Master Sargeant Daniel L. Pitzer
RELEASED POW
WE WILL NEVER
FORGET!
Deceased
..The Alien force, applied with hate, could not break him,
failed to bend him; Though solitary imprisonment gave him no
friends, he drew upon his inner self to create a force so
strong that those who sought to destroy his will, met an army
his to command..
On Sunday, September 26, 1965, "Liberation Radio" announced the execution of
Rocky Versace and Kenneth Roraback in retaliation for the deaths of 3
terrorists in Da Nang. A later news article stated that the executions were
faked, but the Army did not reopen an investigaton. In the late 1970's
information regarding this "execution" became classified, and is no longer
part of public record.
Name: Daniel L. Pitzer
Rank/Branch: E8/US Army 5th Special Forces
Unit: Detachment A-23
Date of Birth:
Home City of Record: NC
Loss Date: 29 October 1963
Country of Loss: South Vietnam
Loss Coordinates: 092626N 1050917E (WR170435)
Status (in 1973): Released POW
Category:
Acft/Vehicle/Ground: Ground
Other Personnel in Incident: James N. Rowe (escaped 1968); Humberto R.
Versace (missing); At Hiep Hoa: Claude D. McClure; George E. Smith (released
1965); Issac Camacho (escaped 1965); Kenneth M. Roraback (missing).
Source: Compiled by Homecoming II Project from one or more of the following:
raw data from U.S. Government agency sources, correspondence with POW/MIA
families, published sources, interviews. Updated by the P.O.W. NETWORK
1999.
REMARKS: 671111 RELEASED IN CAMBODIA
SYNOPSIS: The U.S. Army Special Forces, Vietnam (Provisional) was formed at
Saigon in 1962 to advise and assist the South Vietnamese government in the
organization, training, equipping and employment of the Civilian Irregular
Defense Group (CIDG) forces. Total personnel strength in 1963 was 674, all
but 98 of whom were TDY from 1st Special Forces Group on Okinawa and 5th and
7th Special Forces Groups at Ft. Bragg. USSF Provisonal was given complete
charge of the CIDG program, formerly handled by the CIA, on July 1, 1963.
The USSF Provisional/CIDG network consisted of fortified, strategically
located camps, each one with an airstrip. The area development programs soon
evolved into combat operations, and by the end of October 1963, the network
also had responsibility for border surveillance. Two of the Provisional/CIDG
camps were at Hiep Hoa (Detachment A-21) and Tan Phu (Detachment A-23),
Republic of Vietnam. Their isolated locations, in the midst of known heavy
enemy presence, made the camps vulnerable to attack.
On October 29, 1963, Capt. "Rocky" Versace, 1Lt. "Nick" Rowe, and Sgt.
Daniel Pitzer were accompanying a CIDG company on an operation along a
canal. The team left the camp at Tan Phu for the village of Le Coeur to
roust a small enemy unit that was establishing a command post there. When
they reached the village, they found the enemy gone, and pursued them,
falling into an ambush at about 1000 hours. The fighting continued until
1800 hours, when reinforcements were sent in to relieve the company. During
the fight, Versace, Pitzer and Rowe were all captured. The three captives
were photographed together in a staged setting in the U Minh forest in their
early days of captivity.
The camp at Hiep Hoa was located in the Plain of Reeds between Saigon and
the Cambodian border. In late October 1963, several Viet Cong surrendered at
the camp, claiming they wished to defect. Nearly a month later, on November
24, Hiep Hoa was overrun by an estimated 400-500 Viet Cong just after
midnight. Viet Cong sympathizers in the camp had killed the guards and
manned a machine gun position at the beginning of the attack. The Viet Cong
climbed the camp walls and shouted in Vietnamese, "Don't shoot! All we want
is the Americans and the weapons!" Lt. John Colbe, the executive officer,
evaded capture. Capt. Doug Horne, the Detachment commander, had left earlier
with a 36 man Special Forces/CIDG force. The Viet Cong captured four of the
Americans there. It was the first Special Forces camp to be overrun in the
Vietnam War.
