REAL WORLD EVENT DISCUSSIONS

Veterans Against McCain and Billary

POSTED BY: PIRATENEWS
UPDATED: Saturday, February 9, 2008 04:37
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Friday, February 8, 2008 2:08 AM

PIRATENEWS

John Lee, conspiracy therapist at Hollywood award-winner History Channel-mocked SNL-spoofed PirateNew.org wooHOO!!!!!!




Gay porn star John "Songbird" McCain is a traitor who made 32 radio broadcasts for Communist Vietnam during the war, despite McCain getting VIP treatment without torture. Manchurian Candidate McCain blocked return of 60,000 US and British POWs from 3 wars.
http://www.vietnamveteransagainstjohnmccain.com
http://www.usvetdsp.com/manchuan.htm

Only Air Force veteran Dr Ron Paul MD has support from military Veterans, for pledging to end the 18-year Iraq War and put US troops on US borders to deport 50-million illegal aliens. In fact, Dr Paul has raised more donations from vets than all other candidates combined, from both parties.
http://ronpaul2008.com
http://dailypaul.com
http://ronpaulwarroom.com

McCain's 2nd wife Cindy campaigns for Hillary Clinton Blythe (Rockefeller), and his wife refuses to fund John McCain's presidential campaign.
http://www.wnd.com/news/article.asp?ARTICLE_ID=17395

Mitt Romney pays $20-Billion bribe to Clear Channel, Fox News, "Rush" Limbot, Shaun Vanity, Michael Savage Weiner, Mann Coulter, to buy their support of Billary Clinton Blythe Rockefeller for president:
http://www.lewrockwell.com/blog/lewrw/archives/017694.html

Dick Cheney's CFR cousin from Kenya, Saddam Hussein Osama Obama, refuses to salute flag during national anthem, supports unlimited nuclear world war in the Mid East:
http://www.snopes.com/politics/obama/anthem.asp

The Clinton Impeachment - President Bill Clinton Blythe III (bastard Rockefeller) was impeached by US Congress for perjury about his illegal sex life with Jewish Mossad agent Monica Lowenski
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-7721501368569649933

The Clinton Chronicles - Originally released in June of 1994. The videotape had a very big impact, according to some, on the 1994 elections. The Chronicles was put together because there were several people, not only in Arkansas, but across the nation, that had documented evidence of criminal activity that involved Bill and Hillary Clinton. That evidence was never allowed to be in court. The media refused to expose this evidence from Clintons' personal CIA agent Larry Nichols.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-6470450895164255089
http://www.whatreallyhappened.com/RANCHO/POLITICS/ARCHIVE/CLINTON_CHRO
NICLES.html


Hillary Clinton-Blythe Rockefeller for President - Collection of photo madness by the First Lesbian. "In the next century, nations as we know it will be obsolete; all states will recognize a single, global authority. National sovereignty wasn't such a great idea after all." - Strobe Talbot, Bill Clinton's Deputy Secretary of State, Time magazine, July 20, l992
http://zombietime.com/really_truly_hillary_gallery/

The Mena Connection: Clinton Bush dope dealing with CIA - As governor of Arkansas, Bill Clinton refused to prosecute the narcoterrorist serial killers importing tons of cocaine at Mena Arport in Arkansas during Iran Contra.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-8681225708920427234

Clinton's FBI confessed on audiotape in court and NY Times to building the bomb and paying the bombers $1.5-million to bomb the World Trade Center in 1993:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emad_Salem

Ten Most Wanted Corrupt Politicians for 2007: Hillary Clinton-Blythe Rockefeller #1 - Top Ten losers include Rudy Giuliani, Mike Huckabee, Barack Obama, Nancy Pelosi.
http://www.judicialwatch.org/judicial-watch-announces-list-washington-
s-ten-most-wanted-corrupt-politicians-2007


Trance Formation of America - "Hillary Clinton is the only female to become sexually aroused at the sight of my mutilated vagina."
http://www.conspiracyresearch.org/forums/index.php?s=afcab4881d52eb220
836aae51f1889b6&act=attach&type=post&id=191



http://trance-formation.com

The Most Dangerous Game - Cathy O'Brien's mutilated vagina
http://www.archive.org/details/tmdg_trailer

Arab Huma Abedin loves lesbian Hillary Clinton
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/us_and_americas/article291
7646.ece#cid=OTC-RSS&attr=2637446

http://www.observer.com/node/37040

Impeached CIA President Bill Clinton Blythe III is a bastard Rockefeller
http://tv.groups.yahoo.com/group/piratenewsrss/message/414


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wendi_Deng
Hanoi Hannity: "I voted for the Sino-American Alliance."
"US ports owned by Commie China is good for me."
"Dead and disabled US soldiers are good for me."
"Outsourcing your job is very good for me."
"Sir Rupert dines with Hillary every week."
"Ron Paul does not exist in my 'Verse."

