Operation Thunderhead (9 page)

While watching his peanut benefactor through the spaces in the bamboo wall, Dramesi went to work untying the lines that secured the wall. Patience bore fruit as the bamboo twine could eventually be untied, loosened, and then secured back in place. Eventually, with the wall prepared, it could be shoved over away from the wooden wall of the building. That would give Dramesi room to wiggle through the space between the bamboo and the wall of the hut proper. It wasn't much of a plan for the time being, but it was something constructive to do.

A new guard was on duty that afternoon, who allowed Dramesi to crawl from his cell to relieve himself outdoors. This time, Dramesi crawled to the other side of the house, to the left of where the bull had been secured. The animal was still there and only turned to look as Dramesi added to the muck at the bottom of his pen. Big, powerful, and well-cared-for, the animal impressed the Air Force officer who watched him. The only thing keeping the bull in the pen was the tethered ring through its nose, but that was enough to take its freedom away.

Another small act of consideration was supplied to Dramesi later that afternoon, when he was given a small bottle of wintergreen with which to treat his wound. Cleaning the bullet with the aromatic oil would sting badly, but it might help prevent an infection from gaining a foothold. Dramesi put the bottle away, hiding it for later use. With care, he continued to loosen the fastenings of the wall holding him in. The next day, the situation changed considerably.

Guards came for him the next morning, picking him up and carrying him out of the cell house. They carried him over to a three-walled structure next door to where he had been held and set him down on a stool facing a table. Before the guards left, they tied Dramesi's hands behind his back.

Dramesi faced a number of men sitting at the table in front of him. The two eldest men sat at the center on the far side, one in a military uniform of some type that Dramesi did not recognize. The other elder had a scarred face and wore simple civilian clothes. He was clearly the man in charge, as the rest of the people in the room deferred to him. Sitting on either side of the older men was a younger man. At one end of the table, in a high-backed chair, was a fifth man, the eldest of all of them. He acted as the interpreter for the group, translating the questions of the scar-faced man into English and directing them at Dramesi. It was his first real interrogation at the hands of his captors.

The conversation began with an inquiry after Dramesi's health. His answer was that he was well enough, outside of his two injured legs. One knee was swollen—the one Dramesi injured during his landing—and that no one had attended to the bullet wound in his other leg. Through the interpreter, Dramesi was told that his injuries would be treated. Then he was asked what his name was.

“Captain John Dramesi,” he answered.

“Your name is John Dramesi. You have no rank here!”

The real interrogation had begun. The men at the table had no illusions of what the Geneva Convention said about the treatment of prisoners; they simply didn't care about international agreements. As far as they were concerned, the man sitting bound in front of them was their enemy, and they could treat him as they wished.

Questions continued to come from the interpreter. What kind of aircraft did you fly? Where are you from? What is your wing commander's name? Dramesi refused to answer any of them. He expected the worst as the interrogators became angrier with his continued refusal to answer their questions. The only one of the men at the table who didn't seem upset at their uncooperative prisoner was the interpreter. Without showing any expression at all, the interpreter simply sat at the table and spoke, doing his job while remaining indifferent to the situation.

Enraged by the prisoner's refusal to answer the questions, the scar-faced elder finally jumped up from his seat. Grabbing a yard-long bamboo cane as he rushed around the table, the scar-faced man ran up to where Dramesi sat helpless and started beating him with the bamboo.

Again and again, the scar-faced man struck at his prisoner, beating him about the head and shoulders. Unable to protect himself, Dramesi was struck repeatedly. The scar-faced man was so enraged that he apparently didn't notice that he was hitting the ceiling of the low structure every time he raised the cane over his head. That took some of the power from his blows, but there was still enough damage being done. Slipping from his stool, Dramesi fell to the floor.

Giving up on using his bamboo for the moment, the scar-faced man started kicking the prostrate prisoner. Smashing his boots into his prisoner's ribs and back, the man caused tremendous pain but stopped short of actually kicking Dramesi to death. From where he lay, Dramesi thought that the abuse might not last very long and that he could ride it out. His pride kept his jaws tight. No groan of pain escaped his lips.

