By Col. Carlyle “Smitty” Harris
Even though I walk
through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
—Psalm 23:4
I celebrated my 90th birthday in 2019. What a gift life is! What an honor to live such a long and wonderful life. My health is excellent, and my soul is even better. I have been participating in an annual study of the effects of my years as a POW for the past 30 years. Each summer, Louise and I travel to Pensacola, Florida, to participate in the voluntary study with 180 other POWs. It is a very extensive physical exam, with thorough blood work and testing of every kind. The information gathered is compared to that gained from other groups of pilots and peers who have not been in the prison camps of North Vietnam.
By God’s grace, even at age 89, I passed the tests with flying colors. Last summer, June 2018, the chief flight surgeon, Army Col. Albano—who is the head of the Naval Air Study and who evaluates all the reports—called us in for a debriefing of the findings. My particular results included a blood pressure of 120/68, a little bit of high cholesterol, and 20/20 eyesight. Thanks to cataract surgery in both eyes, my eyesight has been restored to pilot vision.
“Col. Harris, I am pleased to announce that you have passed the Naval Aviators physical exam. Now, you are going to need a waiver for your slight hearing loss, but that shouldn’t be a problem,” Col. Albano quipped.
After hearing me brag about my good reports all the way home, Louise—in her perfect, sassy way—commented, “Oh, my stars. I’m not going to be able to put up with you now.”
While we were in Pensacola for my checkup in 2013, we received the word that Bud Day, my fellow POW and dear friend, had just been admitted to hospice care. We knew he had been fighting cancer, but a fighter was indeed what he was, and we were saddened to know that the end of his stellar life was fast approaching. We quickly changed our plans and drove to his home in Shalimar, Florida, to visit with him and his wife, Dori.
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Bud was a great man. He was a fierce resister during our years of captivity and was the one to stand up and lead the men of Cell 7 in Camp Unity in the highest level of resistance by singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” as Robbie Risner and the others were led away to isolation after the church service. He continued to be a leader among veterans as a lawyer when he fought and won the case that made it possible for veterans to receive their promised health care insurance. He won this historic case, but when the Department of Defense realized the expense this would entail, they overturned it and pushed it to a nine-judge panel in appeal. This time Day lost the case, though even in this, he acted with honor and valor.
Day had been awarded the Medal of Honor, which meant a great deal to him and all of us who understood its significance. Though a very humble man, he routinely kept the medal in his pocket when he tried cases on behalf of veterans. However, when he approached the panel of military judges, he took the medal out of the pocket of his simple gray suit and put it on. At first, there was silence, but soon the sliding of chairs was heard throughout the room as all nine of the judges rose to their feet to salute this giant of a man.
It was a foregone conclusion that the cost was too great, and therefore Bud lost the case on appeal. However, due to the public pressure on Congress through the publicity this created, the appropriations were passed anyway, and veterans got the medical coverage we so deserved.
Always a fighter, just one week prior to being placed on hospice, Bud, from the confines of his wheelchair, had tried the case of a military soldier who had been denied benefits—and he won.
We thought of this and many other Bud Day stories as we made our way to his home on the water in Shalimar. When we entered, we were greeted by Dori, who led us to their bedroom, where a hospital bed had been set up. Bud was lying weakly in the bed, with oxygen mask intact, but sat up to greet us—as a perfect gentleman. The four of us talked briefly, and then the women seemed to quietly disappear from the room, giving Bud and me time together.
We both knew this was the last time we would see each other on this earth. We chatted lightly for a moment, and then Bud grew serious. He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Smitty, I want to thank you for introducing the Tap Code. It made all the difference in our communications network and was a lifeline for all of us.” It was a powerful moment I will always cherish, quickly topped by an even greater act that will stand out as one of the most significant events of my life.
Bud grabbed my hand, turned it over, and on the back of it began to tap.
Tap tap, tap tap—the letter G.
Tap, tap tap—the letter B.
Tap tap tap tap, tap tap tap tap tap—the letter U.
GBU. God bless you—those words tapped countless times by POWs to offer strength and understanding to each other. It was a symbol of our shared experience and a mark of our brotherhood.
Stunned, I could barely speak, but I managed to thank him for those blessed words and to tell him that I loved him. I know I will see him again, when I will one day follow his lead through the gates of heaven and experience a reunion even grander than those I have written about in my book Tap Code.
Yes, God has blessed me indeed. And to you, my friends, who have taken or will take the time to read Tap Code and walk this journey with me and Louise, I say: GBU.
________
Adapted from Tap Code: The Epic Survival Tale of a Vietnam POW and the Secret Code That Changed Everything by Col. Carlyle “Smitty” Harris. Click Here to learn more about this book.
Never-before-told details of underground operations during the Vietnam War told through one airman’s inspiring story of true love, honor, and courage.
Air Force pilot Captain Carlyle “Smitty” Harris was shot down over Vietnam on April 4, 1965, and taken to the infamous Hoa Lo prison—nicknamed the “Hanoi Hilton.” For the next eight years, Smitty and hundreds of other American POWs—including John McCain and George “Bud” Day—suffered torture, solitary confinement, and abuse.
It was there Smitty covertly taught the Tap Code—an old, long-unused World War II method of communication—to many POWs. In turn, they taught others, and it quickly became a way for POWs to communicate without their captors’ knowledge. It was a lifeline during their internment—a way to boost morale, stay unified, and communicate the chain of command—as well as an asset in helping them prevail over a brutal enemy.
Back home, meanwhile, Harris’s wife, Louise, raised their three children alone, unsure of her husband’s fate. One of the first POW wives of the Vietnam War, she became a role model for many wives, advocating for herself and her children in her husband’s absence.
Told through both Smitty’s and Louise’s voices, Tap Code shares a riveting true story of ingenuity under pressure, strength and dignity in the face of the enemy, the love of family, and the hope, faith, and resolve necessary to endure even the darkest circumstances.
Carlyle Smith “Smitty” Harris is an ex-Vietnam POW, who rose to the rank of Air Force Colonel. He received many decorations during his Air Force career, including two Silver Stars, three Legion of Merits, the Distinguished Flying Cross, two Purple Hearts, and the Eagle Award through the Gathering of Eagles Foundation. His tin cup from his days as a POW is now in the Smithsonian. He lives with his wife, Louise, and is surrounded by his large family in Tupelo, Mississippi.
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