WHEN I returned to the top of the hill, Duncan’s clothes were dry; the morning wind had done its work. I gathered them in before returning to my observation post, where I sat down to think out the problem of getting the clothes back to him.
It was all-important that he had these. It was now September; the weather would soon be turning cold. The prospect of anyone spending a winter in North Korea in nothing but a thin summer flying suit was appalling; he would die. I decided that the best plan was to enlist the aid of the Koreans, by handing over the clothing bundle to them and trusting to their fear of the Chinese to have it delivered to the local headquarters. This also placed reliance in the Chinese to turn the clothes over to Duncan, but I faced that problem whatever I did—short of assaulting three armed guards in the centre of the village in daylight to return the clothes to him personally. I made my way to the edge of the village under cover of the trees and maize fields.
I spent many hours round the village trying to get some villager to come near enough to effect a hand-over, but without result. Gradually, very painfully, I accustomed myself to the idea that I should have to give myself up, hand over the clothes, and go through all the business of escaping again. In the late afternoon I was forced to a final decision, when I saw them marching Duncan out of the far end of the village. I stood up amongst the tall maize stalks, parted them, and stepped out on to the village path. Ten minutes later I was in the local headquarters, handing over Duncan’s clothes.
The Chinese were very surprised to see me, for we had travelled a long way from our original village and their communications were very poor. Their immediate reaction must have been that we were the survivors of an aircraft, shot down close by; but my Chinese shoes and our two towels, identical to their own, made them realize that we were not. Whatever they thought, they understood that I had Duncan’s clothes and that the two of us were associated. They made signs that I would join him shortly; and this was confirmed when a very dark-skinned, rat-faced Chinese appeared who spoke understandable, if limited, English. As dusk fell, he accompanied me from the village with three soldiers, chatting happily as we walked along, pausing after each sentence to see if the soldiers were watching. They were very impressed by his ability to speak to the queer foreigner in his own tongue, and he played up to them admirably.
An hour later we reached the village to which Duncan had been taken. I was only allowed a few moments with him and had been warned not to speak. I just said:
“Hallo, Duncan. I’ve brought your clothes,” before they took me out again very quickly.
An interrogation followed, by a man whose English was so bad that I decided to give fatuous replies to his questions—the success of which so cheered me that I had quite recovered my spirits by the time I was taken to my lodging for the night. This was a straw stack in the barn adjoining a Korean house. I was told to he down and remain lying down throughout the night. Two guards were posted within six feet and flashed a light on me every minute or so. I realized that an escape attempt at this time would be foolhardy, and so made the best of my comfortable circumstances to enjoy a good night’s rest.
The following afternoon Duncan and I were marched west to Namchon-jom, a town on the western railway. The few houses that were left standing had been requisitioned by the Chinese who seemed to provide the entire garrison; not a North Korean soldier was to be seen, apart from the local gendarmerie. The little rat-faced English-speaker was in charge of our escort. As we passed through bomb-shattered streets, he turned to Duncan to say:
“How many Korean women you have killed with your aeroplanes!” Or, a little further on: “How many little Korean children are dead from your bombs!” His accusations increased so that, eventually, he uttered one every few paces. We became so tired of this nonsense that we began to reply:
“How many guns you have sheltered in these houses!” “How many tons of explosives you have stored in this town!” “How many soldiers you have put into these buildings!”
This was always a sore spot with the Chinese: we received the standard answer they were taught to give by their newspapers, and by their political officers.
“That is different! We have a right to be here.”
“If you do not want the Korean civilians to be bombed, why do you continue to occupy every village in the countryside?”
There was, of course, no answer to this; but he continued to repeat “That is different!” like a parrot. With soldiers and warlike stores all round us, in the houses and in caves dug into the hillsides around the town, he could not very well deny that his own forces had turned each village, each town, each city into a military target.
We left Namchon-jom in darkness, passengers in a truck half-filled with empty tins of various sizes lashed down beneath an old tarpaulin. The main western highway, that runs from the Chinese border to Pusan in the far south, was packed with motor vehicles of Chinese and Russian origin, those going south piled high with stores. Only sidelights were permitted, though drivers flashed their headlamps on, to negotiate the many traffic jams caused by accidents or lack of traffic control. I fumed inwardly at the thought of the targets which our aircraft were missing that night, although I knew their difficulties. And the Chinese were very alert for aircraft warnings. A rifle would crack from a hilltop where their spotters listened for the sound of aircraft engines. Even the sidelights on the vehicles would be dowsed; many vehicles would draw off the road into cover. The cry of “Fiji”, or “Piangi”, or “Fiji-lella” would be shouted from driving-cab to driving-cab. Where there were passengers, the cries would be chorussed. How I wished through that night drive that our air strength was even half of what our enemies attributed to us!
