Snow drifted down over the Bridge of No Return as communist riflemen watched from the surrounding hills. Odd Job, one of the guards, called CDR Bucher from his bus to identify the remains of Fireman Duane Hodges. The fireman’s body, wrapped tightly in gauze like a mummy, had been brought to the bridge in an ambulance. Attendants wearing white surgical masks lifted the coffin lid and peeled back the bandages so Bucher could see the face within.

“Yes, that is Duane Hodges,” he said, turning away in grief and revulsion.

Odd Job led him back to the bus, where duty officers began handing out mimeographed copies of Woodward’s apology. Bucher read in disbelief:

“The Government of the United States of America,

Acknowledging the validity of the confessions of the crew of the USS ‘Pueblo’ and the documents of evidence produced by the representative of the Government of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea to the effect that the ship, which was seized by the self-defense measure of the naval vessels of the Korean People’s Army in the territorial waters of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea on January 23, 1968, had illegally intruded into the territorial waters of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea on many occasions and conducted espionage activities of spying out important military and state secrets of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea,

Shoulders full responsibility and solemnly apologizes for the grave acts of espionage committed by the U.S. ship against the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea after having intruded into the territorial waters of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea,

And gives firm assurance that no U.S. ships will intrude again in the future into the territorial waters of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”

At eleven-thirty a.m., Bucher was called off the bus once more. He was escorted toward a guardhouse incongruously adorned with painted doves. Beyond it lay the bridge—the pathway home. A high-ranking North Korean officer appeared and began berating him loudly. It was General Pak, and for twenty minutes he railed against American imperialism while Bucher stamped his sneakered feet to keep warm. When Pak finished, Odd Job spoke sternly:

“Now walk across that bridge, Captain. Not stop. Not look back. Not make any bad move. Just walk across sincerely. Go now!”

Gaunt and hollow-eyed, his brown hair turned steel gray after nearly a year of torment, Bucher limped forward. He had led his men into this ordeal; now he would lead them out. Behind him followed the ambulance carrying Hodges’s body. From loudspeakers came a recorded confession: “Eleven months to the day ago, we were captured in the act of committing espionage…”

One by one, the remaining men were called from their buses, cautioned to stay in line, and sent toward the bridge. Soon the span was filled with nervous Americans walking twenty paces apart. Some fought the impulse to sprint for freedom; others had to restrain themselves from spitting at the soldiers lining their path.

QM1 Law, his vision permanently damaged, turned the wrong way as he exited the bus. Rough hands spun him toward the bridge. As he crossed, he struggled to recall a verse from Sunday school. Finally, it surfaced: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” He trudged onward, whispering the words as tears streaked his cheeks.

When CT2 McClintock heard his name, he called, “Here!” and made his way down the aisle. Near the door stood a guard the men had nicknamed Fetch for his habit of bringing them small favors at the Country Club prison. Fetch had often chatted with McClintock about women and seemed to view some of the Americans as his only friends. As McClintock passed, the guard grasped his hand with both of his.

“I come to visit you in Hawaii when it’s socialist,” he said eagerly.

“Don’t hold your breath,” McClintock replied, heading for the bridge.

Crossing the span felt like stepping out of the twilight zone. To him, the months of captivity were dead time—lost forever. He wasn’t jubilant; there had been too many dashed hopes. Even hatred was hard to muster. The guards who’d beaten him were not born cruel—they’d been shaped by indoctrination and fear.

Halfway across, ignoring orders not to turn back, McClintock stopped and laughed. The problem with North Korea wasn’t its people—it was communism. He felt only pity for those trapped under its grip. After a final look at the bleak, snow-covered hills, he resumed walking. The soldiers did nothing.

As Bucher neared the southern end, he performed one last act of defiance: he tore the Mao cap from his head. He would not wear communist garb a moment longer. A wide grin spread across his weathered face.

“Welcome back, Commander Bucher!” called a U.S. Army colonel, clipboard in hand, warmly dressed against the cold. Bucher marveled at how good it felt simply to be free.

The North Koreans released the final group from the last bus. Gene Lacy hobbled down the aisle. “Ensign Harris!” a duty officer shouted, and Tim ran for the door. “Schumacher!” came the next call, and Skip bolted after him. Only Lieutenant Murphy remained.

“What if your name isn’t called?” a guard asked with a smile. LT Murphy said nothing. The loudspeaker had fallen silent. Several tense minutes passed.

“Murphy!” came the shout at last, and the executive officer nearly flew from the bus.

LTJG Schumacher forced himself to walk, fighting the urge to run. The crossing took only minutes but felt like an eternity. On the far side, Bucher waited. Schumacher saluted his captain, and then extended his hand.

“We made it, Captain,” he said softly.

Source “Act of War”, by Jack Cheevers