John McCain: Prisoner of War | The Crown Prince | 2
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Join Wondery Plus to listen to Against the Odds one week early and ad-free in the Wondery app. Download the Wondery app in your Apple or Google Play mobile app store today. This episode of Against the Odds contains strong language and depictions of violence. Please be advised. It's early November, 1967. John McCain is lying on an old hospital bed in Hanoi, Vietnam, and he can barely move.

Both his arms and one of his legs are broken. He stares straight ahead at the chip paint on the wall in front of him. It's the nicest thing in this room for him to look at. The rest is dirty. Rats dodge puddles in the floor as they frantically scurry across the room. But this is way better than what John's had to live through this past week. He can barely close his eyes without reliving it.

John's A-4 Skyhawk attack aircraft was shot down a week before. He barely survived the crash. Then he wound up at the brutal prisoner of war camp, nicknamed the Hanoi Hilton. There, he was savagely tortured and beaten repeatedly.

He's been in the hospital four days now and the doctors have given him blood and plasma. But it hasn't really made a difference. Every millimeter of movement hurts enough to make him see red. John slowly shifts his eyes and looks over at the door. He's waiting for a visit from his best friend here in Hanoi. Well, best friend may not be the best way to describe him. John doesn't know his friend's name or even speak the same language, but he's all he's got.

A skinny Vietnamese teenager enters with a bowl of noodles. The young man spends hours each day with John, serving as his makeshift guard at the hospital. But more importantly, he feeds John. That's why he's here. And just like every other day, he jams three or four spoonfuls of hot noodles into John's mouth before he has a chance to swallow. John can't eat like that. He's hungry as hell, but his body can't take it. John's pretty sure he's got dysentery. He feels like he wants to throw up constantly.

John groans for him to stop. The boy shrugs and takes the rest of the meal for himself. The kid smiles. He does this every single meal. Then the boy pulls out a book and starts reading to John in Vietnamese. John has no idea what he's saying, but he still tries to listen thoughtfully. He's just thankful that someone's there, showing him some sort of compassion. The boy turns a page and John notices a photograph nestled inside the book.

It's a little blurry, but he can make out an old man with a rifle sitting on a crashed American fighter plane. The boy points to the picture, then to himself, and then back to the picture, and slaps John in the face. What the fuck? The boy puts the picture back in the book and continues reading, as if nothing's happened. John lies there, rattled from the slap, but quietly impressed with the kid's sneak attack. This kid is the best friend I have here? John thinks to himself. No!

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John barely survived the crash, landing in the middle of the Vietnamese capital, Hanoi. From there, he was taken to the famed Hanoi Hilton and beaten and tortured by sadistic guards. But things are looking up for John. The Vietnamese have discovered his father, Jack McCain, is a top Navy commander. So they've decided to treat John's wounds and take care of him.

But John knows there's always a catch. One or two false moves and he could find himself back in a torture cell. Or even worse. This is episode two, The Crown Prince. John's being wheeled through the hospital on an old gurney. He doesn't know where.

John had been taken from his bed an hour ago into a dirty treatment room, where a rough-looking doctor tried to set his right arm. John wasn't given any anesthesia, so he eventually passed out from the pain. He woke up to realize the doctor had given up and lazily put him in a cast covering his entire upper body. And this cast was itchy. He wishes he could turn around and scratch his back. It's driving him mad.

John's brought into a large room and placed in a clean white bed covered by a mosquito net. For a moment, John feels like he's being brought into a luxury hotel, but that feeling doesn't last long. Two men enter. The first is a short and dapper man that POWs call "The Cat." The man is well-groomed, with slick back hair, and looks like he's trying to be a Vietnamese movie star.

John had been expecting the bug, the guard who had tortured and beaten him at the prison. But since this higher-up is here, John knows that something's about to happen. The other man with him, tall and thin, is the cat's translator. I hope you enjoy your new bed, Matt Cain.

The cat sits down and tells John a French journalist will be visiting in the next few minutes. The man will be able to send a message to John's family. John's surprised, but excited. He has no idea what his wife, kids, or parents know. Do they even know he's alive? He will also film you. Make sure you tell him what you told the interrogators. John shakes his head. He doesn't want to be filmed for anyone to see him in this pain.

