Disturbing History - DH Ep:44 The Incredibly Stupid One

Episode Date: November 20, 2025

On a sweltering June night in 1967, twenty-year-old sailor Douglas Brent Hegdahl stepped onto the deck of the USS Canberra for a breath of air, unaware that a single blast from the ship’s guns would knock him into the South China Sea and change the course of his life.Rescued hours later by North Vietnamese fishermen, Doug began three and a half years of captivity that would turn an ordinary farm kid from South Dakota into one of the most unlikely and valuable intelligence assets of the Vietnam War.This episode of Disturbing History follows Doug from his prairie childhood—where he learned to turn information into songs while doing chores—to the brutal world of North Vietnamese prison camps, where he survived by convincing his captors he was harmless and simple-minded. Playing “The Incredibly Stupid One,” he fooled the guards into believing he couldn’t count to three or learn even basic Vietnamese. Behind the act, however, he was quietly memorizing the names, ranks, and capture dates of 256 fellow prisoners of war. His extraordinary memory became a clandestine weapon in a place where writing anything down meant torture or death.Through Doug’s perspective, we confront the harsh realities of life inside the Hanoi Hilton and other prison camps—the starvation, the constant fear, the psychological pressure, and the determination of American POWs to maintain discipline and dignity under conditions that violated every principle of the Geneva Convention. We explore the resilience that kept these men alive, from the tap code that sustained communication to the leadership that held their community together when everything else was stripped away. Doug’s early release in 1969 was ordered by senior POW officers who understood the value of the intelligence he carried in his mind. His days-long debriefing offered long-awaited answers to families back home, exposed the truth about North Vietnam’s treatment of prisoners, and reshaped American military survival training for generations to come.But the story doesn’t end with freedom. Like so many POWs, Doug returned to a country transformed by dissent and turmoil, carrying invisible wounds that would follow him for the rest of his life. His later years teaching at survival school and speaking before Congress became part of a larger legacy about endurance, accountability, and the cost of war. Woven throughout the episode are the stories of fellow POWs such as James Stockdale, Robinson Risner, and John McCain—men who, alongside Doug, demonstrated how courage and solidarity could survive even in the darkest environments.Their experiences remind us of the hundreds who endured captivity, the families who fought for answers, and the thousands still unaccounted for.Doug Hegdahl passed away in 2021, but his legacy lives on in the intelligence he preserved, the lives he helped save, and the truths he forced the world to confront. His story is disturbing, inspiring, and essential—proof that even the most unassuming individual can shape history through memory, resilience, and quiet, determined courage.

Some stories were never meant to be told. Others were buried on purpose. This podcast digs them all up. Disturbing history peels back the layers of the past to uncover the strange, the sinister, and the stories that were never supposed to survive. From shadowy presidential secrets to government experiments that sound more like fiction than fact, this is history they hoped you'd forget. I'm Brian.

Investigator, author, and your government. guide through the dark corners of our collective memory. Each week I'll narrate some of the most chilling and little-known tales from history that will make you question everything you thought you knew. And here's the twist. Sometimes the history is disturbing to us. And sometimes we have to disturb history itself, just to get to the truth. If you like your facts with the side of fear, if you're not afraid to pull at threads, others leave alone. You're in the right place. History isn't just written by the victors. Sometimes, it's rewritten by the disturbed. June 19, 1967, the South China Sea, three in the morning. The USS Canberra cuts through

dark waters off the coast of North Vietnam. Her five-inch guns trained on targets inland. Below deck, a 20-year-old seaman apprentice from Clark, South Dakota, tosses in his bunk, unable to sleep in the suffocating heat. Doug Heggdahl decides he needs air. What happens next will transform this farm boy into one of the most unlikely intelligence assets in American military history. A simple midnight stroll on deck will lead to three and a half years in North Vietnamese prison camps, where Hegdahl will memorize the names, capture dates, and personal details.

of 256 fellow prisoners of war, where he'll convince his captors he's too stupid to torture, where he'll become known as the incredibly stupid one, while secretly gathering intelligence that would prove invaluable to the United States military. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Because to understand how Douglas Brent Heggdahl became a legend in the annals of American prisoners of war,

we need to go back to the beginning. Back to the prairies of South Dakota, where a boy who would one day outwit communist interrogators was learning his first lessons about survival, memory, and the power of playing dumb. Douglas Brent Heggdall entered this world on September 3rd, 1946, in the small farming community of Clark, South Dakota. The post-war boom was just beginning, and America was riding high on victory. But in Clark, population barely over 1,000, life continued much as it had for decades.

The Heggdahl family farmed the land, as did most families in the area. Doug's parents, Lester, and Mildred Hegdahl, were solid Midwestern stock, Lutheran, hardworking, and devoted to their four children. Clark, South Dakota, sits in the eastern part of the state, about 40 miles west of the Minnesota border. It's prairie country, flat and wind-swept, where winter temperatures plunged to 30 below zero, and summer heat can crack the earth.

This was the crucible that forged young Doug Hegdahl. Here among the corn and soybean fields, he learned the values that would one day save not only his own life, but the lives of his fellow prisoners. The Hegdoll farm wasn't large by South Dakota standards, but it required all hands to keep it running. Doug, along with his siblings, learned early that everyone had to pull their weight. Before school, there were chores. After school, more chores. Weekends meant longer hours in the fields. It was during these long days of repetitive farmwork

that Doug developed what would become his secret weapon in captivity. An extraordinary memory. You see, to pass the time while doing mindless tasks like picking rocks from fields or cleaning out barn stalls, Doug would memorize things. Not just memorize them, but turn them into songs. He'd take the multiplication tables and set them to the tune of Old McDonald had a farm. He'd memorize entire passages from the Bible by putting them to the melody of popular songs.

His family thought it was just Doug being Doug, a quirky kid with a good memory and a love of music. At Clark High School, Doug was neither a standout student nor a troublemaker. He played football, not because he was particularly good at it, but because in a school that small, they needed every able body they could get. His grades were average, his social life typical of a small town teenager, in the early 1960s. He went to Lutheran Church on Sundays, helped with the harvest and fall, and spent Friday nights at the local diner with friends.

