The most significant breaks in the nearly vacant day were the interrogations.

After my arrival, I sat in my cell for several weeks. No one said a word to me, except when spoken directions were required. I asked for something to read, but got nothing. I asked to speak with someone in charge. The next day an English-speaking man arrived. Questioning him about the other crew members, I asked him where they were and why I wasn't with them. I also asked why I was being held after the war was over.

His answer was, “Your case is different.” — nothing more.

Several days later an attendant brought my crutches, and I was told to walk with my head down and look to neither the right nor the left. I was led to a room in another part of the prison. Here, the man who had come to my cell, but had given me no answers, sat at a table. He gave me a cup of tea and offered me a cigarette which I refused. He lit one for himself. We discussed my physical condition, the weather, and other trivia. Then he asked, “When are you going to answer our questions?”

I said, “I don't intend to.”

He said, “It will be well for you if you do.”

I said nothing and he had me escorted to my cell. A few more days passed. Then one morning when the quiet had settled in after breakfast, I heard strange heavy footsteps coming down the corridor. This happened infrequently. Usually, the only sound to be heard was the soft swish of the guards' shoes as they paced back and forth and up and down, pausing, only briefly, to look in the observation slots. The steps stopped outside my cell and my door was opened. Handing me my cruthces, a guard indicated that I was to follow him. I was led up the corridor, through the rotunda, out into a courtyard, between some buildings and into one of them. Finally, we entered a windowless room which was about twenty feet square. I was directed to sit on a small stool beneath a bare light bulb in the center of the room. My crutches were placed against the wall. Facing me, about five feet away at a long table, sat four men. One was dressed in uniform, the others were not. One who was not in uniform acted as an interpreter. He was the person who had me out for tea. All conversation passed through him.

The low stool, the position in the center of the room, the light — all were arranged to create, in the prisoner, a feeling of inferiority and isolation.

Interrogations were about to begin again, but under different circumstances than in the hospital. It was November 1953.

One of the inquisitors asked me how I felt.

I said, “I feel as well as can be expected.”

Another asked, “How do you see your situation?”

I said, “I'm a prisoner of war and should be treated according to the rules of the Geneva Convention.” I added, “ I wish to be placed with the other members of the crew.”

This displeased him. He raised his voice and said, “You are a criminal because you violated Chinese territorial air, and you will be treated like a criminal.”

Trying to keep my composure, I said, “We were flying a mission in Korea, nothing more; since the war is over, we should be sent home.”

The interrogator shouted, “You are guilty of a criminal violation of Chinese territory and are war criminals. The rules of war do not apply to you!”

The spot I was in began to tighten. At the same time something was beginning to happen, and some of my questions were being answered.

This matter of a violation of Chinese airspace had come up before, but along with the other statements or questions of a military nature, I had chosen to ignore it. Now it was something I was going to have to consider. Though the war was over, I and probably the rest of the crew were still in China. Furthermore, my capators were acting as though this was just the beginning of something, rather than the end. They were going to push this violation-of-airspace angle.

I couldn't very well stubbornly insist that to have accidentally crossed the border would have been impossible. This was an indefensible position. One of the targets had taken us to within twenty miles of the border, and I hadn't been monitoring the radar scope. To persist in the denial of such a possibility might even look suspicious.

An accidental over-flight could have taken place in any of three ways. First, in an air battle evasive maneuvers can't always take a predetermined direction. Movements are dictated by the situation existing at one particular moment. Second, when a plane is damaged to the point that it is no longer controlable, its direction is determined by a number of physical forces, none of which emanate from the cockpit. Third, from experience I knew that radar navigation, particularly toward targets in the mountainous areas of North Korea, was a tricky problem. Furthermore, I had experienced malfunctioning radar equipment on several occasions, just when it was needed most. An error in this phase of the mission could not be discounted.

I decided to acknowledge the possibility of an accidental over-flight due to a radar navigational error. I didn't mention the first two possible causes; they seemed a bit flimsy as excuses. Though either may have been as good or better than the one I chose, would it matter in the long run?

I said, “If we did cross the border, it was accidental and probably due to an error in radar navigation.”

My statement brought another loud response from the interrogator. “You are guilty of violating Chinese airspace and that makes you a criminal!”

I said, “If a man accidentally hits a person with his car, it doesn't make him a murderer.”

He hollered, “That has nothing to do with this!”

Then he really pressed. “I want you to write a confession that you are guilty of a criminal violation of Chinese territorial air, and I want you to name all the crewmembers who were with you!”

A soldier who was standing near me was instructed to help me hop to a chair at the table. I was provided with pen and paper.

Even if I'd intended to list any names, other than my own, I knew only a couple at that time. However, I took the pen and wrote, “I've been told we violated Chinese territorial air. If we did, it was accidental and due to a radar navigational error.” I signed my name.

The interpreter read it to the chief who became enraged. He tore up the paper and threw the bits to the floor. He began screaming in my face, “You are a criminal! — Your future is very dark! — You have a bad attitude! — Those who don't confess their crimes have to suffer! — Etc! — Etc! — Etc!”

Though the interpreter tried vainly to match the interrogator's mood and pace, his act was superfluous. The message was clear and emphatic!

The accusations, denunciations, and threats continued for some time. I wasn't even given an opportunity to respond. I had no idea of the time, but supper was waiting when I was returned to my cell to “think about my fate.” What food I ate didn't digest well.