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aloud and the interpreter translated: "You never return to United State, you must understand this now. The Democratic Republic of Vietnam fight for fifty year. It is nothing, we fight for independence two thousand year. Mongolian, Japanese, French, American, you see, it no matter. Your United State government do not understand, we see. So, for you no go back. Captain Charles Ravich, you war criminal. I say to you, if you cooperate with question, you may live with peace. If you say no, you receive some punishment. Maybe it hurt. Your forces give much death to our comrades. We are intelligent people. You do not know us. We are good people. We do not ask you to make this decision very fastly. We know you make ideological change to us. We know you trained to not do, to resist. I say to you, Charles Ravich, consider what your heart say, not what United State say. You understan?"
    There was some discussion in Vietnamese.
    "What kind of jet you fly?"
    In a near-whisper he said his name, rank, and serial number.
    "We have seen the tag on your neck, yes. I ask what jet?"
    He repeated himself.
    "The jet. Say it."
    "No." He looked at the interpreter. If they thought he would cooperate, they had the wrong guy. "I will not."
    "We will wait some time, Charles Ravich. You think. Maybe think where you are now." The officer left. The question of the plane was only a beginning. They knew it was an F-4.
    "Now," the interpreter said. "You talk soon."
    A soldier brought him water and a pasty, fibrous gruel—mashed rice and bamboo sprouts. The soldier motioned him to eat, which he did, hungrily, with his hands.
    Then he felt clearer. He knew where he was. His job was to endure all physical and psychological torture until he lost either his mind or his life. Resist making propaganda statements. When no longer able to withhold information, he'd lie or divulge innocuous data. Hard to judge the sophistication level. Some of the North Vietnamese had studied in French educational systems, some were opportunists, others Communist zealots. Tell them your parents were Iowa pig farmers. Where was he? Just north of the DMZ? Eastern Laos? Somewhere a North Vietnamese officer could go about in uniform, but southern enough that the Vietcong served as soldiers. He hadn't watched his direction in the last minute. A few degrees on the compass might mean the difference between liberation and long-term incarceration. No way to know. Insist on food and medical treatment. The better care he received, the better he'd withstand punishment. The Air Force trained pilots not to crack but assumed they would. Every man had his breaking point. All information and training could be divided into three categories: Most important were systems and weaponry capabilities—the USSR and China could find that information useful in other parts of the world; somewhat important were specific mission and strategy information; and least important—and first to be divulged under torture—were training techniques and Air Force policy. If a pilot was captured and not immediately taken to Hanoi, then the longer he survived, the better the chance of rescue by American or ARVN forces.
     
    AFTER SEVERAL HOURS the officer returned. He opened a slim file.
    "Captain Charles Ravich, we start."
    He lifted his eyes.
    "You see we move you to big trail soon when repair. Soon. Now you must listen—"
    "I am a prisoner of war and an American officer. I—"
    "Charles Ravich, you criminal! You criminal of war. I explain to you. We will teach you before difficult question. Show criminal of war Charles Ravich first photograph."
    The soldier brought in three small albums bound in black.
    "The first photograph is boy who stand by railtrain track when your jets strike. You look at it." The officer stood over him and put his hand around his neck, forcing his face to within inches of the color photos, which were small and square. "These pictures are what your bombs do to my country, Charles Ravich. Little proof,