War Trash (46 page)

Desperate, I went to the kitchen and talked to Nanshan, who was in the habit of feeding the dog. I begged him, "Can you take Blackie along when we're headed for the Neutral Zone?"

"I'll try, but what if he barks?"

"I don't know. I just want to keep him as long as I can. If that happens, I won't blame you."

"Officer Feng, you have a kind heart like the Buddha's. Whatever you say I'll do."

His effusive words amazed me.

Nanshan kept his promise. He got some sleeping pills from the medic and ground them. Before we boarded the ship, he hid Blackie in a field cauldron. He broke a potato in half and smeared both pieces with the sleeping powder and fed them to Blackie. Soon the dog dropped off to sleep. Nanshan covered him with an empty gunnysack, and so Blackie passed the guards undiscovered.

35. IN THE DEMILITARIZED ZONE

On September 10, 1953, we arrived at Pusan, and from there we headed for the Neutral Zone, which was also called the Demilitarized Zone. It was in an immense enclosure outside a small town named Munsanni, just a few miles south of Kaesong. The town had been partly leveled by bombs; a few houses still stood with naked walls, but most of the roofs were gone. When we entered the camp on the sixteenth, the persuasion had been under way for days. The zone was guarded by Indian troops, and the governing body comprised people from other countries as well, such as Poland, Sweden, Czechoslovakia, and Switzerland. There were many representatives from the United Nations, North Korea, and mainland China. We were told that we should expect to stay at least twelve weeks in our new barracks, Compound 21.

Why so long? We were upset and bewildered.

The camp here consisted of about forty compounds, thirty-three of which held the Chinese POWs. We ate better food now: breakfast was barley porridge boiled in dry milk, and for lunch and dinner we had rice mixed with peas or soybeans, and there were also potatoes and cabbages. Each man now received more cigarettes, one pack every other day.

In the east, toward the Imjin River, stretched an orchard, whose apple and pear trees had all shed their leaves, their branches often bearded by hoarfrost in the morning. In the west rose a hill, treeless but covered with tall grass and teeming with ring-necked pheasants. We often gathered along the barbed-wire fence to watch the birds fly up and away with fluty cackles. From the distance the males' iridescent plumage glittered in the sunlight like tiny explosions and often brought out shouts among us. How we wished we could have gone hunting for them. The soil was dark and rich here, but the fields were deserted, pockmarked by bombs. Still, there must have been some grains, grass seeds, and berries in the wilderness for the birds to eat. The pheasants, unlike human beings, seemed to have multiplied thanks to the war.

Our compound had obviously been inhabited by troops before, because there were bunks instead of plank beds inside the tents. The Indian guards, often armed with lathis, treated us decently on the whole. On the day of our arrival, they even offered us each a cup of coffee and a chocolate. But they guarded the gate so strictly that nobody could get out of the compound without official permission. As a result, all the battalions were isolated from one another. If somebody was sick and had to go to the hospital, which was within the Demilitarized Zone, two or three guards would escort him. On the other hand, the Indian authorities allowed the representatives from China to broadcast to us for three hours on end every day. Some of the persuaders went so far as to threaten us, saying, "Think about your families, who are all on the mainland. You should at least come home for them." Their words intimidated the prisoners so much that many men in our battalion refused to meet with the Communist persuaders. Wang Yong got furious and assigned some men to pound on two upended oil drums with sticks to drown out the broadcasting, but this just produced more din and we still could hear snatches of the speeches. So he ordered his bodyguards to smash the amplifiers at the tips of the tall poles, and they knocked them out with stones. The Indians never had them repaired.

Wang Yong was desperate to communicate with the other compounds after several attempts had failed. One day someone suggested using Blackie to carry messages to Compound 22, which was about one hundred yards to the south. So they got hold of the dog, tied a letter around his neck, and pushed him out through a hole in the fence near the gate. Blackie was a successful messenger, since some prisoners in Compound 22 knew him and he would respond to their whistling. But the guards noticed his missions from the very beginning. I was worried about his safety and begged the secretary not to write any more messages on white paper, which was too eye-catching.