Those captured at Hiep Hoa were SFC Issac "Ike" Camacho, SFC Kenneth M.
Roraback (the radio operator), Sgt. George E. "Smitty" Smith and SP5 Claude
D. McClure. Their early days of captivity were spent in the Plain of Reeds,
southwest of Hiep Hoa, and they were later held in the U Minh forest.
"Ike" Camacho continually looked for a way to escape. In July 1965, he was
successful. His and Smith's chains had been removed for use on two new
American prisoners, and in the cover of a violent night storm, Camacho
escaped and made his way to the village of Minh Thanh. He was the first
American serviceman to escape from the Viet Cong in the Second Indochina
War. McClure and Smith were released from Cambodia in November 1965.
Rocky Versace had been torn between the Army and the priesthood. When he won
an appointment to West Point, he decided God wanted him to be a soldier. He
was to enter Maryknoll (an order of Missionaries), as a candidate for the
priesthood, when he left Vietnam. It was evident from the beginning that
Versace, who spoke fluent French and Vietnamese, was going to be a problem
for the Viet Cong. Although Versace was known to love the Vietnamese people,
he could not accept the Viet Cong philosophy of revolution, and spent long
hours assailing their viewpoints. His captors eventually isolated him to
attempt to break him.
Rowe and Pitzer saw Rocky at interludes during their first months of
captivity, and saw that he had not broken. Indeed, although he became very
thin, he still attempted to escape. By January 1965, Versace's steel-grey
hair had turned completely white. He was an inspiration to them both. Rowe
wrote:
Sgt. Pitzer was released from Cambodia November 11, 1967.
1Lt. Nick Rowe was scheduled to be executed in late December 1968. His
captors had had enough of him - his refusal to accept the communist ideology
and his continued escape attempts. While away from the camp in the U Minh
forest, Rowe took advantage of a sudden flight of American helicopters,
struck down his guards, and ran into a clearing where the helicopters
noticed him and rescued him, still clad in black prisoner pajamas. He had
been promoted to Major during his five years of captivity.
Rowe remained in the Army, and shared his survival techniques in Special
Forces classes. In 1987, Lt.Col. Rowe was assigned to the Philippines, where
he assisted in training anti-communists. On April 21, 1989, a machine gun
sniper attacked Rowe in his car, killing him instantly.
Of the seven U.S. Army Special Forces personnel captured at Hiep Hoa and Tan
Phu, the fates of only Versace and Roraback remain unknown. The execution
was never fully documented; it is not known with certainty that these two
men died. Although the Vietnamese claim credit for their deaths, they did
not return their remains. From the accounts of those who knew them, if these
men were not executed, they are still fighting for their country.
December 1996
Daniel Pitzer retired from the United States Army as a CSM.
The book "Pacific Stars and Stripes, VIETNAM Front Pages" published in 1986
states:
Five Star Edition
Vol. 19, No. 304
Friday, Nov. 1, 1963
# Aides Seized in Vietnam Battle
Saigon (AP) Communist guerrilas smashed a Republic of Vietnam task force
after disrupting its radio communication Tuesday, and probably captured all
three U.S. Army advisers with the 120-man Saigon outfit.
The three Americans listed as missing and believed captured were two
officers and an enlisted medic. Stragglers returning from the rout said both
officers had been wounded early in the fight -- one in the head and one the
other in the leg.
The Army identified the three as Capt. Hubert R. Versace, Baltimore; 1st Lt.
James M. Rowe, McAllen Tx; and Sgt. Daniel L. Pitzer, Spring Lake, N.C.
A second government force of about 200 men operating only a few thousand
yards from the main fight, learned of the disaster too late to help. U.S.
authorities said the communist radio jammers had knowcked out both the main
channel and the alternate channel on all local military radios.
