"The
Pledge"
painted by Matt Hall
painted by Matt Hall
A
Tribute to the American P.O.W.s of the Vietnam War
For
five and a half years, Navy pilot John McCain watched the sun rise and set
through the barred windows of the “Hell’s Furnace” prison
in Hanoi.
He and his fellow prisoners of the Vietnam War were caged like animals. When they slept, only a thin bamboo mat separated them from the rough, concrete floor. Their possessions were few: a blanket, a tin cup, and the rags on their backs.
To their communist captors, the Americans could not suffer enough. So, they beat the P.O.W.s, snapped their limbs, and tortured them with ropes and steel. To keep the Americans weak, they kept them malnourished by feeding them watery soup.
Thousands of miles from their homes and families, in sweltering cells, and surrounded by rage-filled enemies, the P.O.W.s placed their faith in one another. And, at a time when it seemed America had abandoned them, they clung to their faith in their country.
One day in spring 1972, something magical happened. A P.O.W. named Mike Christian found a handkerchief in the prison gutter. He saw it then, for what it could be, the one item forbidden most by his captors: an American flag.
Mike shared his plan with his cellmates who gave him slivers of soap to clean the rag and scraps of fabric for stars. Using crumbled red roof tiles he painted stripes. With a bamboo needle and thread from his blanket, Mike sewed the flag inside his tattered shirt.
Every afternoon, Mike’s cellmates joined him in the Pledge of Allegiance to that smudgy flag. Their tears quietly streamed, their chests puffed, and their broken backs became straight, if only for a moment.
One morning, the guards found Mike’s flag and dragged him away. They bludgeoned him, hung him from a beam, and stomped the ragged flag. That night, when they threw Mike back to his comrades, his body had been broken, but not his spirit.
Several nights later, John McCain observed a sight that stirred him:
“I looked in the corner of the room, and sitting there, beneath that dim light bulb with a piece of red cloth, another shirt, and his bamboo needle, was my friend, Mike Christian. He was sitting there with his eyes almost shut from the beating he had received, making another American flag. He was not making the flag because it made Mike Christian feel better. He was making that flag because he knew how important it was to us.”
He and his fellow prisoners of the Vietnam War were caged like animals. When they slept, only a thin bamboo mat separated them from the rough, concrete floor. Their possessions were few: a blanket, a tin cup, and the rags on their backs.
To their communist captors, the Americans could not suffer enough. So, they beat the P.O.W.s, snapped their limbs, and tortured them with ropes and steel. To keep the Americans weak, they kept them malnourished by feeding them watery soup.
Thousands of miles from their homes and families, in sweltering cells, and surrounded by rage-filled enemies, the P.O.W.s placed their faith in one another. And, at a time when it seemed America had abandoned them, they clung to their faith in their country.
One day in spring 1972, something magical happened. A P.O.W. named Mike Christian found a handkerchief in the prison gutter. He saw it then, for what it could be, the one item forbidden most by his captors: an American flag.
Mike shared his plan with his cellmates who gave him slivers of soap to clean the rag and scraps of fabric for stars. Using crumbled red roof tiles he painted stripes. With a bamboo needle and thread from his blanket, Mike sewed the flag inside his tattered shirt.
Every afternoon, Mike’s cellmates joined him in the Pledge of Allegiance to that smudgy flag. Their tears quietly streamed, their chests puffed, and their broken backs became straight, if only for a moment.
One morning, the guards found Mike’s flag and dragged him away. They bludgeoned him, hung him from a beam, and stomped the ragged flag. That night, when they threw Mike back to his comrades, his body had been broken, but not his spirit.
Several nights later, John McCain observed a sight that stirred him:
“I looked in the corner of the room, and sitting there, beneath that dim light bulb with a piece of red cloth, another shirt, and his bamboo needle, was my friend, Mike Christian. He was sitting there with his eyes almost shut from the beating he had received, making another American flag. He was not making the flag because it made Mike Christian feel better. He was making that flag because he knew how important it was to us.”
SPECIAL
THANKS!
