UPDATE: Here are some comments by one of my two squadron mates who were shot down, captured and became POWs 40 years ago. Just two weeks ago they returned to the North Vietnam village where they were captured. But this time they were met with flowers and smiles...
"Had great return trip to Vietnam and to Ha Tan in Thanh Hoa Province where we were captured. Here's a small glimpse. Because this location is in an off the beaten path "restricted area," we had to get special permission from the government. We were, of course, accompanied by provincial People's Committee officials (to ensure we stayed in line). Our return to the little hamlet of Ha Tan, set among rice fields and dramatic karst outcroppings, had been well prearranged.
We were ushered into the assembly room of the small village school where we were greeted with flowers, much fanfare and genuine welcome from the villagers. There was no hint of animosity. Eight of the original People's Volunteer Militia members involved in the capture of "the American pilots" were in attendance -- none spoke anything beyond a few words of english so we had to rely on our guide/interpreter.
These old home guard soldiers ranged in age from 60 to 82, most on the far end -- 3 women among them. Many memories rushed back. The first guy to reach me on 27 Aug 72 had an old Russian Mosin Nagant bolt action rifle with bayonet which he held at my neck, excitedly repeating, "hands up, hands up." His eyes were the size of tea cups and I quickly realized that he was as afraid of me as I was of him. Fast forward 40 years and now an old man with Ho Chi Minh goatee, in his vintage militia uniform, beaming from ear to ear, comes over to greet me, repeating "hanzup, hanzup." Instant bona fides. He proudly pointed to a couple of medals on his shirt (gold star on red tin) to indicate recognition for his heroic role in my capture.
Because we tend to view traumatic events in our own context, his reaction was somewhat surprising to me -- maybe I was expecting a more reserved reception. Clearly, the day Ted and I floated down into this place's wartime world was a major event and still vividly remembered. Hanzup's role in that day was among his proudest moments. He had brought along his three daughters (roughly 40, 38, 36 yoa). Our reappearance seemed to be contending for the second biggest event in the old man's life; he couldn't have been happier. Some things cannot be faked. It was as though he had conclusively proven to his children and all bystanders that his stories of our capture -- which they'd undoubtedly heard a hundred times over -- were really, finally and forever true. Peasant farmers among the socialist masses don't get much recognition in life. For him, 27 Aug 72 and now this were quite the punctuations.
There are many other stories, but I'll refrain from boring you. NF 210 is now all but reduced to your canvas memory, largely vanished between the hi-speed impact and ravages of tropical climate and time. As we were departing the village school, another older man approached us carrying a piece of aircraft metal. He had taken it from the crash site and had been using it for past 40 years as a small shovel or scoop. He wanted to give it to us -- riveted aluminum which we've cut in half to keep as reminders of that once beautiful and near state of the art Phantom and how fortunate we were. "
The aircraft they were flying - NF-210 - when they were shot down is the middle one in this painting:
