WE were both seized by that enthusiasm one experiences on meeting one’s own kind, after being separated from them for a long period—an emotion intensified in this instance by being in the hands of a captor who insisted, much of the time, on treating one as a felon. It seemed to me that I was incredibly lucky, in finding a comrade so far away from the routes along which our enemies normally evacuated their prisoners; although it was less surprising when I discovered that Mike was a fighter pilot, shot down in a P51 while flying with the South African Squadron. After a short period of captivity, he had escaped and remained at large for about four days, only to be recaptured by a couple of stray Chinese who had come upon him by accident. When I learned that he had been shot down only six weeks before, I considered myself doubly fortunate; for here was not only a companion for the irksome life one led in captivity, a potential colleague in escape, but also a man who had all the news of the battle and the outside world—news that I had missed so much during the long days of enforced idleness at Munha-ri.
Lying there alongside Mike on the dirt floor, I questioned and he replied about all that had happened since that day in April when the battle began for us on the Imjin River. Mike had a good memory, and obviously took an interest in outside affairs; but I taxed him to the limit that night with my questions. Finally, we were both so tired that we agreed to go to sleep, covering our cold bodies with a ragged piece of straw matting. As we adjusted this to our mutual comfort, Mike said:
“By the way, have you got lice?”
I replied that I had rid myself of them some weeks before.
“I’m afraid I have them,” he said. “I wish you’d tell me how to get rid of them.”
“Mike,” I said, “if you’ve got lice, you won’t need me to tell you how to get rid of them. To-morrow morning, I’ll be giving you a very necessary demonstration on myself!”
Next morning Mike turned out to be tall, ginger-haired, and a second-lieutenant. The two of us were taken up to a bunker in a nearby hill, immediately after our kaoliang breakfast, and thrust inside with a group of South Korean soldiers whose uniforms had long since been exchanged for rags. Whence these filthy, starved, dejected men had originated, neither Mike nor I discovered. We just managed to identify them as ROKs, after considerable sign-making, but this exhausted the conversational resources of both sides.
On the posting of a sentry and guard commander less hostile than their predecessors, the two of us contrived to get permission to leave the stinking, crowded bunker. Outside, we sat in the sunlight, discussing our exact location in relation to the most important thing that lay before us: escape. Undoubtedly, we were now about ten miles south of Sinmak, and a little to the east of the main western railway and highway, which run, broadly speaking, side by side. Escaping from this point, we could make for the coast again; or, in the light of Mike’s knowledge of the Kaesong neutral zone established for the Truce Negotiations, we could head south. There were many factors to be considered before making a final choice: our immediate task was to break with our captors.
After we had eaten our kaoliang on the following night, I was taken out of the room I shared with Mike to a house on the western edge of the village. Sitting in one of the rooms, I found three Chinese—presumably officers—whom I named Adolescence, Smart-Alec, and Darkie. After a long silence, during which the three stared at me with almost unblinking eyes, Darkie opened the convenation.
It was the same old nonsense: I was a war criminal. My “attitude,” revealed at the headquarters two days before, by my refusal to answer military questions, showed that I was not sorry for what I had done. My guilt was intensifying each day under these circumstances and I could not expect my captors to continue much longer with their “humanitarian treatment!”
This summary of the case for the prosecution was presented in its entirety by Darkie, who, after the prolix fashion of the Chinese Communist Forces, took something over an hour to state it. Immediately I began to reply, Adolescence jumped up, pointed a finger of accusation at me, and began a lengthy explanation of the causes and history of the Korean war. It was all deliberately melodramatic. He would rise, speak for several minutes, beating the air passionately with the hand that was not outstretched in accusation, conclude with a toss of his head, and sit down in complete composure while Darkie caught up with the translation. This done, Adolescence would switch on the melodrama again, even to assuming a special facial expression as he got to his feet. As the hours passed, it occurred to me that he had probably been preparing his subject since the day of my arrival—and this was confirmed when I caught him peeping at some notes in his pocket during one of the periods of translation.
The points that Adolescence made bear repeating, if only because they were identical with those put out by the Chinese Communist Government for internal and, not infrequently, external consumption on the subject of Korea. Thus they are the points that were made again and again to the United Nations prisoners-of-war in Korea, in the innumerable addresses they received during their captivity, and formed a part of the programme of attempted political indoctrination.
In the first place, said Adolescence, the American war-mongers—the more powerful members of the New York Stock Exchange on Wall Street—began the war in Korea for two reasons: they thirsted for bigger and better profits, which armaments would give them; and they wanted to blacken the name of the Cominform countries to dupe their own restless, oppressed workers. These two reasons were complementary. On looking round for a suitable battleground, they chose Korea, saying, in their duplicity, that the very people whom they were attacking by an act of wanton aggression were the cause of it all. If I needed evidence of the United States’ guilt, said Adolescence, what better proof could I ask than that the arch-enemy of liberty—John Foster Dulles, himself!—was in South Korea just before it began. The most doubting of hearts could doubt no longer when confronted by such a fact.
Though greatly outnumbered, the North Koreans crushed the puppet forces of Syngman Rhee, whose remnant withdrew in disorder. Determined to end the threat of aggression from the south once and for all, and not least, to liberate those unhappy Koreans living under the Syngman Rhee regime, the North Korean Army marched on victoriously, overcoming the resistance that the regular American Forces attempted en route. Only later, when the whole Capitalist world had been mobilized against them, were the soldiers of the gallant North Korean Resistance Movement thrown back from the box formed round the Naktong River. Well knowing that the predatory forces following them up to the Yalu River intended to cross into China to continue the aggression there, the Chinese people, spontaneously, and independently of their Government, formed a military body, for the specific task of protecting their Motherland and aiding the North Koreans in their fight against American aggression. Armed with their democratic Marxist spirit, led by commanders enlightened by the Marx-Engels-Lenin-Stalinist philosophy, this body—the Chinese Peoples’ Volunteers—had marched across the Yalu River, fallen upon the aggressors and driven them back. Any responsibility placed on Mao’s Government for their formation, control, or supply was a calumny of the vilest kind.
It seemed, too, that any reference to the Chinese Fourth Field Army—in our terms, an Army Group—which had apparently volunteered for Korea to a man, under its commander. General Peng Teh Huai, was considered a calumny also. I was not permitted to raise the point again; though I tried to ask what they would have said, if the British Government had said that the 29th Independent Infantry Brigade Group was a volunteer force, released as such from the United Kingdom Order of Battle—with all their armament, equipment, vehicles, clothing and necessaries. I gathered that there was no answer on the written “crib” to this or any similar points.
Adolescence spoke for another hour, and I gave up attempting to argue with him. He had his speech prepared, and he was not going to be put off saying it. Switching the scowl from his face, he suddenly sat down and began to eat an apple. I believe he was still serving his apprenticeship as a politico and, secretly, was rather glad it was all over.
It was now the turn of Smart-Alec. As I had suspected, he was the most powerful of the three. In honeyed tones, he now suggested that I should sign a written confession of my guilt as a war-criminal—a confession that they would be delighted to assist me to prepare!—which would relieve me of responsibility for my former crimes. In the plainest possible terms, I told them that I would not. They threatened to separate me from Mike. I pointed out that he was, mentally, a sick man—he had been trying to convince them of this before my arrival as part of an escape plan—and that he would almost certainly become completely insane without my care. I cannot think they cared whether he was looked after or not, but whatever they felt, after a further prolonged argument about my confession, I was returned to Mike just before dawn. A full night had passed without either of us being able to work on our escape.
On the following day, we did not go down the hill, as usual, to our evening meal in a group with the ROKs. In the afternoon—about three o’clock—a non-commissioned officer and two soldiers collected us from our seat outside the bunker and took us into the centre of the village. There we were given as much kaoliang as we could eat, and an ample quantity of egg-plant soup. By the look of the kit that the guards had got together, we were going on a journey. The meal over, our escort led us out of the village to the headquarters where I had stayed five nights before. The interpreter who had torn up my letter met us.
“Come with me, both of you,” he said. “Remember you should call our commander, ‘sir’.”
Neither of us had the slightest intention of calling him anything, so we prepared ourselves for an argument. We were thus very surprised to meet a very mild little Chinese, dressed in a well-cut khaki suit, but wearing a cap several sizes too large for him, who neither insisted that we should address him in any special way, nor expected anything of us that we were not prepared to give. The interpreter treated him with great respect, as we talked in a large, comparatively well-furnished, bunker. It actually had a glass sky-light with a wooden shutter, and was furnished with a bed, two chairs, a table, and an old tattered carpet. It seemed he must be an important man to have items of property like this in such an area—even if they had been appropriated locally. I decided that he was at least the commander of a district on the line-of-communication—probably the equivalent of a brigadier or major-general.
