Eleven Letters Honor POW's Hidden Wound

How meaningless living would be.

His depression bottomed out in 1972 at a camp called Dogpatch on shaving day. Guards visited the 20-man room with four double-edged razors and a bucket. The men lined up to shave beards first, then lined up again to shave body hair to prevent fungal infections. Brudno stole one of the blades.

Later, he approached Lt. Col. Elmo Baker, the senior officer in the room. "Mo, I need to talk to you," Baker remembers him saying.

He told Baker he planned to slit his wrist and bleed out by the latrine. So for the next several weeks, Baker stayed close to Brudno, slept next to him, tried to lift his spirits. Brudno seemed to relax. He returned to a detailed blueprint of what things would be like when he got home, Baker said. And he wrote home.

'No More Goodbyes'

The letters that Debby Brudno got and passed on to Bob included instructions: "Write legibly and only on the lines. Write only about health and family. Letters from family should also conform to this proforma."

The Brudnos suspected censorship, and it was sometimes difficult for them get a good read on Alan's health, mental and physical. One letter hinted at cigarette burns: "My old problem of fags has finally disappeared from my skin. You recall how I used to get as many as 3 in a single day?"

Some writing was practically incomprehensible -- apparent attempts to smuggle out information. Once he wrote that "after looking for a long time, we found the Rambler out in a wheat field" -- he had spotted a missing Navy lieutenant, David Wheat, who at home drove a Rambler.

Many letters suggested mood swings.

"I sure hope you have had much happiness at home," Debby read in 1969. "Only a very true love like ours will bring you ever greater happiness in future. Please pray for me. . . . "

Then, in 1972: "Like unlucky players at a game of chance, we may someday have to make the difficult decision to call it quits. It's just not fair to you, that I should ruin your entire life. . . . I'm not worth it, believe me. . . . Perhaps you should consider the possibility of remarrying."

Alan had been transferred to the Hanoi Hilton by the time release seemed imminent, and he envisioned their reunion. He and Debby would travel to Hawaii to a plush resort, then to San Francisco by luxury liner to meet Bob.

"I dream every day, my darling, of that magic moment when at last we will meet: There, at ebb tide, I'll find you standing at the water's edge -- your back to me. As I approach with pounding heart, I'll whisper your name, & you'll turn. . . . And til time should ever cease, for us there'll be no more goodbyes."

Homecoming, 1973

New prisoners told stories the long-timers could hardly believe. The counterculture, women's liberation, R-rated movies in mainstream theaters -- hard to imagine. But they would soon see for themselves. The Paris peace accords, formally signed Jan. 27, 1973, called for U.S withdrawal in Vietnam and release of the POWs.

Brudno got his hands on some paper, and he made his own ink by mixing water with cigarette ashes or the dye from diarrhea pills. Writing in tiny print and wasting no space on two full pages, he sketched everything he wanted to do when he got home. The sheets were the breathless chronicle of an overwhelmed mind.

He would get his poem bound in limited edition. He would shave twice a day, wear colorful underwear, take classes in speed reading, public speaking, dance and guitar. He would read old magazines, book reviews, the Bible, the Talmud, "The Power of Positive Thinking" and masterpieces of world literature. He would collect coins and stamps, buy only calf-length or over-the-calf socks, go sailing on the Charles River and paint an oil portrait of Deb. He would take ski lessons, learn origami, try ice hockey. He would avoid buying things -- especially small items -- based on their packaging. He would wear his hat without a tilt, and he would touch the brim when meeting a woman in the street. He would avoid Orlon. He would polish his newly learned French. He would look into seeing a psychiatrist.

Brudno spent his last evening at the Hanoi Hilton getting a haircut, a turkey dinner and a Czechoslovakian windbreaker with the first zipper he had seen in years.

One of those on his Feb. 12 flight was Roger Shields, the Pentagon's man in charge of "Operation Homecoming." Shields had heard about Alan from Bob and sought him out. He found him courteous, somewhat quiet, seemingly happy. Shields later concluded that he was probably the last person whom detainees would want to confess problems to: Any sign of instability, and the military wasn't likely to let them fly.

The prisoners were amazed at their greeting: thousands of people, thousands of flowers, thousands of damp eyes. Wives kissed their faces; children hugged their knees.

Reporters asked the prisoners whether they knew a man had walked on the moon.

Brudno had missed the space race, and a lot more.

The Digital Watch

Bob picked out the family's welcome home gift: a Pulsar watch, the first digital sold commercially and the kind of gadget he knew his brother would love.

Alan Brudno was all smiles, surrounded by family and onlookers when he arrived at Westover Air Force Base in Massachusetts.

"Words like 'unbelievable,' 'exciting' and 'unreal' vividly describe the fantastic excitement of being reborn," he told the crowd.