BY morning, we had put twelve miles between us and our prison; Pyongyang, a broad stretch of the Taedong Paver, and the fertile Taedong valley lay below us in the morning sun. Our hill-top gave us ample cover in which to rest from the night march. We ate our raw diacons, taken from the fields far back, as we discussed the route to the coast.
North of Chinam-po, we knew the seashore was covered with soft mud that often ran out for more than five miles, even at high water. But there were deep-water inlets northwards, and the port of Chinam-po would be about twenty miles south of the point at which we expected to find the sea. Ron and Jack agreed with me that we should turn north on reaching the coast, and seek the deep-water inlets and the fishermen’s craft that lay in them rather than risk the sentinels of Chinam-po. Once we got to the sea, we could only hope that wind and tide would not be against us. The problem of water for the journey was one that concerned me most; for I felt that, in our present condition, we should not be able to handle the boat effectively, if we remained at sea for more than a week without water.
After a second careful reconnaissance, we descended from our hill at dusk, with a stream and valley to cross before climbing a range on the far side which led to the sea. The brown and yellow leaves lay everywhere, as we passed through the woods on the lower slopes. There had been plenty of chestnuts here, but the village boys had taken them all, leaving the spiky cases strewn beneath the trees. Reaching the rice-paddy in the valley, we made a detour round the first village that lay on our course. Beyond, the stream flowed fast and deep between high banks of soft mud. I was hoping that we should find a crossing place higher up, for I was anxious that we should not get our clothes wet; the heavy night frost would certainly freeze them, and we could not count on a sunny day to dry them out before another night fell.
A young civilian came suddenly upon us from a tiny side-path, glancing curiously at us as we passed. We continued across the valley without looking back until he was out of sight, when we quickly ran back along the track we had crossed, changed our direction and took the small, disused footpath that led along the river bank. As soon as we reached good cover, I led the way into the bushes to see if we were being followed. Sitting there on the cold earth, we could hear nothing but the river noise below us. Only after ten or fifteen minutes did we hear light footsteps. Looking through the branches, I saw the civilian we had passed earlier coming along the footpath, looking carefully about him as he went. He passed without seeing us and I watched him take a path that led to the main track running to our right. Half an hour went by; he did not return. I decided to go on.
We made another detour to avoid the next village, and were about to descend to the stream again when we were challenged. I heard the action of a rifle bolt close by, and, as the moon emerged at that moment from the clouds, saw a sentry about twenty-five yards away, his rifle covering us. Jack and Ron were behind me. It was foolish of us all to get recaptured; their chance of withdrawal was better than mine. Signalling to them to crawl away along a rice paddy bank nearby, I walked slowly towards the sentry, speaking in a normal voice, hoping to distract his attention.
Attending to me, he did not spot the other two. He halted me firmly when I was about ten paces from him. Each of us stared at the other: he did not know what to make of me; I wondered how I could slip away from the weapon that covered me.
The guard turned out. I was led into the guard-room in a nearby village, which we had not observed in our daylight reconnaissance because it lay in a re-entrant. By this time I had decided to attempt a bluff and, in the friendliest voice I could raise, I said “Tovarich!” pointing delightedly at a coloured picture of Stalin on the wall.
The soldiers looked at me in puzzlement for a few moments. They regarded my black raincoat and the Chinese Communist cap that Tom had given me for the escape; they indicated my beard and blue eyes to one another as they discussed me amongst themselves. One of them came forward and said a few words to me in what I believed to be elementary Russian, and I replied heartily in gibberish, ending as many of my words as possible with “ski”, “shi”, “ish”, and “off” As their brown eyes grew friendlier, I began to indicate that I must be on my way, pointing to their watches as if asking the time. I really believed that I was going to get away with it; for they were smiling now and two men shook my hand. With luck, they might take me out on to the path and escort me to the edge of the village. I was about to light a cigarette offered to me, when the door opened and a North Korean police captain entered. He stepped towards me, speaking rapidly and apparently fluently, in a language that was certainly neither Korean nor Chinese. After a couple more sentences I realized that the game was up: he was evidently a Russian interpreter. I took a good pull on the cigarette and said in English:
“I’m afraid there seems to have been some sort of mistake.”
