MILITARY UPDATE
Jim Thompson, longest-held American POW, had heart of true hero

Military Update focuses on issues affecting pay, benefits and lifestyle of active and retired servicepeople. Its author, Tom Philpott, is a Virginia-based syndicated columnist and freelance writer. He has covered military issues for almost 25 years, including six years as editor of Navy Times. For 17 years he worked as a writer and senior editor for Army Times Publishing Co. Philpott, 49, enlisted in the U.S. Coast Guard in 1973 and served as an information officer from 1974-77.

By Tom Philpott

Army Col. Floyd "Jim" Thompson, longest-held prisoner of war in American history, died July 16 in Key West, Fla.

Army Col. Floyd "Jim" Thompson survived nine years of torture on dreams of returning home to a loving wife, four adoring children and a grateful nation.

Thompson passed away 34 years after fellow POWs thought they saw him die in Bao Cao, the nickname of a vicious prison camp in North Vietnam.

Through nine years of torture, starvation, unimaginable deprivation, he survived on dreams of returning home to a loving wife, four adoring children and a grateful nation. When none of that squared with reality, years of bitterness followed.

The avalanche of challenges at home, Thompson believed, did not diminish his heroics or steadfast resistance before the enemy. Those who saw his strength agree that what he endured, and how, won't be forgotten.

"I am a soldier. Period," Thompson would say if asked about the political correctness of the Vietnam War.

By spring of 1968, Thompson had been held in jungle cages and dank prison cells for more than four years, all of it in solitary confinement. The experience turned a 170-pound Special Forces officer into a "skeleton with hair," said one POW.

His appearance frightened other Americans, most of them soldiers captured in the Tet Offensive. Warrant Officer Michael O'Connor glimpsed Thompson through a crack between wall and cell door.

"This guy is dead, I thought," O'Connor told me for "Glory Denied," my book about Thompson. "As part of some cruel joke, I thought they had stuck a corpse up against the door. Then I realized he was moving."

Months later, during a routine indoctrination session for POWs, Thompson collapsed into a violent convulsion. His heart was in seizure, probably from starvation, doctors later surmised.

"A couple of us were told to carry him back to his cell," O'Connor recalled. "We didn't see him move."

Guards later took Thompson away. The other POWs figured he was dying or dead.

Before leaving Vietnam in 1973, they learned he survived and his mystique grew. His five years of solitary ended April 1, 1969, when he was tossed into a cell with three other Americans, including Lew Meyer, a Navy civilian firefighter. Meyer and Thompson began an astonishing daily exercise regime, leading to escape, Thompson's fifth attempt, in the fall of 1971. The pair avoided recapture in North Vietnam for two days. For his courage and leadership in this incident, the first observed by other POWs, Thompson would receive the Silver Star.

Back home, within a year of losing her husband, Alyce Thompson saw her support structure collapsing. She decided to move her four children into the home of a retired soldier, and posed as his wife. She instructed the Army to withhold Thompson's name from POW lists. For years, the Army complied. By the time Thompson was freed, in March 1973, Navy Lt. Cmdr. Everett Alvarez had returned and been celebrated as the longest-held POW.

At first, he didn't care. He was struggling to fulfill dreams of family and career. He and Alyce tried to save their marriage, with devastating consequences for the children. Thompson himself wasn't well-armed for that task, battling alcoholism, depression and a deep sense of betrayal.

After losing his family, Thompson fought to save his career. Again, alcohol interfered.

But Thompson never blamed the Army or the war for his troubles.

He suffered a massive stroke in 1981, which forced him to retire. Disabled, he moved to Key West, Fla., and shut himself off from family and friends.

His identity as a former POW, as longest-held, made life worthwhile. He had flag poles installed in front of his condominium complex so one could fly the POW-MIA flag. A bronze plaque mounted nearby refers to Thompson, the resident hero. Bolted to the fender of his new black Cadillac were two large U.S. flags, fit for a motorcade. His license plate read POW.

Thompson left instructions to be cremated and, without ceremony, that his ashes be spread at sea — unless, at time of death, he had been awarded the Medal of Honor. In that case, with his sacrifices properly recognized, he wanted to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery, Va.

Whether Jim Thompson deserves the nation's highest military honor, others will decide. Surely, for what he gave, he deserved more than he got.

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