A mile beyond Sinmak, we turned down a track which led to the east. Our speed was now greatly reduced, as the surface of the road was exceptionally poor, and we were often ascending or descending considerable gradients among the mountains. Two of our guards were getting so sleepy that I was weighing up my chances of warning Duncan for a leap over the side into the pinewoods that ran right down to the road, when the truck halted with a jerk, the sentries woke up, and we were ordered to dismount.
In the beam of a flashlight I began to climb a winding path that led up the side of a hill, Duncan following. Half-way up, we came to two bunkers, in the doorways of which we saw iron bars set in stout pine-logs. We seemed to have arrived at a very secure prison.
A non-commissioned officer and two sentries were on duty at the bunkers, the doors of which faced one another at a distance of about four feet. One sentry opened the doors while the others covered him with their weapons. A moment later I was inside one bunker; Duncan was in the other. The doors were closed behind us and fastened with stout padlocks. Our escorts’ footsteps died away along the path.
From the light of the sentries’ torch outside, I saw that I was in a cell whose walls, ceiling, and floor were covered by thick pine logs which would take a great deal of cutting through. Two Chinese were returning to their rest after being disturbed by my entry. From their clothing and fear of the guards, I presumed them to be prisoners serving sentences. I, too, lay down to sleep.
Normally, I am a restless sleeper, turning constantly from side to side. I quickly learned that such habits were not tolerated here. At the slightest sound from the straw mats on which we lay, one of the guards would shine his torch through the bars of the door, while the other poked at the offending body or bodies with a sharp steel rod. My shoes having been removed, I received the point of this rod in the sole of my foot about ten minutes after I had entered the cell. For the remainder of the night I lay as still as I could, but turned involuntarily several times, to be awakened by the chastisement of the guards. It was an unpleasant night.
In the morning, we were allowed out to visit the latrine once, at the time when breakfast appeared—a breakfast of millet, accompanied by some hot, dirty water containing a cabbage leaf. Duncan had only one Chinese in his cell but, like mine, his fellow-prisoner was terrified of the guards, almost jumping out of his skin when they addressed him. We were not permitted to lie down, or even to doze in a sitting position during the hours of daylight. I contrived to sit with my back against the wall in the deepest shadows of the bunker to catch upon my night’s sleep. Fortunately, after a time, the guards got tired of trying to see whether I was awake or not, and I had a good nap, until one of my cell-mates reported me to the guard commander, when he came in to make the regulations clear with the toe of his boot. The informer got a dry biscuit from the guards for his trouble.
The evening meal of millet appeared; we made our second latrine run of the day. Another uneasy night was passed in the timbered cell. On the following morning, I began to feel that my escape might take rather longer than I had intended. At breakfast time, I managed to pass a few words to Duncan and we agreed that, if the opportunity arose, each must escape without waiting for the other. The morning and afternoon passed as before. The evening millet arrived, accompanied by a thin fish soup that was excellent: though it was tasteless, there was a distinct aroma of whiting as one bent down to the dish.
As I prepared to go back to my cell—Duncan had already been returned to his—a Chinese came down the pathway from the hilltop, carrying a paper which he handed to the guard commander. At the same time he indicated that I should remain where I was. Duncan was released from his cell and, with two other soldiers who appeared, we were marched away. Two more soldiers joined us, at the point where we had dismounted from the truck two nights before, and we set off in a party along the track. Soon we left this for a narrow path which we followed for about two miles, travelling north-west. Another Korean village received us; another company of Chinese soldiers took us over. Duncan and I were placed in separate bunkers, oil drums were rolled into the doorways, and we were left for the night. I was so tired that I fell asleep almost immediately.
The sun was up before I awoke. This was partly due to the fact that it was exceptionally dark inside my bunker, the only light coming in through a narrow space at the top and down one side of the oil drum in the doorway. I examined my surroundings. The bunker had been dug into the hillside at an angle of about forty-five degrees. The sides were unrivetted, but the roof had branches across it to prevent a fall of earth; on the floor a small amount of straw had been scattered. Its chief drawback was that I could not sit up in it; the ceiling was too low. I could either lie down, or half-sit, resting on my elbows. It was just wide enough for me to draw my knees up, which was a blessing; and long enough for me to stretch out full length, if I followed the slight curve of the wall towards the entrance. The absence of light was not entirely a draw-back; it meant that the guard could only look in to see me by drawing the drum right back from the doorway—an act which gave me ample warning of his intentions. I peered through the crack at the side of the oil drum to watch the sentry’s behaviour, and then made a closer inspection of my cell, with a view to finding a way out of it.
After breakfast that morning—millet again!—I was allowed to visit the latrine, and made the best use of my few minutes in the open to see how my bunker lay in relation to the outside world. I think that I first realized that I was sick when I went outside; I felt very faint when I stood up, and after a few paces vomited. Immediately I thought it was merely an attack of tonsilitis; my throat was becoming swollen and painful in a way I had experienced before. In addition to this, the cut in my foot, caused by the steel rod of the guards in my former cell, was turning septic. I decided to ask if there was a doctor or medical orderly in the village, showing the sentry my foot. He was a good-natured fellow, I am sure. He clicked his tongue, when he saw how swollen and inflamed the cut appeared, nodded when I drew a cross in the sand. My visit to the latrine had been extremely successful.