"You need two operations on your leg, and if you don't talk to him, then we'll take off your cast and you won't get any operations." John knows that his father, Jack McCain, wouldn't agree to this trade. John's been thinking of his father a lot these last few days. His dad was never captured during World War II, but if he had been, he'd have fought these captures till the end. His father probably wouldn't have accepted hospital care, and he definitely wouldn't agree to what the cat is demanding.

John's smart enough to know that the only way the journalist would be allowed in is if he's friendly to the North Vietnamese government. Which means he's an anti-war activist who opposes United States involvement in the Vietnam War. Francois is far from alone in that belief. He's part of a new social movement that's growing in size every day. Peaceful protests are roaring through college campuses all over the United States.

Many of these protesters are academics, lawyers, doctors, military veterans, and journalists. Just like Francois, the translator leans down and looks into John's eyes. "You will say you are grateful to the Vietnamese people, and you are sorry for your crimes, or we will send you back to the camp." "No." "Yes, you will. If you want the operation,

John eventually can't take the back and forth and the fear of being sent back to the Hanoi Hilton. He agrees to the interview. The cat leaves, satisfied, but John knows that won't last long. As John looks around the pristine room, he knows he can't lie. He has to tell the truth, no matter the consequences.

John lies in the clean bed in the hospital room as a French journalist sits beside him. The room is packed. A camera operator, a sound person, and various Vietnamese officials hang out just beyond them, watching everything with great interest. A single light is pointed at John, hurting his eyes slightly. The interviewer is named Francois. He's a young and friendly Frenchman with a thick accent.

Francois hands him a cigarette, and John accepts. It hurts like hell to move his left arm to smoke it, but it feels like the tobacco gives him a little strength. "What is your name?" "Lieutenant Commander John McCain." John tells Francois the same information he provided to his captors: his name, rank, and serial number. Then he gives them the information about the plane attack, crash, and his imprisonment.

Francois asks him about his father, and since John knows the Vietnamese are aware he's an admiral's son, he indicates his father's rank and current posting. When prompted, John curtly says he's being treated well and that he's been told they'll operate on his leg. Not that they've actually operated yet, but that they've promised they will. Francois asks about the food. John pauses a moment, and for the first time since being captured, cracks a joke. Hey, it's not like Paris, but I eat it.

The cat quivers, pursing his lips in anger, then interrupts. He orders John to talk about how well he's being treated and how much he wishes the war would be over. John just stares at the cat, refusing to say anything. Francois chimes in. I think what he told me is sufficient. John likes this guy. Francois turns to John and asks him if he has any messages for his family.

John pauses. Images of his wife Carol, their kids, his parents, they all dance in his mind. His voice cracks and trembles as he realizes how much he misses them. I would just like to tell my wife I will get well and I love her and... John realizes there's a very good chance he may never see them again. I'm sure that I'll get well. The cat wants John to say more, but Francois cuts him off.

Francois and the camera crew gather their equipment. The cat begins to escort them out, but before he does, he and his translator turn to John. "You have a bad attitude. You'll be getting no more operations." They leave, and John lies there, alone. He wonders if his family will ever see the footage. What will they think? Will his father think he said the right things? And then he wonders what exactly the cat is planning to do to him.

It's mid-November in Paris, and the temperature is dropping. But that doesn't stop people from sitting out on the patios of the cafes. It's what you do in Paris, whatever time of year it is. John's wife, Carol McCain, sits outside. She's nervous, and she stirs her coffee, looking around. She rushed here to Paris yesterday after receiving a phone call telling her about something that both excites her and scares her.

She looks up and Francois Chalet, the journalist who met with John a week ago, is standing in front of her. He sits down and asks her about the flight and the weather. But Carol goes straight to the point. Is John hurt? When are you broadcasting the footage? And can I see it first? A week ago, the Navy had shared a report with her that John was still alive. But the intel wasn't for certain. And now, for the first time, she has the chance to find out what's actually happening.

She at first believed Francois was an anti-war journalist, motivated by political ideals. But now she can tell he's more than that. He's also sympathetic to her and genuine. Please, I need to see it first.