But beneath this ordinary exterior, Doug had qualities that would prove extraordinary. He had an almost photographic memory when he chose to apply it. He could play dumb convincingly, a skill learned from avoiding extra chores by pretending not to understand instructions. And perhaps most importantly,

he had been raised with an unlawful unshakable moral compass. His parents had instilled in him the principle that you help others, even at cost to yourself. It was simply what decent people did. In 1966, as Doug approached his 20th birthday, the Vietnam War was escalating rapidly. President Lyndon Johnson had committed over 300,000 American troops to Southeast Asia. The draft was in full swing and young men across America were facing difficult choices. Doug knew his number would likely come up soon. Rather than wait to be drafted into the army, he made a decision that would alter the trajectory of his life. He enlisted in the United States Navy. The choice made sense to Doug. The Navy seemed

safer than slogging through jungles as an army grunt. Plus, he'd never seen the ocean. For a kid who'd spent his entire life landlocked in South Dakota, the idea of sailing the seas held a certain romantic appeal. His parents supported his decision, though his mother Mildred privately worried. The war seemed very far away from Clark, South Dakota, but mothers have a way of sensing danger to their children, no matter the distance. Doug reported for basic training at Naval Station Great Lakes, Illinois, in September 1966. The transition from farm boy to sailor was jarring. The rigid military discipline, the constant yelling, The physical demands, all of it was a shock to his system.

But Doug adapted. He'd learned long ago that sometimes the best strategy was to keep your head down, do what you're told, and don't draw attention to yourself. After basic training, Doug was assigned a rating as a seaman apprentice, one of the lowest ranks in the Navy. His test scores hadn't qualified him for any specialized training. He wasn't going to be a radar operator or a communication specialist. He was going to be a deckhand, doing the grunt work that keeps a naval vessel running.

Cleaning, painting, standing watch, moving supplies. It wasn't glamorous, but Doug didn't mind. He'd done worse on the farm. In early 1967, Doug received his orders. He was being assigned to the USS Canberra, a guided missile cruiser operating with the 7th Fleet off the coast of Vietnam. The Canberra was a Baltimore-class heavy cruiser that had been controlled. converted to carry surface-to-air missiles. Her primary mission was providing naval gunfire support for ground operations in South Vietnam

and conducting search and rescue operations for downed pilots. Doug flew from California to the Philippines, then caught a supply ship out to the Canberra. His first side of the ship was intimidating. Nearly 700 feet long, bristling with weapons, the Canberra was a floating city of over 1,000 men. Doug was assigned to the deck division, responsible for maintaining the ship's exterior surfaces, handling lines during refueling operations, and standing watch. Life aboard the Canberra quickly fell into a routine. Four hours on watch, eight hours off, repeat.

The ship operated on what was called Yankee Station, a point in the South China Sea about 100 miles off the coast of North Vietnam. From here the Canberra's guns could reach targets inland, supporting American and South Vietnamese forces. Doug adapted well to shipboard life. He made friends easily, his Midwestern friendliness and self-deprecating humor, making him popular among his shipmates. He learned to sleep through the thunder of the ship's guns firing. He learned to eat while the ship rolled in heavy seas. He learned the Navy way of doing things, which often seemed unnecessarily complicated, but had reasons rooted in centuries of naval tradition. June 19,

started like any other day for Doug Heggdahl. The Canberra was on station, her guns periodically firing at targets inland. The temperature in the birthing compartments below deck was stifling, even with the ventilation systems running full blast. Doug had just come off watch at midnight and tried to sleep, but the heat made it impossible. Around three in the morning, Doug decided he needed fresh air. This wasn't unusual.

Sailors often went topside when off due to. to escape the claustrophobic conditions below deck. Doug climbed the ladders leading up through the ship's interior, emerging onto the main deck. The night air was a relief, warm but with a breeze coming off the water. The ship was darkened, running under wartime conditions with minimal lighting to avoid making herself a target. Doug walked aft, heading toward the fantail,

the rear deck of the ship. The five-inch gun mount near the stern was his destination. It was a good spot to catch the breeze and think. What happened next would be debated and investigated, but the basic facts are these. The ship's guns suddenly fired. The concussion from the five-inch guns was tremendous, especially if you were standing nearby. Doug not expecting the guns to fire was caught completely off guard. The blast wave hit him like a physical force.

Some accounts say he was blown overboard by the concussion. Others suggest he lost his balance and fell. Doug himself would later say he couldn't remember exactly what happened. Just that one moment he was on the ship and the next, he was in the water. What matters is the result. Seaman apprentice Douglas Hegdahl was now in the South China Sea, watching the lights of the USS Canberra disappearing into the darkness. The water was warm, probably 80 degrees, but Doug's first sensation was shock.

He tried to yell, but the ship was already too far away. her engines drowning out any sound he could make. He wasn't wearing a life jacket. He was in his dungarees and a t-shirt, with only his boots to kick off to stay afloat. For the first few minutes, Doug expected the ship to turn around. Surely someone had seen him fall. Surely they'd notice he was missing.

But as minutes stretched into an hour, then two, the terrible reality set in. Nobody knew he was gone. It would be hours before he was missed at morning, morning muster and by then the ship would be miles away. Doug had grown up landlocked but he could swim. Every summer he and his siblings had gone to the local swimming hole but swimming in a South Dakota pond and staying afloat in the open ocean were vastly different things. The swells lifted and dropped him. Saltwater stung his eyes and filled his mouth when he mistimed his breathing.

As dawn approached Doug had been in the water for nearly three hours. His arms and legs were cramping. He'd given up actively swimming and was just trying to float, conserving what energy he had left. That's when he spotted something that would save his life. A piece of debris, possibly from a previous naval bombardment or just random flotsam, was floating nearby. It wasn't much, maybe four feet long and a foot wide, but it was enough to hold on to. As the sun rose on June 19th, Doug Heggdahl clung to his makeshift float approximately two miles off the coast of North Vietnam. He'd been in the water for over four hours. His skin was already beginning to blister from the salt and sun. His throat was parched, but he was alive. Around eight in the

morning, Doug spotted fishing boats in the distance. His first instinct was relief. But as the boats drew closer, he realized these weren't South Vietnamese fishermen. These were North Vietnamese, and he was about to become a prisoner of war. The fishermen who pulled Doug from the water seemed as surprised as he was. They probably expected to find a downed pilot, not a waterlogged sailor. Doug was hauled into one of the boats, where several fishermen pointed rifles at him while jabbering in Vietnamese. Doug raised his hands, the universal gesture of surrender. The boat headed for shore. Doug could see a small fishing village ahead, with thatched-roofed huts and sandpans pulled up on the beach. As they approached, people began gathering. Word had spread

that the fishermen had caught an American. What followed was Doug's first taste of what would become three and a half years of captivity. The villagers, particularly the women and children, were angry. They threw rocks. They spit. They screamed at him in Vietnamese. Doug couldn't understand the words, but the meaning was clear. He was the enemy. American planes had been bombing their country. Americans had likely killed people they knew. The militia arrived within an hour. These were local forces, farmers and fishermen with rifles, organized for village defense. They tied Doug's hands behind his back with wire that cut into his wrists. They blindfolded him with a dirty rag. Then began a forced march that would take him from the coastal village into the

interior. The march was brutal. Doug had been in the water for hours, was dehydrated, exhausted, and now was being forced to walk at gunpoint. When he stumbled, rifle butts encouraged him to get up. When he fell, kicks got him moving. The blindfold meant he couldn't see obstacles. He tripped constantly, each fall bringing more abuse. They walked for hours. Doug's feet, already softened from hours in salt water, began to blister and bleed. His throat was so dry he couldn't swallow. Several times he thought he would collapse and die on that trail. Stay tuned for more disturbing history.

