War Trash (9 page)

I wanted to say something, but words deserted me.

From that day on Dr. Greene came to see me once a week, handed in her homework for me to correct, and took back a page of sample characters I had inscribed for her. When she was here, she also checked my wound, which was healing fast. The inmates would gather around to see her homework and often praised her progress. Gushu was quite attached to her, saying she was a saint, because she had managed to stop his wound from suppurating.

Although our ward accommodated over seventy patients, most beds were unoccupied during the day. I found that a good number of the men were ambulatory and were actually fairly healthy; they were probably remaining here because the hospital offered better board and lodging than the regular prison camps. I wondered why the doctors didn't discharge them. There was so much deliberate confusion of identities among the POWs, who often destroyed their ID tags and changed their names randomly, that the doctors could hardly keep track of all the patients. Beyond question, some of these men were malingerers, good at faking illness. The hospital seemed to have become a vacation place for many POWs.

Now that I was able to move around with the aid of crutches, I often left the tent. It was already early winter and most trees had shed their leaves. Naked branches made the yellowish land appear more drab; even the sea to the south had turned gray. But in the north the hills were still green, scattered with patches of junipers and cypresses. I often watched seagulls flying in the sky draped with ragged clouds. The birds had no walls or fences to confine them. How precious the idea of freedom was to a prisoner! I couldn't help but compare myself with almost every creature my eyes fell upon. Even my worms-eye view of American airplanes often set me imagining how free the pilots must feel up in the air.

One day I heard some women singing a Russian song, "The Evening of Moscow Suburbs," which had also been popular in China; afterward Captain Yoon told me that that compound, number 12, contained only female prisoners. I could see a corner of their barracks, which must have held hundreds of Korean women. The reason we had mistaken them for civilians was that some of them had been guerrillas and still wore long-sleeved white dresses, black skirts, or baggy slacks. Later I heard that there was only one Chinese woman in that compound. I had known her, Zheng Dongmei. She had served in our division's song-and-dance ensemble and worn a pair of short braids. She was full of life and so cheerful that wherever she was, you could hear her singing and laughing. But she wasn't a good soldier and could pitch a grenade only fourteen yards; in a live throw she got one of her front teeth cut in half by a splinter of shrapnel from a grenade she herself had flung.

From where we were, I could see only a small portion of the women's quarters across a broad dirt road. Beyond their compound was the TB ward, which housed hundreds of consumptives. Somehow tuberculosis was still endemic to Koreans. In the evenings I would stand by the barbed wire and listen to the women singing. Though far away, I could hear their songs clearly because they always sang in chorus. Their voices transported me into reveries. They chanted all kinds of songs, sometimes passionately and sometimes lightheartedly, such as "Spring Is Coming," "Marshal Kim Il Sung," "The Anthem of the Korean People's Army," and "The Anthem of the Chinese People's Volunteers." Later I heard them sing "Defending the Yellow River!," "Solidarity Is Power,"

"The East Is Red," and some other Chinese revolutionary songs, which Dongmei must have taught them. They also chorused Korean folk songs, whose names and words I couldn't know. I liked those songs best. Contrary to the strident fighting airs, the folk songs sounded gentle and nostalgic, at times almost angelic. One morning I caught sight of two toddlers, a boy and a girl, playing with tin cans and wooden sticks in the women's compound. They looked dirty and wore rags, but they laughed and ran about nimbly. With their mothers jailed here, they too had become POWs.

Not far away from our compound was the First Closure's admission center, where the prisoners were registered and processed. In front of that hut there were dozens of corpses stacked together like firewood. I wondered why the Americans didn't immediately get rid of those nameless bodies, which gave out a fetid odor – made even worse as it combined with the smell of the open-air public latrine. The latrine was fenced with a tarpaulin wall and had four hundred pits in it.

One afternoon as I was limping along the fence, I saw a tall man in the adjacent compound whose large, bony body and shoulders, viewed from the side, looked familiar. He was smoking beyond the four rows of barbed wire. I walked over. His hair was disheveled and his face emaciated, marred by a curved scar; his right forearm was bandaged. My heart began kicking as I recognized him – Commissar Pei!

