Two Souls Indivisible (31 page)

Cherry wasn't dead but he was out cold, the victim of a drunken stupor and a practical joke. Some other former prisoners smuggled Scotch into their rooms—drinking was forbidden—and they had a party. His body long denied alcohol, Cherry promptly passed out, so his friends used the flowers and candles to turn his room into a funeral parlor and then alerted the nurses to his demise. Cherry soon woke up, dazed, but able to confirm he was not dead. The hospital personnel were not amused, but Cherry found the prank quite funny and consistent with the raucous subculture he had long inhabited: they were fighter pilots being fighter pilots.

The halls were covered with Valentine's Day cards, and Halyburton read one that touched him deeply. "Dear Sir," it began, "I sure am glad you're all done. I said a prayer every night, and it finally came true. Welcome home sir. I would have gave my life to get you guys out of there. But I don't think my parents would like it. I think you'll like being home with your family. I'm a six grader. Gary."

One card of thousands, it was later immortalized in a book of letters about Vietnam.

***

Halyburton and Cherry had not spoken to each other since their last night together more than six years earlier. They had kept abreast of each other's well-being from other prisoners, but both had worried about how the other had endured the torture immediately after their separation.

When they saw each other at the hospital, they embraced, bringing tears to Cherry's eyes. He was amazed at how good Halyburton looked; physically, he appeared to have been unaffected by all his time in prison. Halyburton, on the other hand, was startled when Cherry lifted his shirt and revealed the new scars he had accumulated. He reminded Cherry how he used to count his old abrasions to pass the time, but now Cherry had several more, including one large one.

"What the hell was that from, Fred?"

Cherry told him about the lung operation to remove the bone fragment. Halyburton lifted his hand and ran it over the scars, the old ones and new, and was once again amazed by his friend's durability. He expressed regret that Fred had had to suffer so much. Cherry explained that the surgeon had left a stitch in him that he coughed out a year later, but he didn't complain about the mistreatment. Now he could laugh.

On his return, each former POW was admitted to a hospital for additional tests, and Cherry hoped to settle at Norfolk Naval Hospital in Portsmouth, Virginia, close to home. Given his family problems, however, he was sent to Andrews Air Force Base, outside Washington. "I guess many people were afraid I might have been crazy enough to do something violent," he later said.

His plane, which included a group of former POWs, landed at Andrews on the night of February 17, and the men were met by a crowd. As the senior officer in the group, Cherry was asked to give a statement. He had written down some remarks on the plane, but when he stepped up to the microphone, he saw his sons standing in their Army uniforms, as well as nieces, nephews, and Beulah. He was silent for almost a minute, and his lip trembled as he struggled to control his emotions. Finally he spoke: "We have been away for a long time ... We accept this break in life as a necessity ... We accept this break because we had a job to do ... And we did that job to the best of our ability ... We have come back to you with our honor, our dignity, and our pride ... We were able to do that because we kept our faith in our God, our president, and our country."

Beulah, crying, hugged him. "Thank the Lord you're home. Thank the Lord you're home."

He saw that Fred Jr. looked just like him, and he was proud to see his sons in uniform: if he couldn't defend his country anymore, he was glad they could. He was disappointed they were in the Army instead of the Air Force, but he believed they would carry on the family name. As they were walking, he said, "I'm an officer. You privates walk on my left."

Cynthia had last seen her father when she was five years old, and in her mind he was "tall, dark, and handsome." Now she went to see him with her mother and sister, and when she walked into his hospital room, she was stunned by his size.

"What happened? Did he shrink in Vietnam?"

"No, that's his height," Shirley said.

"No, he shrunk!"

Fred was wearing a robe. At first he was smiling, but then he cried as Cynthia ran up to him and threw her arms around him.

There would be no reconciliation with Shirley. According to Fred, she did not want a divorce (which would end her financial support from the military), but the marriage was clearly over. The family's house was in his name, but when he visited it for the first time, most everything was unfamiliar. His own stereo, golf clubs, and silver coin collection, as well as most of the furnishings from their house in Japan, were all gone and never reclaimed. When he saw Shirley's boyfriend's bowling trophy on a shelf, he flung it against the wall, putting a hole in it. It was the first time his children had seen him lose his temper. "I thought, 'He's got a little spunk in him,'" Cynthia said.