Five Star Edition
Vol 21, No. 270
Tuesday, Sept. 28, 1965
Report 2 Advisers Executed
Saigon (UPI) -- The viet Cong executed two captive servicemen Sunday
morning, the clandestine Liberation Radio said late Sunday night.
The communist radio identified the two Americans as Capt. Albert Rusk Joseph
and Sgt. Kenneth Morabeth (as received phonetically).
American authorities in Saigon were comparing the names with a list of
missing American servicemen to determine if any such individuals were,
indeed, communist captives. The reported executions came less than three
days after the Vietnamese government's execution of three convicted Viet
Cong terrorists in Da Nang.
In revenge for the last previous execution of a Viet Cong by the governemnt.
the communists announced that they had executed Sgt. Harold Bennett, of
Arkansas, on June 24.
-------------
LOOK Magazine
February 18, 1969
THE ANIMAL CALLED POW
My Four Years in a Vietcong Prison
by M. Sgt Daniel Lee Pitzer, as told to Warren Rogers
In Vietnam in 1963, LOOKS James Karales caught Dan Pitzer... slogging back
from patrol. The next day, Pitzer was captured. For four years, like
Solzhenitsyn's Ivan Denisovich, he marveled each day to be still alive. His
story:
GOING THERE was routine. We moved out at three in the morning of October
29, 1963 - Capt. Humbert R. Versace, a U.S. Army adviser, and Lt. James N.
Rowe and I, both members of the Special Forces, the Army's "Green Berets."
We were with a company of the South Vietnamese Army's Special Forces,
probing for Vietcong. Another company had taken off three hours earlier, to
get around in back of the target village, 14 kilometers from our base. Our
plan was to trap any VC in the village between us and the blocking company.
Routinely, we sloshed through rice paddies and swamps, from our camp at Tan
Phu in An Xuyen Province, just about as far south as you could go in the
Mekong Delta. When we reached the village, there were no VC. The company
that had left earlier decided to return to camp. So did we, but by a
different route.
On our way home, trudging along one of the uncounted canals that crisscross
the delta, we drew fire. We fired back and moved, but the closer we got to
our base, the more VC we ran into. Soon we were surrounded. We. radioed for
artillery and air support, but the VC kept jamming our signal. We managed,
however, to squeeze one message through. I did my best as a medic for the
wounded.
Captain Versace had lost his glasses and was having trouble seeing.
Lieutenant Rowe had a small wound in his left thigh. It was impossible to
tell how many VC there were, but we could see them coming on. We regrouped
with a handful of Vietnamese, all that was left of the company, and withdrew
about 70 yards to a canal. Just as I jumped in, the whole canal bank
exploded. I looked up, and there was a VC with a K-50 submachine gun,
firing almost point-blank. I could see flames spitting from the muzzle, and
I could hear bees swarming past my ears. A K-50 fires a 35 round clip at
the rate of 90-100 rounds a minute, and how the man mimed me I will never
know. I shot him.
We left the canal and ran for a cane field. The VC spotted us and came
running and firing. We were split up and confused, and I knew there was no
hope of fighting our way out. I decided to swim for it. I dropped In the
mud and buried my M-79 grenade launcher, maps and other gear. I heard
Captain Versace yelling that he was hit. I hesitated. I did not want to be
captured, but I could not run off on the Captain. Just as I reached him,
something exploded-a mortar round or a concussion grenade-and I was knocked
down, shrapnel in my right shoulder.
I looked up, and there was a VC with an automatic weapon pointed at me. He
took away my .45 caliber automatic pistol and my wristwatch. He tied my
hands behind me with the small towel that most Vietnamese peasants wear
around their necks.
Other VC came up. We started walking the canal path, and then we were
running because mortar rounds were coming in, apparently from our relief
force. We caught up with other VC who had captured Lieutenant Rowe. They
sat me down, took off my green canvas-and-leather jungle boots and socks and
blindfolded me.
