NYT19980409.0344 NEWS NEWSWIRE The old soldiers stood ramrod straight, some with the help of canes, as a Marine Corps band played the national anthem at the dedication of the National Prisoner of War Museum here Thursday. Try as they might, some could not keep their saluting hands from quivering with palsy. For others, it was the poignancy of the day and not the infirmities of age that made them tremble. After all this time, after the years of torture and deprivation and the decades of haunting memories, two senators and a governor and more than 3,000 others had come to pay tribute to the singular sacrifices they made for American liberty. ``Now people will know what we've done,'' said Bill J. Ashworth, a Korean War veteran in a wheelchair, who began wiping away tears as he recalled his 33 months of captivity at the hands of the Chinese. ``They'll know the price we paid for our freedom.'' The mission of the new museum here, built on the site of a Civil War prison in southwest Georgia, is to ensure that Americans never forget the 800,000 soldiers taken prisoner in their country's wars, from the revolution of 1776 to the Persian Gulf war of 1991. Prisoners of war have long had their own organizations dedicated to preserving the memories and the camaraderie of their torment. But many have felt that their government and their fellow citizens never adequately acknowledged their contributions. That is particularly true of those taken captive in World War II, men who came home with the rest of the troops to a jubilant country that never paused to recognize that some soldiers had been severely scarred by their detention. Many stoically kept their nightmares to themselves. But as their generation began to die out, a new urgency emerged. ``To a large extent, we, as prisoners, didn't talk about it,'' said John S. Edwards, a veteran of three wars who was taken prisoner after his plane was shot down over Germany in World War II. ``We returned to our communities, became leaders of our communities. Now, if I may use a euphemism, we want to capture those stories. This museum tells the whole story of those who truly know what it's like to be without freedom.'' The 10,000-square foot museum stresses the commonality of prisoners' experiences in various conflicts rather than depicting the uniqueness of captivity in individual wars. There are sections on capture, on living conditions, on communications, on privation, on morale and relationships, and on escape and freedom. Throughout Thursday's dedication ceremonies, which were held under an expansive white tent, speakers referred repeatedly to the common struggle waged by prisoners of war to preserve their dignity and humanity. ``Their story is the story of a struggle against daunting odds to choose their own way, to stay faithful to a shared cause, to remain human beings in a world where they were treated like animals,'' said Sen. John McCain of Arizona, a Navy pilot who was shot down over Hanoi in 1967 and spent more than five years in prison in North Vietnam. ``Their humanity, so ironic and gallant in its opposition to organized inhumanity, was their glory.'' Most of the $5.8 million cost of the museum was raised by private veterans groups, with the federal government chipping in about $2.4 million. The state of Georgia contributed an additional $1.2 million to build an entrance road. Construction began in 1996, although the museum's roots date to 1970, when Congress added the site of the Civil War prison at Andersonville to the National Park system as a memorial to all prisoners of war. Originally known as Camp Sumter, the prison held more than 45,000 Union soldiers in the final 14 months of the war, and almost 13,000 prisoners died here of malnutrition and disease. Housed in a brick building that imitates the towers and guard houses of a typical prison camp, the new museum makes generous use of the televised images and voices of surviving prisoners. ``They knew how to reduce a man in 20 minutes to a self-loathing, sobbing wreck,'' says one. ``We had men that would actually walk into a warning wire and commit suicide,'' remembers another. There also are models of bamboo tiger cages that were used to house American prisoners in Vietnam, and of the small cells in Hanoi where prisoners were shackled by their ankles to concrete platforms. There are artifacts like the white linen clothing worn by Sgt. Nathan P. Kinsley, a Union soldier held at Andersonville, and the mug shaped from a butter tin by F.G. Perkins in a World War II camp in Germany. The ingenuity of the prisoners is illustrated in a display of handmade crystal radios crafted in German camps from bartered, smuggled and stolen parts. Another exhibit includes a remarkable replica of a three-masted ship made out of soup bones by prisoners in the War of 1812. There are videos of mothers and wives recalling the ominous days when dreaded telegrams arrived at their doors. There are displays of letters written home, both hopeful and apologetic. ``Dear Edith,'' wrote Curtis G. Davis on a postcard from a Japanese camp in 1944, ``I'm very sorry I have not written sooner but I was so sure I had been but a memory to you.'' While the museum's exhibits present a static account of the prison experience, the former prisoners of war who gathered Thursday in the lobby and courtyards provided a living history for all who would listen. James Downey Jr., an 83-year-old World War II veteran from Newport News, Va., told of surviving dysentery and malaria in a Filipino camp. His younger brother, detained in the same camp, did not make it. Retired Air Force Col. Wayne Waddell, who spent 2,069 days in prison in North Vietnam, recalled being tied up so compactly by his captives that his fellow inmates said he resembled nothing so much as a suitcase. Joseph A. Sterner, who was captured in the Philippines in 1942 and spent 40 months in Japanese camps, told of wasting away to 90 pounds from 145 pounds. He recalled the day when American B-29s announced the end of the war by flying over their camp and dropping bundles of cheese, cigarettes and chewing gum. ``We didn't jump up and down when the surrender came,'' he said. ``We were just too tired.'' The museum, and the stories of the former prisoners, had a deep impact on many of those who visited here Thursday, perhaps none more than those currently in uniform. ``I walked through with my wife,'' said Lt. Charles C. Heaton, a 31-year-old Navy pilot, ``and it was difficult for her to see that imprisonment is one of my possible fates. You can't help but have a general awe of what all the POWs have done. These men have been in extreme circumstances and have shown courage that you and I don't get to display. We all stand in their shadows.''