The little man bade us sit down, asked our ranks, and said he knew we were English. We made no comment. He told the interpreter to give us a cigarette each—he did not smoke, he said but “this comrade” had plenty. “This comrade” turned out his pockets as fast as he could and lit a match for us. Emboldened by his geniality and obvious authority, I asked:
“Why was my letter to my family torn up, because I did not wish to answer your questions?”
The commander looked at me for a moment from his little bright brown eyes before he said:
“That is an administrative matter. I hope you enjoy the journey.” He got up to signify that the interview was over. We were hurried outside.
“Remember,” said the interpreter, as we made our way down the hill to pick up the reinforced guard, “if you escape again, you will be shot.”
We journeyed through the night to Pyongyang in an empty Chinese two-and-a-half ton truck, arriving at dawn, with many bruises from our frequent contact with its sides and floor as we passed over innumerable pot-holes and makeshift bridges, and round the edges of many bomb craters. The cut in my foot had opened after its pounding on the steel floor, and I found difficulty in walking from our debussing point to some houses in the extreme north of the city. After an hour’s sleep, we had a breakfast of rice, and were ordered to continue on our way. We had not been on the road very long before it became apparent that we were lost, with the result that we spent the remainder of the morning moving backwards and forwards, until we reached a very large village about a mile and a half from our original starting point. Our escort handed us over to the village garrison, where we were searched and stripped of every one of our few possessions, including our shoes and belts. After a short wait, we found ourselves locked in a very strong cell, lined with stout timbers, and offering, as cell-mates, a Chinese boy of fifteen years and one of the filthiest men I have ever seen.
Through constant protest we managed to secure the removal of our cell-mates—who were literally crawling with lice—the issue of a covering to keep out the growing chill of the October nights, and a small measure of freedom to sit for a little while in the sun each day. On two occasions, we were actually allowed to wash and we worked hard at delousing. Our luck seemed to be turning a little, and we hoped it would continue as we made fresh plans to escape. On the fourth day, however, Mike was removed from the cell, and we had but a few moments to wish each other good fortune before he disappeared with the guards who had brought up his possessions. Although we had been together only a short time, his companionship had meant a great deal to me. Moreover, escape would once again become an individual business. I passed a lonely evening, which was not improved when the guard commander strengthened the wire round my cell.
On the following night I was really pleased to find that I, too, was to be moved on. I was put into the hands of a very cheerful officer, who had evidently not long removed the Red Star of the Chinese regular forces from his cap—a gesture to international custom on crossing the Yalu River into Korea. He was extremely friendly, presenting me with apples and the Chinese hard-ration biscuit during our night truck journey, and borrowing a padded greatcoat for me from our driver to keep out the cold wind which had risen shortly after our departure. But his kindness did not relax his vigilance. I arrived at Sinanju as fast a prisoner as I had left Pyongyang.
At dawn on the following day I reached Chinju. The guards handed me over to a headquarters in a village just east of the town and departed. Once again I found myself confined in a small, mud-walled room; and, this time, I was not permitted to sit out in the morning sun. I spent the day trying to scratch a crossword on the wall under the puzzled eyes of the sentry, who came in every few minutes to make sure that I was not scratching a hole through to the other side! An hour before dusk the guard commander brought me an excellent meal of rice and a soup of potatoes, which had a liberal quantity of cooking oil floating on the top. I ate my fill of this rich dish, before being taken back to the centre of Chinju town. Accompanying our party was a Chinese officer who evidently spoke good Korean, from the fluency with which he conversed with two North Korean tank officers on the journey. The reason for his presence became clear when I found myself outside the local police station: I was handed over to be kept in their cells. After several hours of darkness I was relieved to find that it was not the intention to keep me there for the night. I was already chilled through in my unheated cell, when a police officer and two sergeants came to escort me down to the main cross-roads, where they joined a group of Chinese attempting to stop a vehicle for a lift.
No one stopped; several of those giving signals were almost run over. Eventually, they decided to give it up for the night. As my policemen were about to return me to the local lock-up, the Korean-speaking Chinese came running-up, said a few words to them, and instructed the Chinese to bring me along the road behind him that led us back to the east. I caught the word “Mi-goor”—American—in their conversation as we left the cross-roads, and was just wondering whether they were referring to an impending airraid, when we came up to a small handcart in the middle of the road. Sitting on it, his crutches lying alongside his one leg, was an American. This was the “Mi-goor” to whom they had referred. His name was Tom.
