I Was a
Prisoner
the Reds
in Laos
Hospitalized after his grim ordeal as prisoner of the Pathet Lao, Major Bailey
receives the Bronze Star from President Kennedy. Daughter Barbara looks on.
Here is the firsthand account
of a terrifying cold-war
experience which President
Kennedy called "a more
exacting test of a man's
courage than the battlefield"
By Maj. LAWRENCE R. BAILEY, U. S. A.
as told to lack Ryan
Editors' Note : On July it, 1962,
the Laotian civil war ended with
the signing of a peace treaty in
Geneva. Switzerland. The treaty
included provisions for the release
of prisoners held both by the gov
ernment forces and by the Com
munist rebels. Several weeks later
five Americans were freed by the
Communists. Among them was the
author of this article, who had
hern held 17 months longest of
any of the prisoners. Subsequently,
he was awarded the Bronze Star
medal by President Kennedy for
"heroic and meritorious service."
It was the first time the Bronze
Star had been given for valor in
the cold war.
THE DOOR to my prison
dungeon opened. Two
Communist guards stood out
lined in dim light. One
trained a rifle on me; the
other pushed my daily meal
toward me a handful of
rice and a fish, complete with
its head.
I peered into the hall behind
them, but I had been imprisoned in
darkness for weeks and even faint
light wm harsh on my eyes. Where
were the interroKators? I set my
self for their usual questions: why
were Americans in Laos? what was
U. S. policy? did I know SEATO
was an agency of imperialism?
Instead, the guards retreated,
slamming the door closed; and I
was alone again in the dark. Only a
thin ray of sunlight beamed through
a slit in the sheets of tin covering
the windows. I began to realize
what the Pathet Lao were trying.
They had threatened execution.
That had scared me but not enough
to answer questions. So now, I
guessed, they were pitting me
against a worse enemy than fear
the slow corrosion of solitude.
I found myself leaning forward
on my cot, almost hoping to pick up
the sounds of approaching interro
gators. Silence. I knew that I must
find some way to keep my sanity. I
must not let darkness, stillness,
loneliness eat away at my mind.
My room was about 12 by 15 feet.
It probably had been the living
room of a French colonial house in
the town of Samneva, near the
northeastern border of North Viet
nam. It had two French doors, cov
ered by the tin, a fireplace, my cot,
and a waste bucket. Nothing more
except roaches, flies, spiders, and
rats rustling in the corners. I didn't
know it then, but this would be my
world for nearly a year.
The story started about 10:45 on
March 23, 1961. It was a bright and
cloudless morning, and as assistant
military attache to the U. S. em
bassy in Vientiane, Laos, I was en
route to Vietnam.
Over the drone of the C-47's en
gines came a sudden pop-pop-pop. I
had heard enough antiaircraft fire
as an Air Corps pilot in the South
Pacific to recognize danger. I looked
out the windows. Puffs of white
were in the sky now, and flames
leaped around the starboard wing.
"We're hit!" I yelled. "Bail out!"
Seven men were aboard the C-47,
but only I had a single-unit para
chute ready to jump. The others
rushed to the rear of the plane for
the necessary canopy chutes to add
to their rigging. I got out of their
way, found the emergency door al
ready open, and flung myself out.
I pulled the rip cord. It wouldn't
open. Every muscle and sense con
centrated on the loop and metal
ring, yet I was dimly aware of
chunks of twisting metal floating
around me. My body shuddered un
der some impact, then with a final
tug I ripped open the chute.
I came down, swaying back and
forth in the harness, with my left
arm dangling loosely over my shoul
der. It was broken clean, and I could
see the hurtling pieces of disinte
grating wing that had struck me.
THE brown-green grazing land
of the Plaines de Jarres, a pla
teau in the mountainous region of
northern Laos, was below me, but I
only vaguely recall the descent. Half
in shock, I struck with impact
enough to stun me. When my head
cleared, I was looking at a herd of
water buffalo chomping stolidly
nearby and, in the distance, an om
inous column of sooty smoke.
That would be the plane, and if I
could get there quickly enough I
might help some survivors. I shucked
the parachute and stood up and
fell back in excruciating pain. My
left leg twisted under me; apparent
ly a piece of wing had struck tie
behind the knee.
I lay helpless in a no man's land.
Both Laotian and Pathet Lao pa
trols roamed this region. Which
would find me? Obviously the Reds
were nearby: they had shot down
Family Wrrfcly. Drronhrr 30. IJM