We'll be back after these messages. But something kept him going. Maybe it was his farm boy toughness. Maybe it was fear of what would happen if he stopped. Maybe it was just stubborn refusal to give up. Finally, as darkness fell, They reached their destination. Doug was pushed into what felt like a small building.

The blindfold was removed. He was in a concrete cell, maybe six feet by seven feet. There was no furniture, just a concrete slab for sleeping and a bucket in the corner. The door was solid metal with a small window. For the first time since falling overboard, Doug had a moment to think. He was a prisoner of war. He was in North Vietnam. nobody knew where he was. The Canberra probably thought he'd drowned. His parents would get a

telegram saying he was missing and presumed dead. The full weight of his situation crashed down on him. After several days in the village jail, Doug was loaded onto a truck for the journey north to Hanoi. The trip took two days, traveling only at night to avoid American airstrikes. Doug was kept blindfolded and tied, given minimal water and no food. By the time they reached Hanoi, he was delirious from dehydration and exhaustion. His destination was Hualo Prison, sarcastically dubbed the Hanoi Hilton by American prisoners of war. Built by the French in the 1800s to house Vietnamese political prisoners, Hualo was a forbidding complex in the heart of Hanoi.

Its walls were topped with broken glass and electrified wire. Guard towers overlooked every inch of the compound. Doug was processed like all new arrivals. stripped, searched, photographed, and issued prisoner clothing, black pajamas and rubber sandals made from old tires. He was assigned a cell in the section Americans called New Guy Village, where recent captures were held before being moved to permanent quarters. The cell was seven feet by seven feet. The walls were concrete, stained with moisture and mold. The only light came from a single bulb that was kept on 24 hours a day.

The only ventilation was a small barred window near the ceiling. In the corner was the honey bucket, which was emptied once a day. The smell was overwhelming. Doug's first interrogation came within hours of arrival. He was brought to a room where a North Vietnamese officer sat behind a desk. The officer spoke English with a heavy accent. He wanted information. Name, rank, serial number, unit, mission, aircraft type, targets.

Doug gave only what the Geneva Convention required, name, rank, serial number, and date of birth. The interrogator wasn't satisfied. He wanted to know about the Canberra. How many men? What weapons? What was their mission? Doug played dumb. He was just a seaman apprentice. He cleaned decks. He didn't know anything about weapons or missions. The interrogator grew frustrated. Threats were made. Doug maintained his ignorance. ignorance. This would become Doug's survival strategy. Play dumb. Be the ignorant farm boy who didn't understand anything complicated. It wasn't entirely an act. Doug really was one of the lowest ranking prisoners ever captured. He really didn't have access to classified information.

But he played up his ignorance, exaggerated his simplicity, made himself seem barely competent. The North Vietnamese had a problem with Doug. He didn't fit their usual prisoner profile. Most American POWs were pilots, educated officers with technical knowledge. They knew how to extract information from these men through torture and coercion. But what do you do with a 19-year-old seaman apprentice who seems barely smart enough to tie his own shoes? Within weeks of his arrival at the Hanoi Hilton, Doug Heggdahl had established his persona. He was, in the words of his captors, incredibly stupid. This wasn't just an act for the interrogators. Doug committed to this role completely. He pretended not to understand basic

instructions. He fumbled with chopsticks like he'd never seen them before. He counted on his fingers for simple math. The guards began calling him, the incredibly stupid one. They laughed at him. They mocked him to other prisoners, but they also began to ignore him. After all, what intelligence value could this simpleton possibly have? What threat could he pose? This perception gave Doug something precious in a POW camp, freedom of movement. The guards became lax around him. They'd let him out of his cell to dump honey buckets for other prisoners.

They'd have him sweep the compound. They'd send him on errands, always under guard but with less scrutiny than other prisoners received. Doug used every opportunity to gather intelligence. As he moved through the compound, he memorized the layout. He counted cells. He noted guard positions and shift changes. Most importantly, he made contact with other prisoners. Through the walls, using the tap code that POWs had developed,

he began collecting information. The tap code was ingenious in its simplicity. The alphabet was arranged in a 5-5 grid, with C and K sharing a space. To communicate a letter, you tap the row number, paused, then tapped the column number. It was tedious, but effective. prisoners could communicate through walls, sharing information, boosting morale, maintaining military structure even in captivity.

Doug had an extraordinary ability to memorize what he heard through the tap code. Names, ranks, capture dates, aircraft types, personal information about families back home. He turned it all into mental music, setting the information to tunes he knew. The names of prisoners became verses in Old MacDonald. Capture Dates became a song to the tune of jingle bells. Within six months, Doug had memorized details about over 100 prisoners. He knew who was in solitary confinement. He knew who had been tortured.

He knew who was sick. He knew who had died. He became a living database of prisoner information, all while maintaining his facade as the village idiot. The conditions at the Hanoi Hilton were designed to break men. The diet consisted of two meals a day. pumpkin soup and bread in the morning, rice with boiled greens in the evening, maybe 600 calories total. Prisoners rapidly lost weight. Malnutrition led to diseases like Berra Berry and dysentery.

Medical care was almost non-existent. The cells were torture in themselves. In summer, temperatures exceeded 100 degrees with suffocating humidity. In winter, it was cold and damp. Rats were constant companions. Mosquitoes carried malaria and dengue fever. The honey buckets attracted flies that spread disease. But the worst torture was intentional. The North Vietnamese used what they called the ropes. A prisoner's arms would be tied behind his back. Then the rope would be pulled until his shoulders dislocated. They used leg irons that cut off circulation. They used solitary confinement that lasted months. They beat prisoners with bamboo clubs. They withheld food and water.

Doug witnessed all of this. He saw strong men broken. He saw officers cry. He saw trained resistors give up information. But he also saw incredible courage. He saw men endure torture to protect others. He saw prisoners risk punishment to share their meager rations with someone sicker. He saw the American Military Code of Conduct lived out in the most extreme circumstances.

In December 1967, Doug was moved from the Hanoi Hilton to another prison camp the Americans called the zoo. Located on the outskirts of Hanoi, the zoo had been a film studio before being converted to a prison. The buildings were arranged around a central courtyard with a swimming pool that had been filled with sewage. The zoo housed about 100 American prisoners. The conditions were marginally better than the Hanoi Hilton. The cells were slightly larger and prisoners were sometimes allowed out for exercise. but the torture continued.

