T HERE had been more escape attempts in my absence: Walt, a young American fighter pilot, and Sergeant Brock had been the last to go, bringing the total number of men who had attempted it in the year to forty-one. Walt’s departure had been executed so skilfully that old Yang, who administered our platoon, did not discover his absence for two days. I was very pleased to hear this story of a clean getaway at Yang’s expense as he had been one of those principally concerned in arresting Sergeant-Major Gallagher by the stream. Poor Walt and Brock had already been brought back to the village after covering well over a hundred miles. They were lodged together in a foul, dark, rat-infested cellar almost opposite the North Korean police station.
Not long after my return, the Marine Colonel was arrested. Unquestionably, the Chinese had been preparing a case against him for a considerable time, knowing that he was the senior United Nations Officer in the compound and thus the officer whom we considered the commander. He was actually arrested on a minor charge of “stealing” his own boots from a store where all our own uniforms were kept impounded, and ordered to go down to answer this charge at Camp Headquarters. There, after a long spell in solitary confinement, he had other, more serious charges, brought again him.
The chief change in the routine life inside the compound that I noticed was that many of the British had taken up the American game of softball. We still played cricket twice a week on the square with our home-made gear, but the ranks of the cricket snobs were thinner. James and Sergeant-Major Ridlington had earned places in the top league of the three that were running. Paul captained a strong British team competing in the middle league. The Americans had made some marvellous equipment out of barbed wire, leather from old boots, and firewood, and the cries of players and spectators rang through Pyn-chong-ni when a game was in progress. The North Korean children would assemble on the hill above to watch whenever they got the chance.
I had just settled back into the routine of compound life when the Camp Headquarters made a change that constituted a major event in our lives. The prisoners in the compound were divided into two groups, and one group was withdrawn from the village.
Prior to my joining the Camp, a Chinese had said to me:
“You think you are going to a camp where there are watch-towers and high, barbed-wire fences. You are wrong. We do not send you to be a prisoner but to be a student at a sort of university. There are no fences to keep you in.”
Though he was wrong about the university, he was right about the fences, generally speaking. Our camp was not surrounded by high fences until mid-1952. Before that, in Pyn-chong-ni, the compound was enclosed by a single barbed wire fence; but the Chinese principle of guarding their captives was entirely different from that adopted in western Europe or America. Instead of establishing compounds containing upwards of five hundred men, enclosed by the customary fences and watch-towers, they kept us in comparatively small groups, breaking these down, whenever possible, to as few as ten men. For, at the outset, their principle concern had been political subversion, and they realized speedily that this was proportionately more difficult as the numbers in each group increased. Later, when the indoctrination programme had failed, they feared plots against them and sought to prevent these by the same principles as before: small groups under close surveillance. Even as late as the summer of 1952, when they established an annexe to our Camp—Camp 2—they kept prisoners in several groups of eight and ten, and one larger group of about thirty, for many months. It was only the excessively heavy guard commitment that caused them to keep larger compounds—even in Pyn-chong-ni there was one soldier in the guard company for every two prisoners in the compound. We were never left completely alone. Though we secured the right to cook our own food, our doctors were not officially permitted to practice, for they were “bourgeois” trained, “un-Marxian”, “undemocratic”, “incapable of adopting a correct scientific attitude”. Our labour details were supervised for many months by Chinese who demonstrated their ability to muddle even the simplest of tasks. Nor were we permitted to gather in groups for instruction in matters of general, non-political interest such as photography, architecture, motor or air-craft engineering. Carl tried for months to obtain permission to run a class in higher mathematics but was refused. Having failed to subvert us, our captors would not let us make our own regular diversions and entertainments. Even the bridge fours were inspected, when cards became available, by Chinese who wandered from room to room to see who was talking to whom, and what they were saying. Day and night, they roamed through the compound, watching us. Now, with the split into two compounds, there were less of us to watch in each.
Immediately after breakfast one morning at the end of October, the whole of our platoon was told to pack up for a move. We were given no details but merely told that we should leave nothing behind. I was packing my kit when Chang approached me to say:
“You are not going with the others. Pack your kit and go below to the schoolhouse.”