"As far as Chinese goes, I resented it."
-Adam Tudyk, The Making of Firefly




Bill Clinton Blythe Rockefeller performing ritual "mock" human sacrifice to Satan at Bohemian Grove homosexual nudist compound and presidential retreat
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1358319439993514946


The Summer Glau Chronicles: Free download of all episodes
http://www.fox.com/fod/player.htm?show=tscc

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Friday, February 8, 2008 3:41 AM

SIMONWHO


Damnit, I've used up all my synonyms for fruitcake.

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Friday, February 8, 2008 3:44 AM

AURAPTOR

America loves a winner!


No matter how sincere you believe in something, you can still be wrong.

It is not those who use the term "Islamo-Fascism" who are sullying the name of Islam; it is the Islamo-Fascists. - Dennis Prager

" They don't like it when you shoot at 'em. I worked that out myself. "

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Friday, February 8, 2008 4:00 AM

JONGSSTRAW


Hey PN,

Just wanted you to know I forwarded your new post here to the Secret Service.

Have a nice day.

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Friday, February 8, 2008 5:32 AM

KWICKO

"We'll know our disinformation program is complete when everything the American public believes is false." -- William Casey, Reagan's presidential campaign manager & CIA Director (from first staff meeting in 1981)


I've just got one question:

Who do the veteran Jews support? :)

Sweeping generalizations are always wrong!

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Friday, February 8, 2008 5:35 AM

6IXSTRINGJACK


Quote:

Originally posted by Kwicko:
I've just got one question:

Who do the veteran Jews support? :)

Sweeping generalizations are always wrong!



Sheeit.... I guess a more Kosher set of parents who could have gotten them into the national guard. Were there any veteran Jews that weren't in a Hollywood reinactment of a war? Just askin'...

I did see the Hebrew Hammer kick Santa Claus's ass as portrayed by Andy Dick, so I guess they can be pretty tough. I wouldn't mess with a guy who had his own action figure.

"A government is a body of people, usually notably ungoverned." http://www.myspace.com/6ixstringjack

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Friday, February 8, 2008 6:53 AM

HERO


Quote:

Originally posted by piratenews:
Jewish Mossad agent Monica Lowenski


That explains SO much.

H

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Friday, February 8, 2008 10:11 AM

FREMDFIRMA


Bah, Monica's a nobody, clueless bimbo with delusions of standing - it was her little buddy who was more likely an agent or a plant, and just WHO provided some of those wiretapped conversations, in exchange for not following up a certain lead, hmmm ?

The scary thing about PN's rants is that as wacky as they are, there's always a kernel of real truth in there somewhere - albiet often a *small* one.

He's really reaching this time, though, I will say that much.

-Frem

It cannot be said enough, those who do not learn from history, are doomed to endlessly repeat it

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Friday, February 8, 2008 2:26 PM

PIRATENEWS

John Lee, conspiracy therapist at Hollywood award-winner History Channel-mocked SNL-spoofed PirateNew.org wooHOO!!!!!!


Quote:


Twenty-Five Ways To Suppress Truth: The Rules of Disinformation

Includes The 8 Traits of A Disinformationalist


by H. Michael Sweeney
www.MKZine.com
Spring/Summer 2003

5. Sidetrack opponents with name calling and ridicule. This is also known as the primary 'attack the messenger' ploy, though other methods qualify as variants of that approach. Associate opponents with unpopular titles such as 'kooks', 'right-wing', 'liberal', 'left-wing', 'terrorists', 'conspiracy buffs', 'radicals', 'militia', 'racists', 'religious fanatics', 'sexual deviates', and so forth. This makes others shrink from support out of fear of gaining the same label, and you avoid dealing with issues.