By the look on his face, I could see that he intended to rectify it. I left the guard room with my arms bound tightly behind me.
I spent a very unpleasant night, being wakened every half hour or so by the guard, just to make sure that I had not slipped out of my clothes and crawled through a crack in the floorboards. Two or three hours after sunrise, the door of my cell in the local police-station opened and I looked up to see the commander of the interrogation centre standing above me.
“Ah,” he said, greeting me with a friendly kick. “So it is you they have caught. I wondered which one it was.”
I was removed from the cell, still bound, and taken into another village, where Kim and a lieutenant-colonel of the police were waiting for me. As I approached, Kim looked up to say:
“You have been very foolish. You must be killed for this, I think.” His face was twisted with rage.
The whole party of seven or eight who had come out to fetch me breakfasted in a house while I remained outside. Their meal over, I was brought in for a preliminary examination. In order to infuse the proper spirit into all concerned, the police lieutenant-colonel cocked his pistol, brandished it in my face, and then began to hit me over the head with it. He had made sure that my hands and arms were securely bound before he began.
We had agreed on the tale to be told if any one or all of us were caught. First, we should insist that Tom knew nothing of our plans to escape; that we had cut through the wall and slipped out whilst he slept. In this way, we hoped to save him any further retribution. Next, someone had to take the blame for devising and planning the escape, and, as the senior officer in the party, it was my duty to assume this responsibility. Finally, at all costs, we were determined to conceal from them that we had intended to seize a boat and escape by sea, as we were most anxious to avoid any special watch being kept on boats in the future.
This was the story I now told. I told it during the first examination in the village; and I told it again at the Central Police Headquarters in Pyongyang in the afternoon of the same day. By this time I was sitting in an office containing three colonels of police, who, to my surprise, seemed to have nothing better to do than question a wretched escaped prisoner-of-war. It may have been, of course, that the prospect of losing prisoners who would report the conditions of captivity to the outside world was sufficient to command their personal attention. Whatever the reason, my interview with them that afternoon imposed on them at least a measure of responsibility for what followed.
Before I was taken from the room, an incident occurred which was typical of their irrationality. The first Colonel, seated at a desk, said:
“You say you tried to escape because we treated you badly, gave you no winter clothing, and so on.”—this was part of our story. “Well, we have no food, clothing, or medical supplies to spare. The inhuman bombing by the American aggressors in violation of all the laws of decency has withheld supplies from us. You must not blame us; blame your own side.”
No sooner had Earn translated this than the second Colonel spoke. Without reference to the previous remarks, he completely contradicted them.
“We have plenty of supplies: the bombing of the American aggressors has had no effect on our war effort. But we only give these things to those who understand the truth and co-operate with us. If you co-operate, you will receive the same as any other person.”
As if this contradiction was not enough, the third Colonel apparently decided that yet another was necessary.
“You can never have such things from us. You are a war criminal, and thus have no status except as a criminal. Only because of our goodness has your life been spared.”
Having translated these three statements, Kim led me from the room. Perhaps the Colonels wanted to argue out who should have spoken and what he should have said. I was taken to a square stone building nearby where the Young Major settled down to question me himself. Poker-Face (the lieutenant) and Kim were with us. I had a feeling that the interview would not be a pleasant one.
Now, although we had agreed to tell a set story and I had told this, I had refused to say in what direction Jack and Ron continued when I was recaptured. At first, I considered giving them a false scent, but realized there was really no point in this. I was not going to give them the information and I might as well say so. At each examination I pointed out that I was a British Officer, and could hardly be expected to provide them with details that would assist them to recapture my comrades. The Young Major now informed me that it was his intention that I should do so. An argument that lasted for about half an hour began. At the end, Kim was given instructions by the Young Major, which he translated to me.