Some of the villagers gathered around, shouting and pelting me with rocks
and dirt. The VC held them off and shoved me to a canal and into what I
found out later was a sampan. As I fell, I cracked my left ankle against
something and broke it. Under way, I could bear aircraft strafing and
bombing, and soon we were receiving artillery fire too. We pulled up, and I
was dragged ashore. When the planes went away, we got back in the sampan,
moved a short distance on the canal and again went ashore. Artillery was
still coming in, and we were. all made to lie down. The VC offered us rice,
but I was too wrought up to eat.
After dark, we moved along the canal to a little grass hut. From inside
came the voice of Captain Versace: "Bac si! Bac si!" In Vietnamese, this
means "doctor" or "medic." The VC refused to let me help him. They tied
Rowe and me together outside the building. The mosquitoes were fierce, and
my ankle, swelling badly, was painful. All the while, I could hear the
Captain calling, "Bac si! Bac si!"
After about three hours, they blindfolded Rowe and me, lashed us back to
back, and put us into a sampan. We were delivered to a small camp built
among tall, dense trees and surrounded by knee-deep mud. Along with Captain
Versace, we were put into a small cage just big enough for the three of us.
It was made of mangrove logs nailed and tied and wrapped in barbed wire.
The VC kept a kerosene light on us at all times. They put mosquito nets
around us. The Captain's left leg had three rounds through it, one
apparently penetrating the bone around the knee, and he groaned with pain.
He also had two flesh wounds in his back.
The VC brought us rice and a canned fish like sardines for breakfast the
next morning, but none of us could eat much. I kept asking them to let me
attend the Captain, to no avail. Finally, they sent in a medic, and he
cleansed the wounds and administered a shot of penicillin. On the fourth
day, they took Versace away to a VC hospital.
After about a week in the cage, we were taken out, blindfolded and, hands
tied behind our backs and under a covering of straw mats, floated by sampan
to what appeared to be a training camp. There were plenty of VC soldiers
around. First, my hands were untied and my blindfold removed, and I was
forced to lie on the ground with a VC standing over me with a bayonet, as if
he had just cap- tured me. A photographer took pictures. Next, with our
hands tied behind us again, Rowe and I were marched around by the youngest
and smallest of the VC while the photographer snapped away. They brought
Captain Versace out of a makeshift hospital, and the three of us were posed
in front of it for more propaganda pictures.
A week later, three elderly Vietnamese called on us. Speaking English with
a French accent, they asked us who we were. We stuck to the military Code
of Conduct and gave them name, rank, serial number, date of birth and no
more. They told us we would be moved to a more permanent prison camp, and a
day or so later, the three of us were blindfolded, bound and hidden under a
straw mat in a sampan. My ankle was still hurting a lot, but I found out
much later that I had done a passable job of setting the break. I had
cutoff the lower legs of my fatigue pants and with strips of the fabric
bound the ankle tightly after moving the bone around until it seemed to be
back in place. X rays later showed it was only two degrees off and did not
have to be reset.
We traveled for five and a half days, moving at night, sleeping by day. By
slipping the blindfold and watching the stars, I could tell we were
traveling south, deeper through the U Minh Forest and closer to the
southernmost tip of Vietnam. We slept aboard the sampans, except for one
day I remember most uncomfortably. We holed up in a cowshed and awoke
covered with leeches. Shivering with disgust, we pulled them off, and one
of the VC burned off the still-clinging heads with a cigarette.
Our new camp, built of mangrove trees. was high and dry, but surrounded by
hostile terrain. We had plenty of water, caught during rains and stored in
tanks, and plenty of crabs, fish and shrimp. But none of us could keep food
down. Most of the two meals a day were wasted on me. Captain Versace was
put into a hut the VC called a dispensary. Rowe came down with amebic
dysentery, and they gave him shots, but he wasted away. He and I were
together then, in one of two wooden cages whose bars were interwoven with
barbed wire. Each night, we were put into leg irons.