6. Hit and Run. In any public forum, make a brief attack of your opponent or the opponent position and then scamper off before an answer can be fielded, or simply ignore any answer. This works extremely well in Internet and letters-to-the-editor environments where a steady stream of new identities can be called upon without having to explain criticism, reasoning -- simply make an accusation or other attack, never discussing issues, and never answering any subsequent response, for that would dignify the opponent's viewpoint.

9. Play Dumb. No matter what evidence or logical argument is offered, avoid discussing issues except with denials they have any credibility, make any sense, provide any proof, contain or make a point, have logic, or support a conclusion. Mix well for maximum effect.

17. Change the subject. Usually in connection with one of the other ploys listed here, find a way to side-track the discussion with abrasive or controversial comments in hopes of turning attention to a new, more manageable topic. This works especially well with companions who can 'argue' with you over the new topic and polarize the discussion arena in order to avoid discussing more key issues.

18. Emotionalize, Antagonize, and Goad Opponents. If you can't do anything else, chide and taunt your opponents and draw them into emotional responses which will tend to make them look foolish and overly motivated, and generally render their material somewhat less coherent. Not only will you avoid discussing the issues in the first instance, but even if their emotional response addresses the issue, you can further avoid the issues by then focusing on how 'sensitive they are to criticism.'

www.whale.to/m/disin.html
www.911review.org/Wiki/RulesOfDisinformation.shtml
www.whale.to/b/sweeney.html

Examples & response:
www.proparanoid.net/truth.htm



Private Spies Stalk The Internet

An organization of highly trained, committed and ruthless individuals with links to global intelligence agencies are using the Internet to try to foment terrorism in order to advance their unified political agenda. No it's not Al-Qaeda, it's Vigil, the elite private spies who are stalking the web and telling the government about any e-speech they deem suspicious.

The Scotsman reports,

Quote:


The organisation is not the US Central Intelligence Agency or Britain's MI6 but Vigil, a shadowy network of retired spies, senior military personnel, anti-terrorism specialists and banking experts.

"Sixty per cent of Vigil's work involves gaining information via the internet, by infiltrating chatrooms."

"The information gleaned is passed on to authorities such as the FBI, and British Counter Terrorism Command (CTC)."

http://news.scotsman.com/uk.cfm?id=1732682006

In addition, the Pentagon recently announced its effort to infiltrate the Internet and propagandize for the war on terror.
www.rawstory.com/news/2006/Raw_obtains_CENTCOM_email_to_bloggers_1016.
html




The lack of rebuttal to the facts presented by the historical record is deafening.

Here's Ron Paul at CPAC this week ripping GOP a new asshole, but the media mafia only reported McCain and Romney's dog and pony show. Dr Paul got massive cheers, McCain and Romney got boos.



Comcast censors both CSPAN and MSNBC on TV in my Skull & Bones town of Knoxville TN.



The Summer Glau Chronicles: Free download of all episodes
http://www.fox.com/fod/player.htm?show=tscc

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Friday, February 8, 2008 2:53 PM

BADKARMA00


This man needs help. Seriously.

Bad_karma
Great and Exalted Grand Pooba, International Brotherhood of Moonshiners, Rednecks, and Good Old Boys.

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Saturday, February 9, 2008 4:37 AM

SKYWALKEN


My six years of hell: John McCain recalls life a prisoner of war in Vietnam
—By JOHN McCAIN

Early in the morning I prepared for my 23rd bombing run over North Vietnam - and my first attack on the enemy capital, Hanoi.

Our target was the thermal power plant located near a small lake almost at the centre of the city.

At about 9,000 ft, as we turned inbound on the target, our warning lights flashed and the tone for enemy radar started sounding so loudly that I had to turn down the volume.

I could see huge clouds of smoke and dust erupt on the ground as SAM missiles were fired at us.

The closer we came to the target, the fiercer were the defences. I recognised the target sitting next to the small lake and dived in on it, just as the tone went off signalling that a SAM was flying towards me.

I knew I should roll out and fly evasive manoeuvres - "jinking" in flyers' parlance - but I was just about to release my bombs and, had I started jinking, I would never have had the time, nor probably the nerve, to go back in once I had lost the SAM.

