IHAD played my luck too long and it had run out. I could not hope to convince this man that I was a Korean; it would only make matters worse if I did. When I tried to confuse him, he picked up a large, sharp stone and threw it at me with considerable accuracy; when I failed to obey his instructions to walk back down the road, he threw more. All the time, he kept his pistol pointed at me steadily, but remained sufficiently far away to avoid assault. Eventually, I got tired of being stoned and so, with a heavy heart, I began to walk back along the road. He would not even permit me the shelter of the rice sack but kicked it into the ditch; so I was both wet and miserable.
Just before we reached the bend in the road where I had been challenged by the Chinese, we turned off towards the east along a narrow path. As we came to junctions or forks along it, he would indicate the new direction to me with a grunt and a nod of his head. At the third turning, the telephone cable reappeared and by it I saw, with horror, a sign:
“3783.”
It had never occurred to me that this was the sign of a North Korean unit! We were to follow it for the next two hours.
Our immediate destination was, apparently, a Korean village, considerably north and east of the road down which I had walked. I decided that it must lie midway between this road and our own original Battalion supply route. I did not deem it politic to take my map out just then to make a check. Here, in the centre of the village, we met another group of officers outside the school on which someone had fixed a large, new, red star, and a heavily varnished picture of Kim II Sung, the President of North Korea. My captor was a Second Lieutenant—the North Koreans wear badges of rank, unlike the Chinese. He was warmly congratulated on his work by the others we met, all senior to him. They crowded round me, and regarded me rather as one might a hare that some friend has got with a chance shot on the road. I felt the analogy keenly.
After a few minutes chatter with a Korean civilian, who had evidently taken over the village leadership, they slung their leather map-cases over their shoulders and left the village at the opposite end to that of our entry. Two officers now guarded me with drawn pistols as we marched, but my Second Lieutenant kept on coming back to ensure that they had not lost me and were keeping me subdued. For good measure, he landed a couple of hearty kicks on the side of my leg as I passed.
By nightfall, it became apparent that we were lost. Every few minutes the party would stop, whilst one of the two Majors with us would inquire from a civilian household which route we should take, and once he attempted to get information in this respect out of a passing Chinese. I was now thoroughly wet and cold, to say nothing of my depression at being recaptured just when everything had seemed set so fair. However, as we marched, I consoled myself with the thought that we were still south of the Imjin River and that to-morrow—maybe even to-night—there might be another chance to escape. But I was not sorry when our journey ended. The Majors were fed up with the rain, it seemed: they turned a family out of the next house they came to and began to make preparations for the night.
There were fires under the floors, which was a blessing, and the one girl with my party—a civilian camp-follower, by her clothes—began to cook a meal. Soon a borrowed tray was set with large bowls of rice and soup. As it disappeared into their quarters, I became very much aware that I had not had a meal for over three days. Later, the shorter of the two Majors came over to me and, with much secrecy, gave me a small brown-paper parcel. Unwrapping it, after he had left me, I found it contained a ball of cold rice—perhaps a picnic dinner he had forgotten. I admit that I ate it with relish.
The next morning was bright and sunny. As there had been no opportunity to escape during the night, I began to look about me as soon as we set out towards our real destination. The “3783” signs appeared at intervals along the route, so I was reasonably sure that we had not lost our way altogether during the night march. What I was anxious to do was to spot some recognizable landmark by which I could fix my position. Unfortunately, just before starting that morning, it had occurred to them that I ought to be searched thoroughly. I had lost almost everything: maps, compass, watch, knife, pipes, tobacco, lighter, and pen. But this was not a major setback. I knew the general direction of our line, and once I could find a landmark, I should be well prepared.
Early on an argument took place between us about carrying their gear. I refused to carry loads, particularly as I had been given no breakfast. But when they told me to pick up a rice sack I changed my mind, hoping that I might get an opportunity to steal a few handfuls during the march.
There was another incident which served to cool our relationship. At mid-morning, we came to an area below a hill where a large group of North Korean soldiers had gathered, talking excitedly. We also stopped to examine the spot. To my horror, I saw that they were looking at the bodies of three American soldiers who had been shot through the back of the head. Their hands were still fastened behind their backs with thin telephone cable—assault cable, in military parlance—and they had been shot but recently. A great argument began about me, almost immediately, and I quickly realized that, if it was a question of a straight vote, I should join those poor GIs. I think it was the little Major who saved me. He spoke for about five minutes with great heat, and his words must have been powerful ones. With obvious reluctance, the crowd began to disperse and one man, who had cocked his pistol meaningly while standing by my side, walked sulkily away.