Nanshan had by now replaced me as the owner of Blackie, which I didn't mind, because I might not be able to bring the dog along if I ended up being repatriated. The boy could take better care of him; he could feed him and had already persuaded the other cooks to let Blackie snuggle in a corner of the kitchen. I was pleased that Nanshan loved the dog so.

One night Blackie went out on an errand and didn't return. I thought he might have gotten randy again, but he couldn't possibly have escaped from the zone, in which, to my knowledge, there wasn't another dog. Both Nanshan and I waited late into the night for him to come back. At about two a.m. I was too exhausted to stay up any longer and went to bed.

Nanshan went to the gate alone the next morning to talk to the Indian guards. He couldn't speak English but pleaded with a lieutenant in Chinese, "Please, please tell me where Blackie is!" The thick-bearded officer kept shaking his head as I approached them. In desperation the boy, assuming they really couldn't make out what he was trying to say, began barking and got down on all fours like a dog. The Indians burst out laughing.

I went up to the officer and asked him if they had seen Blackie. He rolled his gray eyes and told me matter-of-factly, "That dog was a secret courier, so we had him executed."

I told Nanshan, "They killed him."

At those words the boy sprang at the officer, wielding his small fists, but I restrained him in spite of my own tears and dragged him back to our barracks. Together we wept in the kitchen.

When the same bearded lieutenant came in to do the head count that evening, two inmates suddenly lunged at him, each holding a brick. The officer tore away toward the fence while more men pursued him, some brandishing short clubs. They all looked murderous. I was so shocked that I didn't know what to do. I wouldn't have minded if they'd roughed him up some, but killing him might bring disaster on ourselves. Fortunately, before they could corner him, a squad of Indian guards rushed over from the other side of the fence, raised their rifles, and pulled the bolts. So the prisoners let him go.

Blackie's death disrupted our communication with the outside, but except for Nanshan and me, most inmates forgot the dog in a matter of days. Their attempt on the Indian officer's life in fact had little to do with vengeance. Uncertain of their future, most of them were desperate and irascible; they had seized the occasion to vent their emotions.

Wang Yong assigned Dajian and me a job: to talk with the Indian soldiers as often as possible, gather information about the persuasion, and report it to him in the evenings. He issued each of us some extra cigarettes for the job. So every day I tried to approach the guards and chat with them. From them I began to get a better picture of our situation, about which, unfortunately, the more we learned, the more disheartened we became. Two Chinese divisions were less than three miles away in the north. If they attacked, the Imjin River would block our retreat. Furthermore, the Indians who ran the Demilitarized Zone seemed partial to the Communists and might connive with them to send us back to the mainland. We estimated that our chances of reaching Taiwan were at most fifty-fifty. One afternoon, while talking with an Indian officer, I heard something I had never thought of before. The square-chinned man told me that if you were reluctant to go to either mainland China or Taiwan, you could apply for a third country. "Where is that, Chuck?" I asked him, not knowing his last name. His men called him Officer D.

He fluttered his pomfret eyes and said in a nasal accent, "Like India, Brazil, or Argentina."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." He stressed the third syllable of the word in a chipper voice. "There's already a group of such POWs, you know." He touched his green turban, his hand holding a cigarette I'd given him.

"How big is this group?"

"Seven or eight people."

"What are they going to do in those countries?"

"I don't know. There'll be jobs for them for sure."

"Like what?"

"That'll depend on what skills they have."

This information set my mind spinning for the rest of the day. For better or worse I must not go to Taiwan, because that would amount to declaring I was an enemy of the Communists, who would definitely punish my mother and my fiancee for that. On the other hand, unless I could free myself from the suspicion of treason, I shouldn't return to the mainland either, where a person with my background and my association with the pro-Nationalists might be kept under surveillance all the time, if not reimprisoned. If I knew for sure that Pei Shan and Chang Ming were back in China, I might take the risk, because they might help clear me. But again, how could I be certain they'd be willing to save a man like me? They had already meant to sacrifice me once, hadn't they? By comparison, a third country would be a better choice, though I had no idea what kind of life I'd lead there. And I wasn't even sure if I could survive in a foreign land.

