CNN’s clueless commenters

(Via: Michelle Malkin)

Last week the CNN Political Ticker denigrated the most highly decorated veteren since Gen. MacArthur as a simple “Swift Boat Vet Member.” However, the saddest thing you will see if you visit that page is not CNN’s blindside attack on Col. “Bud” Day, it’s the comments by readers that appear after the article. It got so bad that even CNN couldn’t take anymore and closed the comments.

Of all the idiocy posted as comments, perhaps the worst was by a woman who calls John McCain a North Vietnamese collaborator:

Will McCain protect America the way he protected military information as a POW?

From the article written by McCain in May 1973 for US News & World Report -

I think it was on the fourth day that two guards came in, instead of one. One of them pulled back the blanket to show the other guard my injury……..I said, “O.K., I’ll give you military information if you will take me to the hospital.”

They took me up into one of the interrogation rooms, and for the next 12 hours we wrote and rewrote. The North Vietnamese interrogator, who was pretty stupid, wrote the final confession, and I signed it. It was in their language, and spoke about black crimes, and other generalities.

This is the Military Code of Conduct
The Code: Consisting of six articles in simple language, the United States Military Code of Conduct orders American military personnel to resist capture at all cost and if captured; to attempt to escape, to give the enemy no information other than name, rank, serial number and date of birth, to take charge if senior, to obey orders of the seniors, to accept no favors from the enemy and to make no written or oral statements disloyal to the United States.

I don’t know about any of you, but this kind of protection I can do without.

McCain admonishes Obama for wanting to talk to the Iranian government, but he himself collaborated with the enemy with whom we were at war. Isn’t what he did much worse than just talking to someone with whom we are trying to prevent going to war?

Now let’s take a look at some of the minor details the commenter left out:

Click to continue….

I pulled the ejection handle, and was knocked unconscious by the force of the ejection—the air speed was about 500 knots. I didn’t realize it at the moment, but I had broken my right leg around the knee, my right arm in three places, and my left arm.
…
Some North Vietnamese swam out and pulled me to the side of the lake and immediately started stripping me, which is their standard procedure. Of course, this being in the center of town, a huge crowd of people gathered, and they were all hollering and screaming and cursing and spitting and kicking at me.

When they had most of my clothes off, I felt a twinge in my right knee. I sat up and looked at it, and my right foot was resting next to my left knee, just in a 90-degree position. I said, “My God–my leg!” That seemed to enrage them —I don’t know why. One of them slammed a rifle butt down on my shoulder, and smashed it pretty badly. Another stuck a bayonet in my foot. The mob was really getting up-tight.
…
For the next three or four days, I lapsed from conscious to unconsciousness. During this time, I was taken out to interrogation—which we called a “quiz”—several times. That’s when I was hit with all sorts of war-criminal charges. This started on the first day. I refused to give them anything except my name, rank, serial number and date of birth. They beat me around a little bit. I was in such bad shape that when they hit me it would knock me unconscious. They kept saying, “You will not receive any medical treatment until you talk.”
…
They wanted military rather than political information at this time. Every time they asked me something, I’d just give my name, rank and serial number and date of birth.

I think it was on the fourth day that two guards came in, instead of one. One of them pulled back the blanket to show the other guard my injury. I looked at my knee. It was about the size, shape and color of a football. I remembered that when I was a flying instructor a fellow had ejected from his plane and broken his thigh. He had gone into shock, the blood had pooled in his leg, and he died, which came as quite a surprise to us—a man dying of a broken leg. Then I realized that a very similar thing was happening to me.

When I saw it, I said to the guard, “O.K., get the officer.” An officer came in after a few minutes. It was the man that we came to know very well as “The Bug.” He was a psychotic torturer, one of the worst fiends that we had to deal with. I said, “O.K., I’ll give you military information if you will take me to the hospital.” He left and came back with a doctor, a guy that we called “Zorba,” who was completely incompetent. He squatted down, took my pulse. He did not speak English, but shook his head and jabbered to “The Bug.” I asked, “Are you going to take me to the hospital?” “The Bug” replied, “It’s too late.” I said, “If you take me to the hospital, I’ll get well.”

“Zorba” took my pulse again, and repeated, “It’s too late.” They got up and left, and I lapsed into unconsciousness.

