THE PLIGHT OF THE PRISONERS

WAN, weak and slightly bewildered, three Americans came out of North Viet Nam last week. For a total of 86 months among them, they had served in North Vietnamese prison camps; their release brought to nine the number of U.S. prisoners released by Hanoi since early 1968. The men were turned over to a four-member American peace group that had come to Hanoi to escort them home (see box). Obviously, propaganda was a major element in North Viet Nam's gesture. But whatever Hanoi's motives and however callously it toyed with the hopes harbored by the families of remaining prisoners, the release itself was a welcome occasion.

One of the freed prisoners was Lieut. Robert Francis Frishman, a 29-year-old Navy pilot, who had been shot down over Hanoi on Oct. 24, 1967, and had barely managed to eject from his stricken F-4C Phantom fighter-bomber because of a serious injury to his right arm. A second pilot, Air Force Captain Wesley L. Rumble, 26, had gone down over Quang Binh province on April 28, 1966. The third man, Seaman Douglas B. Hegdahl, 23, had been rescued and captured by North Vietnamese fishermen in the Gulf of Tonkin on April 5, 1967, after he had fallen overboard from the cruiser U.S.S. Canberra while it was shelling the coast.

From the moment they landed in the Laotian capital of Vientiane, the first stop on their way home, the men were besieged by questions. What had it been like? Had they been mistreated or brainwashed? But the prisoners said little more than that their treatment had been "adequate"--obviously out of fear that any statement might spoil the chances of release for their comrades still in North Viet Nam.

Question of Selection. Throughout his long flight home on a commercial jet, Frishman, who became the group's spokesman, wrestled with what to say to the public. To TIME Reporter Peter Babcox, who joined the flight in Zurich, Frishman recalled his first encounter with the press in Laos with a grimace: "I expected everyone to want to know how I felt or whether I was looking forward to going home, but all they wanted to know was how I had been mistreated." Clearly, he and the others were bursting to talk of their ordeal and their impressions--but they would not.

Frishman, the most talkative of the three, did not discuss the justice or injustice of the war in which he had fought. His anguish and confusion abated somewhat when, during a stop at Frankfurt, the men changed into uniform. "I went to Viet Nam a military man and I am coming out a military man," explained Frishman. "The one thing I would definitely say for the record is that I am a Navy man and proud of it. But I am small potatoes at the mouth of the dragon."

Why were these three men picked to be released? Frishman suggested an obvious factor: their injuries. His arm was beyond repair (North Vietnamese surgeons removed his elbow but managed to save his arm). Rumble suffered a debilitating back injury when he was shot down. As for Seaman Hegdahl, said Frishman, he was "Mr. Innocence himself."

Fear of Brainwashing. Despite the understandable reticence of the three men, their release called attention to the plight of U.S. prisoners in the North and gave some indications about their conditions of captivity. Of the more than 1,300 men listed as missing in action in the Viet Nam war, the U.S. Government estimates that as many as 500 to 600 are held as prisoners in the North; most of them are downed pilots and air crewmen.

The North Vietnamese have not released the names of the men they hold, have refused to free sick and wounded prisoners, and have rejected proposals for impartial inspection of prison camps by the Red Cross or other neutral agencies. Little mail and few packages are allowed to be sent, although, under the Geneva convention, war prisoners are allowed two letters and four postcards per month. During the past five years, only about 600 letters have filtered out from the prisoners; the peace delegation last week brought with them another 42 messages. Packages from relatives are allowed only sporadically, apparently for fear that electronic devices, such as locators, might be hidden in them. Hanoi justifies its tough position by maintaining that the prisoners are "war criminals" who are not entitled to the protection of the Geneva convention, of which it is a signatory.

At one point in 1966, the North Vietnamese threatened to try U.S. pilots for "war crimes" and paraded them through the streets of the capital. Some pilots were forced to write outlandish "confessions" in improbably stilted Eng lish. Then in 1967, the North Vietnamese produced Lieut. Commander Richard A. Stratton at a filmed news conference. His behavior--he walked around as if in a trance and repeatedly bowed to his captors--raised the issue of whether he had been either brainwashed or drugged. Frishman confided to Reporter Babcox that on arrival in Vientiane he had looked into a mirror and had asked himself: "Was I brainwashed? Would I think I was brainwashed if I had been brainwashed?"