In December, 1963, an interpreter suggested we write our families. But,
suspicious that any such letters might be used for propaganda, we asked if
we could write instead to the International Red Cross. This we did. About
three weeks later, we were told the letters did not go through, but that we
could still write our families. Again we refused.
I kept losing weight because I could not eat the rice. By the end of 1963,
1 was down to about 140 pounds from 185. I became so weak that if I stood up
quickly, I would pass out. I knew that, to live, I would have to learn to
eat the rice. I would force the stuff down, vomit, rest a while, then try
again. Eventually, I began to manage, and I actually gained a few pounds.
Toward the end of January, 1964, we were moved again. In the new camp,
hidden in an even denser forest than the last, we were isolated in wooden
cages barely big enough for one man. 'We were told arrangements were being
made to free us in an exchange of prisoners. The VC questioned us, trying
to get more than name, rank, serial number, date of birth. We just sat,
mute.
In April, Captain Versace was taken away. He was still pretty sick. Rowe
and I, from our separate cages, saw each other occasionally. We would wave.
and that was about it. Around June, a VC officer told us that negotiations
for a prisoner exchange had collapsed.
For some reason, our guards gave us a Fourth of July party. They cooked a
chicken for us and produced some bread, the first I had seen for months.
But first we had a propaganda speech about how the VC appreciated
Independence Day' because they, too, were fighting for their independence.
After that, they allowed us to meet once a week to talk, under the
supervision of an interpreter. We managed to throw a few curves past him,
however, by using a few words of German.
One old guard who had fought against the French in the Indochina war and
loved to tell about it was helpful. He scrounged up some pumpkins, and we
ate them until they were practically coming out of our cars. They provided
plenty of Vitamin C, and soon I could literally feel the strength coming
back in me. But then I suffered hepatitis, and they treated me with liver
extract. I had several bouts of diarrhea, for which they gave me
sulfaguanidine. Often, they made propaganda pictures of us receiving
injections.
In October, they expanded my cage and moved Rowe in. Another American, M.
Sgt. Edward R. Johnson, was put in Rowe's old cage. It was tremendous to
have somebody around. For eight months, I had had only animals for
companions. There was a squirrel - I called him Cyrano de Bergerac because
he had an unusually long nose - who was hilarious. I fed him whatever I
had, usually shrimp shells. On hot sunny days, he would perch on one of the
logs of my cage and doze, batting his eyes and slumping, and finally
toppling over in a dead sleep. There was a cat, the only rice eating cat I
ever saw, which was why I dubbed him Victor Charles, for VC. A dog I
christened Mao Tse-tupg did not last long. He disappeared probably into
somebody's soup bowl because the Vietnamese fancy dog almost as much as
monkey. We had a monkey curry once, and it was very good.
Early in December, the VC began building a third cage. The new arrival
proved to be Army Sgt. Leonard M. Tadios. He was wounded, and I asked if I
could treat him. The VC would not let me go to Tadios, but Rowe convinced
them he should be allowed to. Like me, Rowe was barefoot and dressed in VC
black pajamas. Tadios refused to talk freely. He suspected, he told us
later, that Rowe was a Russian adviser to the VC. Rowe eventually argued
the guards into letting me look at Tadios, and I found a shrapnel wound in
his left side and a piece of shrapnel in his left thigh, too deep to be
removed then. Much later, when it bad worked close to the surface, I cut it
out with a razor blade, sterilized over a kerosene-lamp flame.
On December 23, 1964, an American L-19 observation plane zoomed over our
camp and dropped red flare markers. Helicopters came in, firing rockets
and machine guns. Our cage was open for feeding time, and Rowe and I ran
for cover. Two armed guards fell in behind us, and the four of us struck
out across the mud and swamps for about five kilometers. We were often in
the muck up to our waists; sometimes, our necks. The helicopters stayed all
day, bombing and strafing. That night, when we were locked up again, we saw
the camp had been pretty well shot up.
