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To many, the hottest pilot
(in Vietnam) is U.S. Air Force Major James Kasler, 40, of Indianapolis,
who is dubbed by his wingmates as "oneman Air Force."
A World War II tailgunner and sixkill ace in Korea,
Kasler in five months has limped home four times with his F105
riddled by flak or Migs, has seen 30 SAM missiles zoom up in his
vicinity, tangled in the longest dogfight with Migs thus far of
the war. Six weeks ago, Kasler flew as coleader of the raid
on Hanoi's oil installations.
. .. says a fellow pilot, "he is part hawk." The fourplane flight that Kasler commands (has) destroyed or damaged 219 buildings, 66 barges, 53 railroad cars, 44 trucks, 36 fuel tanks, 28 bridges and 16 flak sites-a record for any such air unit. . . says he, "the best way to survive is by being aggressive." Time, August 12, 1966
Kasler fell into enemy
hands on August 8, the day the Time article appeared. He had not
seen it, but the Vietnamese had. They were very glad to meet him.
He had been searching the hilly landscape southeast of Yen Bai
for his downed wingman, Fred Flom, twentyfive, when his
aircraft was ripped by flak. His control stick had rolled back
and locked across the top of his right thigh. As he ejected, the
thighbone was broken and the top of it was driven well up into
his groin. The pain was instantaneous and intense, and as he descended
in his 'chute he could see a large lump protruding from his lower
abdomen above his G suit.
He was captured by machetewielding
hill people, and four days later he reached Room 18 at Hoa Lo,
sick with pain and fever. ''Kasler," an of ficer said, "you
must confess your crimes against the Vietnamese people.''
"Negative,"
he answered. "I have committed no crimes."
"You are in our hands
now," he was told. "You are very sick. If you want to
live, you will cooperate with us!"
"I'd rather die,''
he said.
Someone threw a pile of
papers on his lap, confessions written by other prisoners. Kasler
tried to read them, but his misery was such that he could make
no sense of what he saw.
He was left in the room
all day. Every few hours, interrogators would return, and he would
repeat that he had not read the confessions and was not going
to produce one of his own.
Late in the day, from
the next room, he heard, "Can't I even lie down?" It
was Fred Flom's voice. He was groaning, obviously in great pain.
His left arm was badly broken and there were torn ligaments and
tendons in his right arm. Late that night the two of them were
trucked to a hospital. Kasler found Flom at leave from his senses,
unable to communicate.*
A doctor showed Kasler Xrays of his injury. The top of the thighbone appeared to have been pushed perhaps seven inches up into the abdomen, and was shattered, splayed open like outstretched fingers on a hand. It looked as bad as it felt. The doctor mumbled something about an operation, but Jim, looking at the dirt around him, did not feel confident the required medical competence was on hand. Boy, he thought, I'm in trouble!
He was carried to another room and laid on a beige mat whose edges were fastened to the floor with lengths of wide red tape.
*As this was written, Flom still had no recollection of his shootdown, or of how he acquired his injuries, or of the earliest days of his imprisonment. He recalls being on R & R (rest and recreation) leave in Bangkok, then awakening in a Heartbreak Hotel dungeon with his left arm casted and his right arm splinted. He left the hospital shortly, and was resumed to the Zoo, where he was brutalized.
The amputation room! he thought. This
is where they're gonna' do the deed!
A mask was cupped over his face, and he was told to count. He found himself counting the number of times hypodermics of painkiller were needled into his leg-fortytwo! They had no effect- perhaps he was too excited to lose consciousness; he did not even become groggy. The mask was taken from his face, and he spread a blanket of vitriol over those attending him. "You son of a bitch, any quack in the States couldf/x this . . .'' He did not want to lose his leg, but there didn't seem much to do about it except to curse those who insisted on taking it. He laid into them.
Now he felt the cold line
being drawn around the top of his thigh-the knife! They were cutting!