The breakup of his marriage also divided the children; Fred Jr. and Cynthia embraced their father while Donald and Debbie were closer to their mother and adopted her hostility toward him. Not long after Fred's return, Debbie said to him, "I wish you had never come back. You ruined everything."

Fred suffered his pain silently.

The breach has never been repaired. While the war itself did not destroy the marriage, Cherry's absence did contribute to the family's dissolution. As Fred Jr. said, "We were all POWs."

On the
Independence,
Porter told Marty that he did not want family and friends at the dock when he returned because their reunion should be their special time together. Now, as he prepared to fly to the Naval Air Station in Jacksonville, Florida, he said the same thing: he wanted to meet her in the privacy of his hospital room. He had seen other returnees get mobbed at the airport, on national television, and he did not want to share such a precious moment.

Marty waited for Porter's plane in the control tower, where she saw the airport fill up with banners, a band, and crowds. The plane landed and a handful of returnees, including Porter, walked off. As the senior officer addressed the crowd, Marty ran down the tower's stairs, got into a car, and was driven to the base hospital. She reached Porter's room moments after President Nixon had called to congratulate her, a gesture he made, no doubt, to many of the wives who had supported him. A furniture store had equipped the returnees' rooms with television sets, living room furniture, a bed, and other appointments, while Marty had added flowers, telegrams, and photographs of Dabney.

Porter arrived. They were together again.

His health was so good that he did not have to sleep at the hospital. He and Marty were allowed to stay at an apartment on the base, and, using a donated car, she could drive him around town, his license having long expired. He gave her a diamond and sapphire ring that he had purchased at the PX in the Philippines. Dabney had come to Jacksonville as well, but she stayed with a Navy officer's family so her parents could have some time alone.

After a day, Porter wanted to see his daughter, so they drove to the house where she was staying. She was playing with other children outside, and Porter recognized her from her pictures. She had short blond hair and wore a blue dress with short sleeves, white socks, and black party shoes. "I thought she was the most beautiful child I had ever seen," Porter recalled. He hugged her, told her how much he loved her, and gave her a portable radio.

The family loaded the car and prepared to drive to a friend's beach house. Maybe it was because Marty had talked so much about Porter or maybe some children are just unfazed by such events, but the first encounter unfolded as if the family had never been apart. Once in the car, Dabney turned to Porter and asked, "Daddy, can I sit on your lap?"

Not everyone cheered the returnees; the most strident opponents of the war still found reason to fault them. The Reverend Philip Berrigan called the former prisoners "war criminals," while Jane Fonda, disbelieving claims of torture, said they were "hypocrites and liars." But such attacks carried little weight amid the testimonials of strength, stamina, and patriotism. For a war that had torn the country apart, had helped drive a president from office, and had ended without the conquering of territory or the removal of a government, the safe return of the POWs represented a scrim of redemption. They appeared on television and radio shows and were honored by the president in what was described as "the most spectacular White House gala in history." Major League Baseball gave each man a lifetime pass to any game. Mayors gave them keys to their cities. Car dealerships gave them their latest models. Airlines gave them free passage. As a veteran journalist who had covered the Korean conflict said, "That war had heroes and a somewhat sympathetic press. The Vietnam War had neither until now." Or, as the
New Orleans Times-Picayune
wrote: "The nation begins again to feel itself whole."

Davidson celebrated Halyburton's homecoming on March 17, a windy St. Patrick's Day that saw Porter's old street blocked off. Picnic tables were set up, banners hung, and flags distributed. A keg of beer was rolled out, and the front porch of the house that Porter grew up in was turned into a speaker's platform. Porter, Marty, and Dabney arrived in a new Ford LTD. Hundreds of people started gathering at 11:30
A.M.
—Governor James Holshouser arrived in a black limousine—and amid a band's patriotic tunes, the Halyburtons appeared on the street. Porter wore a red turtleneck and was, according to the
Charlotte Observer,
"in danger of being hugged to death by an army of smiling women." Marty, her blond hair tousled by the wind, smiled as she moved through the crowd, never more than an arm's length from her husband. Dabney was at her elbow, carrying a teddy bear.

