our plane. But the smoke might at
tract friendly forces.
The answer came about two hours
later when 20 short, stocky figures
approached me, rifles ready, flat
featured Oriental faces studying me
intently. Their battle-green fatigues
blended with the mountains behind
them, but I recognized them as
Pathet Lao.
"Hiii!" one shouted, coming for
ward. He held both hands over his
head as an indication of what I
should do with mine, so I lifted my
right hand and pointed to the crip
pled left one.
"I can't!" I shouted back. One
Communist lifted his rifle and aimed
at me. "I can't!" I yelled again.
Impassively, he sighted and pulled
the trigger.
I burrowed into the ground. My
muscles went rigid as if they could
resist a slug. But the bullet
drummed into the ground beside
me, a warning shot. "Can kill! Can
kill !" the Pathet Lao called.
"My arm is broken," I shouted
back. The rifle leveled at me again,
but this time the leader waved the
rifleman away and came closer, dark
eyes fixed on my arm. When I saw
him approach me quickly, I knew I
had convinced him I was helpless.
On an improvised stretcher they
lugged me through mountainous
jungle to a clearing where an English-speaking
officer joined us. Re
volver in hand, he hovered over me
while my head swam with pain and
shock. He had my identification
American-trained Laotians practice
guerrilla tactics in the jungle brush.
papers clutched in his hand.
"You are Major Bailey, a military
attache. Why are you in Laos? By
what right? We should kill you.
What is American policy here?
What do you plan? What was your
flight concerned with?"
The revolver wavered at my head,
and I wanted to shut my eyes and
ears to everything. The questions
became insistent, and he gave up
only when a Jeep-like vehicle ar
rived and I was put in back. I was
jostled over a rugged path to a tin
roofed hospital deep in the jungle,
where a doctor put my arm in a
cast. Then teams of interrogators
picked up the lone officer's ques
tioning. It went on for a week, then
I was flown to my black hole in Sam
neva, my face covered by a cloth so
I could see nothing.
The questioning sessions at Sam
neva have merged into a dreamlike
blur. The Reds' technique was pun
ishment and reward, though, some
thing like we use in training dogs.
I vividly remember once when three
or four interrogators, a Laotian in
terpreter, and some guards stood
around my cot. When there were no
answers to the questions, a guard
pulled back the bolt of his rifle and
slammed it forward into firing po
sition. He aimed at my skull.
"TTTE SHOULD execute you . . ."
VV the interpreter began, but all
I was aware of was the guard's
stubby finger tense over the trigger.
I heard the hammer click with un
real sharpness. But there had been
no bullet in the chamber. I felt
drained, lying in sweat on the thin
pads of my cot. "We could execute
you. Nobody would know."
And they started again.
Next came rewards. Fish and rice
eventually twisted my insides with
dysentery. I started getting chills
and fever. "We have buffalo meat
outside and bananas," the interpre
ter said. "We are willing to share
this with you."
Worst, though, was not knowing
what would happen next. The Com
munists played skillfully on my
doubts, implying execution in one
session, freedom in the next, then
some unnamed torture.
IN JUNE they took the cast off,
and I sensed the stalemate had
reached another showdown. I pic
tured myself kneeling with a pistol
pressed coldly at my skull and, at
happier moments, being taken to the
lines and turned loose. I didn't fig
ure on isolation. I suppose that was
their ace. I could always escape my
black hole, of course. I just had to
call the guards and answer ques
tions I knew by rote now.
Over the months, I had trained
myself to picture my cell as the liv
ing room of our home in Laurel,
Md., and I carried on daily conver
sation with my wife Betty and our
three children, Barbara, Larry, and
Elaine. While they lasted, these il
lusions were wonderful, but crash
ing back to my four walls had an
almost physical impact.
The haunting questions would
rise again. Does my family know
I'm alive? Have I been reported
missing or dead? I knew very well
the agony of not knowing, of wait
ing from day to day, half in hope
and half in despair. When guards
would bring my food, I would ask
to write Betty a letter. If I got any
reply, it was : "Tomorrow maybe."
On Oct. 18, 1961, the guard hand
ed me two pieces of paper with my
meal. I snatched them eagerly. They
were letters from home. Through the
Red Cross, my wife and mother had
managed to Bend form messages.
"We thank God you are alive . . . We
are well . . . We pray for you." They
Out on a training patrol, a camou
flaged Laotian points to objective.
could write only 25 words. But what
wonderful words!
It was important, I knew, that I
keep track of time. Lying on my cot
I saw how the slit of light through
the window would grow stronger
until it became a brilliant shaft of
blue with dust particles whirling
through it. This would be noonday.
I pulled a nail from the wall and
wailed for the light to reach its
apex. As soon as it did, I turned to
the wall and scratched a mark. Thus
I counted days. Ten marks grew to
100, then 200.
During one of the teasing "con
cession" periods, I inveigled the
Reds into giving me a broom. I
worried about tuberculosis, malaria,
and amoebic dysentery; in fact, I
had symptoms of all and was weak
ening each day, my ribs sticking
through the flesh and my arms skel
etal. For health purposes, I wanted
a clean house.
And by now this cell was "my
house." In my mind, I had built
partitions. My "bedroom" contained
my cot; the "living room" was
around my chair; the "washroom"
was near the pail. The partitions
became solid walls in my mind, and
I would walk around them, enter
ing each room by a "door."
The dry season passed into the
wet season, and I listened to the
torrent of rain; then came the dry
season again, and the marks on my
plaster wall reached more than 300.
My routine settled down, and while
I doubt if anybody "conquers" iso
lation, I learned to come to grips
with it. And as I did, the door
opened again, and I faced guards
with leveled rifles.
"Pie! Pie" they snapped. I knew
that meant go. I walked, blinking,
into the corridor and out into the
night Old doubts welled up in me.
I had outlasted Oriental patience,
but in the end they held all the
cards and even in minor triumph I
could be the loser.
I was led inside a large building
which I guessed was the city hall
and then into a cell-like room.
FOR days I lived in a sort of lim
bo, but then came another abrupt
visit by my guards, and I was tossed
a packet. I tore open the string 45
letters from homel Betty had writ
ten every week, but only one terse
message from her had been allowed
to reach me.
Hopes rose. So did my counting
of days. The letters arrived March
22, one day short of a year after
my capture. April and May came
and went; so did hope and despair.
During June and July, treatment
improved, but nobody would tell me
why. Doubt was the one oppression
they never let up on.
On Aug. 24, quite unexpectedly,
a civilian was ushered into the cell.
He began to talk to me matter-of-factly,
as if nothing this past year
had happened. "The negotiators In
Geneva have reached an agreement
for peace in Laos. Soon you will be
going home."
I had been a prisoner for 17
months, almost a year of it locked
inside a dark hole.
This story was partly prepared
in my living room in Laurel, Md.,
on a brisk, windy day. And a sunny
one, too, with warm light falling in
big pools on the carpet and Betty
doing housework in the kids' room.
The sun still hurts my eyes, and
I wear dark glasses during days
like this. I was hospitalized for
some time, partially because of a
bad throat: I guess I talked so much
after being silent so long that the
unused muscles just gave way. I
have some scars from being hit by
wing fragments, and I tire easily,
but that's temporary.
Worst now is all that I missed:
Barbara was married; Larry got
hia driver's license; Elaine sprouted
from child to young woman. I have
a lot of catching up to do.
Family Wrrkty. D-rilr 30. IK! S