War Trash (34 page)
The finished flag looked quite impressive. Now the next problem was how to make a pole, which had to be about thirty feet long. This proved easy. There happened to be a pair of stretchers left in our compound, which the Americans had not collected after we had used them to carry two sick men, so we dismantled them and tied the poles to one another. We had enough rope, but we needed to fix a small pulley to the tip of the pole so that we could hoist the flag. Since it was impossible to come by such a device, we substituted a self-made iron ring for it. Amazingly, all the preparations took us just one day.
Although I participated in making the flag, from the outset I had a foreboding that something horrific would happen. I knew Commissar Pei well enough to see that besides shattering the enemy's claim that the Chinese POWs were unwilling to return to China, he might have something else on his mind. I couldn't guess his motives yet. Somehow my thoughts kept turning to the fact that our national flag was actually in its infancy, not even three years old. My comrades were unlikely to have developed a staunch attachment to it, not to mention devoted love. Then why had they all of a sudden become determined to fly it at any cost?
Most prisoners got carried away with the plan. Many applied for the shock team and the flag protection group; some even wrote pledges in their own blood; one of the hotheads was so worked up that he broke his little finger in front of others to show his passion to fight this battle for raising the flag. Meanwhile many of us were exchanging our home addresses back in China in case we got killed on October 1.
On the surface we appeared courageous, but in reality our resolve was mixed with desperation.
We all felt ashamed of becoming POWs because we should have died rather than submit to capture. Many even believed our captivity had impaired our country's image. I often heard some men say they had "smeared soot on Chairman Mao's face." The guilt weighed heavily on their consciences. That was why ever since our arrival at Cheju, the Party leaders in the camp had propagated this slogan as the principle of our action: "Through our struggle we shall remove our shame and win back our glory!" Those words struck a chord in most inmates' hearts. Now Commissar Pei 's order gave them a chance to vent their pent-up emotions, and many men couldn't wait to fight. Some even believed it would be better to fall in a heroic, if ill-fated, battle than to be jailed like animals. So all at once the compounds turned hectic – the prisoners were busy preparing to confront the enemy. They picked up stones and piled them in places, filled bottles with urine, gathered wooden sticks and cudgels, made knives out of the steel sheets torn from oil drums, forged and honed daggers. There was some kerosene used for cooking in the kitchen, so they poured the fuel into empty cans, inserted short pieces of shoestring into them, then sealed the tops with soap to create nine bombs. To use such a weapon, they'd light the string, then pitch it.
The inmates seemed suicidally blind to the resources the enemy had. I was agitated but dared not say anything, fearing the accusation of cowardice.
On September 27 Commissar Pei issued another message, ordering us to "strike at the enemy," specifically to kill one or two top American officers. After an exchange of views among the battalion leaders, it was decided that every compound prepare to murder Colonel Kelly, the commandant here, should such an opportunity arise, and that if possible, Major MacDonald, the camp's executive officer, should also be removed. Our neighbor, Compound 7, was much more active than we, and I could hear hammers hitting hot iron in their kitchen and makeshift smithy continually. In total, they forged more than a hundred daggers and machetes. They also drilled their men in different formations for a whole afternoon on September 28. But that night a traitor slipped out of their barracks and informed the Americans of their plan.
Early the next morning Major MacDonald, a colossal man with tawny hair, came with two companies of GIs and three light tanks. They forced all six hundred men in Compound 7 to assemble on the central field and one by one searched them. Whenever they found a dagger they would slap and punch the weapon carrier or butt him with rifles. Altogether they seized about twenty machetes and seventy daggers. Throughout the search Major MacDonald, holding his pistol, stood away from the prisoners to avoid being attacked.
The Seventh Battalion was thrown into disarray. Should we proceed with our original plan? Some of our leaders began wavering, afraid that the enemy would disarm the other compounds as well.
As we wondered about what to do, Commissar Pei issued the final instruction: "Go ahead and raise the flags tomorrow. Whoever disobeys this order will be dealt with as a deserter from battle." I was unsettled by this message, which seemed to reveal a note of desperation.