The prisoners are apparently kept in small facilities in and around Hanoi. The best-known is the "Hanoi Hilton," a former officers' billet that now houses an estimated 30 to 40 Americans. Some of the men are held in solitary confinement; isolation seems to be a fairly common feature of North Vietnamese internments and life, by the few accounts available, is dull and tedious. When Frishman was interviewed by Italian Journalist Oriana Fallaci not long ago, he burst out, "For a year and a half I haven't spoken to anybody." Navy Captain James Bond Stockdale, the highest ranking U.S. prisoner, wrote his wife in April 1966 that he was completely alone and had seen no other Americans. Although she received nine letters and postcards from him, her mail --letters and packages--apparently never reached him. Other prisoners, however, seem to have been taken out on tours of museums--and to see areas hit by U.S. planes during the bombing offensive against the North.

The men who have been seen by outsiders are pale, as if they were never allowed out in the sun. There is not much work or exercise. When Captain Rumble was asked how the prisoners fought boredom, he replied: "We were allowed to sweep the grounds." Then he added hesitantly: "We ate two meals ... we smoked cigarettes ... we were allowed to listen to the Voice of Viet Nam"--English-language broadcasts from Hanoi.

Basic Staples. Judging by the fact that the nine men who have been released have been seriously underweight, the diet leaves something to be desired, certainly by American standards. According to Frishman, who lost 45 Ibs. in 19 months of captivity, basic staples include French-style bread, squash and pork fat. "Actually, this may not sound like it is very good, but they have their own way of preparing it, and I think it's good-tasting," he said. But later, whenever the TWA hostess offered a choice of food on the flight back to the U.S., Frishman said, "I don't care--as long as it's not pork fat and pumpkin." Lieut. Colonel James Robinson Risner (TIME Cover, April 23, 1965), who was shot down over Thanh Hoa later that year, was one of four U.S. pilots interviewed by the peace group. He told them that there was enough to eat and that the food was always "fresh from the stove." He said, probably facetiously, that he would try to get the recipes for some of the dishes before his release. In all conversations with prisoners of war, it obviously must be remembered that P.O.W.s cannot speak freely at all times.

Air Force Major Roger Dean Ingvalson talked to the peace group of sports and the moon landing but declined to discuss the war. "It's all very complicated," he said. Air Force Captain Anthony Andrews inquired about the Dow-Jones industrial averages and asked the delegation to relay instructions to his wife that it was time to trade in the family car. Navy Lieut. Edward F. Miller said little except to ask about the moon landing and other current events.

Enduring Hope. Medical attention for the prisoners seems to be adequate. Frishman's arm was so badly damaged that he feared he would lose it. "It would have been much easier just to amputate the arm," he said. "But they operated and saved it." Risner told the peace group that even at the height of the bombing around Hanoi in 1967, his captors treated him for kidney stones and put him on a special diet. He reported that medics regularly check the prisoners. Once illnesses are reported to guards, the prisoner receives prompt attention. According to Risner, each prisoner has two sets of clothes, a blanket, soap and toothbrush.

The U.S. has repeatedly accused the North Vietnamese of treating U.S. prisoners in brutal and inhumane ways. The accusations have seemed well-founded, especially in view of Hanoi's refusal to divulge the names of the men it holds and to allow a free flow of mail. But the testimony of the returning peace delegation seemed slightly hopeful. There was, of course, the possibility that the delegates were shown only carefully selected scenes by the North Vietnamese and were thus unwittingly taken in. It is also possible that their own sympathies colored their reports. Still, their testimony on the whole seemed credible, suggesting that the Americans in North Vietnamese prison camps are not treated with deliberate cruelty, compared with the Korean War or the horrors endured by the captive Pueblo crew. Thus there is hope that the Americans in North Vietnamese prison camps will endure their bitter lot until a negotiated settlement of the war finally brings them home.

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