Finally, the old military officer stopped kicking the helpless prisoner where he lay on the floor. As the man returned to his seat at the table, Dramesi was pulled back up by the guards. Once more sitting on his stool, Dramesi faced his interrogators but still refused to answer their questions. The interrogator spoke in English, and translated Dramesi's refusals into Vietnamese. The scar-faced man became enraged once more and grabbed up his cane to beat the prisoner.

Running up to where Dramesi sat helpless on the stool, the old man swung the cane from his shoulders, as if it were a baseball bat. The painful force of the strikes was not lessened by the cane hitting the ceiling. The hard bamboo smashed across Dramesi's back and shoulders.

Out of his own stubbornness, Dramesi forced himself to stay seated. He didn't fall, nor did he cry out. The blows fell and only the smacking sound of the bamboo strikes could be heard in the room. Dramesi refused to talk, cry out, or even groan. Finally the beating stopped and the scar-faced man once more went behind the table and took his seat. The interrogation continued.

As the questions continued, so did Dramesi's adamant refusal to cooperate. The Code of Conduct stated that he could give his name, rank, and serial number. The North Vietnamese were not interested. What they wanted was specific military information, and Dramesi refused to give it to them. The cycle of questions, refusals, and beatings with a bamboo cane continued. After his fourth refusal to answer questions, an order was shouted to the guards. The beatings were over; now John Dramesi would face the ropes.

The North Vietnamese were masters at inflicting pain with the simplest of items. They could force the human body into contortions that few men believed possible until they had either seen or experienced them. Something as simple and innocuous as a piece of rope could bend a man until he would break—if not physically, then in spirit.

The two guards rushed over to Dramesi and immediately started what was going to be his real ordeal. Though he couldn't see who was doing what behind his back, Dramesi could certainly feel the guards' action on his arms.

His hands were twisted so that the backs were facing each other. Then the rope around his wrists was pulled tight—so tight that Dramesi could feel the circulation stop. What he couldn't see was his hands begin to puff up almost immediately as the skin turned red and then darkened from the lack of circulation. But the hands were just the first action in the use of the ropes to break a man.

The other guard looped a rope around both of Dramesi's arms a few inches above the elbow joint. With a knee in his side for leverage, the guard pulled the looped rope tighter and tighter, which drew his arms together. The two rams coming together so unnaturally forced Dramesi's chest out as his shoulders pulled back. The pain grew more and more intense.

Now, the circulation in Dramesi's arms was cut off from the ropes drawn so tightly around his upper arms. He could feel the swelling in his arms, the thudding of his heart loud in his ears as it tried to pump blood into the tissues that were demanding it. Feeling that even showing pain or emotion would be giving in to his torturers, Dramesi set his jaw tight and remained silent. His blood pressure was skyrocketing as the circulation was cut off to his hands and arms and the noise in his ears grew ever louder.

With a final pull, the guard stopped tightening the rope; Dramesi's arms couldn't be pulled any closer together since his elbows were already touching. Like so many North Vietnamese held POWs before him, Dramesi had no idea that the human body could even be contorted the way his was by the ropes. His arms ached and his shoulder joints screamed with pain as the bones felt like they were being forced from their sockets. Fear and pain warred within his body as both demanded that he give in to his captors. Then, without a word, the men around the table got up and left the room. There were no more questions. There was nothing for Dramesi to say or do but sit in the room and suffer. He was alone with his agony.

Time ticked by. There was no way for Dramesi to actually know how much time had passed as he sat there. He felt that the tissue in his swollen arms would die from lack of blood. Gangrene would set in as the dead tissues would rot while still a part of him. And the pain continued. It was agony just to draw a breath with his arms pulled back so far. His chest was distended, his shoulders pulled back and stretching the muscles across his chest and down his neck.

After perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, the interpreter reentered the room. Shaking his head at the stubborn prisoner, he sat. He considered Dramesi a diehard, and told him as much. Continuing with the suffering was stupid, and would get the bound man nowhere.

“Tell me the name of your wing commander,” the interpreter asked.

“No!”

But the pain was growing worse, or Dramesi's knowledge of it and his image of the damage it could be doing to his arms was increasing. He didn't want to lose his arms, which was just what the interpreter told him could happen if he didn't comply with the questioning. All he had to do was reveal who his wing commander was and the pressure on his arms would be removed.

Pleading now, Dramesi tried to bargain for the pain to stop, to save his arms. He would tell the interpreter what he wanted to know as soon as the ropes were removed. But that wasn't what was going to happen, the old man said. Dramesi would speak the name first, then the ropes would come off.

Dramesi screamed his defiance; he would rot before he said anything.

The old interpreter had patience, and experience. He softly told the suffering man in front of him that only when he answered the question would he be taken out of the ropes.

The pain and anguish were too much. Dramesi agreed to tell the man the name.

Fresh pain roared up as the guard removed the ropes from Dramesi's arms. The returning circulation brought waves of agony as the starved tissues responded to the abuse they had been subjected to. The pain washed over the prisoner like a flood. It overpowered his reasoning, clouded his thinking, and stunned him for the moment.

“What is the name of your wing commander?”

Dramesi told him.

With a sudden awareness of what he had done, Dramesi realized that he had made a terrible mistake. He didn't have to tell this quiet man the real name of his wing commander. He was under no obligation to tell the truth to his torturers. He had been momentarily overwhelmed by what he had just been through. He would not make the same error again.

But the ordeal was not over, and neither were the questions. After a short conversation with the interpreter, Dramesi was told that he should answer the additional questions put to him. The interpreter had seen many other prisoners, and he knew the futility of resistance. The ropes and other techniques would break a man, the pain and fear would force people who thought they could resist into realizing how wrong they were. Dramesi was a diehard, and it was unnecessary. All he would do was suffer needlessly. It could go so much more easily for him if he just told his captors what they wanted to hear.

With a strong sense of personal honor, Dramesi refused to cooperate. He was a military man, an officer of the United States. He was not expected to make things easy for himself. He would not answer questions.

During the conversation, Dramesi learned that the old man had been a professor of mathematics, his wife was a doctor, and his son had been killed during an American bombing raid. He left the room only to return a few minutes later with the rest of the interrogators. The questioning continued.

Now, the questions were far more technical: How did his aircraft attack its targets? What were the weapons he carried? How were they used? How did the aircraft evade antiaircraft fire?

Trying to avoid supplying useful information, Dramesi said he either did not know or wasn't permitted to answer. This was not the cooperation the interrogators were expecting. Finally, a command was given: Dramesi was placed in the ropes once again. With the prisoner trussed and in pain, once more the interrogators got up and left the room.

This time Dramesi gave vent to his feelings. He screamed and cried out from the pain and the frustration. The release wasn't very difficult; he was on the verge of crying out from the pain anyway, so it was easy to act as if the pain and fear of losing his arms had taken their toll of him. Dramesi wailed about his arms dying from the way they were tied.

His cries went on for an hour or more, or so it seemed. His whole world centered on that small room in North Vietnam and the torture he was being subjected to.

When the interrogators returned to the room and released him from the ropes, Dramesi tried to put up a convincing babble. He couldn't answer technical questions, he just didn't know. He was a pilot, and all he did was fly the planes, as fast and as straight as he could.

The arguments about what Dramesi did and didn't know went on for the balance of the session. He gave no more useful information to his captors, in hopes they would think him one of the dumbest pilots they had captured. But they didn't torture him any more that afternoon. They had time, they had patience, and they had him prisoner. He was finally sent back to his dirt-floored cell. They knew that one of the worst tortures that a man could endure was what his own imagination built up for him. They had broken others, and they would break him.