command Center. I asked them to put my family on the plane returning from Scott to Hickam. They said they couldn't.

“Why not?”

“Policy” was the curt response.

By now my temperature had stabilized at 101, my body was full of pills and shots, and they declared me fit to fly. Again, to the credit of the Homecoming committee, they had planned for all contingencies. Waiting at Hickam was a C-141 on standby to fly home any POWs who had been held over at Tripler. I was the only passenger.

Just a short helicopter trip to a waiting C-141, and we were on the active runway. I was in a litter again. The only others on board were the crew, a nurse, and flight surgeon. I was feeling sheepish about having my own airliner just hours after ranting and raving about how the Air Force would not fly Gaylee and Dawn to Hawaii.

We had been airborne about three hours when, in the dim cabin lights, I got off the litter and moved around the cavernous cabin. I visited the cockpit. Although this was a four-engine cargo plane, I knew many of the dials, knobs, and flight instruments. The flight crew and I spoke the same language.

I had flown my F-105 Wild Weasel westward toward Vietnam past the Golden Gate Bridge. I recalled now how beautiful San Francisco Bay had seemed to me. I had passed over Alcatraz, and I remembered the fleeting thought the sight of the prison island had triggered: that it was not inconceivable that everyone in my flight could become captives in the fight we were entering.

Now, it was a pitch-black cloudless night over the Pacific. I asked the crew how long before we could see the glow of San Francisco on the horizon. “Less than an hour,” the pilot said.

“Would you ask me up here again? I'd like to see the first glimpse.”

“You got it, Colonel—happy to do so.”

Unknown to me, the crew of Homecoming Seven (our call sign because we were the seventh plane to bring POWs home) had already told San Francisco Center that one POW was on board and that he would be making the position report. Forty minutes later they asked me to come forward. They turned the cockpit lights down. Looking hard, I could see a slight glow off the nose of the aircraft: the ambient lights of the continental United States. I was filled to the full with emotions I couldn't name.

Handing me the mike, the pilot said, “Colonel, our call sign is Homecoming Seven—would you like to make our position report?”

“I'd love to, where are we?”

“Two hundred miles due west of SFO.”

It had been a long time, but it seemed natural to be calling an FAA center. “San Francisco Center, this is Homecoming Seven.”

“Read you loud and clear, Homecoming Seven.”

Before I could answer, the first few bars of “Don't Fence Me In” came in loud and clear over the frequency. Someone said, “Welcome home, we've waited a long time!” With the small composure I had left, I said, “Thank you San Francisco Center, we are 200 miles due west.” Their next sentence is still clear in my mind. “Homecoming Seven, be advised you have presidential clearance from your position direct to St. Louis.” Speechless, I handed the mike back to the co-pilot.

J
ust as I had trouble getting to Scott Air Force Base from Hawaii, Gaylee and Dawn had trouble getting to Scott Air from South Dakota. Just before taking off, the North Central airliner they were on pulled to the far edge of the taxiway and stopped. The captain announced, “Mrs. Thorsness, would you please come to the cabin?” Gaylee's heart skipped a beat as she worked her way up the aisle. (This was 1973, long before 9/11. Cockpit doors were often open until takeoff.) She saw that the captain had turned in his seat waiting for her. “Mrs. Thorsness, because of a high fever your husband is being kept in Hawaii.”

“Will he get to Scott sometime tomorrow with the other POWs?”

“We were just told over the radio he will not get to Scott AFB tomorrow.”

“How much of a fever does he have?”

The captain, seeing Gaylee was understandably upset, continued calmly, “I tried for more information. They just said it is high but he will be okay.”

Gaylee couldn't believe it. So many disappointments over the last six years.

“Mrs. Thorsness, what do you want to do—do you want to go on to Scott or stay in Sioux Falls? I will taxi you back to the terminal if you want to stay here.”

“Are you sure you can't find out more about Leo and when he may get to Scott AFB?”

“I just tried, and they have no more information.” After a
few seconds of waiting, the understanding captain said, “Mrs. Thorsness, you have waited six years. I will shut the engines down right here, you take your time to decide if you want to go, or stay in Sioux Falls.” He added, “Let me know when you decide.”

Gaylee hesitated a few seconds, and then said, “Let's go.”

Shortly after getting to Scott, Gaylee got a call through to me in the Tripler Hospital in Hawaii. We made frequent calls the next few hours, and, as soon as I knew I was cleared to fly home, I called her.

The next day, March 10, Scott did everything to make a welcome home celebration for one POW as good as the ceremony when all the other POWs arrived the day before. Even in the early morning mist, it was my six-year dream come true.

Gaylee and Dawn were driven in a staff car to the tarmac a few minutes before my C-141 landed. As we came to a stop, looking out the window I could see two beautiful women near the end of the red carpet. One I recognized immediately. How could I forget that face I had thought about every day for six years? The other, at a distance of 150 yards, I did not recognize. “Could that be Dawn?” I asked myself. “It has to be.” Would it be right to hug this beautiful young woman?

Gaylee was first to reach me. Then Dawn. As they held me, I felt at last that my life, which had gone to sleep, was awake again.

 

 

Doctors told me that three surgeries would be required to rebuild my knees and repair my back, but that they would allow me to live mostly pain free and to walk normally. Each day I spent a few hours with our Air Force debriefers. It was long and detailed. Mostly they were looking to find out how we did as POWs. Had we resisted to the best of our ability? They were also looking for any information we had that would prove certain American aviators had gotten out of their aircraft alive, but never showed up in the North Vietnamese prison system.

I had come home into time warp. In an effort to “catch up” with the world, I lay in my hospital bed reading the World Book Encyclopedia year books. I started with the most recent year, 1972,
and read backwards. Usually my wife or daughter was with me to answer lots of questions about events in the books. This helped me fill in some of my blanks.