At noon we stopped to eat. On this occasion, I was given a portion of the food by the girl, on the instructions of the Major I had come to regard as my benefactor. The officers then slept for an hour, whilst the five non-commissioned officers with the party took it in turns to mount a double guard on me, as they had done throughout the previous night. At two, as I saw by my watch on the wrist of one of the captains, we started out again, beginning the ascent of a long, steep path up the side of a mountain. After almost an hour’s climb, we reached a pass between the two highest points. This was our immediate destination; the personnel of “3783” crowded the entire area about us.
I was removed from the curious crowd of ragged male and female soldiers and ordered to sit down by two officers, one of whom was a Colonel. To my surprise, the other, a senior Captain, spoke some English; but the questions were not at all what I had expected:
“Why have you come to Korea?”
I did not answer. He began to supply the answers, reading with difficulty from a small pamphlet he suddenly produced, showing General MacArthur, caricatured as an octopus, feeding Korean women and children into his mouth with four tentacles, and bags of US dollars into it with the others. There was a great deal about American stockbrokers and the gallant fight of the North Koreans to defend their country from this menace. When he had finished, he asked:
“You have understood this?”
“I have nothing to say,” I replied.
“Too many Englishman,” he said, pointing down the track. “Go.”
Feeling that this was rather an ominous statement, I left him and was taken in charge by a warrant officer and two soldiers, who doubled me down the far side of the pass. I was still mulling over what the captain had meant when the answer was provided for me. Mid-way along the column we were overtaking, I found Privates Fox and Graham of my Battalion. What the North Korean had meant to say was:
Here they were.
Graham was a Reservist, a dour north-countryman who was fast growing a magnificent red beard. One of Spike’s Assault Pioneers, he had been caught independently of the main body, having got over the saddle at the end of our valley. Fox was a young volunteer in D Company, originating from Liverpool but living in the Isle of Man. He, too, was growing a beard—a fair one that was beginning to curl most elegantly. The story that he had to tell made it clear to me why we had seen nothing of D Company during the attempt to break out. Mike had seen the fate of those leaving the ridge by our route and had decided to try another way. D Company, Young Bob, and Sergeant Murphy’s machine-gun section made off almost due west, remaining unengaged until they reached a valley, where the 1st ROK Division was fighting a withdrawal action, aided by an armoured force of the 1st Cavalry Division. Their course to this valley had not been entirely fortuitous for, about midway between the tanks and Hill 235, they had been sighted by an alert and courageous Air Observation Pilot. Circling and pointing, he had led them to the tanks. Within sight of escape, their good fortune partly deserted them. First, they came under heavy fire from the Chinese on the hills, as they moved down the valley: Tom and a good many others of D Company were killed or wounded. Then our own tanks, seeing a group of many figures appearing from the east, were temporarily confused and added their fire to that of the Chinese. Disregarding the fire directed to him, the “spotter” pilot made several runs down the valley towards the tanks, making signs to them that Mike’s force was friendly. At length, his meaning became clear to them, and they covered the remainder of Mike’s party up to and through their positions. Fox estimated that about thirty men had reached the tanks uninjured out of the whole force. The remainder of D Company were either killed, wounded or, in a few cases such as his own, captured. Prevented by fire from reaching the tanks, he had slipped into the hills, only to be caught at dusk, while quenching a thirst unsatisfied since the third day of the battle.
We shook hands warmly, and told our stories to one another, as we continued the march in a direction that was generally south-east—approximately towards Uijong-bu, I thought. I explained this to my companions and began to discuss escape, a prospect which they viewed with enthusiasm. My sack of rice had been removed at the pass, so that we had no food between us and, as the Koreans had been giving them very little food, it seemed unlikely that we should get an opportunity to save up. However, it was a fine, warm day; the three of us were together; we were all set to escape the moment a good opportunity presented itself, and—we were marching in the right direction. Morale was high.
The march continued throughout the afternoon, ending in a valley containing a long, scattered village. Outside a house about half-way down the valley, the column halted and dispersed; we were taken to a Korean house on the low, western slope which was already under occupation by twelve Chinese soldiers. Here we shared a room with three of our Korean porters, one of whom had established himself as the leader and was taking every opportunity to ingratiate himself with our captors. He was a dangerous element in our midst: an informer, a thief, and very lousy. We kicked him over to the other side of the room, which kept him at a distance of six feet. He remained there, glowering and mumbling to himself or at his fellow porters throughout the day, only leaving his corner to spring upon the infrequent meals of boiled rice that were brought to us.