So at about 3,500 ft I released my bombs, then pulled back the stick to begin a steep climb to a safer altitude. In the instant before the plane reacted, a SAM blew my right wing off.

I knew I was hit. My A-4 aircraft, travelling at about 550 miles an hour, was violently spiralling to Earth. I reacted automatically the moment I took the hit, reached up and pulled the ejection seat handle.

I struck part of the airplane, breaking my left arm, my right arm in three places and my right knee, and was briefly knocked unconscious by the force of the ejection. Witnesses said that my chute had barely opened before I plunged into the shallow water of Truc Bach Lake.

I landed in the middle of the lake, in the middle of the city, in the middle of the day, and came to when I hit the water.

Wearing about 50lb of gear, I touched the bottom of the lake and kicked off with my good leg. I did not feel any pain as I broke the surface, and I did not understand why I couldn't move my arms to pull the toggle on my life vest. I sank to the bottom again.

When I broke the surface the second time, I managed to inflate my life vest by pulling the toggle with my teeth. Then I blacked out again.

When I came to the second time, I was being hauled ashore on two bamboo poles. A crowd of several hundred Vietnamese gathered around me, stripping my clothes off, spitting on me and kicking and striking me. When they had finished removing my gear and clothes, I felt a sharp pain in my right knee.

I looked down and saw that my right foot was resting next to my left knee at a 90 degree angle. I cried out: "My God, my leg!"

Someone smashed a rifle butt into my shoulder, breaking it. Someone else stuck a bayonet in my ankle and groin.

A woman, who may have been a nurse, managed to dissuade the crowd from further harming me. She then applied bamboo splints to my leg and right arm.

It was with some relief that I noticed an army truck arrive on the scene. The soldiers placed me on a stretcher, loaded me into the truck and drove a few blocks to the French-built prison, Hoa Lo, which the PoWs had named the Hanoi Hilton.

As the massive steel doors clanked shut behind me, I felt a deeper dread than I have ever felt since.

The date was October 26, 1967. I was 31 and a lieutenant commander in the U.S. Navy when I was shot down. For two centuries, the men of my family were raised to go to war as officers in America's armed services.

I was the son and grandson of Navy officers, and my father trusted that when I met with adversity, I would use the example he had set for me.

The soldiers took me into an empty cell, set me down on the floor still on the stretcher, and placed a blanket over me. For the next few days, I drifted in and out of consciousness.

My interrogators accused me of being a war criminal and demanded military information. They knocked me around a little and I began to feel sharp pains in my fractured limbs. I blacked out after the first few blows.

I thought if I could hold out like this, they would relent and take me to a hospital. But on the fourth day, I realised my condition had become more serious.

I was feverish and losing consciousness for longer periods. I was lying in my own vomit, as well as my other bodily wastes, and my knee had become grossly swollen and discoloured.

I remembered a fellow pilot who had broken his femur ejecting from his plane. His blood had pooled into his leg and he had gone into shock and died. I realised the same thing was happening to me, and pleaded for a doctor.

The medic, called Zorba, took my pulse.

"Are you going to take me to the hospital?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "It's too late." Panic that my death was approaching overtook me: the Vietnamese usually refused treatment to the seriously injured. Blessedly, I lapsed into unconsciousness.

I was awakened a short while later when the camp officer, called Bug - a mean son of a bitch - rushed excitedly into my cell. "Your father is a big admiral," he shouted. "Now we take you to the hospital."

God bless my father.

It was hard not to see how pleased they were to have captured an admiral's son, and I knew my father's identity was directly related to my survival.

The Chief of Naval Operations had broken the sad news to my parents himself: "Jack, we don't think he survived."

My parents had then called Carol, my wife. We'd married on July 3, 1965, and a few months later Carol had given birth to our beautiful daughter, Sydney. Her own two sons, Doug and Andy, were great kids and I adopted them a year after our marriage.

I was moved to a hospital in central Hanoi. Coming to a couple of days later, I found myself lying in a filthy room, lousy with mosquitoes and rats. Every time it rained, an inch of mud and water would pool on the floor. No one had even bothered to wash the grime off me.

I began to recover my wits, and my interrogators came to the hospital to resume their work. The beatings were of short duration because I let out a hair-raising scream when they occurred, and my interrogators appeared concerned that hospital personnel might object.

