There was something in the air. I don’t want to make this too mysterious, but it was kind of a dark and dreary night. As they walked me over to the other side of the camp and put me in a little privy-like place I’d never seen before that’s just full of cobwebs — it would only accommodate one man — and I think they were just doing something to get me out of that camp so that I knew I’d go in Room 18 the next morning. And the man came in with leg irons and he put them on me and they were squeeze irons, built to put pressure points on your legs so you couldn’t sleep that night. And I looked down there and he was, so help me, weeping, and not out of sympathy for me I’m sure, but I marked that down in my book. And then the next morning, when I was taken over to the other place to get the torture started for that day there was a couple of other people weeping. And I said, “Old Ho Chi Minh probably died last night.” I’d been unsuccessfully accosted to give them information. I could hold it back from the particular crowd that was working with me that day, they were kind of halfway friendly people. Something was wrong. The whole country was going bananas. Later that afternoon, I was just lying down on my roll, assuming that the day was over, and this guy named Bug, who was a snotty officer, he said, “Get on your feet! Tomorrow is the day we bring you down.” That meant I would succumb.