When Tom and I left Chinju the following afternoon, it was a special occasion. Tom was leaving the area in which he had spent his entire six months’ captivity to date. The commander of an American F80 jet-fighter squadron, his aircraft had been hit by antiaircraft fire in a raid on the Chinju rail yards. Jumping clear of his cockpit, his legs had been caught by the tailplane and injured. Fainting from pain and loss of blood, he had drifted to earth to be picked up by North Korean soldiers. For five days he had been given nothing—not even water to quench his raging thirst. Then, by God’s grace, the local Chinese headquarters had learned of his whereabouts. Deciding that an Air Force Major was worth interrogating, they sent out a party to bring him into Chinju, but found that he was too weak to understand, let alone answer, their questions. They took him to a hospital—or what passed for one—a few miles away: a group of mud huts in a village filled with flies and filth that bred more flies and disease as the summer progressed. Fortunately Tom had a strong constitution. The Chinese feldshers amputated one of his legs in rough fashion, and, an hour afterwards, he had visitors: an interrogation team who plied him ceaselessly with questions about the organization of his squadron, group, wing and the Headquarters of the Far Eastern Air Force for over nine hours. Evidently his captors were not pleased with his replies to their questions: his leg remained unattended for a month, by which time the wound had become terribly infected. He was leaving Chinju prematurely now: the amputation was still only partly healed, but he had refused to write a letter to the United States calling for the end of the Korean war and thus was not considered worthy of further treatment.
In the late afternoon we reached Sinui-Ju.
Our truck drew up outside the main gates of a large, brick-walled enclosure. Inside, we could see several stone buildings and a huge bunker from which radio-aerials protruded. Behind these ran the main railway line that came across the Yalu river from Antung, the Chinese city that sits on the north bank opposite Sinuiju. As we entered the gates a huge locomotive steamed past on the embankment drawing a long line of boxcars.
At first, I thought we had come to a North Korean Army Headquarters. As we stood in the courtyard, however, I realized that all the officers and men about us wore police uniforms; and the windows and doors of several of the stone buildings were barred in such a way as to leave me in no doubt: we were at the police headquarters and jail!
The Korean-speaking Chinese who had brought us came out of the main office building, glanced at us, and returned to the truck with the Chinese guards. Our escorts were now North Korean police officers, who took us over to a wooden structure nearby and bade us sit down. Tom and I began quietly to discuss why we had been transferred to the Koreans when he had been told at the hospital that he was going to one of the main prisoner-of-war camps. We were probably very stupid not to realize that his failure to answer military questions in the hospital provided the answer.
As darkness fell, we were taken into one of the cell blocks. The heavy, barred door was opened, closed, and relocked behind us. We found ourselves in a wide passage containing a bench, a chair and a desk. In the thick outer wall there was one small window, now blacked-out for the night, and a door at either end of the passage. In the other wall were set small, barred doors, too low for a man to enter, without bending almost double. Above each door, and running into the wall on its right, was a long barred window. Behind the doors and windows were wooden-floored, cement-walled rooms, thirty feet long, ten feet wide. These were the cells.
As soon as we entered the passage from the cold, fresh air, the warm stench of unwashed bodies met us. Yet, though it was obvious that the block must contain a considerable number of human beings, there was no sound, except for an occasional muffled cough—the sort of cough one might hear in a public library, when the cougher is afraid of making too much noise. Three warders—a second lieutenant and two warrant officers of the police—met us and took us into their charge. They had unpleasant, cunning faces; I called them Weasel, Ferret, and Stoat, hoping that, as is so often the case, their expressions hid kind hearts.
Weasel and Ferret—the warrant officers—began to search us. They removed everything from us, including our footwear, the draw-strings in our underwear, and Tom’s rough crutches. A cell door was opened and we were put in. A bright, barred light shone down from high up in the roof ceiling upon the backs of twenty-one men and boys who sat on the floor, cross-legged, in absolute silence, their backs to the door and window in the passage wall. Not one man looked up as we entered; they seemed to be terrified of attracting the attention of the warders. From behind the barred window. Stoat spoke to two men who were sitting by—but not leaning on—the wall beneath the window. They scurried forward into two vacant places at the bottom of the cell, as we moved into their places, Tom hopping forward on his one leg, leaning on my shoulder. The cell door clanged to behind us; the key turned noisily in the lock.