Eventually I gave them my ship's name and squadron number. When asked to identify future targets, I recited the names of north Vietnamese cities that had already been bombed.

Often, during my hospital stay, I received visits from high-ranking officials. One evening, General Vo Nguyen Giap, minister of defence, paid me a visit. He stared at me wordlessly for a minute, then left.

In early December, they operated on my leg, severing all the ligaments on one side of my knee, which has never fully recovered.

After the war, thanks to a talented physiotherapist, it regained enough of its mobility for me to return to flight status for a time. But today, when I am tired, my knee stiffens in pain and I pick up a trace of my old limp.

In late December, they decided to discharge me. I had a high fever and suffered from dysentery. I had lost about 50lb and weighed barely 100lb - little more than 7st. I was still in a chest cast and my leg hurt like hell.

On the brighter side, the Vietnamese were taking me to another prison camp. I was blindfolded, placed in the back of a truck and driven to a prison called The Plantation.

To my great relief I was placed in a cell with two other prisoners, both Air Force majors, named "Bud" Day and Norris Overly. There has never been a doubt in my mind that Bud and Norris saved my life.

They later said that their first impression of me, emaciated, bug-eyed and bright with fever, was of a man at the threshold of death. They thought the Vietnamese expected me to die, and had placed me in their care to escape the blame when I failed to recover.

Bud had been seriously injured when he ejected. After he was captured, he had attempted an escape and had nearly reached an American airfield when he was recaptured.

His captors had looped rope around his shoulders, tightened it until his shoulders were nearly touching, and then hung him by the arms from the rafter of the torture room, tearing his shoulders apart.

Left in this condition for hours, Bud never acceded to Vietnamese-demands for military information. They had to break his already broken right arm a second time, and threaten to break the other before Bud gave them anything at all.

Because of his injuries, Bud was unable to help with my physical care. Norris, a gentle, uncomplaining guy, cleaned me up, fed me, helped me onto the bucket that served as our toilet and massaged my leg.

Thanks to them, I began to recover. Soon I was able to stand unaided, and even manoeuvre around my cell on a pair of crutches.

In April 1968, Bud was relocated to another prison. Norris had been released under an "amnesty", and I would now remain in solitary confinement for more than two years.

Although I could manage to hobble around on my crutches, I was still in poor shape. I couldn't pick up or carry anything. The dysentery caused me considerable discomfort: food and water would pass immediately through me, and sharp pains in my stomach made sleeping difficult.

It's an awful thing, solitary. It crushes your spirit and weakens your resistance more effectively than any other form of mistreatment. Having no one else to seek counsel from, you begin to doubt your judgment and your courage.

The first few weeks are the hardest. The onset of despair is immediate, and it is a formidable foe. I reconstructed from memory books and movies I had enjoyed.

I tried to compose books and plays of my own, acting out sequences in the solitude of my cell. I had to carefully guard against my fantasies becoming so consuming that they took me permanently to a place in my mind from which I might fail to return.

Hypochondria commonly afflicts prisoners in solitary confinement. I struggled to resist paranoia that my injuries and poor health would prove fatal.

Three or four times a year, Zorba the doctor would drop by. After a quick visual appraisal, he would leave me with the exhortation to eat more and exercise. He did not bother to explain how I might exercise, given my injuries and the narrow confines of my cell.

My cell was directly across the courtyard from the interrogation room. It had a wooden board for a bed and a naked light bulb dangling on a cord in the ceiling. The light was kept on 24 hours a day.

Adding to the intensity of our discomfort was the building's tin roof, which must have increased the summer heat by 10 or more degrees.

For long stretches of every day, I would watch the activities in camp through a crack in my door. The daily routine was simple. The guards struck a gong at six in the morning.

We then had to get up, fold our gear and listen to the loudspeakers from Hanoi Hannah, "the Voice of Vietnam", a half-hour of witless anti-American propaganda.

About an hour later, each prisoner, one at a time, would have to bring out his waste bucket then immediately step back into his cell.

After a PoW had emptied the buckets and returned them, the guards filled our teapots. If it was a washday, they would then take us to bathe.

Around noon, they rang the gong again to signal the two-hour afternoon nap. Until the gong sounded, we weren't allowed to lie down unless we were ill.

At nine o'clock every evening, the guards rang the evening gong instructing us to go to sleep. Shivering in the cold or sweating in the stifling heat, beset by mosquitoes, we tried to escape to our dreams.