Francois sighs. Carol knows there's not much he can do. He sold the footage to the French station that's going to broadcast it tonight, but she hopes he can get them to delay it. She's his wife, and she just wants to prepare her and her children for what's in it before the world sees John as a prisoner. Francois looks at the desperation in Carol's eyes. I'll see what I can do.

Halfway around the world, Jack McCain is at the Press Club in New York City. He's just delivered a talk about the emerging strength of the Soviet Navy to a group of 100 diplomats, politicians, and business people. As he walks off stage to great applause, he's pleased to spot an old friend of his, Herb Hetu, standing there. Herb's a retired Navy captain and has spent the last few years doing public relations work. Herb's pacing and scratching the back of his head. Jack can tell something is wrong.

What is it, Herb? Jack, there's footage of John from Vietnam. Jack allows this to seep in. He had received reports a week ago of Vietnam propaganda celebrating John's capture. But in his years, he's learned to never fully trust reports like those. But now, actual film of John alive? It's exciting. And also scary. But Jack being Jack, he refuses to show any of these emotions.

Herb says that CBS has the footage, and he was able to convince them to hold off on airing it until everyone in the family has seen it. Herb was going to tell Jack about it prior to the speech, but he didn't want to distract his friend. Jack nods. He made the right decision. Herb brings Jack and Jack's wife Roberta into a private screening room at the CBS offices in New York. Other members of the Navy sit there, also wanting to see the footage, but Herb asks them to leave.

I'm sure that'll get well.

Herb comes back in and asks John and Roberta if they're okay. They both look like they've seen a ghost. He knows it was probably thrilling to see their son alive, but also excruciating to see him in such pain. Roberta gets up and turns to Herb to thank him. Jack, meanwhile, doesn't get up. He continues to stare at the darkened screen. And then, his voice flat, he makes a request. Would it be too much to watch it again?

Herb looks at Jack, who's still staring at the screen. He wants to see his son again, even if it's only on grainy black and white footage. Then they watch again, in complete silence. "I'm sure that'll get well." It's early December, 1967. An American POW, George Day, is slowly eating a bowl of noodles. They're cold, stale, and generally taste quite bad. He misses his wife's cooking. He misses a lot about his old life, actually.

Everyone knows him as Bud, and he's been a prisoner here at the Hanoi Hilton for almost two months now. He's just healed enough from his injuries to be able to eat food on his own. But it's still a chore. He had a broken arm, as well as an injured knee and eye before arriving. And beatings and torture by the cat his first week made things even worse. The road to recovery has been a slow, difficult one for him. Though short, he's always been strong. That, combined with Bud's pride, has made it even more difficult.

Thank God for Norris Overly, his serious but gentle cellmate. Without raising a fuss, Norris has fed, cleaned, and cared for him the last two months. He drops his bowl of noodles on the ground, and he groans. He's still nowhere close to being able to look after himself. "It's okay, bud. You're getting there." Just as Norris bends down to grab Bud's bowl, the door to the cell opens. Standing there are two guards holding up a prisoner.

The man is thin, blindfolded, and can't stand without help. The Crown Prince is your problem now. The guards drop the man on the ground, and Bud stares at him. The Crown Prince? What's that supposed to mean? The man is American, and young. He doesn't seem to be able to move his legs or arms. If he dies, it's your fault.

Bud and Norris bend down to help the man. They remove his blindfold and ask for his name. John McCain. Norris puts John on his back and grabs a rag and starts to clean John's wounds. It's nowhere near the proper medical help John needs, but at least it's something. Bud shakes his head. He wishes he could help out more, but with his own injuries, he barely can. He was in bad shape when he was brought here, and he feels like he just barely survived. John, on the other hand, is in a bad shape.

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Standing behind him is his cellmate, Norris Overly. Norris was able to get John onto his feet, and John stands there, looking at the floor. Bud Day, their other cellmate, is in the corner with hands raised in anticipation. Come on, John! You can do this! John knows that one step may seem like nothing, but a few weeks ago, he thought he was going to die, or at best, never walk again. But Bud and Norris did everything they could to save him.

