Following the same pattern, the interrogations became more frequent and the pressure increased.

Again and again they tried to get me to sign a “confession” stating that I was “guilty of a criminal violation of Chinese territorial air.” I refused. They also continued to ask questions about my unit and my job.

I soon recognized the succession of sounds that meant I was going to be led off. The gates would clang. Heavier footfalls than those of the guards would enter the cell block and, after a few paces, would stop at the attendants' office at the end of the block. In a few seconds the steps would emerge from the office where the guard had picked up my crutches, then continue on down the corridor toward where I lived. They'd stop outside my door, and I'd get up.

The time that had passed since we were shot down, the knowledge that the war had ended several months ago, the lack of contact with anyone but attendants and guards, the uncertainty as to whether anyone knew we were even alive, and the anticipation of each session — all were having a destructive effect on my willpower. Equally damaging to my moral were the physical limitations imposed by my injuries; I felt more vulnerable. I suppose it was planned that way.

However, I also felt I had to remain alert. I must try to maintain some degree of control by using my wits, while I still had them.

Because the war was over, there was certain information which would be useless to them. In an attempt to get me to open up, Good Guy had told me a lot about my unit; information they'd learned over the years. Also, I'd been told in the hospital, not only of the end of the war, but of the repatriation of the POWs as well. This meant that the 91st crew, which Good Guy had described in detail, was home.

Weighing all of these things; and feeling that, if they really got rough, I might lose control and reveal some harmful information, I decided to parrot some of what Good Guy had told me, adding some other factual and non-factual tidbits.

I realized it was a dangerous game, I had to remember exactly what I had said and how I said it to avoid giving leads to information of which they had no knowledge. I was also certain that when I stopped, they would say, “We already know all that — tell us something we don't know.” I must be convincing.

I guessed that after I said anything they'd have me write it, which they did. My memory had to go on overtime. I tried to avoid as many outright lies as I could to prevent being tripped up. Of course, some lies were necessary.

Everything did not go smoothly, however. I remember one particular error I made while writing what I'd told them. I was sitting in my cell, working with the pen and ink they'd given me, when I realized that a sentence I'd just started could, conceivably, lead them to ask about some special equipment. I couldn't erase it! I began to sweat.

I quickly concocted a plan that I hoped had a chance of working. I pretended to be writing diligenly until I heard the guard depart from the observation window, then I took a drink of water and “accidentally” spilled some water from my cup onto the floor. Naturally, I wanted to clean up my mess, so I took the paper on which I'd written the errant sentence and vigorously applied it to the wet floor, taking great care to ensure that the wording which concerned me was on the side of the paper being rubbed on the floor. I had just started that page so I didn't have much to copy to a new page. Also, I had to be certain to duplicate the wording exactly, down to what I'd obliterated. From there it was a comparativly simple matter to arrange the sentence to lead in another direction.

I thought the pages had probably been counted, so I crumpled the abused page and placed it out of sight under the bed. If they hadn't counted, I'd later eat the paper. If they had counted, and asked me about the missing page, I'd readily retrieve it from beneath the bed, explaining my “accident” and how I'd used the paper to wipe up the spillage. They could then compare the two pages and see for themselves that I'd left nothing out.

They might ask me why I hadn't used a blank page to wipe up the water. The answer: “I made a spelling mistake and wanted to do it over, so that was waste paper.” Could I help it if cleaning up the mess had also wiped out the misspelled word? It would be a weak excuse, but all I had.

Sure enough, when the attendant came for my “work,” he counted the paper I'd used, added that figure to the number of blank pages and demanded to know what became of one page. I went into my act. He didn't ask why I had not used a clean sheet for wiping; he just listened, then left, with all the paper.

Apparently it worked! I heard nothing more about it.

The interrogations had peaked in intensity, and in the next session, which was my last, the spring finally wound down, and none too soon. I was getting rather shaky from the pressures of so much time on the tightrope.

I have a strong recollection of an incident from that last interrogation. After I'd denied knowledge of certain information, the interrogator asked one final question. However, before I could say anything, he answered it himself by saying, “But I suppose you don't know anything about that either.” Of course I said I didn't. He probably already had the answer.

As the days slipped by, I gradually realized the sessions were over, but I did not feel comfortable.

Had I assessed the situation correctly?

Would they have been able to get important information from me by more physical means, other than solitary confinement?

Had I drawn the line of information correctly?

I did what I felt was wisest, under these circumstances, in the best way I was able.