The camp commander whom the Americans nicknamed the rabbit for his prominent front teeth was particularly sadistic. Doug continued his act at the zoo. He convinced the guards he couldn't learn Vietnamese numbers past three. When they tried to teach him propaganda phrases, he mangled them so badly they gave up. When they had him help in the kitchen, he accidentally ruined entire pots of soup. The guards thought he was hopeless. But Doug was far from hopeless.

He was systematically memorizing every piece of information he could gather. Through the tap code, through whispered conversations during bucket runs, through observations during his work details, Doug was building a comprehensive picture of the American POW population. He learned about Commander James Stockdale, the senior naval officer among the prisoners, who despite repeated torture maintained military discipline among the POWs. He learned about Colonel Robinson Reisner, who spent three years in solitary confinement

rather than cooperate with propaganda efforts. He learned about Lieutenant Commander John McCain, whose father was an admiral, and who refused early release unless all prisoners captured before him were released first. Doug also learned about the deaths. Lieutenant Ron Stords, who died from the effects of torture and medical neglect. Lieutenant Edward Adderberry, beaten to death after an escape, shape attempt. Major Norman Schmidt, who died under suspicious circumstances the Vietnamese claimed, was suicide. Each name, each date, each circumstance was committed to Doug's extraordinary memory.

In March 1968, the camp routine was disrupted by news of the Tet offensive. The guards were excited, claiming major victories. They forced prisoners to listen to Radio Hanoi broadcasts, describing American defeats. Moral among the P.O. W's plummeted. If the war was going badly, how long would they be here? Doug was moved again in August 1968, this time to a camp called the plantation. This facility, once the mayor of Hanoi's residence, was where the North Vietnamese made propaganda films. They forced prisoners to participate in staged interviews, showing them playing cards or volleyball, trying to convince the world they were being treated humanely. Doug was considered too stupid for propaganda

value, which was fine with him. He was assigned to menial tasks, sweeping, cleaning, hauling buckets. This gave him access to different parts of the camp. He memorized the layout. He counted prisoners. He noted which buildings housed torture rooms. The torture at the plantation was sophisticated. The North Vietnamese had learned that physical torture often created resistance. So they added psychological torture, sleep deprivation, sensory deprivation, forced standing for days, kneeling on concrete for hours. They broke men's minds as well as their bodies. By late 1972, Doug had been a prisoner for over five years.

He'd been moved between camps multiple times, always maintaining his facade, always gathering intelligence. His mental database now contained information on over 250 prisoners. He knew their names, ranks, capture dates, aircraft types, hometowns, wives' names, children's names, and medical conditions. The routine of captivity had become his life. Wake at dawn to a gong. Empty honey buckets. Eat watery soup. Sit in a cell for hours.

Tap code with neighbors. Eat rice and greens. Sleep on concrete. Repeat. Day after day, month after month, year after year. Then on December 18th, 1972, everything changed. The guard suddenly became agitated. Air raid sirens wailed.

Prisoners could hear explosions in the distance. President Nixon had ordered Operation Linebacker 2, what would become known as the Christmas bombing. For 11 days, B-52 bombers pounded targets around Hanoi. The prison wall shook from nearby explosions. Anti-aircraft fire lit up the night sky. The guards were terrified, some abandoning their posts to take shelter. For the first time in years, the prisoners felt hope.

Doug watched the guards' behavior change. The casual brutality decreased. The interrogation stopped. The guards seemed uncertain, even fearful. They knew something the prisoners could only hope. The bombing might signal the war's end. On December 29th, the bombing stopped. In January, 1973, the Paris Peace Accords were signed.

The agreement included provisions for the release of all prisoners of war. After years of captivity, freedom was finally within reach. But Freedom brought a dilemma for Doug. He had all this intelligence memorized. Over 250 names and details. Information the military desperately needed to account for missing persons. But he was just a seaman apprentice. Who would believe he had memorized all this?

How could he convince senior officers to let him go home early to deliver this information? The senior American officers in the camp were skeptical when Doug first approached them. Through the tap code and careful conversations, he told them what he'd memorized. They tested him. They asked for specific names, dates, and details.

Doug recited them flawlessly. The officers were assassinated. The officers were astounded. Commander Richard Stratton, one of the senior officers, realized what Doug had. This wasn't just a list of names. This was crucial intelligence that could resolve the fate of dozens of missing airmen. Families could finally know what happened to their loved ones. The military could account for personnel.

Doug had to get this information out. Stay tuned for more disturbing history. We'll be back after these messages. The Paris Peace Accord specified that prisoners would be released in the order they were captured. The longest-held prisoners would go first. Doug captured in June, 1967, was far down the list. He wouldn't be released for months. But the senior officers had a plan.

They would violate the military code of conduct, which normally forbade accepting early release. But this was different. Doug wasn't accepting favorable treatment. He was being ordered by senior officers to accept early release to deliver vital intelligence. It was a mission, not a privilege. The North Vietnamese were told Doug was sick. They didn't care. The incredibly stupid one could go.

One less mouth to feed. On August 5th, 1969, after two years and seven months in captivity, Doug Heggdahl was released along with two other prisoners. But wait. Some of you might have noticed a discrepancy. How could Doug be released in August, 1969, when I just described events in 1972? This is because Doug's story has two parts. He was released early in 1969, but the bulk of the prisoners, whose information he carried, remained in captivity until 1973.

Let me correct the chronology. Doug was actually released on August 5, 1969, as part of a propaganda gesture by the North Vietnamese. They released three prisoners to a peace delegation, hoping to influence American public opinion. Doug was selected by senior POW officers specifically because of the intelligence he carried. When Doug stepped off the plane in New York, he was met by military intelligence officers. He began reciting names, dates, details. The officers could barely keep up. They brought in stenographers.

Doug talked for hours, then days. 256 names poured out. Capture dates, aircraft types, personal information, medical conditions, deaths. The intelligence Doug provided was invaluable. Families who'd had no word about their loved ones finally got answers. The military could confirm who was alive, who had died, who was still missing. Doug's information helped the U.S. government pressure North Vietnam about prisoners they claimed they didn't have. have. Doug was promoted to petty officer second class and assigned to the Navy's survival,

evasion, resistance, and escape school, where he taught future aviators what to expect if captured. He traveled the country, speaking to military units and civilian groups about the POW experience. He testified before Congress about prison conditions and torture. Now that we've covered Doug's personal story, let's delve deeper into the disturbing reality of what American POWs faced in North Vietnam. Doug's experience, while remarkable, was not unique in its brutality. Over 700 American military personnel were held as prisoners of war in North Vietnam. 113 died in captivity. The torture techniques used by the North Vietnamese were systematic and refined. They had learned from the French, the Chinese, and the Soviets. They understood that every man has a breaking point.