Norris would help clean him, feed him, and tend to his wounds. Bud would help out by giving John pep talks, encouragement, and a few cheesy jokes. I can't. I can't do it. Shut up, Crown Prince. Of course you can. Let's go. John takes a deep breath. He feels like a little baby here, unable to even walk. His daughter, Sydney, must be about 15 or 16 months old now. She's probably already taken her first step.

which means she's probably currently faster than he is. But just thinking about her makes him sad. He wasn't there to see her first step or hear her first word. Enough. John tells himself that when he sees his daughter again, he's going to have to be able to play with her, which requires walking. He takes a deep breath, looks around, moves his foot, and takes a step. It hurts like hell, but John ignores the pain. Bud and Norris cheer him on.

John hears voices from just outside their cell. "What's happening?" Two guards enter and look directly at John. "Your turn, Crown Prince." They grab John by the shoulders, lift him, and they carry him out. John plays it cool. "What, you're scared I can beat you in a foot race?" The guards ignore his bad joke. John looks at their serious faces and realizes why they're taking him away. Another interrogation, which means another beating.

As they roughly carry him out of the cell, John mumbles to himself, "One step forward, two steps back." It's May, 1968, inside a dark cell no bigger than most closets back home. John is in solitary confinement. He's whispering a list of names. "Brian Miles Jackson, Adeeb Gage Lighter." It's the name of the pilots he flew with from the USS Oriskany.

He's not whispering them to an interrogator or a guard. He's talking to himself, trying to keep himself sane. He's been in this hellhole for about a month now. Well, he thinks it's a month. The only thing he does know is that he misses being able to spend time with other Americans. John whispers the names of the guards. Well, nicknames he and the other POWs have given them. Cat, Chihuahua, the bug, the kid. A guard opens the door, letting some sunlight in.

The harsh light stings John's eyes. "Let me out, just five minutes of fresh air." The guard shrugs. "Come on, please, let's go. Please, you need to." John rushes the door. "Fuck you, you motherfucking fuck!" John pounds on the door and tries to get the guard's attention. It's a way to show his captors that they haven't taken away his spirit. He won't be broken, even though he feels broken.

Brian, Miles, Jackson, Adeeb, Gage, Leiter. He lies down. Maybe some sleep will help. But he can't. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the cat. Would it be so bad just to give the Vietnamese some small piece of information? Some quote they can use? His father would understand, right? John slaps himself across the face. Of course he wouldn't do that. He takes a deep breath and...

John's startled by the sound of banging on his wall. He wakes up from a rare deep sleep. He can't believe it. Someone wants to speak to him. John leans over to grab his own tin cup and reply. John smiles. He's having a conversation. Well, the most conversation a POW can have, that is. Only a few months ago, John's former cellmate, Bud, had taught him how to secretly communicate with other Americans.

It's all done with the use of the tin water cups the prisoners have. The greeting, based on the classic "Shave and a haircut" song, is used to start a conversation. And the two bits reply confirms the coast is clear.

The alphabet is divided into five columns of five letters each. So tap once for the five letters in the A column, tap twice for F, three times for L. After identifying the letter in the first column, pause. Then tap one through five times to indicate the right letter in the row, and so on. The other system's simpler, but not always possible. The prisoner simply presses their cup against the wall to project sound.

It doesn't always work, but when it does, John much prefers hearing the sound of another American's voice. Hey, who's there? No answer. So John starts tapping. The man on the other end replies. They go back and forth, and John learns his new neighbor is Bob Cranor, a fellow downed pilot. They tap out various questions to each other, and discover their capture stories are similar. John's happy to have a kindred spirit right next to him.

Cranor then taps a warning to John. He needs to find out something important. John takes this in. A warning? Is someone coming? Has the war taken a turn for the worse? The tapping begins and John's scared. What's Bob going to tell him? John puts together the code. Are you a fan of Ted Williams? Ted Williams? The Red Sox baseball legend? No.

John laughs. He's never formally met this Bob Cranor, but he already likes him. Maybe after all, he's not as alone as he thought. It's late May, 1968, and three hours ago, John was taken from his cell into this small concrete interrogation room. The only thing of note is a slightly ripped Vietnam flag staring right at John. A few minutes ago, a guard came in with some pencils and paper in his hand and a gentle manner.

Playing the role of good cop, this new interrogator tried reasoning with John with questions like, show us what your aircraft carrier looks like and you'll get some food. John's enjoying drawing the USS Oriskany. Is it the scale? No. Is it accurate? Of course not. He's putting things into his sketch that makes absolutely no sense, like a hundred foot swimming pool right on the fantail of the ship. John stops at the sounds of screams down the hallway. It must be a fellow POW being tortured.