We lived in that house under close guard for five days. Graham had sufficient of a pack of cards to play three-card Brag, and we played endlessly. He was also a master at getting tobacco out of those Chinese soldiers who came to stare at the curious foreign prisoners. On one memorable occasion, he obtained enough to roll us a cigarette each with some left over to put by for a communal one that evening—if we could get a light for it. During the third night, a Puerto Rican, named Morales, was brought in to join us. He had one special virtue in Graham’s eyes: he did not smoke the tobacco scrounged for him.
Each evening, our artillery carried out a harassing fire programme up and down the valley. We were always delighted to see this fire, not only because it frightened the North Koreans, who were very objectionable at every opportunity, but because it made us realize how close we were to our friends. On the evening of the fifth day, we were taken out of our prison in the middle of this fire, and hurried away from the valley the moment it lifted from our particular area. At first, I was afraid that we were going back to the north, but we soon took a path that led south-west. From the stars, it seemed to me that we must be travelling parallel with the front, which, from the information Morales had, now ran obliquely towards its lower end above Seoul, the capital. In the distance we could see a searchlight beam, and I could not help wondering if it had been put up as a guide for men trying to get back through the lines. We kept alert for any opportunity to escape. The path was crowded with men, animals, and small carts going in both directions. I was always hoping for a complete block in the traffic, when we might manage to slip away in the press and confusion.
We marched for about eight hours, halting frequently when the path became exceptionally crowded. Finally, we reached a motor road and turned due west along it. The Chinese were digging in four American “Long Tom” howitzers here, and this caused another protracted halt: they would not let the party pass. Finally, just before dawn, we reached a village north of the road, where we were billeted under a concrete bridge for the night. Sandwiched between fifteen North Korean soldiers, we went to sleep with the smell of garlic in our nostrils.
The next night we left the bridge and set off again—this time to the north-west. I was now becoming anxious to make an escape as soon as possible: we were getting progressively weaker, due to the poor and insufficient food, and I knew that we should need all our strength for the journey through the lines. We were taken up to another pass, over this, and up a side track to a huge old Buddhist Monastery. It looked an excellent place to hide up in and I memorised its position with care. I think that our captors had hoped to billet themselves there, but the Chinese, who occupied positions in the hills above, did not seem anxious to have them. While the officers of our party were going through the rooms, several Chinese came down to investigate. A fierce argument arose and one of the Chinese pushed a North Korean lieutenant away violently. I hoped to see a real fight begin, but another Chinese stepped forward as peacemaker. Through the interpreter we had with us, he explained some point at great length which seemed to satisfy both sides. We went back down the track to the road.
Our final resting place was a house in a village not more than a mile and a half down the road; we called it “Mother Reilly’s” after the good-natured old Korean woman who lived in it. During the next day, she gave us what food she could spare—some old corn meal, which tasted of nothing but mould—but this is what she was living off herself, at the time. In this house, we were joined by a sergeant of the 1st ROK Division, a good fellow who had been captured only recently while on patrol. He was exceptionally angry when his captors took away his good American uniform, replacing it with rags; and when they took his boots off, I thought he was going to burst into tears. The guards tried to stop us from talking to him, but we managed to get news of the battle-line, and that we were to be marched north in ten days time to Pyongyang, the northern capital. The worst of our guards, a corporal we had nicknamed “Smiling Albert” because of his habitual expression, finally succeeded in having the sergeant removed from our room for the rest of the day, an act we revenged, during his absence at the latrine, by stealing the mirror in which he was forever examining his face.
Dusk saw us marching once more, the sign “3783” leading us along the route. The advance party had evidently been busy during the day. After continuing north-west for two miles, we turned due west again over a high pass that led us down into a large village, in which the North Korean regiment we marched with was billeted. Looking round, I decided that we had waited long enough to escape; had expected, perhaps, too good an opportunity. Discussing the matter with Fox and Graham during the next day, I said that we must make the next night but one a deadline for our “break”, unless some exceptional circumstances prevented it. They were only too happy to accede. As we discussed final details, I called Morales over and asked him if he wished to join us. He said that he would. The four of us now made ready.
