[Congressional Record Volume 148, Number 108 (Thursday, August 1, 2002)]
[Senate]
[Page S7894]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




           TRIBUTE IN REMEMBRANCE OF LTC FLOYD JAMES THOMPSON

 Mr. THURMOND. Mr. President, I rise today to pay tribute to 
the late LTC Floyd ``Jim'' Thompson. He spent 9 excruciating years as a 
prisoner of war in Vietnam fighting for his life and our Nation. As the 
longest-held prisoner of war, Colonel Thompson embodies the core values 
of the American soldier. He survived because of his spirit, courage and 
determination, and will forever stand as an American hero. Colonel 
Thompson should be remembered for his service to our great country and 
the tremendous sacrifices that he made. I ask that an article by Mr. 
Tom Philpott be printed in the Record.

           America's Longest-Held Prisoner of War Remembered

       Army Col. Floyd ``Jim'' Thompson, the longest-held prisoner 
     of war in American history, died July 16 in Key West, Fla. At 
     age 69, his heart finally gave out, ending one of the most 
     remarkable lives among heroes of the Vietnam War. Thompson's 
     death came 34 years after fellow POWs thought they saw him 
     die in Bao Cao, the nickname of a cruel prison camp in North 
     Vietnam. It was also 25 years after Thompson saw every dream 
     that had kept him alive in Vietnam shattered in the aftermath 
     of our longest war, a conflict vastly different from the war 
     against terror in Afghanistan. ``I am a soldier. Period,'' 
     Thompson would say if asked about the political correctness 
     of the Vietnam War. End of argument, and an icy stare.
       Through nine years of torture, starvation, and unimaginable 
     deprivation, Thompson showed us the resiliency of the human 
     spirit. He refused to die, and until death had a willfulness 
     that inspired awe. 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. By the spring of 1968, Thompson 
     had been held in jungle cages and dank prison cells 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, describing Thompson at first 
     sight. His appearance literally 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. He was inches away, leaning 
     against his own cell bars.
       ``This guy is dead, I thought,'' O'Connor told me for Glory 
     Denied, my book about the Thompson saga. ``As part of some 
     cruel joke, I thought they had stuck a corpse up against the 
     door. Then I realized he was moving.'' Dick Ziegler, a 
     captured helicopter pilot, heard Thompson say he had been 
     shot down in March 1964. Ziegler did a quick calculation, and 
     began to cry. ``Eyes sunk way back in his head, cheekbones 
     sticking out. . . . He scared me to death. I understood then 
     what was waiting for me,'' Ziegler said. As the days passed, 
     O'Connor heard Thompson scratching every morning against the 
     other side of this cell wall.
       ``One day I asked him what he was doing. `Standing up,' he 
     said. Standing up! It took him half an hour. . . . Every day 
     I heard him standing up.'' Months later, during a routine 
     indoctrination session for POWs, Thompson collapsed into a 
     violent convulsion. That amazing 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 came 
     later and took Thompson away. The other POWs figured he was 
     dying if not already dead.
       Before leaving Vietnam in 1973, they learned he survived 
     and his mystique grew, particularly among soldiers. 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.
       At 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 pose 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. Thompson became a back-page story except in 
     his hometown newspaper.
       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 that 
     never eased.
       After losing his family, Thompson fought to save his 
     career. Again, alcohol interfered, aggravating a nine-year 
     professional gap with officer peers. 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 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 are two 
     large U.S. flags, fit for a motorcade. His license plate 
     reads ``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.
       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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