In mid- June 1968, the camp commander, over an inviting spread of cookies and cigarettes, asked me if I would like to go home.

I wanted to say yes: I was tired and sick, and I was afraid. But the Code of Conduct was explicit: "American prisoners cannot accept parole or amnesty or special favours." I said I would think about it.

I knew how my release would affect my father and my fellow prisoners, and I discovered later what the Vietnamese hoped to gain.

On July 4, my father became Commander in Chief, Pacific. The Vietnamese intended to hail his arrival with a propaganda spectacle, releasing his son as a gesture of "goodwill".

For almost two months, nothing happened. Then the punishment sessions began. I was hauled into an empty room and kept there for four days. At intervals, the guards returned to administer beatings.

One guard held me while the others pounded away.

They cracked several of my ribs and broke a couple of teeth. Weakened by beatings and dysentery, with my right leg again nearly useless, I found it impossible to stand.

On the third night I lay in my own blood and waste, so tired and hurt that I could not move. Three guards lifted me to my feet and gave me the worst beating yet. They left me lying on the floor moaning from the stabbing pain in my re-fractured arm.

Despairing of any relief from pain and further torture, I tried to take my life. After several unsuccessful attempts, I managed to stand. Up-ending the waste bucket, I stepped on it, bracing myself against the wall with my good arm. I looped my shirt through the shutters. As I looped it around my neck, a guard saw the shirt through the window, pulled me off the bucket and beat me.

Later, I made a second, feebler attempt at suicide. On the fourth day, I gave up. I signed a confession that "I am a black criminal and I have performed the deeds of an air pilot". The guards ordered me to record my confession on tape. I refused, and was beaten until I consented.

Those were the worst two weeks of my life. I shook, as if my disgrace was a fever and no one would ever look on me again except in pity or contempt.

I have recovered now from that period of intense despair. But I still wince when I recall wondering if my father had heard of my disgrace.

There is little doubt that solitary confinement causes some mental deterioration in even the most resilient personalities. When mine was finally ended, in 1970, I was overwhelmed by the compulsion to talk non-stop, face to face with my obliging cell-mate. I talked ceaselessly for four days.

We had a saying in prison: "Steady strain". It was to remind us not to let our emotions rise and fall with circumstances which were out of our control. It was best to take the long view: we would get home when we got home.

Of all the activities I devised to keep my wits and strength intact, nothing was more beneficial than communicating with other prisoners. It was, simply, a matter of life and death. Although they went to extraordinary lengths to prevent it, the Vietnamese couldn't stop all communication among prisoners.

Through flashed hand signals, tap codes on the wall, notes hidden in washroom drains and holding our enamel drinking cups up to the wall with our shirts wrapped round them and speaking through them, the whole prison system became an information network, with PoWs busily trafficking in details about each other's circumstances and news from home.

Interrogations were regular events. The sound of jangling keys at night, or other irregular times, had the effect of unexpected gunfire. I shot bolt upright the moment I heard it, gripped by terror, my heart beating so loudly I thought it would be audible.

In the years after I came home, I never suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome. But I would tense up whenever I heard keys rattle, feeling the onset of an old fear come back to haunt me.

The Vietnamese never seemed to mind hurting us, but they usually took care not to put our lives in danger. We strongly believed that some PoWs were tortured to death, and most were seriously mistreated.

One man, Dick Stratton had huge infected scars on his arms from rope torture. His thumbnails had been torn off and he had been burned with cigarettes.

However, the Vietnamese prized us as bargaining chips in peace negotiations, and they usually did not intend to kill us when they used torture to force our cooperation.

By the end of 1969, routine beatings had almost stopped. We occasionally received extra rations. Our circumstances would never be as dire as they had been in those early years. I was released and flown home at the end of the war, in March 1973. I had been incarcerated for five-and-a-half years.

We were told to have faith in God, country and one another. Most of us did. But the last of these - faith in one another - was our final defence, the ramparts our enemy could not cross.

This was the faith I had embraced at the Naval Academy. It was my father's and grandfather's faith. In prison, a filthy, crippled, broken man, all I had left of my dignity was the faith of my fathers. It was enough.

• Adapted and extracted from Faith Of My Fathers by John McCain

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