One never knew what an order of this sort presaged. I said goodbye to my friends and descended the hill. The schoolhouse had been cleared and men were standing about on the square, falling out as their names were called and moving to join a growing body of men by the main gate. This was the remainder of No. 2 Company, of which my former platoon, already departed by another route, had formed a part. I was left with No I Company, who were now fitted back into the schoolhouse complete. The gate opening on the path to the hilltop where I had lived formerly was closed and locked.
Spike, Bill, Sergeant-Major Gallagher and I managed to find bed-spaces together in our new room. Sitting there, that first evening, I was surprised to see Graham, our Mortar Officer, come in. He had been taken out of the compound immediately after the evening meal on the orders of Camp Headquarters.
“It isn’t me they want,” he said in answer to my query, “it’s you.”
He was right. One of the Chinese came in behind him to tell me to pack my belongings.
Chen Chung Hwei was waiting for me at Camp Headquarters.
“You were given a warning when you were released from jail that you should obey the regulations. You have not taken any notice of the warning. The Commander Ding has decided that you shall go to another place.”
After waiting in a cold little room in the Headquarters for about two hours, I was collected by a non-commissioned officer and two men, all dressed for travelling, and carrying thin, individual sacks of rice. I had had experience of this before: it looked as if we were going at least one night’s travel from Pyng-Chong-ni. I wondered if we were off to some penal institution or to the new annexe, and whether Sam would be coming with me.
The Camp truck was waiting in the courtyard by the police station, its engine idling. We climbed aboard, except for the non-commissioned officer. After waiting for more than half an hour in the cold night, one of those incidents occurred which almost every prisoner in Korea must have experienced if he made a journey by motor vehicle: the trip was cancelled. An orderly came running down the path from the Headquarters shouting something to the driver, who promptly turned off his engine, climbed out saying “Ta malega—” and began to pull the tarpaulin over the engine and driver’s cab. By this time the orderly and the guard non-commissioned officer were engaged in speech, as the result of which I was told to get down and return to Camp Headquarters, where Chen was standing in the entrance to the courtyard. It was bad enough seeing him again; it was worse when he removed all my kit and locked me up for the night without any bedding. I spent a very cold night saying even ruder things about Chen than I had ever said before.
Seven days after the departure of my friends in No. 2 Company from the main compound, I was still in a room at Camp Headquarters, awaiting movement to whatever destination Ding had in mind. I had managed to get my kit back on the fourth day, when Chen informed me that there was a further delay in moving me. At dusk on the seventh day, I was taken down to his office and given another warning.
“The Commander Ding has decided to send you back to your company,” said Chen. “You will not go away to Another Place; but I warn you that if you disobey the regulations in future, you will receive very severe punishment. We know everything that goes on in the Camp. You can never deceive the Chinese Volunteers!”
A guard and an orderly took me down the road that led to Pyoktong. About a mile west of the village, we turned off the road by another schoolhouse—still employed as such by the Koreans—and made our way up a long valley. On the eastern slope was a long building constructed in the Chinese style; the new No. 2 Company Headquarters. Inside, Chang and the company commander were waiting to receive me.
Chang was a short, plump individual, who, on his own statement, was a graduate of St. John’s University, Shanghai. He had a fine ear for an accent and modified his English to suit his audience; to the Americans, he spoke with an American accent; to the British element, he spoke straightforward English. But more than this: at Pyoktong, where he had been stationed with captives in Camp No. 5, he had learned to assume a Cockney accent, and he tried this out on Sergeants-Major Morton and Strong—both Londoners—from time to time. He was very anxious to improve his English and spent a great deal of time studying and asking us to explain phrases that he did not understand. He was probably the only Chinese in North Korea who could recite the greater portion of Spenser’s Faërie Queen and Fitzgerald’s original translation of Omar’s Rubáiyát. But for all these accomplishments and a suave manner, Chang was the most dangerous man on the Chinese staff of the company—an unprincipled opportunist, who had readily lent himself to the beating-up of members of the escape party, including the Australian pilots, Vance and Bruce, on their recapture in April 1952. Yet, strangely, Chang was the only Chinese in the Camp with sufficient intelligence to see that the best way to approach us as a group was with politeness, and amity. Though he was rebuffed again and again, he never gave up; and, unquestionably, he saved his masters a great deal of trouble by this policy, which, coupled with his considerable ability as an interpreter, made our relationship with the Company Headquarters less irksome than it might have been.