All is quiet; not even the sound of distant gunfire breaks the stillness to-night. On tiptoe, we leave the village, pausing every few yards to listen for sentries. Someone coughs nearby. We freeze in the shadows that hide us, waiting for a challenge or a step towards us. A voice calls out in Korean. We do not reply. Apparently, he is satisfied, for the challenge is not repeated. We reach the foot of the hill and begin the ascent. As we climb higher, the wind catches at our hair and torn garments. Now there are torches flashing below—is our escape discovered? We hurry on, careless of the thorn bushes that scratch us as we force our way through them. Fox is calling me.
“Sir, sir; we’ve lost Morales!”
I go back to look. There is no sign of Morales anywhere. I call his name quietly in the darkness; I go back through the bushes to the open slopes of the hill. The torches are still flashing below. We must go on. The inflexible rule of escapers, that an injured or lost man must be left, is invoked. Three of us continue the climb on to the wind-swept hill-top, hot, tired, breathless—but we are free again!
The next day was wet and cold. For the first few hours we lay stretched out on the soaking grass under cover of the bushes, our bodies camouflaged. At last, reasonably sure that our efforts to cover our tracks from the hill-top had been successful, we rose to our feet, exercised until we had restored some of the circulation in our chilled limbs, and sought shelter up a small re-entrant. Here the day was spent in warming one another between spells of vainly trying to strike a spark from a flint on to an old cigarette lighter wick; for we had sufficient grains of tobacco to roll one infinitesmal cigarette. At about four o’clock, we went over our plans for the night. We would retrace our steps towards “Mother Reilly’s” house, where we would try to obtain more cornmeal, if her billets were unoccupied. Should the enemy be in residence, we would continue along the road to the old monastery, which would certainly provide a resting-place before we began the final journey back through the lines—and might provide food. There was another good reason for going to this area. I had an idea in the back of my mind that we were just north of the positions occupied by the Fifth Fusiliers during the New Year 1950/51. If I could identify any of the features, I should be able to plan my route through country with which I was familiar—a tremendous advantage.
Along the road leading to “Mother Reilly’s”, the Chinese were digging in more guns. We lost a great deal of time circumnavigating the individual guns and the command post, but eventually reached the old lady’s village. The sky was completely obscured by clouds; the drizzle was constant. The rice paddy was a sea of mud which squelched loudly at every step. I was thankful to get on to the road, where we cleaned most of the mud clods from our boots. Leaving Fox and Graham by some mulberry trees, I went forward to the house. I could neither see nor hear sentries but this was not very surprising: the visibility was reduced to a few feet and the weather had probably driven any watcher into shelter. What actually warned me of cuckoos in the nest, was a man’s voice talking in his sleep. I could not take the risk of investigating whether it was the enemy, or merely a boy friend who had looked in for a night’s lodging. I went back to the mulberry trees to pass the news to the others.
Keeping to the roadside, which permitted us to walk in silence, we moved on towards the monastery. At the bridge, where we turned left, there was a sentry—an idle fellow, who was smoking. We cut off to the left of the road, to come out on the track beyond him. It was a slow approach now to the steps of the monastery, half a mile away; for we knew the Chinese were somewhere near, and we did not want to be challenged where it would be difficult to withdraw, with a deep stream on one side and a sheer cliff rising above us on the other. We felt, rather than saw, the monastery steps at last, and climbed them to the huge building above. For a short time, we rested in one of the many little rooms that ran off the main temple, then, growing bolder, began to explore the area. We were soaking wet and very cold. In the kitchen of the big hut belonging to the caretaker—an old woman who had made an appearance during our previous visit—we found the embers of a fire. Sitting round this, I decided to take a chance, while it was still dark enough to cover our flieht if the alarm should be given: I began to knock gently on the door of the old caretaker’s living-room.
For some time, there was no reply. Then the door was flung open suddenly and she appeared with a shovel of hot coals in her hand—a shovel she held very plainly for use as a weapon. She began to speak very quickly in Korean and her words were not words of welcome. I felt it was time we revealed our nationality.
“Yun-gook,” I said, several times. “English.”
She paused when she heard this, came forward cautiously, and peered into my face. My hopes rose as she put her shovel down and stepped down into the kitchen.
“Yun-gook?” she asked.
