“There was nothing heroic about it,” the Commander recalled. “They were just a bunch of assholes, so I did it.”
Classic.
I was having a conversation with Commander Paul Galanti, U.S. Navy (Retired).
He’d been shot down in an A-4 Skyhawk during his ninety-seventh combat mission over North Vietnam on June 17, 1966.
And spent the next six years in the Hanoi Hilton.
There’s an iconic photo of him that appeared in the October 1967 edition of Life magazine.
In it, the Commander is sitting on a stool in a sparse cell in the notorious prison, staring blankly at the camera.
But the version of the photo that appeared in Life differed from the actual image in one important way.
The editors had blurred his hands, from which his two middle fingers were extended defiantly.
He was flipping off the camera, in a not-so-subtle gesture to the North Vietnamese.
The actual photo, with middle fingers extended, had recently appeared in the U.S. Naval Academy’s alumni magazine.
Tributes had been taking place across the country to mark the fiftieth anniversary of the POWs’ release.
The February edition of the Academy’s alumni magazine contained such a tribute.
Including Galanti’s photo in the Hanoi Hilton.
It had been some time since I’d seen it.
And when I saw it this time, two things struck me.
First, I had to have a signed copy.
Why? Because it’s brilliant.
The guts. The defiance. The humor. The swagger. It represents everything a Naval Aviator is supposed to be.
Second, I wanted the backstory.
What were the circumstances? And what price, if any, had he paid for his defiance?
I had no idea if Commander Galanti was still alive.
But if he was, I intended to find him.
And after a little sleuthing, I did.
He’s in his eighties and lives in Richmond, Virginia.
We connected via phone on a recent Tuesday morning.
He began by reminding me that the Vietnamese loved to stage propaganda photos featuring POWs.
And the POWs, in turn, loved to ruin Vietnamese propaganda every and any way they could.
The Vietnamese had informed Galanti an East German film crew was due to visit the prison. He would be among those rolled out for the cameras and subjected to an interview.
“I told the Vietnamese I’d love to talk to them,” Galanti said. “I spoke German and said I’d be happy to tell them all about the torture and poor conditions.”
The Vietnamese reconsidered.
There would be no interview for Galanti, but he would have to pose for the cameras.
Which meant he would have to figure out a way to communicate he was doing so against his will.
And accept the risk.
A fellow POW had recently resisted attempts at being exploited for propaganda.
The Vietnamese had nearly electrocuted him to death as a result.
“He was pretty messed up for a while,” Galanti recalled.
Jesus.
Undeterred, Galanti knew what he had to do.
He took his seat on the bench in front of the cameras.
And gave the East Germans, and the Vietnamese, the bird.
With both fingers.
“I just did it,” he said.
No one caught it at the time the photo was taken. But Galanti assumed the Vietnamese would eventually figure out what he’d done.
And there’d be hell to pay for it.
“I was waiting for the other shoe to drop,” he recalled.
And what exactly might that have entailed?
He could have been tortured to death. That’s what.
Can you imagine?
You’re sitting in a filthy cell, day after day, not knowing if this might be the day your captors drag you out and murder you.
Incredible.
But that day never came for Galanti.
“I forgot about it after a year or so,” he said.
Then, five years later, during Operation Linebacker, in which the U.S. resumed bombing North Vietnam in earnest, he received unexpected news about the photo.
“One of the new guys who’d recently been shot down told me I was something of a celebrity among aviators because of that picture.”
Rightfully so.
But did the Vietnamese ever figure it out?
Maybe.
“Not long before I was released, I got called in for one of my last interrogations. The guy said, ‘Galanti . . . you have bad attitude.’ Why? I asked, even though I was proud of that. And he says, ‘Because you make rude gesture.’ I can only assume he was talking about the photo.”
In February 1973, Paul Galanti returned to the U.S. after 2,432 days in captivity.
He’s been asked about the photo numerous times since then.
It’s been a little awkward at times.
“When I speak to school kids, I have to tell them my situation was unique and that they shouldn’t go around giving people the middle finger.”
Fair enough.
About a week after our conversation, my phone buzzed with a message from Commander Galanti.
He’d agreed to sign a copy of the photo for me.
“I’m signing the photo now and will mail it today enroute to a reception at the executive mansion here in Richmond. Governor Glenn Youngkin is recreating the reception held by Governor Linwood Hilton for Virginia’s Vietnam POWs 50 years ago.”
That’s awesome, I thought. A fitting tribute.
He continued, “What I enjoy most about that ‘event’ is hearing my grandkids tell their friends their ‘Pops’ shot the bird to the Commies!”
Paul Galanti. What a treasure.
Of course, a guy like him would never accept the label hero.
He’s too humble for that. Too professional.
So what do you call him?
What do you call a guy who flew ninety-seven combat missions and earned a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, nine Air Medals, and two Purple Hearts?
What do you call someone who stays in the fight, having only his two middle fingers to use as weapons?
What label do you give someone who continues to resist, at the risk of his life, without knowing if he’ll ever taste freedom again?
What do you call him?
I’ll tell you what I call him:
A fucking warrior.
That’s what I call him.
God bless you, sir.
Our nation endures because of people like you.