At four the next morning, the VC took us back to the swamp. We spent all
day in the boats, returning to our cage at night. The next day was the
same, except that, to celebrate Christmas, we each got five or six ounces of
brown-sugar candy. Johnson and Tadios, who had been locked in their cages
during the raid, were also brought out, and it was the first chance we all
had to get acquainted. Johnson had a shrapnel wound in his right wrist from
a helicopter rocket.
Knocking around in the swamp was depressing. It dramatized how hopelessly
we were prisoners, not as much of the VC as of the terrain, our physical
weakness, our isolation and our unfamiliarity with the area. Even if the VC
had said, "You can go, take off and go," we could never have made it
unaided. That was the hell of it.
The VC moved us on December 26, north about 5,000 meters to a dilapidated,
apparently abandoned camp. My legs were numb and aching from beriberi, and
I could not keep my food down. In February, 1965, we moved again, traveling
at night in the usual way. It was a five-day journey this time, to another
temporary camp. I kept track of the time by a calendar I drew on cardboard
taken from ammunition cans. It was accurate except that I forgot 1964 was
leap year. I was one day off for months until I remembered February 29.
Things improved at the new camp, and at a more permanent facility the VC
built about 1,000 meters away. They put all four of us together-, fed us
pork, gave us vitamin and liver injections and let us listen to the nightly
English-language broadcasts by Radio Hanoi. I picked up weight, and Johnson
was eating well, but Tadios had little appetite and was losing weight. We
passed the time playing cards with a deck I made from the ammunition
cardboard; and we talked a lot, about our childhood, our families and our
hopes. After a couple of months, they took Rowe away. Then I fell ill
again, hardly able to walk. They stopped locking me up in leg irons at
night because of a rash from the iron around my ankles.
In June, 1965, Tadios made a break. He was gone for three days.
Recaptured, he was put in the camp where Rowe was held, about 500 meters
away. In October, Tadios and Rowe both made a break, but they were caught
within 24 hours. They were physically wrung-out when put back in with
Johnson and me.
The VC encouraged us to listen to Radio Hanoi's English broadcasts, and we
did. That was how we learned that Captain Versace, along with Army Sgt.
Kenneth M. Roraback, had been executed in retaliation for Saigon's execution
of three VC terrorists in Danang. I had known Roraback, a fellow wearer of
the Green Beret. We had made the trip to Vietnam together in July, 1963.
We argued with our captors about the cold blooded killings: "You executed
them. Why not execute us?" The reply was: "Don't worry, you are not in
danger of that because Saigon is not going to execute any more of our people
now."
In December, 1965, we moved to a completely rebuilt camp run by a Vietcong
major. The guards told us we were now prisoners of something new, the
"Liberation Army," and they went out of their way to be friendly.
By New Year's, we were told the camp was too vulnerable to air attack, and
we undertook a roving existence in the U Minh Forest. We slept under
ponchos, never more than a week in one place. Tadios was getting sicker all
the time. And we were joined then by another very sick man, Army Capt.
Orien J. Walker, Jr. I gave him vitamin and antimalarial shots, but as we
moved about, he weakened daily and soon became incoherent. He was taken
away, supposedly to a VC hospital. We were told later be had died.
Another American, Army S. Sgt. Joe Parks, came to us in February, 1966. He
had been held for about a year in a camp where meat and fresh vegetables
were ample. He was healthy looking, even fat, but he began to decline
almost immediately. Tadios, too, was slipping. "I can't eat fish," he
would groan, but he would try, vomit, try again.
In July, we moved again. It was then that S. Sgt. James E. Jackson, Jr.,
another Green Beret, joined us. We all worked on Tadios, but he came down
with amebic dysentery in September and was moved to a VC hospital. Again,
we were told later he had died.