Meanwhile, here he is, in the middle of a child's art class. He shakes his head. John gets back to sketching, drawing the captain's quarters inside a chain locker. The guard stares, impressed with the American engineering process. John tries not to laugh. Does he actually think this is real? A pool on the deck? John then draws the keel of the ship as 300 feet deep. And as he shows the guard the final image, the man goes silent.

The jig is up. John smirks. Did they really expect him to give them what they want? Then, John's kicked to the ground, and he bangs his head. He asks himself, was this small act of rebellion actually worth it? It's June, 1968. John is seated on a couch. Yes, an actual couch. He takes in the photos of dignitaries on the walls, bookshelves full of books, and a glass table held up by ceramic statues.

It's the first room he's been in at the Hanoi Hilton that's not a prison cell or an interrogation room. The best part? On the table in front of him are a plate of tea, cookies, and cigarettes. He can't take his eyes off the tasty looking cookies.

The cat and the translator enter the room. The cat is smiling. John's thrown off. He's never seen the man smile. The cat sits down across from John and leans in gently, his words translated by the second man. "I'm so glad you're here." The cat continues, making small talk and referring to John as his friend repeatedly. The cat then snaps his fingers and talks to the translator, who brings over the plate of cookies.

John politely declines. What exactly is going on here? The cat pauses. Would you like to go home? Home? Yeah, home. To the United States. John's not sure what to say. The mention of the U.S. makes John think of Carol, the kids, his parents, actual hospitals. The cat says that they wanted to release him early because of his medical condition. John asks what he would have to do to make this happen. They don't expect him to record a propaganda video or sign anything, do they?

The cat shakes his head. John doesn't have to do anything for them. He pauses. It sounds way too good to be true. Can I think about this? The cat nods in agreement. He's escorted through the courtyard back to his cell, where he begins to stew. Is this a real offer?

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Phew, he's there. In code, John describes the meeting with the cat, the weird conversation, and the offer. Without pausing, Bob clangs back. You should take it. John needs to hear Bob's voice, so rather than tapping, he uses the tin cup to project his voice. Bob, what do you mean? You're hurt. You need proper medical attention. You have to take the offer. But what about the code?

Taking the offer would mean that John would violate the U.S. military's code of conduct, which states that prisoners must be released in the order that they are captured. First in, first out. No special treatment for anyone. The seriously injured, they can go home. I think I can make this. What do they want in return?

I know why they're doing this. We let McCain go because his father's an admiral, but your father's not, and no one gives a damn about you. I don't want to go home and see my father, and he wouldn't want to see me under those conditions either. Bob stops John. Take the deal. Everyone will understand. John's shocked. He didn't expect Bob to push him to accept. Maybe I should. Bob breaks the silence with an important question. Did you bring me back a cookie? John laughs and lies down.

The thought of being released gets him excited. Seeing Carol and the kids going to an actual hospital? Could it really happen? He turns over. He knows he won't be able to sleep tonight. It's July 4th, 1968, and the wind is howling across the deck of the USS Oriskany. It's a cloudy day, and the war rages on in Vietnam. But a packed crowd of 200 officers are seated on the carrier, currently docked at the naval base, Pearl Harbor.

On stage is Jack McCain, seated beside a half dozen other Navy admirals. They're all in their formal white dress uniforms. Jack's name is called, and he steps to the podium. What an honor it is to become the 8th Commander-in-Chief, United States Pacific Command. Starting now, he's in charge of all U.S. forces in the Vietnam War. He's held a number of very prominent positions in his life, but to him, this is probably the most important. He's hoping this might somehow help him get his son back.

Jack finishes his speech, emphasizing his belief in the squashing of Chinese communism across the region, especially Vietnam. He doesn't mention his personal connection to this war. The thought of even currying sympathy by mentioning John, it sickens him. The speech goes over quite well and everyone heads inside for food and drinks. But Jack stays on the deck and walks around it. Jack requested that his transfer ceremony take place on this ship.