“You think you can trick us with your lies; but you will never be able to do so. We are armed with the knowledge of scientific Marxist Socialism and, scientifically, analyze your words. Furthermore, your attitude reveals your insincerity. You refuse to co-operate with us and show yourself to be our bitter enemy. The Young Major now gives you your last opportunity to redeem your crime of making an escape and of forcing the others to do so by using the rank you held in the forces of the aggressors. If you do not take it, we shall have to adopt severe measures.”
When he had finished, they all looked at me. I said: “I have told you how things stand. I have nothing more to say.”
When Kim had translated this back to the Young Major, the latter rose to his feet and said what I believed to be the only English word he knew:
“O.K.,” he said, making for the door. “O.K.”
His drawn pistol covering me, Poker-Face intimated that I should follow and, with Kim, we left the room.
The Young Major had set off down a passage. Almost at the end of this, on the left hand side, was a steel door which had two handles on it of the lever type—levers six or more inches long, whose inner ends locked into recesses in the door lintels. As we passed through this door, I saw that it was very thick, and that the greater portion between the two steel faces appeared to be packed with fabric of some sort. Poker-Face closed the door, locking it with the two inside levers and moved round to join the Young Major.
“Strip to the waist,” said Kim.
My mind could not conceive the truth that my senses offered. We were all standing in a small square room, with cement-faced walls and a concrete floor. High above us, from a wooden ceiling, ropes trailed from metal rings. There were two more such rings in the left hand wall. Under the right wall was a large barrel of water. One little chair, such as a child might use at a kindergarten, was beside it; across its back lay more ropes, in a tangle. In the light of a single bright electric lamp that burned in the ceiling, I saw that there were stains on the floor and walls that looked very much like blood. As I stripped off my filthy, lousy, shirt and jersey, I knew that I was in a torture chamber.
Yet, my mind could not conceive it. I was living in the twentieth century—the year A.D. nineteen hundred and fifty-one. Surely, these three men could never bring themselves to torture me in cold blood. Looking round at their faces, I saw neither passion nor compassion in any one of them. I threw my clothes to the floor, and Kim kicked them into the corner as Poker-Face tied my wrists again. The Young Major spoke to Kim, who said.
“Kneel down.”
Kneeling there, looking up at them, still unable to comprehend that this was really happening to me, I saw the Young Major’s hand come round to strike me on the temple, as the first of a series of blows that he and Poker-Face released upon me. Kim joined them when they began to kick; and it was he who covered my face, when the Young Major saw that I was anticipating some of the blows and ducking. Just before the cloth came down over my eyes, I saw to my horror that the Young Major’s face had assumed an expression of savage pleasure: he was really enjoying my suffering.
In my innocence, I had thought this maltreatment was to be either my punishment, or a means of inducing me to give information about Jack and Ron. I discovered that it was merely the overture. The covering was removed and I was assisted by Kim and Poker-Face into the tiny chair. I almost thanked them for what seemed to be an act of remorse or compassion. It was neither. They now bound my legs to the front of the chair, my arms to the two uprights at the back. My wrists, still secured, were tied down with a second piece of rope to the cross-piece between the two back legs. The Young Major kicked me in the chest and the chair fell over, with me, on to its back.
Poker-Face now produced a towel, as the Young Major threw two or three dippers of ice-cold water over my face and neck, drawn from the barrel in the corner. Still I did not understand, thinking, as I lay shivering with the cold, that I was to be chilled to the bone by repeated dousing. But Poker-Face placed the towel over my face and, a second later, more water was thrown over me. When I tried to rise—a pitiful attempt in which I just managed to lift my head forward a little—the Young Major put his boot on my mouth and shoved my head back again. More water struck the towel, some running off on to my bare chest—but some was absorbed. I tried to blow out some of the water which had seeped through in to my nostrils and mouth. If they are not careful, I thought, they’re going to choke me. And then, instantly, comprehension followed. That was exactly what they intended to do. I think I had never been so frightened in my life.