Without delay we transmitted the order to the other battalions, and that very evening all the prisoners were informed of it. People turned active, itching to have a go. The atmosphere in the camp grew intense. In our compound, besides the assault unit and the flag protection group, we also formed a rescue crew and a logistic platoon. The men in the Seventh Battalion seemed apprehensive, having just lost most of their weapons. They feared that the enemy might turn on them again, because they had become the weakest of the ten compounds. But they were still determined to fight a battle if need be. They organized a large shock team, over eighty men strong, and a flag protection group, composed of fifteen of their best soldiers, whose task was to prevent the enemy from getting hold of the flag. If their force couldn't stop the GIs, the fifteen men would take down the flag and burn it. Our battalions flag protection group was larger than theirs, consisting of forty people, but our assault unit comprised only thirty men. This implied that Wanren might not want a bloody battle for our battalion.
Under cover of darkness we rolled out three oil drums to the middle of the backyard, filled them with dirt, then planted the flagpole into the gap among the drums and stuffed the hole with gravel. After the preparation we returned to our sheds. I was anxious and fearful and couldn't stop trying to fathom Pei 's motives. Perhaps he wanted to draw the Party's attention to Cheju, a small island hundreds of miles away from China. Indeed, ever since we'd landed here, we had lost communication with the outside world. There were not many Korean servicemen in the camp, so we couldn't find the right contact with North Korean secret agents. Even Father Woodworth, who would visit prison camps in different places, had never come here to preach. Commissar Pei must have felt isolated and eager to create an incident so as to catch outside attention and remind his higher-ups of our existence. In fact, even the GIs here could hardly endure the isolation. Although they often saw movies in their mess hall and always had books, newspapers, and magazines to read, they got bored and frustrated. One night, returning from the hospital after taking a patient with acute appendicitis there, I had seen three American officers standing at the brink of a stream, firing pistols at the full moon. I asked the guard escorting me, "What are they doing?"
"They're just having some fun," he said. I was surprised they could waste ammunition with impunity.
By now I was certain I had divined Commissar Pei 's motives, which also revealed his weakness. He seemed to have lost his composure and patience and could no longer wait. He wanted to be considered by our negotiators at Panmunjom without further delay. There was another element in his anxiety which wasn't easy to discern, namely that like a regular prisoner here, he too was at sea about what to do. The POWs all looked up to him, depending on his directives and believing he was their backbone; what they didn't know was that he needed a lot of backing himself. In other words, Commissar Pei must have been anxious to get instructions and assurance from his superiors. The more I thought about his motives, the sorrier I felt for the soldiers who were going to fight doggedly the next day. They were being used, though most willingly.
Another thought also occurred to me about Pei 's fear. He must have been afraid that his captivity had tarnished his image in the Party's eyes. Probably he needed a battle to achieve something that would change the Party's opinion of him. In every way, a timely battle was an advantageous move for him personally. I wondered what kind of role Ming had played in this decision. A perceptive man, he could see through Pei for sure.
At six sharp the next morning, when the eastern sky was just pinkish with light, we all gathered in the backyard. All the men in the other compounds had come out of their barracks too. Our battalion chief climbed on top of one of the oil drums to deliver a speech. "Comrades," Wanren said, his narrow eyes glittering, "today is our National Day, a sacred day celebrated throughout our motherland. So we're going to join our people back home in celebrating our country's third anniversary, and also to show the enemy our indomitable spirit. Come what may, our national flag must fly high in this prison camp, and we shall fight to our last breath to defend it. Also keep in mind that our flag bears the color of the Revolutionary Martyrs' blood. We must protect the purity of the flag and never let it lose color in our hands…"
Choking with emotion, he couldn't speak for long, so he jumped down from the drums. Quietly we were waiting for the other battalions to wind up their prebattle mobilization. I heard Chaolin delivering his speech to the men in Compound 7. His voice was strong, but I couldn't make out his words. His hands went on chopping the air as he spoke. Finally done speaking, he shouted, "Defend our national flag with our blood and lives!" In unison his battalion roared. Then, thrusting up his small fist, he cried again, "We shall fulfill our glorious mission!" His men again followed him in one voice. That might have also referred to the execution of the other part of Commissar Pei 's orders – to kill Colonel Kelly and Major MacDonald if possible.