But wouldn't the Communists hurt my mother and Julan if I went to another country? They might not, because I didn't mean to be their enemy. Perhaps I was naive, but I was driven by the instinct for self-preservation and felt that a third country would be a better destination for a man like me, who had often been an outsider and couldn't fit in any political group among my compatriots. Once I settled down in a foreign land, I would send for my mother and Julan. But would the Communists let them leave and join me? They might or might not. Still, a third country seemed to be the best choice, a risk I was willing to take.

The next question was where I should go. Brazil and Argentina would be difficult because I spoke neither Portuguese nor Spanish. Although English was used in India, it was a country with a large population and a high unemployment rate, where I had heard there was the caste system. If I went there, I would almost certainly live at the bottom of society. Was there another neutral English-speaking country where I might go? This would be the first question I would ask when I was summoned to listen to the persuasion. I would avoid talking with the persuaders from China and instead speak to the arbitrators directly in English. If there wasn't another country, maybe I would go to Brazil, which was vast and might have more space and more opportunities to make a living. I wouldn't mind subsisting as a drudge for some years; I was still young and should be able to restart my life. On the other hand, I would have to prepare to be a solitary man without a country, condemned to speak a language in which I could never feel at home.

Although I had now made up my mind, I grew more nervous, and a numbing feeling kept rising to my throat, which I had to tamp down continually. That evening I drank a cup of rice wine with the mess officer, trying to calm down before I went to the battalion headquarters to give the daily report. When I relayed to Wang Yong the information I had collected that day, I didn't mention that some neutral countries would also accept POWs. I was afraid he might suspect me. I just informed him that the Communists' persuasion was a total fiasco – as the Indian officer had told me, to date they had persuaded only about eighty men to go home.

The next evening two fellows from another compound who had just gone through the persuasion came to speak to us. We gathered in our largest tent, sitting in front of a table at which the two men were seated. The first speaker was quite handsome, with a thin nose and sparkling eyes. He was tall but slightly hunched. He started:

"Brothers, when my name is called, two Indian guards come up and take me to the fifteenth tent. Lots of people are in there, from different countries. At one glance I can tell who the Reds are. They stand up, smiling and bowing at me like Pekinese. One of them says, 'Dear Comrade, we represent our motherland to welcome you back.'

I spit on his face and say, 'You can't represent China, you work for Russia. Why should I listen to you?'

They continue to smile at me after I sit down. Another of them says, "Comrade Wan Ping-han, your parents are waiting for you to come home. They're heartbroken, crying day and night."

'Screw your grandma!' I yell. 'You Commies beheaded my dad five years ago. My mom wept herself blind and died three months later. Now you have the gumption to tell me they're still alive and miss me!'

'Think about this' – the man won't give up – 'you're a good son of China. When I mentioned your parents, I meant the millions of Chinese people of the older generation who expect you to come home.'

"That drives me mad. I jump up, fish some plaster powder out of my pocket and throw it on his face. While he's screaming and rubbing his eyes, I grab the folding chair I was sitting on and hit him with all my might. Thwack, thwack, thwack – the Indian guards rush over and drag me away."

Applause broke out. A man shouted, "Fight the Red bandits to death!" We all raised our fists and repeated the slogan.

He yelled again, "Long live Generalissimo Chiang!" We echoed him once more.

Then the other man began to speak. He had a carbuncular face, protruding teeth, a stout nose, and erect ears. He talked in a heavy Hunan accent that brought to mind Mao Zedongs. He told us: "It's a long wait at the rest area outside the tents. When I'm called, they lead me into a tent. The Commies look awful in the company of the men from the other countries. They're like a pack of hungry wolves. Behind them I see through the window more than ten trucks planted with red flags. This sight scares me. Beyond the trucks stands a tall gate with the words Back Into the Arms of Our Motherland written on the arch. They have obviously planned to ship us back load after load. As I sit down, one of them puts his index finger on the table, leans forward, and says, 'Comrade, you must've suffered a great deal in the enemy's hands. We represent our motherland coming to rescue you. You're a free man now. Please return to China with us.'