It was such a simple but effective torture. The towel completely covered my face, its ends resting on my chest below and on my hair above. The first application of water provided just sufficient moisture to make the towel cling lightly to my flesh, and so hold it in place. Thus, every breath I drew was drawn through the towelling, the process of inhaling only serving to draw the material more tightly on to my face. While the towel was reasonably dry, I could breath adequately. But as its water content increased towards saturation point, each successive breath provided less and less oxygen for my labouring lungs. My mouth and nostrils began to fill with water. I realized that I was dying as I shook my head from side to side in a last despairing effort to throw off the clinging towel-mask. Poker-Face or Kim took my head between their hands and held it steady as the Young Major poured on more water. I suffered another short, terrible struggle to breathe before sinking into a delicious, shadow-filled tranquility.
Of course, I had thought they meant to kill me. The violence of their treatment had been such that I had not hoped to live when I understood their purpose. But they were more experienced than I.
The Young Major must have known exactly when to stop—perhaps the moment I became unconscious. I came to, still lashed to the little chair but now upright, the water pouring from my nose and mouth down my chest. I had come round rather quickly because the Young Major was applying the end of a lighted cigarette to my back at frequent intervals. I saw that he was smiling. It was not a pleasant smile. He was good enough to desist, when Kim began to ask me for the information they wanted. About ten minutes later, the process began all over again: I experienced the same terror; my expectation of death was the same as before, yet concerned me less than the agony of finding my breath dying in my lungs. When, eventually, I was dragged from the room, they had tortured me in this way three times.
Scarcely able to walk, I left the building between two police officers who had been called in. They took me through the cold, overcast night to a concrete cell block about two hundred yards away, and handed me over to the warrant-officer who was on duty. The cells were constructed on much the same lines as those at Sinui-ju; the prisoners were sitting inside in the same way. The only difference I perceived then or later was that this appeared to be more modern and more strongly constructed. Two warders took me down the long passage that led past the cells, opened a door at the end, and guided me along an extension by the light of an electric torch. Finally, almost at the end of the passage, we came to an unlighted cell. A push sent me to the floor, where my legs were bound and the knots on my wrists strengthened. Satisfied that I was securely roped, the warders departed. The metal rang, as the door closed behind them and the key turned in the padlock. Their footsteps echoed as they withdrew along the passage. The door to the main passage closed; the last vestige of light disappeared. For the time being, my tormentors were content to leave me, if not in peace, at least alone.
That was the first day. They came for me on the second day, but not on the third; again on the fourth day; again on the sixth. In between times, I lay on the concrete floor, taking refuge in a corner from the water that covered most of the cell. Each morning I was brought a bowl of boiled maize, but had no water to drink. So that I could eat, my wrists were released, but not my sore, throbbing ankles. Though I asked to go to a latrine, I was not allowed to do so. As I had contracted enteritis from either the diacons or the maize, my clothes were soon fouled; but the lice did not seem to mind. Day and night, as I lay there, they wriggled across my flesh, setting up considerable irritation wherever they feasted on my blood. Sometimes, it seemed to me that my whole body was alive with millions of them, eating my flesh away. It was impossible to remain in one position for more than a few minutes at a time: the discomfort became almost unbearable; my joints seemed to be on fire. There was no light during those six days, except when I was led out to the torture chamber, or when my food was brought in. I lay forever listening for the sound of footsteps that would take me back to the little room with the water-barrel in the corner.
When they brought me back on the evening of the sixth day, my spirits were lower than they had ever been before. I could not disguise from myself that my resistance was weakening. Now I was reduced to the state where I said that I would endure it for one more time; and when that time came, for one more time again. I experienced that night periods of light-headedness, due, I think, to the severe beatings. Periodically, I began to hear voices in my ears, and have vivid dreams of being with my family again. That day Kim had said to me:
“If we do not find them, I think you will be tortured to death. We have many ways of killing you slowly.”