It was six-thirty now, and our battalion began singing the "Internationale" while slowly our flag was raised. I looked around and saw many faces enraptured and bathed in tears. The flags in the other barracks were rising too. All the battalions were chanting the same song, though the chorusing was out of sync.
After the "Internationale," we started to sing our national anthem. By now hundreds of GIs had assembled at the front gate to the camp. We saw a column of tanks turning the northwestern corner, coming our way. On the guard towers machine guns were aimed at us while the GIs were talking wildly with one another or into telephones. Then came Colonel Kelly's voice through a bullhorn, ordering us to haul down our flags and return to our quarters immediately. "If you don't obey, we're going to make you," he announced.
In response, we shouted slogans: "Down with American imperialism!" "Long live our motherland!" "We won't stop without a full victory!" "Defend our honor with our lives!" "Send us home!" "Observe the Geneva Convention!"
Eight light tanks, M-24S, were lined up at the front entrance now. More than five hundred GIs had assembled outside the camp, ready to come in. A few minutes later two guards opened the front gate and the tanks rolled into the central field, followed by the GIs, all in steel helmets and some in gas masks. They toted rifles with fixed bayonets, wearing grenades and tear-gas bombs on their belts. A dozen of them carried on their backs flamethrowers, each of which consisted of three steel cylinders hooped together. Colonel Kelly dispatched two companies and four tanks to the western side of the camp, then directed most of the remaining force to Compound 7, but he also posted trucks and half-tracks topped with.50-caliber machine guns at the entrances to the other compounds. After all the GIs were in position, the paunchy colonel issued his ultimatum that we must take down our flags immediately. He shouted, "You're out of line, I tell you. My patience is wearing thin. If you don't listen to reason and pull down. those rags now, I'm going to kick your butts."
Still we ignored him. The red flags, though fluttering now and again, drooped in the damp daylight, weighed down by the metal stars.
Through the bullhorn Colonel Kelly ordered the officer leading the troops assembled at the gate to Compound 7, "Proceed as planned!" From a window of our shed Shanmin and I watched them, my heart palpitating. I wished our leaders could have talked with the enemy. Even though it might not have resolved the crisis, it might at least have reduced the enemy's momentum and kept violence at bay. About eighty GIs rushed into Compound 7 and cautiously closed in on the rows of barracks, at which all their Ml Garand rifles were pointed. Although that compound was as quiet as if deserted, I saw some prisoners crouching in a ditch behind a shed. Heavens, they wanted to ambush the fully armed Americans! This was suicidal. Why were Chaolin and the other leaders of that battalion letting their men act so recklessly?
As I was wondering, the GIs got within twenty yards of the sheds. Suddenly the shock team jumped out of the ditches, shouting "Kill!" and charging at the enemy with stones, clubs, kerosene bombs, bottles of hot water mixed with bleach. Meanwhile, the men in reserve shouted slogans and hurled all kinds of objects at the GIs – tattered boots, clods, rocks, fragments of bricks. The enemy was taken by surprise, its formation thrust out of order, and some of them paused. A bottle of urine crashed on a GIs helmet and set the man screaming – he must have thought the stinking liquid was acid. Several of them were scalded by the bleach water, howling for help. Indeed the hot solution terrified them, because they took it for some kind of chemical weapon. So they withdrew immediately but kept firing at the men charging forward. About two dozen prisoners were shot, lying in the yard. Some of them were motionless while the others were moaning, kicking their legs and flailing their arms. Two or three of the Americans were wounded. An enemy platoon commander had been hit in the face by a stone; he took off his helmet and wiped his bloody nose with a wad of bandage. He couldn't stop swearing and stamping his feet as a medic dressed his wound.
The moment the prisoners had carried their casualties back into the sheds, the GIs came to attack again. This time they first pitched about three dozen tear-gas bombs and concussion grenades, then four flamethrowers launched torrents of fire at the sheds, whose roofs burst into flames, forcing the inmates to flee in all directions. Machine guns and rifles broke out rapping. The Seventh Battalions assault team, about to charge again, was at once rendered defensive. Their second echelon, already fully exposed and without any fortifications, was drawn into the battle now. Wave after wave of men dashed toward the GIs and were mown down. The yard was littered with bodies and puddles of blood while dark smoke rose and drifted away toward the ocean. Behind the sheds the flag hardly swayed, as if frozen.