The same one that John's plane had lifted off from just over eight months ago before being downed. Being here makes Jack feel closer to John. John looks to the horizon, to where Vietnam lies thousands of miles away. He has to bring his son home. It's July 4th, 1968, and John McCain's escorted into the Hanoi Hilton's reception room. It's the same room that, a week earlier, the cat had offered John a chance for an early release.

And now, John's back to give him his verdict. The cat and his translator stand up as John enters. They motion him to the couch and John sits down. No more cookies, but there are cigarettes. The cat hands John one, lighting it for him. After a few minutes of small talk, the cat leans in, smiling. The translator tells John what the cat is trying to say. So, have you made up your mind? I have.

John hasn't slept much over the last few days. The dilemma has tormented him. He's the first to admit that until his plane was shot down, his life had been pretty easy. Lucky, really. But the last seven months have been the hardest of his life. And? No, thank you. Why? American prisoners cannot accept parole or amnesty or special favors. We must be released in the order of our capture, starting with Everett Alvarez.

The cat shows no emotion as he takes in this response. He looks at John's legs. They're covered by his pants, but the cat knows they're still purple and in terrible condition. "Our doctors have told me that you may not survive without better medical care." John laughs inside. "What doctor? The one that hurt more than helped? Who couldn't do anything more than put me in a body cast?"

The only doctor I saw was six months ago, and the only advice he gave me was that I needed to exercise and eat. The cat's eyebrow starts to rise. President Johnson has ordered you home. Right. Show me the orders, and then I'll believe you. The cat furiously gets up and brings over a piece of paper to John. It's not an order from Lyndon B. Johnson. It's a letter from Carol. John hasn't seen this letter. Any letters, actually. He wonders how many have been sent to him.

Has his father sent anything? The thought of his father steals John's resolve. My final answer is no. The cat just sits there, quietly, stewing. And then, the cat snaps the pennies holding in his hand, splattering ink. He stands up and kicks over his chair. They taught you too well. The cat storms out of the room, leaving John alone with the translator. The translator shakes his head, also upset.

Go back to your room. John stands up and hobbles towards the door. The guards arrive to take John away, but just before he goes, the translator speaks up. Now it will be very bad for you, McCain. Very bad. As John's escorted across the courtyard, his mind starts to wander. The cat really wanted him gone, but now that he's staying, no more crown prince treatment. Which means, well, he's scared to think what it actually means.

It's late August, 1968. It's been almost two months since he rejected the cat's offer to receive an early release. John's in his small, cramped cell. He's had dysentery since arriving at the camp, but has gotten worse in the last month or so. It might be the heat, the mosquitoes, the lack of food, or maybe it's fear. Fear of what's coming for him. Three prisoners were released a week ago, and John imagines what he'd be doing at this very moment if he had been one of them.

Would he be spending time with Carol and the kids? His parents? John pushes away those thoughts. "Now it will be very bad for you McCain. Very bad." The heat today is killing John. He needs some fresh air. That'll probably help him out. A mosquito flies by. John misses the little pest. Damn it, he almost got it. The sounds are coming from the cell next door. His friend Bob, thank god. Hopefully he can take John's mind off things.

John grabs his tin cup. What has Bob seen through his tiny window? The sound of keys confirm Bob's warning. Guards are walking towards him. Running, actually. Normally, two guards come take him away. Today, there's at least six. Which means... It's time, McCain. It's time. The guard grabs John. No! No! John tries to resist, but his injured body is no match.

The Vietnamese may have gone easy on John up until now, but John studied history and knows what always happens in the end. People like to take down royalty, and right now, his captors want to destroy the crown prince. This is the second episode of our four-part series, John McCain, Prisoner of War. If you like our show, please give us a five-star rating and a review.

If you'd like to learn more about this event, we highly recommend John McCain's autobiography, Faith of My Fathers, co-written by Mark Salter, as well as the book John McCain, An American Odyssey by Robert Timberg, as well as the HBO Max documentary, John McCain, For Whom the Bell Tolls. I'm your host, Mike Corey. Anthony Delcal wrote this episode. David Gardner is our producer. Our editor is Maura Waltz.

Taylor Keelan is our consultant. Brian White is our associate producer. Our audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Sound design is by Rob Schieliga. Our executive producers are Stephanie Jens and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Wondery.

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