“So you’ve come to join us after all?” said Chang, in greeting. He interpreted the remarks of the company commander, a stocky Chinese we called Eleanor, who said that I must bear in mind all the rules and regulations and look after my health so that I could return to my dear ones, eventually. After a happy reunion with my friends, I found that I was allocated a bed on a raised kang (a sleeping platform heated on the hypocaust system) which was occupied by the Turks.
I was lucky to be billeted with the Turks: they were exceptionally polite as a group and very pleasant to live with. Of the eleven members of their squad, there was not one who was not a remarkable character—from Hamid, the senior Turkish officer, to Nafi, a private soldier who had been such a powerful influence amongst his compatriots in the Turkish soldiers’ company at Pyoktong, that the Chinese had believed him to be an officer. Fortunately, they were still not sure about his rank; they had no efficient Turkish interpreter in Korea.
Although the nights were really cold, the day temperatures were still pleasant as we passed into November 1952; and this was fortunate because an inter-camp athletics meeting had been arranged which the Chinese styled the “Prisoner-of-War Command Olympics”. We had already had a certain amount of propaganda about the International Olympic Games at Helsinki—the early Chinese reports insisted, for example, that America had tied with Russia for First Place. When the final scoresheets were published, however, it was seen that Russia was, in fact, placed below the United States, but this was explained without embarrassment as follows:
“Though the final points do not show an equal victory, actually Russia should be shown as First-equal because she would have won the necessary points at the Games but for biased judging against her in the following competitions …”!
Now the Olympic Games idea had been adopted as a super-propaganda stunt for the prison-camps and there was considerable doubt amongst us as to whether we should participate or not. The factor which really decided that we should take part as an officers’ camp was that we would have an oppotunity to communicate with men of our units held in other camps. The senior Air Force Lieu-tenant-Colonel was the leader of the party of participators and spectators, and Donald was the senior Briton. He returned on the eve of Thanksgiving Day with many cheering messages from our men in other camps and a most interesting account of all that had occurred.
Sensing the temper of their captives, the Chinese had made no attempt to hold “Fight-for-Peace” parades before the games, as they had done so often in the past. There was a review of the competitors by a Chinese General at the outset, which we had had to accept, but the many, inevitable speeches made only a few mild references to a hope for peace in Korea. The main snag was that a large number of photographers were present. Photographs were taken, not only of the events, but of the vastly improved food which was served at every meal—photographs that might well be presented to the outside world as an illustration of our normal daily meals at a time when we were living off cabbage and potato soup, the new winter diet. Certainly one of the Press representatives there must have welcomed the opportunity to exploit the situation for propaganda purposes. I refer to Alan Winnington, the London Daily Worker correspondent, who had assisted the North Koreans to interrogate United Nations’ captives and consistently misrepresented our treatment to the advantage of our enemies and the detriment of his fellow-countrymen. When Donald approached him, he attempted a false joviality and said that he was hoping to come out to our camp to interview us. Donald asked him if he would care to interview him, personally, there and then; but Winnington regretted that he had other business and moved away, promising that he would come back to make an appointment. He avoided Donald for the rest of the meeting.
As we expected, in due course an illustrated book was produced concerning the Olympics, with captions that advised the reader of our happiness in the prison camps on the Yalu River. It made no reference to the many men undergoing solitary confinement, such as the Colonel (whose sentence had long since expired) or others, like Sam, who remained unsentenced, or others again who, held in lone huts in the mountains, were being tortured in order to obtain more “confessions” to waging Germ Warfare in Korea.
The peace talks were in abeyance when Thanksgiving Day came round again but, fortunately for us, the Chinese were now trying to convince the outside world that they were treating their prisoners with generosity; and that the United Nations Command was consistently maltreating the prisoners they held. As a result, we had extra food once again for Thanksgiving Day and, later, for Christmas and the New Year. But we paid for our feasting by reverting to a steady diet of cabbages, potatoes, and, at intervals, beans, immediately the feast-day had passed. Undoubtedly, conditions of living had improved; but almost all we had to cook our vegetables with was salt and water and there were times when it was difficult to face the same meal morning and evening, day after day.