We were put to work in December building a camp - Rowe, Johnson, Parks,
Jackson and I. As soon as we were finished, the VC moved us to an old,
rundown camp. Security was tight. We were put together in a big building
enclosed by barbed wire. At Christmas, the VC gave us a chicken and four
bottles of beer, together with the inevitable propaganda speech. Parks was
in bad shape. He had lost considerable weight, and he had amebic dysentery.
On New Year's Eve night, I remember, he said, "I can't take it any more; I'm
going to die." And on the morning of January 1, 1967, Joe Parks died. The VC
gave us a new set of pajamas for him. We put these on and wrapped him in
cloth and straw matting, and they took him out in a boat. They said they
would bury Parks and notify the American authorities.
In March, we moved to a new camp, the best yet. It had a vegetable garden,
chickens and even a pig. Security relaxed, and we were allowed to catch our
own fish. Johnson was very sick then. He would have died if the VC had not
supplied penicillin and streptomycin to fight his amebic dysentery. It was
the first time that I had seen enough medication. Jackson, also a medic,
took turns with me in tending to Johnson. We force-fed him and finally got
him strong enough to move.
In October, we were told we had been selected for release as part of an
arrangement worked out with a "peace committee" in the United States. All
we had to do, the VC said, was to write letter asking to be allowed to go
home to our families. Disbelieving, we took a chance and wrote the letters.
At the end of October, Jackson, Johnson and I set out. We took messages
from Rowe, who was kept behind, perhaps because he was an officer and more
valuable trading material. If that was the VC's motive, Rowe thwarted them.
For a little over a year later, he succeeded in another escape and hid out
until his rescue, climaxing an incredible five years as a prisoner of the
VC.
The three of us, most of the time blindfolded, moving at night and hiding by
day, traveled north and west toward Cambodia. It took two weeks to reach
the border, at first by sampan and then by powerboat. We stayed there for a
week. They gave us beef, my first in four years. We had canned milk and
other marvelous things.
Our guards, some of whom had been with me throughout my captivity, gave us a
good-bye party of beer and cookies. On November 10, we went up a river by
powerboat into Cambodia. We were then driven by car to Pnompenh, the
capital of Cambodia. There, escorted by Royal Palace police, we were taken
to what to us were palatial quarters: we each had a shower, a bathroom, a
couch and a bed with two sheets and a mosquito net.
A Cambodian military doctor examined us, and somebody handed each of us the
Cambodian equivalent of five dollars and said we could buy anything we
wanted. I bought shoes, the only thing I wanted; my first shoes in four
years.
The next day, we were told to put on the khaki pants and white shirts we had
been given. We were taken to the home of the VC representative in Cambodia,
and there we met Tom Hayden, the Ameri- can who bad negotiated our release
with the VC. The three of us flew with Hayden west, out of Pnompenh toward
Beirut, Lebanon.
There, an American official took us to the Hotel Phoenicia, where I began to
comprehend for the first time the reality of my freedom. I had my first hot
shower, a little Scotch and some wine with the meal in our room. I ordered
Chateaubriand for two, and I ate the whole thing myself.
The ride home from Beirut to Rome to Paris to New York to Washington to
Fort Bragg, N.C. is a blur now. I was so nervous and pepped up that I all
but passed out as I arrived at Fort Bragg. There, waiting for me in my
hospital room was my wonderful wife. I could hardly stand it.
Yet the four years of suppressing emotions were not lightly sloughed off.
There were tears, but I was still masking my feelings. To my wife and the
people around me, I must have seemed a zombie. Even when my wife told me
that both my parents were dead - my mother a year after my capture, and my
father the following year - I did not react. It was not until I went home
to West Virginia, and they were not there, that the full impact of my loss
hit me. And then it hit me hard.
That is how it has been since my release. Things keep coming home to me,
belatedly. Slowly, I am rejoining the world. As Lieutenant Rowe, now a
major, said, we do not prize our freedom until we lose it. And I know,
having spent four years in the hands of the VC, I will never again be the
same after being the animal called POW.
1998
Daniel Pitzer is deceased.