He turned to face me. His eyes brightened, but he didn't say a word, just smiled. Quietly I stopped before him and said, "How are you, Commi – "

"Shh, I'm Wei Hailong now and used to be a cook. Call me Old Wei."

"Sure, I'll do that in front of others." I had to raise my voice a little because we were about fifteen feet apart.

"Always say you didn't know me until we met here," he said.

"I'll remember that. My name is Feng Yan now. I told them I was a secretary in an infantry company."

"Good."

While we were talking, we both kept glancing right and left to make sure we were alone. He had been captured a month ago, together with the only three men left with him. To date his identity hadn't been disclosed, though he jokingly said this was just temporary. He was certain somebody would betray him soon, because there were so many prisoners who had seen him as their commissar. I reported to him on my situation. To my surprise, he had heard of my association with Dr. Greene and encouraged me to get along with her so as to obtain information on the outside world. I told him about the Panmunjom talks, of which he had also learned. Though in disguise, he was apparently still a leader here, well informed and full of plans. He wanted me to remain loyal to our country and to pass on to him any news I heard.

To me his words were orders, so I became more at ease during my later meetings with Dr. Greene. I gave some of the paper she had left with me to Commissar Pei, which he needed badly.

About half a month later, Dr. Greene found a lump in my thigh. She felt it with her fingertips for a long while, then told me, "It looks like I should give you another operation."

My heart trembled. "Do you have to?"

"Yes. But it'll be a small procedure."

She let me feel the lump in the back of my left thigh. True enough, it was hard and as large as an egg. She said, "I was worried that the muscle damage was so massive that some extravasated blood might form a lump. At the last operation I cleaned everything, but even so, a lump has now grown inside. If we don't get rid of it in time, it may develop into a tumor. I don't want to leave it to chance."

Knowing that another doctor might not be so willing to help me, I said, "I'll follow your decision."

The morning after the next I had the surgery. And because I lay prone on the table this time, Dr. Greene assigned a male nurse to hold my chin so that I wouldn't suffocate. This time Dr. Thomas again assisted her. He seemed more skilled than before; perhaps I had that impression because I no longer hated him. I didn't wear an ether mask, so I remained conscious the whole time. While Dr. Thomas was giving me stitches, Dr. Greene replaced the nurse and held my chin until the entire procedure was over.

The operation was a complete success. From then on I could walk steadily, though I still needed a crutch for the time being. Whenever Dr. Greene came to check my condition and hand in her homework, I would ask her whether there was new progress in the Panmunjom negotiations, which we knew had run into difficulties. Then I would pass any new information on to Commissar Pei the following afternoon.

Three days after the Spring Festival of 1952, Dr. Greene came into our tent and said gloomily that there would be a group of patients going to Koje Island soon, and that I was on the list. So was my friend Wanlin. She took out a sheet of paper and told me, "I wrote a doctor's note for you. It says you shouldn't do any heavy work at least for half a year. If they want you to work, you can show them this."

I took the note but was nonplussed. All I could bring out was "Dr. Greene, I will remember you for the rest of my life. Thank you for saving my leg!"

"That's a doctor's job." She smiled and went on, "You can keep the pen as a souvenir. Maybe someday I'll go to China to take calligraphy lessons from you again."

I must have looked teary, because she said with genuine feeling, "Don't be upset. We'll meet again. All my friends and former classmates are still in China. They're waiting for me to go back."

She pulled out a large manila envelope and handed it to me. She said, "Remember to give this to the doctor in the camp."

The envelope contained my medical records and x-rays. In a way I wanted to leave the hospital, because I could move around quite well now. Also, our ward had grown spooky lately. A week ago a legless man, a Korean officer, had hanged himself on a tent pole. I couldn't imagine that he could have done that alone – some of his comrades must have given him a hand.

Dr. Greene stood up to leave. As she walked out, both Wanlin and I went to the door and watched her moving away with slightly lurching steps. We shouted, "Thank you, Dr. Greene! We'll remember you. Good-bye."