Their goal wasn't just to extract information. It was to break the prisoner's will, to use them for propaganda, to destroy their sense of military identity and personal honor. The rope torture Doug witnessed was perhaps the most common technique. The prisoner's arms would be pulled behind his back and tied. Then the torturer would pull the rope over the prisoner's head, forcing his shoulders to dislocate.

The pain was excruciating. Most men passed out. When they came to, the torture would resume. This could go on for days. Another favorite was the Vietnamese rope trick. The prisoner would be tied in a ball, knees to chest, arms wrapped around. Ropes would be tightened until breathing became nearly impossible. The position cut off circulation.

After hours, the pain became unbearable. Prisoners would hallucinate from the combination of pain and oxygen deprivation. leg irons were used for long-term punishment. These medieval devices would be clamped around to prisoners' ankles, often so tight they cut into the flesh. Prisoners spent months in irons, unable to walk, developing infected wounds that were left untreated. Some lost the use of their legs permanently.

Solitary confinement was psychological torture. Prisoners spent years alone in dark cells, with no human contact except guards delivering food. They weren't allowed to speak. They couldn't exercise. Some developed elaborate fantasy worlds to maintain sanity. Others conversed with imaginary companions. A few simply withdrew into Catatonia.

The North Vietnamese were experts at using hope as a weapon. They would hint at release, at better treatment, at mail from home, then snatch it away. They would force prisoners to write letters they never sent. They would promise medical care. they never provided. They would dangle the possibility of ending torture if prisoners would just cooperate a little. Food was another weapon.

The standard diet provided maybe 600 calories a day. Prisoners lost an average of 40 pounds. But weight loss was just the beginning. Malnutrition led to Berra Berry, causing nerve damage. It led to scurvy, making teeth fall out. It led to dysentery, which could kill. Some prisoners were reduced to catching and eating rats to survive.

Medical neglect was deliberate. Broken bones from torture were left unset. Infections were allowed to fester. Tropical diseases went untreated. Prisoners performed surgery on each other with improvised tools. One prisoner removed another's appendix with a razor blade and no anesthesia. Another reset his own broken arm by slamming it against a wall. The propaganda efforts were relentless.

The North Vietnamese wanted statements condemning the war. They wanted admissions of war crimes. They wanted prisoners to urge American withdrawal. When torture didn't work, they tried other tactics. They offered better food, medical care, even early release. Most prisoners refused. Those who broke under torture often attempted suicide from shame. Despite the torture, despite the isolation,

despite everything the North Vietnamese threw at them. American POWs maintained military discipline and resistance. They developed a code within the code, adapting the military code of conduct to their extreme circumstances. The tap code was their lifeline. Through walls, through floors, through pipes, prisoners communicated constantly. They shared intelligence.

They passed on orders from senior officers. They told jokes. They prayed together. They maintained their humanity through these tapped conversations. Senior officers like James Stockdale and Robinson Reisner established command structures within the camps. Despite being isolated, they managed to issue orders, maintain morale, and coordinate resistance.

They established policies for dealing with torture, with propaganda, with collaboration. The policy was to resist to the point of permanent physical or mental damage then give misinformation. Make the enemy work for everything. Give them nothing for free. If forced to write a propaganda statement include obvious errors that would signal coercion.

If forced to make a recording, speak in a monotone that revealed reluctance. The prisoners developed elaborate methods of resistance. They would misconstrue orders deliberately. They would sabotage equipment accidentally. They would fake illness. They would pretend to cooperate. while actually undermining every North Vietnamese objective.

Communication wasn't limited to tap code. Prisoners swept their cells in patterns that spelled out messages. They coughed in code. They sang hymns with altered lyrics containing intelligence. They left messages in the latrines. They used hand signals during the few times they saw each other. Morale activities were crucial. Through the walls, prisoners taught each other languages, mathematics, history.

They recited poetry and literature from memory. They designed dream homes. They planned imaginary meals. They maintained humor, creating elaborate jokes and stories that passed from cell to cell. Religious faith sustained many. Prisoners held whispered church services. They shared remembered Bible verses. They prayed together through the walls.

Even non-religious prisoners found themselves drawn to these expressions of hope and solidarity. While Doug and his fellow POWs suffered in North Vietnam, another battle was being fought at home. The families of prisoners and missing personnel fought their own war for recognition, information, and action. Initially, the U.S. government discouraged families from speaking publicly about prisoners. The official policy was to keep a low profile,

not to antagonize the North Vietnamese. Families were told their loved ones would be treated better if they stayed quiet. For years, many families suffered in isolation, not even knowing if their husbands, fathers, and sons were alive. But by 1969, some families had had enough. Sybil Stockdale, wife of James Stockdale, began organizing other wives. They formed the National League of Families of American Prisoners and Missing in Southeast Asia. They demanded information.

They demanded action. They refused to be quiet any longer. These families faced their own torture. Years without word. Children growing up without fathers. Financial hardship as military pay for missing personnel was reduced. The constant not knowing, was he alive, was he being tortured, would he ever come home? Some wives received supposed letters from their husbands that were clearly coerced. The handwriting was wrong. The language was stilted. References to family members were incorrect. These letters were psychological torture, proving their loved ones were alive but

suffering. The families lobbied Congress. They met with presidents. They held rallies. They wore POW MIA bracelets with their loved ones' names. They kept the issue in the public eye when the government and the public wanted to forget. Children grew up in limbo. They couldn't mourn because their fathers might be alive. They couldn't hope because their fathers might be dead. Some acted out. Some withdrew. All carried wounds that would never fully heal. Some families received word that their loved ones had died in captivity.

But without bodies, without proof, some refused to believe. They held on to hope for years, even decades. The not knowing was perhaps worse than certain death would have been. Doug Heggdahl's released intelligence had immediate and far-reaching impacts. The 256 names he memorized weren't just data points. They were answers to agonizing questions. They were proof of life or confirmation of death. They were leverage in negotiations.

The U.S. military had lists of missing personnel, but they didn't know who was captured versus who had died. The North Vietnamese refused to provide complete prisoner lists, violating the Geneva Convention. They used uncertainty as a weapon, keeping families and the government in the dark. Doug's information confirmed that men listed as missing were actually prisoners. This allowed the government to pressure North Vietnam about specific individuals.

It forced the North Vietnamese to acknowledge prisoners they claimed they didn't have. It exposed their lies to international organizations. For families, Doug's information was priceless. Parents learned their sons were alive. Wives learned their husbands had been captured. not killed. Children learned their fathers might come home. Even confirmation of death as painful as it was provided closure. The intelligence also revealed the extent of torture and mistreatment. Doug described specific incidents, specific perpetrators, specific victims. This information

was used to document war crimes. It was presented to international bodies. It influenced public opinion and policy. Doug's memorization technique became a case study. The military analyzed how he'd done it, turning information into songs. They incorporated his methods into seer training. Future aviators learned not just to resist, but to gather and retain intelligence even under extreme stress. The debriefings revealed patterns in North Vietnamese interrogation techniques. The military learned what information the enemy prioritized. They learned what resistance techniques worked. They learned how to better prepare personnel for potential capture.