For two days I worked on a tunnel, carefully disposing the earth by scattering it over the bunker floor under the straw. On the second day, a medical orderly appeared as I returned from the morning visit to the latrine; a pleasant, smiling little man, who dressed my foot very competently but regretted that he had nothing to give me for my throat. I noticed that he looked at my eyes very closely after he had examined my throat, turning me round to face the sunlight so that he could see more clearly. I tried to ask him what he was so interested in but our sign language was insufficiently comprehensive for him to tell me. As I crawled back into my bunker. I reflected that he was probably merely curious at seeing a man with blue eyes.
Next day I could eat nothing, but knowing how badly I should need food, I stored it away against future needs, hoping that the millet would not turn sour.
On returning from the latrine in the morning, I was horrified to see two of the local officers inspecting the inside of the bunker with flashlights and poking at the walls. One of them came out and addressed me angrily in Chinese, shaking his finger at me. It was very difficult to pretend that I was at ease; my heart was beating violently. Why were they going over the bunker? Why was the outside now being examined? What had the Chinese said to me so threateningly? I sat down by the bunker to wait, knowing that they only had to pull away some stones to find the entrance to my tunnel. Even now, the second officer was emerging with a stone in his hand. He joined the man examining the outside of the bunker, engaged him in a short conversation and then—they both made off! The sentry returned me to the bunker where I lay for many hours like the most model prisoner, fearful that they were waiting for me to make a move that would reveal the tunnel. But no one returned and, after several hours of darkness, I returned to work.
Each evening, the bulk of the village garrison went up to the hillside opposite my bunker. There they followed a routine common amongst Chinese troops in Korea: they learned a song in praise of their leaders, or in denunciation of their enemies—in the latter case, the Americans were the favourite subject. Their evening exercise accomplished, they would round off the meeting with a few rousing choruses of those songs they had learnt previously. As my fourth night in the village drew on, I heard the troops pass along the path below my bunker with their rather slow marching step. Soon after, a pleasant tenor voice began to sing on the hill across the valley, the troops repeating the words after him, line by line. I approached the oil drum and put my eyes to the crack. By good fortune, the sentry was within my limited line of vision, standing by the tree, looking up at the heavens. There would never be a better opportunity than this. On my side, I crawled back to the far end of the bunker and removed the stones which had hidden the tunnel I had dug with my hands and a piece of sharp wood, torn from the roof-timbers. It was a small tunnel and I am a wide chap. I had measured off the width as best I could and physically tested the entrance by wriggling into it, but could not risk going further. I realized now that it was going to be a tight squeeze. I had to clear away about another foot of earth before I broke out on to the hillside and I knew that I must make at least one trip back into the bunker to see what the sentry was doing. I would have laboured in vain if I appeared on the far side of the tunnel to find him peering down to see what sort of a mole would emerge; for my point of exit lay on his beat. Yet I could not make the journey up and down the tunnel too many times—the sides or roof might well fall inwards from the hillside. As soon as I estimated that I had only a few more inches to clear, I wriggled back into the bunker to look for the sentry. It was now twilight: I could only just see the tree. The sentry was not there. I waited for some time, wondering where on earth he could be on the beat. A moment later, the crack at the side of the oil drum became dark and I heard the sound of his footsteps. He was standing right outside my bunker. If he came in now, my plans would be discovered! I sat in the darkness, waiting for him to move, expecting that the oil drum would be pulled back at any moment and the light of his torch shine in.
He was so close that I could hear him breathing. Time dragged in the darkness. I seemed to have been sitting there for hours. Then, hawking and spitting, he strolled on in the direction of Duncan’s bunker. A few minutes later I could see his outline standing by the tree.
Now was the time to move quickly. I slid into the tunnel, and worked my body up it to the point where the earth sealed me off from the outside. I dug my wood spike into the earth, tore away with my hands, packing the earth into the sides of the tunnel. After about a minute the earth broke under my hand and I felt the chill night air on my flesh. I had reached the end of the tunnel! I got my shoulders through the opening and was able to look over the top of my bunker
The sentry was talking to a friend nearby. He had his back to me—but it was a back less than twenty feet away. Slowly I emerged from the tunnel; the ground seemed to resound with every grain of earth that fell back behind me. I stole across the open to the maize which lay on the far side, entered it and crawled up the hill towards the bushes on the upper slopes. The cold, wet maize leaves ended, the bushes closed around me. Five minutes more and I reached a burial clearing just below the crest. I leapt up from the bushes, doubled across the open ground and ran as fast as I could along the path that led between the fields beyond, heading for the hill to the north. For the moment, my sickness was forgotten; I felt no fatigue. The night air smelt of freedom and filled my veins with fire!