Sitting in my cell after the show was over, I had conflicting thoughts regarding my fate. For the most part I was able to keep in mind the optimistic possibilities. At these times, I would try to figure how much I might be worth on the prisoner market. I went so far as to calculate how much of my back pay I'd be willing to chip in.

But there were times when I thought I just might have to serve the entire eight years. During these low periods, I'd wonder about being able to do the eight in solitary. I pondered the question of what to do if I began to notice signs of mental problems. Would I rather try suicide than be sent home with my intellect in disarray? I eyed the long steel cotter pin which held the bolt on my cell door. It came through from the outside and was bent flush with the inside of the door. Could I somehow straighten one leg of the pin and ram my head against its three inch length?

Of course, thoughts of suicide were nonsense, because chances of “going over the edge” were probably quite slim. Even if I did have some “funny” moments, there would be many more lucid periods, during which I'd dismiss the idea, or not have the guts — if it takes guts to do that sort of a thing.

I found myself wondering about some other things.

Did the people at the hospital believe this garbage?

Especially, how did The Thrush feel about me now?

Did she ever feel anything?

Did I care?

I didn't even question how the folks back home felt. I knew.

They had been told, or knew, instinctively, that this was all hogwash. There had been show-trials before. However, I also knew they were crushed by the sentences, not knowing whether these would actually be served. They would continue to be concerned for our well-being. But at least, they now knew we were alive, and they knew where we were.

A few days after the sentencing, I was taken to a room I hadn't seen before. Here I met a military type who spoke English very well. I hadn't seen him before, either. He asked, “What do you think of your sentence? Do you think it was fair?”

I said “I suppose it would be a fair sentence, if I were guilty of the charges. But, since I'm not guilty, it was wrong. We all should have been treated as prisoners of war.”

Then came something weird. He asked me to write a statement about how we came to be in China!

Why? Was my refusal to sign a confession of guilt to the charges a loose thread that had to be knotted? What difference did it make? The “trial” was over and we had been sentenced. What the devil was going on here?

His question seemed to indicate that the script was not finished. It tended to strengthen the conviction I held most of the time; we would not serve those sentences.

Here were the facts I had to consider:

Suppose we really had, accidentally, overflown the Chinese border before bailing out. I couldn't be absolutely certain we hadn't. But the maps to which they alluded and did not exhibit at the “trial” had our Korean mission course lines on them and nothing more.

If the plane flew into China on its own after we'd left, their searchlights would have picked up the parachutes coming out over North Korea.

There were extra crewmen aboard, and two of the “extras” were of higher rank than would normally be expected, but this, alone, meant nothing.

Therefore, even if we overflew, the treatment was not warranted because there never was any evidence, nor could there be, supporting the charges of espionage.

Going back, then, to this last request for a written statement: perhaps they were thinking that, having been sentenced, I might decide I could do myself no more harm, and would say, “OK. I confess. We did it because we were ordered to commit acts of espionage.”

However, our mission was simply a Korean combat mission, and I could see no harm in repeating my earlier statement, that if we had violated Chinese territorial air, it was accidental, due to an error in radar navigation. If anything, it might help in maintaining credibility, or in establishing credibility, if, in spite of the facts, they really thought I was lying. It, sure as hell, wouldn't increase our sentences and could possibly shorten the ones we'd gotten. At least, I'd have a denial of the charges on paper.

He asked me to revise the content by stating that we definitely and “criminally” had flown into their airspace. He did not object to the part that declared non-intent. We argued the first point. (It was really just an argument, he was not belligerent). I left it the way I wanted it, and he accepted it.

Perhaps this all tied in with my interrogations. Just maybe I'd accomplished what I'd hoped to in that phase of the whole show.

He said I could go back to my cell. There I sat and thought about this unusual event. At first their intentions had been unclear, and for a long time they had done nothing to clarify their intent. Then came the “trial” and the sentencing, which were strong statements of our situation. Now, however, they seemed to be showing some dagree of uncertainty or, at least, were weakening the pronouncements made by the elaborate show in Peking.

It would have been of considerable help to me, were it possible, to have a map which the Pentagon gave me after we were released. It showed that our plane had disappeared from the friendly radar at a point that was off course but still about thirteen miles from the border. This doesn't necessarily mean that the plane crashed at this position but indicates that it was below the capabilities of the radar scopes. These limits might have been due to mountanious terrain or technical factors. At this low altitude, however, it was doubtful that any live crew members were aboard, meaning that if the plane violated Chinese airspace from there, it did so on its own.

So how did we get into Red China?

By parachute — 13 miles?

By truck?

I know I didn't walk there!