Doug's information also exposed collaborators. A few prisoners had cooperated beyond what torture could excuse. They had voluntarily made propaganda statements. They had informed on fellow prisoners. Doug's intelligence helped the military distinguish between those who broke under torture and those who willingly collaborated. On February 12, 1973, the first of the first time, group of prisoners was released under Operation Homecoming.

116 Americans walked or were carried to waiting C-141 transport planes. As the planes lifted off from Hanoi, men who hadn't cried through years of torture broke down. The flight's home were surreal. After years of rice and pumpkin soup, the men were offered steak dinners. After years of isolation, they were surrounded by medical personnel, intelligence officers, and fellow POWs. After years of uncertainty, they were finally going home, but home had changed. The America of 1973 was vastly different from the one many had left in the mid-60s. The war had torn the country apart.

Anti-war protests had peaked. Veterans were being spit on. Stay tuned for more disturbing history. We'll be back after these messages. The POWs, expecting heroes' welcomes, sometimes found. indifference or even hostility. Marriages had dissolved under the strain. Children didn't recognize fathers who'd been gone for years. Men who'd maintained military bearing through torture fell apart when faced with broken families. The divorce

rate among POWs was significantly higher than the military average. Physical rehabilitation took months or years. Broken bones that had healed wrong needed to be rebroken and set. Tropical diseases required extended treatment. malnutrition had caused permanent damage. Some men never fully recovered physically. Psychological wounds ran deeper. Post-traumatic stress disorder, not yet fully understood, plagued many. Nightmares were common.

Depression was endemic. Some turned to alcohol. Some couldn't maintain relationships. Some couldn't hold jobs. The strongest men in captivity sometimes struggled most in freedom. The military struggled with how to hand up. the POWs. They were heroes, but they were also traumatized. They had valuable intelligence, but they also had outdated skills. They deserved recognition, but too much attention made

some uncomfortable. Finding the balance was difficult. For Doug Hegdahl, the transition was somewhat easier. He'd been home since 1969. He'd had years to process his experience. His role as an instructor at Sears School gave him purpose. But Survivor's guilt haunted him. Why had he been released when others suffered for years more? The Paris Peace Accords signed January 27, 1973, officially ended American involvement in Vietnam. But the war's wounds would take generations to heal.

For POWs and their families, the war never really ended. It lived on in nightmares, in disabilities, in broken relationships. 591 Americans were released during Operation Homecoming, but over 2,500 remained missing. Their fate unknown. Their families in limbo. The POW MIA issue would dominate U.S. Vietnam relations for decades. Investigations revealed that some prisoners had likely been held back. Intelligence suggested some had been transferred to the Soviet Union or China.

Others had died in captivity. but were never acknowledged. The full truth may never be known. The POW experience challenged American military doctrine. The code of conduct, requiring only name, rank, serial number, and date of birth, proved inadequate against sophisticated torture. The military had to acknowledge that everyone breaks eventually.

The goal became to resist as long as possible, not to resist absolutely. Seer training was revolutionized based on P. experiences. Veterans like Doug Heggdahl taught future aviators what to really expect. Not Hollywood heroics, but grinding systematic torture designed to break the human spirit. Students learned that survival meant adaptation, that resistance meant delaying rather than preventing capitulation. The POW story also revealed American resilience. Despite everything, most prisoners maintained their honor. They supported each other. They resisted

when possible. They survived experiences that should have destroyed them. Their story became one of the few unambiguous points of pride from a deeply ambiguous war. After his naval service, Doug Heggdahl returned to civilian life, but his experience in Vietnam defined the rest of his existence. He married and raised a family, but the memories never faded. The faces of fellow prisoners haunted him. The ones who didn't make it home weighed on his conscience. Doug continued speaking about the P.O.W. experience for decades. Schools, veterans groups, military units, anyone who would listen. He felt obligated to keep the story alive, to ensure the suffering and sacrifice weren't forgotten. Each speech was both cathartic and traumatic, reliving the experience while honoring

those who endured it. His extraordinary memory, which had saved so many, remained sharp. Decades later, he could still recite the names, ranks, and capture dates of his fellow prisoners. At POW Reunions, he was treated as a hero, the young sailor who'd outsmarted their captors and brought their stories home. But Doug struggled with the hero label. He'd simply done what he could with the abilities he had. The real heroes, he insisted, were those who endured years more captivity, who faced torture rather than collaborate, who maintained military honor under impossible circumstances. The Vietnam War remained controversial, but the POWs occupied a unique space in American memory.

They were unambiguous victims and heroes. Their suffering was clear. Their courage undeniable. In a war characterized by moral ambiguity, they provided moral clarity. Doug's story inspired changes beyond military training. Educators studied his memorization techniques. Psychologists analyzed his survival. strategies. His ability to maintain a facade while gathering intelligence became a case study in

resistance and adaptation. To fully understand Doug Heggdahl's story, we must place it within the broader context of the Vietnam War and its prisoners. The Vietnam conflict produced more American POWs held for longer periods than any war since the Civil War. Their experience was unique in American military history. Unlike World War II, where prisoners were held by nations that generally observed the Geneva Convention. North Vietnam explicitly rejected international law regarding prisoners. They classified captured Americans as war criminals rather than prisoners of war. This designation justified in their view, any treatment including torture. The Vietnam P.O.W. experience differed from Korea too. In Korea, prisoners faced indoctrination and brainwashing,

but systematic physical torture was less common. In Vietnam, Torture, was policy. Every prisoner could expect to be tortured. The only questions were when and how severely. The length of captivity was extraordinary. Some Americans were held for over eight years. They missed the entire cultural revolution of the 60s. They left an America of crew cuts and arrived to long hair. They left during escalation and returned after withdrawal. Their America had fundamentally changed. The POW issue influenced American foreign policy for decades. The possibility that prisoners remained in Southeast Asia after 1973 drove policy decisions. It delayed normalization of relations with Vietnam. It funded numerous investigations

and recovery missions. The POWMIA flag still flies over government buildings. The propaganda war around POWs was intense. North Vietnam used prisoners for propaganda, forcing confessions and statements. America used POW treatment to justify continued bombing. Both sides weaponized prisoners suffering for political purposes. The prisoners themselves became pawns in a larger game. The racial dynamics among POWs reflected American society. The few African-American POWs faced unique challenges. They were targeted for special propaganda efforts, told they were fighting a white man's war. Most resisted these efforts, maintain. solidarity with fellow Americans regardless of race.