Will Terry, who had delivered the "meditation" at Porter's memorial service, spoke first. He said he was the only person he knew of "who preached at a person's funeral and then welcomed him back." He presented a gift to Dabney and then said to Marty, "I'm sorry we don't have anything for you but Porter."

Mayor Tom Sadler proclaimed it "Davidson's finest day," while Governor Holshouser, an alumnus of Davidson, said, "If you think things have changed in the political world, wait until you see some of the coeds."

Charles Lloyd had been one of Porter's favorite professors, a colorful scholar who knew every line of English literature, had a bushy mustache that covered his mouth, and had a pup named Martin Luther.

"Porter," he said, "I never knew how much I loved you until I thought you were dead. You would have enjoyed your funeral, Porter. Thank God you missed it." He then led a chorus of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" and three "hip hip, hoorays!"

Porter, overwhelmed, spoke briefly. "I don't think I can tell you exactly how I feel right now," he said. "I feel like I've come home."

He visited the burial sites of his mother and grandparents and was told about his own burial marker. After his true status was known, the owner of the funeral home had dug it up, kept it in the garage, and waited for his return.

"What should I do with it?" the owner asked.

"I haven't thought about it very much," Porter said. "I'll let you know."

A month later, on April 14, Suffolk, Virginia, had its homecoming for Fred Cherry. Early in the morning, crowds lined up four deep on the downtown sidewalks, with an estimated seven thousand people gathered for a parade and ceremony. The event had the usual trappings of a hero's welcome—the speeches from dignitaries, the bands, the banners—but the racially mixed crowd was unusual. As one newspaper noted, the area was "the home of conservative Governor Mills E. Godwin, Jr., whose known anti-black attitude ... is an extension of the feelings held by most whites in this South Side Virginia city." But during the parade Cherry sat in the back seat of a white Cadillac convertible, his dress blue uniform decorated with ribbons, and whites as well as blacks threw confetti on him, lunged to touch his hand, and blew kisses. The car was mobbed at one point by fans who wanted autographs and handshakes. According to one account, as his car passed the Saratoga Street intersection, "five white women from a nearby beauty salon stepped out in front of the crowd, raised their hands and clapped with total enthusiasm."

Beulah rode in the next car, wearing a mink stole and smiling proudly.

At Peanut Park, Cherry continued to shake every hand and kiss every cheek. The Reverend C. J. Word, from the East End Baptist Church, compared him to the prophet Daniel, delivered from the lion's den through the Lord's intervention. The mayor of Suffolk gave him a framed key to the city while schoolchildren presented him with posters they had drawn.

As Cherry had done his entire life, he unified the people around him. That night, at a dinner for him at the National Guard Armory, the Suffolk Community Male Choir sang "Born Free" and "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," and the state's attorney general, Andrew Miller, said, "If Colonel Cherry's ordeal is over, then so is our own."

Attending was Bill Robinson, an Air Force sergeant who spent more than seven years as a POW in North Vietnam. Robinson was one of the few enlisted men in captivity, and Cherry helped train him in the camp to be an officer. After their release, Robinson was commissioned as an Air Force officer, with Cherry handing him his bars.

That night Robinson returned the favor, presenting Cherry with his own portrait, to be hung in the armory, the first ever of an African American. Robinson, who is white, later said: "He spoke like me. He bled like me. He hurt like me. His attitude was not—'I'm black, give me ten points.' If he had any approach, it was, 'I'm black, take ten points away so I won't pass you so fast.'"

At the dinner, Cherry looked trim and fit, his crippled shoulder hidden beneath his uniform. Before five hundred people, he spoke in a low, modulated voice, taut with emotion. He did not need notes.

"I am an American fighting man," he said, "and I wear this uniform to protect you and your way of life. I would have given my life if necessary, proudly and honorably. I was tortured severely. I was severely ill, but they never broke me. They didn't because I had faith in God, in my country—and in you. If necessary, I will do the same thing again because I want America to be what you want it to be. I will not stand by and see any country trample over the United States without offering my body."