Another improvement in our camp life as the year waned was the introduction of non-political fiction into the new Library. There had been a small consignment of books in the summer which contained one or two works by Leo Tolstoy and two by Dickens. Now, further additions appeared, stamped with the mark of the French Bookshop in Tientsin. This confirmed the statement by Camp Headquarters that considerably more money had been allotted for our welfare. Our supply of newspapers and magazines was supplemented, too, but these were all devoted to the Marxist cause. The London Daily Worker appeared with fair regularity, three months in arrears, and continued to provide us with good sports news and a heavily biased picture of life in the world in general and the United Kingdom in particular. One day, whilst I was reading the Daily Worker, James told me that he had seen a picture of an American prisoner published under the caption “Not much ill-treatment here” or something of the sort. The picture showed an officer shaving while a comrade looked on, smiling. The prisoner was evidently healthy: the picture was taken only a fortnight after his capture. But it was actually published in the London Daily Worker nine months after the man had died of untreated dysentry. A death certificate had been signed by an American doctor who was with James at the time.
As the Padre had remained with No. I Company, James had taken over the job of Protestant Chaplain for our compound—a task he performed with reverence and dignity. Jumbo had assumed the leadership of the Roman Catholics since the split and, between them, these two kept our Christian worship going. Duke, an American Infantry Major, and Theo, our Machine-Gun Officer set about making a new set of altar furniture for the services, carving candlesticks from firewood, and a cross, lectern, and prie-dieu from some pine trunks we had been given for seats in the Library. The Padre was allowed to visit us on Christmas Day to celebrate Holy Communion and was delighted to see all that had been done. It was less of a pleasure to see Chen Chung Hwei, who accompanied him and tip-toed about wishing people a “Merry Christmas”. I felt less angry at this when I heard that Sam had at least been released back to No. I Company. We now began to hope for the release of our Colonel, the Marine Colonel, and Denis.
Christmas Day 1952 was a memorable day—particularly the evening. An inter-denominational carol service was held about seven o’clock in a Library gaily decorated with paintings, streamers, and pine branches, the work of Guy, Recce, and the Sergeants-Major, led by Sergant-Major Baker of our Support Company. Our thoughts were very naturally all of home and we were not in the best mood to receive an address from Ding, the Camp Commander, which Chang was to read to us at nine o’clock.
Chang sensed our mood. He knew that we should not be receptive to his good wishes after what he had to read out, so he extended them beforehand. It was principally an American audience, and Chang spoke with an American accent.
“Say, I’ve got a Christmas message from Commander Ding for all of you and, in a few minutes, I’mgoing to read it out. But before I do, I want to say ‘Happy Christmas’ everyone. I hope that next year you’ll all be back home with your families. Now here is the message from the Camp Commander.”
He began to read from a page of typescript in his hand, and his appreciation of our reactions had been accurate. It was in the worst possible taste; for, after starting mildly, Ding had been unable to restrain his fanaticism for the Communist cause. He quoted—or rather, misquoted—the Scriptures, particularly the teachings of Christ. We heard the beloved Christmas words, for instance, rendered as follows: “Peace on earth to men of good will”; and the only men of good will, it seemed, were those who followed the policies of the Cominform group of governments. As Chang read on, the silence seemed to intensify. When he had finished, no one spoke; but I have neither felt nor seen before such profound disgust expressed silently by a body of men.
“That’s all,” said Chang. He was not sorry for what had been said; only sorry that he had been the one who had had to say it, and so lose popularity.
The new compound, which had been occupied since late October, was roughly U-shaped. The main living-block was the base running along a platform cut in the eastern slope of the valley; the kitchen and a small living-room formed the left arm; the Library formed the right; within the arms and base was a parade-ground— a “square” of mud we had dug out ourselves. A promenade ran the length of the main living quarters, shorter and narrower than that before the schoolhouse in Pyn-Chong-ni.
At two minutes to midnight on 31st of December 1952, Sid and I stood on the promenade, looking up at the bright stars shining through the clear, cold night. Suddenly there was a cheer from the Library, and we heard them singing “Auld Lang Syne.” We looked at one another for a moment and then shook hands.
“Happy New Year!” we said. The same wish was in both our hearts.