We must confront the disturbing reality of what these men endured. The torture wasn't just physical pain. It was systematic dehumanization designed to destroy the human spirit. Understanding this helps us appreciate the extraordinary courage required to survive and resist. The North Vietnamese understood that physical pain has limits. The body goes into shock. The mind dissociates. So they combined physical torture with psychological torture.

They would torture a man to his limit, let him recover, then start again. This cycle could continue for months. Sleep deprivation was a favorite technique. Prisoners would be kept awake for days, even weeks. Guards would beat them if they closed their eyes. Lights would strobe. Sounds would blast. After 72 hours without sleep, hallucinations begin.

After a week, temporary psychosis sets in. Forced standing was another technique. Prisoners would have to stand at attention for days. Their legs would swell. Their feet would turn purple. Eventually, they'd collapse. They'd be beaten until they stood again. This would continue until they agreed to cooperate or passed out.

The knobby room was particularly sadistic. The walls, floor, and ceiling were covered with rough concrete knives. The prisoner couldn't stand, sit, or lie down without being on the knobs. After hours, the pain was excruciating. After days, the skin would be raw and bleeding. Waterboarding, though not called that then, was used. Prisoners would be tied to a board, their heads lower than their feet. Water would be poured over a cloth covering their faces.

The sensation of drowning was immediate and terrifying. Most men broke within minutes. The psychological torture was equally devastating. Prisoners were told their country had forgotten them. They were shown forged letters, saying their wives had remarried. They were told their children thought they were dead. They were isolated from human contact for years. Some went insane.

Mock executions were common. Prisoners would be blindfolded, made to kneel, and feel a gun against their heads. The trigger would click on an empty chamber. This might happen daily. The uncertainty, the constant fear of death, broke many men. Sexual torture rarely discussed publicly occurred. The humiliation and shame prevented most victims from ever speaking about it. This silence protected the perpetrators and isolated the victims.

Decades later, some veterans still couldn't discuss what was done to them. The Vietnamese also used medical torture, withholding medicine from the sick, performing unnecessary procedures without anesthesia, deliberately infecting wounds, using medical knowledge to maximize pain while avoiding death. Doctors who should have been healers became torturers. Despite this systematic brutality, American POWs demonstrated extraordinary resilience.

They found ways not just to survive but to resist, to maintain dignity, to support each other. Their resilience provides lessons about the depth, of human strength. Humor became a survival tool. Prisoners created elaborate jokes that passed from cell to sell. They gave guards mocking nicknames. They found absurdity in their suffering.

Laughter, even in hell, affirmed their humanity. It said to their captors, You haven't broken us. Faith sustained many, but not just religious faith. Faith in America. Faith in fellow prisoners. faith in eventual freedom, faith that their suffering had meaning.

This faith wasn't naive optimism, but a conscious choice to believe despite evidence to the contrary. Creativity flourished in captivity. Prisoners composed symphonies in their heads. They wrote novels they'd never put on paper. They designed houses they'd never build. They invented games, languages, entire worlds.

The mind, even in a torture, body remained free. Education continued. Through tap code, prisoners taught each other. Languages, mathematics, engineering, history, literature. Men who'd never finished high school earned informal degrees. The prison became an underground university. Learning proved the mind could grow even as the body withered.

Physical fitness, when possible, maintained morale. Prisoners did push-ups, sit-ups, isometric exercises. They ran in place in tiny cells. They lifted buckets of human waste for strength training. Maintaining their bodies was an act of defiance. It said, we're soldiers still. The Tap Code created community. Men who never met face-to-face became best friends.

They knew each other's hopes, fears, dreams. They prayed together. They sang together. They maintained human connection despite isolation. The walls couldn't stop. their fellowship. Leadership emerged and evolved. Senior officers maintained command even in isolation. Junior officers stepped up when seniors were unavailable. Enlisted men like Doug showed initiative beyond their rank. The military hierarchy adapted but survived. Order persisted in chaos.

When the POWs returned in 1973, America wanted to celebrate heroes. But the celebration was complicated. The war was unpopular. The country was divided. The POWs became symbols in a cultural war they didn't understand. Some Americans saw them as the only heroes from a bad war. Others saw them as symbols of American imperialism. Some wanted to hear their stories. Others wanted to forget the whole war. The POWs found themselves pulled in different directions. The military struggled with reintegration. Officers who'd been POWs had missed years of career development. Their contemporaries had been promoted. Their skills were outdated. Some were given honorary promotions. Others were quietly retired. The promise of normal

careers rarely materialized. Physically, many never recovered. Injuries from torture plagued them. Tropical diseases recurred. Malnutrition had caused permanent damage. The VA medical system, already overwhelmed with Vietnam veterans, struggled to provide adequate care. Psychologically, the wounds ran deeper. Stay tuned for more disturbing history. We'll be back after these messages. PTSD, not yet properly understood or treated, was epidemic. Marriage is collapsed. Careers failed. Some turned to alcohol or drugs. Some committed suicide. The strongest men in captivity sometimes were the most fragile in freedom. The POW experience didn't fit the American narrative of war. Americans like clean victories,

clear enemies, happy endings. The POW story was messy. The enemy had won many battles. The suffering continued after release. There was no closure, just ongoing pain. Some POWs became activists. They fought for better veteran care. They pushed for full accounting of the missing. They kept the POW MIA issue alive. Others withdrew completely, wanting nothing to do with Vietnam or the military. Both responses were survival mechanisms. Families struggled too. Wives who'd been independent for years now had husbands who expected 1960s marriages. Children who'd grown up without fathers now had strangers claiming paternal authority. The idealized reunions gave way to difficult reality. Doug Heggdahl's story transcends the Vietnam War. It speaks to universal truths about

human nature, about survival, about the power of the mind, about the strength found in service to others. His experience in those North Vietnamese prisons teaches us lessons we dare not forget. First, Doug's story shows that heroism comes in unexpected packages. A 19-year-old seaman apprentice, the lowest of the low in military hierarchy, became one of the most valuable intelligence assets of the war. He didn't fire weapons or fly planes. He memorized names. Sometimes the greatest service comes from the humblest sources.

His story also demonstrates the power of playing to your strengths. Doug couldn't physically overpower his captors. He couldn't outrank them, but he could outthink them by playing dumb. He turned perceived weakness into actual strength. The lesson, work with what you have, not what you wish you had. Doug's experience shows that intelligence isn't just about being smart. It's about being observant, patient, and dedicated. Doug's farm boy background, his experience with repetitive labor,

his ability to entertain himself during boring tasks, all prepared him for the monotony of gathering intelligence in captivity. His ordeal illustrates the importance of maintaining cover. For over two years, Doug never broke character. He was always the incredibly stupid one. Even when guards relaxed around him, even when he could have dropped the act, he maintained it. Consistency and deception requires extraordinary discipline.