Sometime later, “The Bug” came rushing into the room, shouting, “Your father is a big admiral; now we take you to the hospital.”
…
After I had been there about 10 days, a “gook”—which is what we called the North Vietnamese—came in one morning. This man spoke English very well. He asked me how I was, and said, “We have a Frenchman who is here in Hanoi visiting, and would like to take a message back to your family.” Being a little naive at the time—you get smarter as you go along with these people—I figured this wasn’t a bad deal at all, if this guy would come to see me and go back and tell my family that I was alive.
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“The Cat” said—through an interpreter, as he was not speaking English at this time—”The French television man is coming.” I said, “Well, I don’t think I want to be filmed,” whereupon he announced, “You need two operations, and if you don’t talk to him, then we will take your chest cast off and you won’t get any operations.” He said, “You will say that you’re grateful to the Vietnamese people, and that you’re sorry for your crimes.” I told him I wouldn’t do that.

Finally, the Frenchman came in, a man named Chalais—a Communist, as I found out later—with two photographers. He asked me about my treatment and I told him it was satisfactory. “The Cat” and “Chihuahua,” another interrogator, were in the background telling me to say that I was grateful for lenient and humane treatment. I refused, and when they pressed me, Chalais said, “I think what he told me is sufficient.”

Then he asked if I had a message for my family. I told him to assure my wife and others of my family that I was getting well and that I loved them. Again, in the background, “The Cat” insisted that I add something about hoping that the war would be over soon so that I could go home. Chalais shut him up very firmly by saying that he was satisfied with my answer. He helped me out of a difficult spot.

The North Vietnamese did not recieve any military information during McCain’s hospital stay. And it is worth mentioning that “the Cat” has recently given his endorsement to John McCain for president.

The commenter omits several pages of text in order to connect McCain’s hospital stay with his signing a confession.

I went back to him three nights later. He asked again, “Do you want to go home?” I told him “No.” He wanted to know why, and I told him the reason. I said that Alvarez [first American captured] should go first, then enlisted men and that kind of stuff.
…
We went through this routine and still I told him “No.” Three nights later we went through it all over again. On the morning of the Fourth of July, 1968, which happened to be the same day that my father took over as commander in chief of U. S. Forces in the Pacific, I was led into another quiz room.

“The Rabbit” and “The Cat” were sitting there. I walked in and sat down, and “The Rabbit” said, “Our senior wants to know your final answer.”

“My final answer is the same. It’s ‘No.’ “

“That is your final answer?”

“That is my final answer.”

With this “The Cat,” who was sitting there with a pile of papers in front of him and a pen in his hand, broke the pen in two. Ink spurted all over. He stood up, kicked the chair over behind him, and said, “They taught you too well. They taught you too well”—in perfect English, I might add. He turned, went out and slammed the door, leaving “The Rabbit” and me sitting there. “The Rabbit” said “Now, McCain, it will be very bad for you. Go back to your room.
…
About a month and a half later, when the three men who were selected for release had reached America, I was set up for some very severe treatment which lasted for the next year and a half.

One night the guards came to my room and said “The camp commander wants to see you.” This man was a particularly idiotic individual. We called him “Slopehead.”
…
They took me out of my room to “Slopehead,” who said, “You have violated all the camp regulations. You’re a black criminal. You must confess your crimes.” I said that I wouldn’t do that, and he asked, “Why are you so disrespectful of guards?” I answered, “Because the guards treat me like an animal.”

When I said that, the guards, who were all in the room—about 10 of them—really laid into me. They bounced me from pillar to post, kicking and laughing and scratching. After a few hours of that, ropes were put on me and I sat that night bound with ropes. Then I was taken to a small room. For punishment they would almost always take you to another room where you didn’t have a mosquito net or a bed or any clothes. For the next four days, I was beaten every two to three hours by different guards. My left arm was broken again and my ribs were cracked.

They wanted a statement saying that I was sorry for the crimes that I had committed against North Vietnamese people and that I was grateful for the treatment that I had received from them. This was the paradox—so many guys were so mistreated to get them to say they were grateful. But this is the Communist way.

I held out for four days. Finally, I reached the lowest point of my 5½ years in North Vietnam. I was at the point of suicide, because I saw that I was reaching the end of my rope.

I said, O.K., I’ll write for them.

They took me up into one of the interrogation rooms, and for the next 12 hours we wrote and rewrote. The North Vietnamese interrogator, who was pretty stupid, wrote the final confession, and I signed it. It was in their language, and spoke about black crimes, and other generalities. It was unacceptable to them. But I felt just terrible about it. I kept saying to myself, “Oh, God, I really didn’t have any choice.” I had learned what we all learned over there: Every man has his breaking point. I had reached mine.

And there is the story of our enemy collaborator who gave away military information.