Some time on the seventh day, I realized that I had taken almost all that my mind and body could take. I prayed very hard; and I think my faith in God was never stronger. Within an hour, my circumstances improved.
The door to the main passage opened and I saw a flashlight coming towards the cell. Another was switched on as three men reached my doorway. For a moment I thought that I was to be taken out again: Captain Li from the Interrogation Centre came into the cell and stood over me, calling my name.
“You are very lucky,” he said. “To-morrow you will be shot.”
Such was my condition that I was glad—grateful that I was going to die a clean death that was in keeping with my profession, instead of dying vilely, in fear and agony in the torture chamber, with my own cries in my ears. I confess I am not of that breed of men who manage to remain silent under torture: I swore and shouted at the inquisitors each time, as long as I had breath.
Captain Li departed, but not the other two. I saw that a Korean police officer stood outside with one of the warders, watching me turning over and over restlessly, seeking for ease that was never there. He spoke to the warder, who entered the cell and, bending over me, unfastened my wrists and ankles; then departed, relocking the cell door. Unsteadily, unused to this freedom of movement, I stood up. Two of my ribs were cracked from kicks; my head, shoulders, and thighs were sore and bruised; my back was covered with cigarette burns, which smarted at the slightest touch from my filthy clothes—but I was free to move again! If I wanted to move a leg, I could move it! I could raise my arms and lower them at will! For several minutes I experimented happily under the eye of the watching policeman, though I had forgotten him. He called me over to the barred window, where we stood face to face. He was a man of middle height, clad in the uniform of a captain of the police. In the torchlight, I saw that he wore spectacles.
“Tambay, eso?” he asked, after a moment. I shook my head; he knew I had no tobacco. He drew three cigarettes from his pocket and passed them through the bars and found some matches to give me. As I stood in front of him, smoking my first cigarette for many weeks, he shook his head, smiling at me with obvious sympathy.
After all that had happened, this simple act of compassion was too much for my self-control. The tears rolled down my bearded cheeks as we stood, in silence, regarding one another.
When Captain Li came into my cell on the following morning, my mind was at rest. The preceding hours had been passed comparatively comfortably, on a piece of matting that had been brought to the cell by another prisoner—apparently permitted some measure of freedom in return for doing chores for the warders. He was a Korean national of Chinese parentage who had spent some years at a high school in Harbin. His English was quite good, and we had a whispered chat. It seemed that I was in the political block of the jail—a bad block to be in, beause its inmates were made to work longer hours than the ordinary criminals. Would the Americans rescue me? I said that I feared they had other commitments of a higher priority. He brought me some old rags, and with these I endeavoured to clean some of the filth from my body. I scrapped my underclothing, feeling that I should not be requiring it very much longer. My greatest regret was that I had neither cap nor comb, so that I should appear rather an unkempt soldier before the firing-squad. As a great luxury, I sat down on my little rice-straw mat in the corner, leaning my elbows on my knees.
I now had a little light, which, however faint, made a great improvement to the cell; for, shortly after being unbound on the previous day, some covering on the roof had been removed, revealing a small shaft about the diameter of a penny. Gradually, my eyes took full advantage of it. Sitting in the corner, I went over my life, realizing how lucky I had been to have had so much happiness. I felt sure that I had had far more in my years than any other occupant of the block. I hoped my family would be informed of my death without too much delay, so that there would not be prolonged anxiety.
When Captain Li appeared, I rose, picking up Jack’s black raincoat which had been thrown into the cell on the previous day. I thought it would cover my ragged clothes.
“Where you are going,” said Captain Li, “you will not need that.”