Doug's memorization technique shows that information becomes more memorable when transformed. By turning names and dates into songs, he made them stick. This principle applies beyond prison camps. We remember stories better than facts. We remember rhythms better than lists. We remember what we make meaningful. His story demonstrates that individual actions can have strategic impacts. Doug was one man memorizing names.

But those names influenced negotiations, provided closure to families, and documented war crimes. Individual actions, even small ones, can ripple outward in ways we can't imagine. Doug's experience shows that survival isn't just physical. It's mental, emotional, spiritual. The POWs who survived best weren't necessarily the strongest physically. They were those who maintained purpose, connection, hope. Doug's purpose, gathering intelligence, gave him reason to endure. His story reminds us that wars don't end when the shooting stops. Doug came home in 1969, but he carried Vietnam forever.

The other POWs came home in 1973, but their war continued. Trauma doesn't respect peace treaties. Healing takes longer than hurting. Doug's experience teaches us about moral courage. It would have been easier to just survive, to keep his head down, to think only of himself. Instead, he risked punishment to gather intelligence that would help others. Moral courage means doing right, especially when it's dangerous. Finally, Doug Heggdahl's story reminds us that ordinary people can do extraordinary things.

He wasn't special forces. He wasn't CIA. He wasn't trained for this. He was a farm kid from South Dakota who fell off a ship. But when history called, he answered. When his country needed him, he served. When his fellow prisoners needed hope, he provided it. The Vietnam War remains controversial.

Its justification, conduct, and conclusion are still debated. But the courage of men like Doug Hegdahl transcends politics. Their sacrifice stands apart from policy. Their heroism needs no justification. Today, as we face new conflicts and challenges, Doug's story remains relevant. It reminds us that strength comes in many forms, that intelligence isn't always about firepower or technology. that sometimes the best weapon is a good memory and the courage to use it.

Doug Heggdahl died on May 4th, 2021 at age 73. He'd lived a full life after Vietnam, but those three and a half years in captivity defined him. To the end, he could still recite those names, ranks, and dates. They were his burden and his honor. In our modern world of instant communication and satellite surveillance, it's hard to imagine a situation where one person, could be so vital. But Doug's story reminds us that in extreme circumstances, human capabilities

become critical. Technology fails. Communications break down. In the end, we rely on each other. The Hanoi Hilton is now a museum. Visitors can tour the cells where Americans suffered. The Vietnamese presentation minimizes the torture, emphasizes humane treatment. But the walls remember. the stones absorbed the screams. The cells held the tears. History happened here, whether acknowledged or not. For Americans, the POW story remains one of the few uncomplicated narratives from Vietnam. These men were heroes, full stop. They suffered for their country. They maintained honor under impossible circumstances. They came home broken, but undefeated. Their story deserves to be told and retold.

Doug Hegdahl's incredible journey from a South Dakota farm to a North Vietnamese prison to the halls of Congress testifying about his experience represents something essentially American. The idea that anyone, regardless of background or status, can make a difference. That character matters more than credentials. That service to others is the highest calling. As we conclude this disturbing but inspiring chapter of history, we're left with questions. Could we endure what Doug endured? Could we maintain such discipline,

such focus, such humanity in the face of systematic dehumanization? We hope never to find out. But if we do, we have Doug's example to guide us. His message to future generations was simple. Remember those who served. Honor those who sacrificed. Learn from what happened. Don't let it happen again. And if you find yourself in impossible circumstances, remember that a farm boy from South Dakota once proved that with courage, creativity, and commitment, even the impossible becomes possible. The disturbing history of American POWs in Vietnam can't be separated from the larger disturbing history of the war itself. But within that darkness, lights like Doug Heggdahl shined. They proved that human dignity can survive even the most determined attempts to

destroy it. They showed that honor exists even in dishonor's realm. They demonstrated that hope persists even in hopelessness. This is Doug Heggdahl's legacy, not just the intelligence he gathered, not just the lives he saved, but the proof he provided that ordinary people can transcend extraordinary circumstances, that humanity's best qualities, courage, compassion, sacrifice, and service can flourish even in humanity's worst creation. The story of Doug Heggdahl and his fellow POWs will disturb you. It should. The capacity for human cruelty displayed in those prison camps challenges our faith in civilization.

But their story will also inspire you. It must. Because the capacity for human resilience displayed in those same camps affirms our hope for humanity. That's what disturbing history teaches us. Not just about the darkness in the human heart, but about the light that refuses. to be extinguished. Not just about how low we can sink,

but how high we can rise. Not just about suffering, but about survival. Not just about captivity, but about the freedom that lives in the human spirit. Unbreakable, unconquerable, and ultimately unforgettable. Doug Heggdahl,

the incredibly stupid one who was actually incredibly brave, incredibly smart, and incredibly dedicated, represents the best of what Americans can be. His story, disturbing as it is, deserves to be remembered. The price of freedom, as Doug and his fellow POWs proved, is not just vigilance. It's sacrifice. It's service.

It's the willingness of ordinary people to do extraordinary things when history demands it. And so we close this chapter of disturbing history with both sorrow and pride. Sorrow for what these men endured. Pride in how they endured it. Their story is America's story, complicated, painful, but ultimately redemptive. They went through hell and came back to tell us about it. The least we can do is listen. The least we can do is remember.

The least we can do is honor their sacrifice by learning from their experience. Doug Heggdahl fell off a ship in 1967 and into history. He emerged from captivity in 1969, carrying the hopes and prayers of 256 fellow Americans in his memory. He spent the rest of his life making sure their sacrifice wasn't forgotten. Now it's our turn to carry that memory forward. Because if we forget the Doug Heggdaws of the world, we risk forgetting what courage looks like,

what service means, what sacrifice costs. This disturbing history is our history. These heroes are our heroes. Their suffering was real. Their courage was real. Their story is real. And in a world increasingly divorced from reality, their truth stands as testament to what humans can endure,

what Americans have sacrificed, and what freedom actually costs. Remember Doug Heggdahl. Remember the Hanoi Hilton. Remember the POWs. Remember the price of war. Remember the cost of freedom. Remember that sometimes the most unlikely people become the most important.

remember that courage comes in many forms remember that even in the darkest places human dignity can survive remember because they suffered so we could be free remember because forgetting dishonors their sacrifice remember because their disturbing history is our shared history and we owe them nothing less than our eternal gratitude and our promise to never forget My shadow, your skin, I've got a taste for you. You're high, I'm seeking, watch out, I'm seeing, watch out, I'm coming for you. Ooh, you better run now. Ooh, the moon is out now.

Ooh, you're gonna hear my how. Oh, ho, ho. Blood skies, red eyes can't give enough for me. My dream is your night there You'll see me coming for you I'm coming for you Ooh You better run now

Ooh The moon is out now Ooh Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, yeah. Ooh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, you're gonna run now. Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, you're gonna hear my end. Oh Oh

Oh Oh Oh Oh Thank you. Thank you.