He shut his eyes tightly, and hosed the place down with a stream
of oaths. Finally someone lifted the back of his head and told
him to look. The cold line he had felt was gauze; a thick plaster
cast was being wrapped around his leg. The top of the thighbone
had been pulled down, out of the abdomen, and worked into position.
The cast would immobilize it, allow it to rest and heal.
Jim had never felt so
relieved-he still had his leg, and for the first time in days,
the intense pain was gone. He was placed on a stretcher and carried
from the room. Raising himself, he grinned back at the doctors
who were watching him go and threw them a salute. Some of them
smiled back.
Kasler remained in the
hospital for more than a month. The cast was removed, and there
was an operation in which a metal pin was inserted through the
middle of the thighbone, to align the broken ends. It was not,
however, a restful stay. Twice he was wrapped in unnecessary body
casts-later removed-solely for the edification of visiting press
photographers. Once, when he refused to confess his crimes, everyone
in the hospital who had had anything to do with him was brought
into his room. The crowd of doctors, nurses, orderlies, and attendants
screamed at him, reviled him, beat upon the bed, and danced about
making menacing gestures. Kasler lay staring at them, frightened,
sensing that these healers would not need much inducement to do
him in. Finally it ended and he was moved to a cell in the Zoo's
Stable. There, Dum Dum took over.
''How many airplanes did
you lose on the Hanoi POL strike?" Dum Dum asked.
"One," said
Kasler.
''Liar, son of a bitch!"
Dum Dum retorted, irritated. "You lost seven! "
''One," Jim said.
Dum Dum left the cell,
screaming wildly.
In the days that followed,
the surgical incision on Kasler's leg became infected and he ran
a high fever. He kept asking for a doctor, but Dum Dum and the
guard would answer only that he must bow to them. He found the
idea unacceptable, and inconvenient as well- after the insertion
of the pin he had been encased in a body cast and had great difficulty
even getting up off his bunk. He could not have bowed if he wanted
to. He ignored the commands. Two guards entered the cell, took
him from the bunk, stood him up, and slapped him about for failing
to show proper respect.
The high fever persisted,
and so did the commands to bow. Every twenty to thirty minutes,
for days and nights, the guard would open the peephole in the
door to Kasler's cell and call on him to rise and bow. Jim did
not need any more slappings, and would struggle to his feet and
nod his head. The peephole would close, and often, just as Jim
was getting back down onto the bunk, it would open again, and
he would have to rise and nod again. In this manner, he was denied
sleep or rest of any kind for nearly a week.
Again he asked Dum Dum
for a doctor. The interrogator and a guard entered the cell, lifted
Jim to his feet, stood him against a wall, and demanded a written
confession of crimes. When he refused to write, the guard smashed
a fist into his face and began pounding away. Several minutes
of this was all he could take before agreeing to write a confession.
Dum Dum then began dictating
a condemnation of the U.S. government's Vietnam policy. Jim refused
to write this, and Dum Dum shifted gears, demanding instead a
letter warning American pilots of the danger of flak over North
Vietnam. The letter was taken away, then brought back with a new
demand for a condemnation of American policy. Again Kasler demurred.
"Motherfucker, you write!" Dum Dum screamed. The guard stepped forward to pound him. Kasler took the paper, rolled over on his bunk, and tried to write-it was difficult, for the guard stood behind him, slamming his fist into the back of his head. Once Jim turned his head and the guard caught him on the lip with a ring, opening a bloody gash that soon became infected. His total condemnation read, "The Vietnamese and Americans should stop killing
each other and seek peace
at the peace table." This satisfied Dum Dum, who then required
Jim to taperecord the statement.
He had said nothing about the bombing and had not condemned his government's policy. Still, he was distraught at having yielded anything.
Now Dum Dum demanded a
letter to Senator Fulbright, in which Kasler was to profess support
for the Arkansan's antiwar efforts. Jim flatly refused. Apparently
Dum Dum was not ready for another persuasion session with Kasler.
Jim was left alone. By midOctober, his fever had subsided.