He was probably right. I let it drop back on to the mat and preceded him through the door. We marched back down the passage, emerging into a fine November morning. The sun was shining from a blue sky; the wind was light; the air was keen but not too cold now that the sun was up. Beyond the doorway, standing at ease on a mud square, I saw a file of soldiers armed with rifles. I wondered how far I should march with this firing squad before we reached the place of execution.
Captain Li said: “Go on,” motioning towards the soldiers with his pistol. Saying the 23 rd Psalm over to myself, I walked over to them, and was marched to the road that ran towards the centre of Pyongyang. At that moment I was astonished to see Jack coming out of a nearby building.
“Do not talk,” said Captain Li. Three soldiers with him separated us on either side of the road, before we could exchange more than a greeting. I was just wondering whether Jack was to be shot, too, and if so, who would be shot first, when everyone with us except Captain Li and the three men walking with him wheeled to the right and disappeared. We continued to walk along the sunlit road without a word, heading for the wooded hill which stands in the centre of Pyongyang City, overlooking the airfield across the river.
It was when we were crossing an open space of rice paddy between one suburb and another, that an opportunity occurred to talk. Captain Li saw a friend whom he ran after, calling on him to stop. They began an animated conversation some distance away. The guards drew together in a group to light cigarettes and have a chat. Jack and I worked along the paddy bund towards one another and sat down.
“Where are we going?” asked Jack.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Are you going to be shot?”
Obviously, he had not thought of this. “Can’t say,” he said, after thinking it over. As the guards continued to disregard us, we decided to settle a few more points. Jack told me that he had been caught with Ron two days before. After a short wait with their captors, they had been taken back to the Interrogation Centre where they had spent a miserable time. Both he and Ron had been badly beaten up, in spite of “confessing” to our story. In addition, Jack had been made to kneel for hours with a heavy board held up by his arms behind his back, receiving a rain of blows every time he moved. Tom was recovering from several heavy beatings. Apparently six of them had considered it safe to attack a one-legged man after removing his crutches, while two men had covered him with pistols, in case he leapt to his foot and overcame them. He was still very weak from this and through his former starvation—concluded two days ago—and from a fever, given him by being drenched with cold water and left in a bitter wind. Both he and Ron had been taken off that morning in a jeep with the Young Major to an unknown destination. Kim had remained at the farm, while Li had brought Jack on foot to the Central Police Station. He was just telling me that he and Ron had turned south at the coast instead of north, when Captain Li returned. To my surprise, he did not seem annoyed that Jack was near me and obviously conversing. Instead, he made a remark that sent my hopes soaring to the blue sky.
“You understand,” he said, tapping his pistol and looking at me very directly, “if you try to escape again, I shall shoot you.”
Things seemed to be looking up!
We had a long, hot march—the more fatiguing because we were both weak and had had no food that day. South-east of the city, we came to a small coal-mining town where we met a jeep at the main cross-roads. My spirits were not so high when I saw that the Young Major was sitting in it.
He was very affable, nodding and smiling at us; but we did not return his courtesy. After a few minutes conversation, he got out and entered a restaurant, leaving us to climb into the jeep with Captain Li. I was very pleased to leave the Young Major behind us and continue the journey on wheels.
After some miles of open counrty, where we passed at intervals Chinese-manned flak batteries, presumably defending Pyongyang, we drew up at the entrance to a disused coal mine. Captain Li handed us over to North Korean soldiers at an office, suddenly became very friendly, and handed us all the cigarettes in his packet as he departed for Pyongyang.
“What do you make of that?” said Jack, as he disappeared. “Two nights back that bastard was beating the hell out of me!”
We marched across the principal mine road to another office on the far side of the hill, where our names were taken by two North Korean Army officers. Then we were escorted towards a group of huts nearby. As we reached the doorway of the last hut, there was a great shout; welcoming words greeted us; on all sides friendly faces appeared; Henry, Spike, Mike, the South African, Ronnie our Gunner, Tom, Ron—and new friends, British, American, French. It was almost a second homecoming as we were borne inside.