Cmdr. Larry H. Spencer at the time of his retirement from the U.S. Navy in March 1985. Photos courtesy of Iowa Gold Star Military Museum
July/Aug 2026 (Volume 18, Issue 4)
By Michael W. Vogt
On the morning of Feb. 18, 1966, 25-year-old Lt. (j.g.) Larry H. Spencer, seated behind pilot Lt. (j.g.) James T. Ruffin, launched from the carrier USS Enterprise on patrol in Yankee Station off the coast of the Republic of North Vietnam during the Vietnam War. Their mission, along with another F-4B Phantom II, was to escort an EC-121 U.S. Navy reconnaissance aircraft near the port of Thanh Hoa. As Spencer recalled in a 2007 interview, “A little series of things that all contribute to something bad happening take place.” While flying above the clouds their Phantom became separated and they lost sight of the other two aircrafts. Radio malfunctions resulted in intermittent radio contact. When encountering a break in the clouds at an altitude of 25,000 feet, “We saw we were over land and that was a bad thing because we were supposed to be out over the water.”
Ruffin banked the Phantom into a 180 degree turn at 280 knots and declared an emergency. “The next thing that happened we heard a loud boom which it turns out was a surface to air missile exploding below and behind the airplane.” Spencer’s left forearm was hit by shrapnel from the exploding missile. The aircraft pitched over into a steep dive toward the coast. Spencer looked forward to see Ruffin in the cockpit mirror indicating a thumbs up gesture he presumed meant that things were alright. His misinterpretation was realized when, “The next thing I knew it got real windy in the back seat.” Contrary to U.S. Navy ejection procedure Ruffin ejected first followed by Spencer. (Although both parachutes deployed Ruffin’s fate was unknown until his remains were returned to the United States on June 3, 1983.)
Spencer, experiencing momentary unconsciousness as a result of the ejection, awoke thinking he was blind. Wind velocity at 280 knots and the resulting high g-force from ejecting swiveled his helmet sideways. Reaching up with his uninjured arm he adjusted it while descending in his parachute about a quarter mile off the coast in time to view a small boat entering the water. Splashing down, Spencer unclipped the harness, swam clear of the deflated parachute to avoid entanglement, inflated the life vest and waited as the boat approached. Wounded and realizing his vulnerable situation, he jettisoned his pistol to avoid “any misunderstandings” as three armed occupants arrived about 20 minutes later and pulled him aboard.
Spencer’s life, before becoming Iowa’s longest held prisoner of war, began with his childhood in Earlham, where he attended public schools and graduated from Earlham High School in 1958. Following a 1962 graduation from Parsons College in Fairfield, with a bachelor’s degree in mathematics, he joined the U.S. Navy in February 1963 at Glenview Naval Air Station (NAS) north of Chicago. From there he traveled to Pensacola NAS in Florida, for preflight training. He was commissioned an ensign in June 1963 after completing 16 weeks of aviation flight officer candidate school. Selected as a F-4 Phantom II rear intercept officer, Spencer transferred to Miramar NAS in California, in August 1963.
With his training completed he arrived aboard the carrier USS Ranger in August 1964 and flew missions over Vietnam until May 1965. Upon return to the U.S., Spencer’s unit, Fighter Squadron 92, part of Carrier Air Wing 9, was assigned to the USS Enterprise in port on the East Coast. In October 1965 the USS Enterprise deployed around Africa and through the Indian Ocean arriving at Yankee Station off the coast of North Vietnam in November 1965.
On the morning of Feb. 18, 1966, however, Spencer’s military service and life would take a dramatically different course as he would become a prisoner of war for nearly seven years.
Left: Two days after the U.S. signing of the Paris Peace Accords with the Republic of North Vietnam on Jan. 27, 1973, students at Earlham Community School proudly display their POW bracelets inscribed with the names of U.S. prisoners of war and those missing in action to demonstrate awareness and support for their safe return. Right: Beginning in 1970, the student group VIVA (Voices in Vital America) began distributing bracelets inscribed with the rank, name and date of U.S. military personnel lost or taken prisoner during the Vietnam War. This example, one of almost five million produced, bears the name of Lt. Larry Spencer.
Once ashore, Spencer’s captors bandaged his arm, removed his shoes and stood guard until dusk. Blindfolded and with arms bound behind him he was placed in a small vehicle for travel to an unknown destination. Throughout the night they stopped at several villages where political pep rallies had been organized. Spencer was paraded around for the benefit of North Vietnamese morale. About daybreak on Feb. 19, they arrived at the Hao Lo prison in Hanoi. Built by the French between 1886 and 1901 the facility was subsequently utilized by the Republic of North Vietnam and became known to U.S. prisoners held captive within it as the “Hanoi Hilton.” Most prisoners were processed at that location but not all were kept there. (Spencer also spent some of his incarceration at an external prison camp nicknamed “The Zoo.”)
For Spencer, arrival at the “Hanoi Hilton” initiated an experience interposed with periods of duress, malnutrition, uncertainty, camaraderie, loneliness and, at times, torture. He soon realized that the liberty and freedom of choice he enjoyed back home was far removed from the experience of being a prisoner of war.
“They controlled every aspect of your life and that’s one thing that takes a lot of getting used to,” Spencer said. “They controlled whether you eat or not. They controlled whether you get a chance to empty the latrine bucket that you had in your room.”
Most days followed a predictable routine. However, the uncertainty of what might happen was a constant worry.
“When you wake up in the morning you have no idea what that day holds… What you really like ironically is a day when nothing happens,” he said.
TO READ THE ENTIRE STORY AND OTHER FASCINATING STORIES ABOUT IOWA HISTORY, subscribe to Iowa History Journal.