She turned around and waved at us, then proceeded with her ward rounds. In no time she disappeared beyond the gate guarded by two South Koreans. It was snowing, the wind whistling and howling by turns. Fat snowflakes were fluttering down like swarms of moths.

"I'll miss her," Wanlin said to me and grimaced in an effort to smile.

5. COMPOUND 72 ON KOJEISLAND

Koje Island lies southwest of Pusan, about twenty-five miles across the sea. In ancient times, it was a place to which criminals and exiles were banished. During the Second World War the Japanese had incarcerated American POWs there. Now the expanded prison site had become the central camp that held the majority of Korean and Chinese captives. On our way to the Pusan dock, I grew more anxious about the trip. Although I was going to join thousands of my countrymen, among whom I might feel less vulnerable, life in that camp would undoubtedly be much harsher than that in the hospital. I was agitated by the thought that the prison officers might ignore Dr. Greene's letter and subject me to hard labor that could reinjure my femur.

Together with over two hundred prisoners, I was herded into a U.S. landing ship, whose coverless interior reminded me of a railroad cargo wagon. Above our heads stretched many horizontal steel bars that would support canvas if it rained. The ship, designed for transporting vehicles and tanks, was too lightly loaded, and as it plowed through the ocean it shuddered without stopping. Some prisoners unbuttoned their jackets and even took off their shoes to sun themselves. The guards didn't bother to interfere. I dozed all the way, leaning against a hot, sweating wall.

We arrived at the island in less than three hours. With a clank the front gate of the ship was let down, and an officer ordered us to disembark. Outside, the sun was glowing on the muddy shore fringed with a white ribbon of salt. A few black fishing boats, their masts tilted and their gray sails half folded, were moored in the silty shallows, and whorls of cooking smoke were rising from them. Under my feet the dark beach was studded with countless tiny holes. As I wondered what they were, a field of crabs, each just the size of a thumb, suddenly appeared at the mouths of the holes. But a moment later they all vanished from sight, retreating into their caves. I couldn't help but marvel at the uniformity of their movement and involuntarily stopped in my tracks. "Get moving!" a tall GI shouted at me.

We started out for the camp in the east. I was tense, unsure how long the march would be. But luckily among us there were several men with injured legs, so we didn't walk fast. Despite limping along, I soon forgot my anxiety, fascinated by the clear streams and the dwarf trees on both sides of the road. The distant hills looked lovely, with pines and cypresses crowded together like clusters of spires. Above a rocky summit a pair of white herons soared beneath the flossy clouds. All the way I said to myself, What a secluded place, ideal for a hermit.

The march took half an hour. On arrival, the Chinese and Korean prisoners were separated and then led toward the sprawling stockade that was the prison camp. There were approximately thirty compounds here. The Chinese went to Compounds 72 and 86 while the Koreans headed for other barracks.

The camp looked immense, divided into rectangular prison yards of various sizes, each surrounded by two rows of barbed wire supported by wooden posts. At every corner of the stockade stood a guard tower, over thirty feet tall. The big compounds were the size of a city block, whereas the small ones were as large as a soccer field. In between the enclosures stood many guard towers too. Wanlin and I were assigned to different compounds. Before we parted, I patted his shoulder and whispered, "Take care of yourself and make it home."

He looked upset and mumbled, "I'll often think of you."

"We'll remain friends."

"Yes, always."

He was led away in a group of more than twenty POWs. His head, half a foot taller than the others, was bobbing a little as he walked away with a swinging gait.

Three GIs frisked my group at the entrance to Compound 72. I had slipped the jade barrette half into my shoe and Julan's snapshot into the envelope containing my medical records, mixing it with the x-rays. A wiry guard, a Hispanic man with a wispy mustache, found the black fountain pen in the envelope. "You don't need this," he said and stuck it into his own breast pocket.

"Please, it's a present from a doctor," I said.

"How can I believe you?" He took the pen out of his pocket and pointed at the tip of its cap. "See this? 'Made in U.S.A. '"