Finding ways to beat the system come naturally to a prisoner. Among other things, I wanted to circumvent the isolation measures and learn about the world outside the cell and, especially, about the other occupants of Lunatic Lane. This was easier during the colder months, because then the wood contracted, and small cracks would appear between the boards in the door. Extreme caution was necessary, since the guards prowling the cellblock used the observation windows randomly. It wasn't so much a matter of avoiding punishment, if caught, as it was a matter of having the cracks covered if I was found using them to my advantage. Someone must have been observed at this pursuit, maybe me. But the attempt to fill the cracks was successful for only a short time, after which the material disintegrated and the cracks were back.

My first objective was to identify any prisoners as Caucasians. I thought I found one, a tall individual with a graying beard. He was directly across from me, but he disappeared after a short time. I never discovered who he might have been.

After recovering from the first couple of “down” days at the beginning of my hospitalization, I had been able to cope fairly well. But about a year into my solitary confinement, something happened which really tore me apart.

On the eighth of September 1954, one year and eight months after being captured, I was again escorted to an interrogation room, but this time I was told that the glorious and beneficent People's Republic Of China had made arrangements for me to receive mail. I had nine letters!

Starting to lose my composure, I tried vainly to stuff them into a nonexistent pocket. I finally jammed them into my shirt and walked, very unsteadily, back to my cell. For some reason I just couldn't see where I was placing my crutches as I took each step.

In the cell I shook so badly I was having difficulty opening the letters. I tore flaps off three before I discovered that the thoughtful censor had already slit the ends. In spite of being extremely security conscious, my interest in the contents and the people who had written them was so intense that I hadn't considered censosrship for one second. I was aware that a guard was staring at me as I read and wept, but I didn't give a damn. I stabilized after I'd read one or two and was able to handle the rest with more subdued emotion.

For quite awhile I was given about one letter a week. Later the number increased, but I never did get all that were sent. There wasn't any good reason for withholding those I didn't receive, because I learned, after I was released, that the missing letters had been very bland, great care having been taken to be brief and inoffensive.

I was allowed to write one letter a week, so I couldn't begin to answer even those that did get through. When I could write, I took pains to keep my letters upbeat, wanting to lift spirits on the homefront. Also, I tried to avoid any topic which might cause a letter to be filed in the waste can before it even left the prison.

Very soon I considered establishing a code for transmitting forbidden information by mail. Naturally, I tried to concoct a foolproof plan. The clue to its existence could be detected only by some of my family members. I knew that the letter would then go immediately to the Pentagon, and those people could decypher the code itself. I held the plan in abeyance, however, for a time when I had something really important to transmit. I never felt that time arrived.

These “crises,” and others, had a yo-yo'ed my emotions considerably. But there were more interesting times on the way — starting with Saturday evening, October 9, 1954.

An attendant delivered a two-piece, pajama-like suit. I thought it was a new prison uniform, and though the other clothing was blue, while this was an ominous black, I wasn't particularly disturbed. I should have been.

I was told not to put it on.

The next day, October 10, I was disturbed!

Late in the afternoon, my crutches were brought and I was led to the receiving room where they had removed my shoe laces and performed other indignities to my clothing, the day I arrived at Peking, more than a year earlier.

Two men were seated behind a table on which lay some packets of paper. I was presented with a packet, and one of the men who spoke English told me to sign my name to another paper. I looked at the packet, which was written in Chinese.

I said, “I can't read this and I'm not signing for anything I can't read.” (They weren't going to get me to “sign away the ranch.”)

He said, “It's not necessary that you be able to read it. Just sign that you got it.”

“No!” I said while thinking, “you shyster lawyers.”

A guard, standing behind me, grabbed my one hand, pulled it away from the crutch, and pressed my good thumb on an ink pad, then onto the signature paper. Another guard made certain I didn't topple over.

I was returned to my cell where I began leafing through the packet. Near the back I discovered an English translation.

The title of the document was “Indictment.” That implied a criminal act. Cripes! Were they really going to do what they'd threatened?

You bet your sweet butt they were!

As I read, I began to vibrate. They didn't just exaggerate. They outright lied!

The charge — ESPIONAGE1

Specifically — “charged with a criminal violation of Chinese territorial air for the purpose of carrying out acts of espionage.”

I was fed an early supper. What little I ate lay like a lump. Soon after eating, I was led back to the same room. There were two new faces behind the table. Through his interpreter, one introduced himself as my defense counsel.

He said, “I advise you to plead guilty.

I said, “I can't do that because I'm not guilty of these charges.”

He explained, “You do not understand.” (He had that correct!) “The Chinese People's Government is lenient to those who plead guilty to the crimes they're charged with.”

I asked, “Regardless of whether they're guilty or not?”

This exchange went about two more rounds, then came to an abrupt halt, when he said, “I don't have any more time to discuss this.”

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