We all nodded, and she took a look at Fox and Graham. I am bound to admit that Graham’s beard might have frightened anyone. In this case, it seemed to reassure her. She went back into her room, and reappeared with a small oil lamp, in the light of which she examined us all again. Now that she was satisfied that we were friends, she became, in the same instant, fearful for our safety. She signed to us to sit down by the fire, put a finger to her lips, and went outside into the cold. Very naturally, Fox wondered if we were about to be betrayed to the Chinese, but I felt sure that she could be trusted. On the previous visit, I had noticed how she kept herself as far as possible from both Chinese, and North Koreans. In a few minutes, she returned with a girl of about fifteen and a boy a good deal younger. They had brought a considerable quantity of food with them. Hiding us in a toolshed on the other side of her living-room, she commenced to cook this with all speed. We ate a hearty breakfast, sitting behind some old boxes, and were ready to settle ourselves in this spot for the hours of daylight when the boy beckoned us through the door. While the girl kept watch, he took us out across the main courtyard and into a temple, where, after darting to each door to ensure that we were not overlooked, he took out one of the huge wooden blocks that constituted the floor and disappeared below. We all went over to the opening and looked down. Beneath us lay a wood store, filled with huge logs, doubtless cut during the previous winter. The whole room had been cut out of the hillside, two adjoining walls being built against solid earth, the other two opening on to a lawn below the caretaker’s house. Right in the centre, the boy had made a hideout for us, into which we descended. With tobacco and matches, an old blanket, and a bowl of fresh water from the stream, we were shut in for the rest of the day; three thoroughly contented men. The sound of the rain outside only enhanced the extreme comfort of our surroundings.
We rested and fed for two days. Each night I made a reconnaissance of the area. The more I saw, the more I became convinced that we were only a short distance north of the original positions held by the Brigade earlier in the year. I planned a route which would bring us on to the slopes of the massif, that would not only provide us with cover during the hours of daylight, but should also show us the way into Seoul. For the rest, I could only hope that the ROK sergeant’s information was accurate when he told us that the capital was still in our hands. During the third day, alarmed by a North Korean police officer who had been snooping about the area, we withdrew onto a rock shelf at the back of the woodstore, seeking better cover amongst the tumbled mass of old beams, perpetually in deep shadow. Lying here, I briefed the other two on the journey that we should make that night.
Our normal evening meal of rice and beans appeared after dusk. By this time, I had written a certificate stating that the caretaker and her family had aided us during an escape, had thus placed herself in considerable personal danger for the sake of the United Nations’ cause, and deserved a substantial reward. I felt that, should anything happen to us, the certificate would serve doubly to reward her and to give some indication as to our movements. For some reason unknown to me, the boy did not come back that night to collect our bowls and spoons. It had been my intention to give him the certificate then. As he had not appeared by the time we were ready to move, I decided to kill two birds with one stone: I would make a quick reconnaissance of the courtyards and path, and hand over the paper to the old lady at the same time. I left my boots by the trapdoor in the floor of the temple and walked out in stockinged feet; for the courtyards were flagged with stone and, without boots, I could move swiftly over them when out of my hiding place. It was now getting on towards midnight. The Chinese had already been down from the hill to collect their water from the wells, and pick up their supplies from the road down by the bridge. The last mule and driver had returned to the hill, over an hour before. I ran through the courtyards past the great stone images of Buddha, checked the path to see that no sentry had been left to watch it, listened by the wells and the gate that led back to the hill above. There was no sound. Quickly I ran over to the caretaker’s hut and knocked at the door. When she saw who it was, she dowsed the lamp and admitted me quickly. I said:
“Comupsom-nida”, and handed her the certificate, tapping it as I repeated the word of thanks.
I think she understood me, for she smiled and took it, tucking it away behind an old box in the corner. I was about to leave, when we heard footsteps outside the door and a voice hailed her. The door shook as a hand knocked heavily upon it.
We looked at one another for a brief moment—a look of horror and surprise. She opened the door of the tool-shed and thrust me in, closing the door again at once. I watched the room I had left through a hole in the paper-covered wall, aware that my heart was beating wildly. The old caretaker had now opened her door and was temporising with the callers: it was plain that they were insisting on coming in. After a couple of minutes, they grew tired of the argument and forced their way into the room, throwing her to the floor as they entered. There were four men: three soldiers and what appeared to be an officer, the latter carrying a drawn pistol in one hand, a torch in the other. I sprang to the box in the corner, taking cover behind it. I had just concealed myself when the door of the tool-shed was flung open and I saw the beam of the torch circling the room. The sound of boxes and other articles being kicked aside came to my ears. I knew that my turn was coming. The box in front of me crashed to the ground, was removed and splintered by another mighty kick, and I lay exposed in the full light of the torch.
That was the end of that escape!