Valleys of Death

Since I’d been in the morgue , the Chinese had started putting a lot of pressure on us. We were required to spend hours in lectures and discussion groups supervised by Chinese political officers. The program focused on what was wrong with the United States. Everything was corrupt, from our government, to our economic structure, educational system and press.

“It was not our fault we attacked North Korea, it was our corrupt government,” Doyle told me, repeating the day’s lesson. “The Chinese are peace-loving people and mean us no harm.”

“They want to discuss what we heard in the lecture earlier,” Doyle said. “They also have us learning Chinese songs. But we’ve changed a few lines. One ends with ‘Who flung dung at Mao Tse Tung?’”

Doyle explained that the political officers began by breaking you down physically so you started to agree with them just to get them off your back. When this happened, they would be on you full-force pushing you to make a statement against the United States government or to make a statement as to the wonderful treatment you were receiving. Next, you’d be one of the turncoats up on stage leading a lecture. Listening to Doyle, I was determined to fight them at every turn. There was no way I was going to allow myself to be hijacked by their group thinking or be a puppet of their oppressive government.

The Chinese had also started to clean up the camp since I’d been gone, in hopes of winning us over. Any man sick or dying was taken to the “hospital” and kept out of sight. We were still dying in great numbers; it had just been removed from our sight. They also tried to improve our diet. Prisoners even started to make steam bread by taking balls of dough and placing them on a bamboo rack over a pot of steaming water.

Before I went to the morgue they were hammering away on the theme that the United States was the aggressor and had orchestrated the attack on North Korea. Following it up by showing our imperialistic transgressions around the world. They tried to substantiate this by showing all the countries where we had United States troops stationed or naval forces controlling sea lanes around the world.

Today’s lecture was directed toward tearing down our capitalistic system and showing how the captains of industry controlled the money and suppressed the masses. Supposedly in the socialistic system the masses would share equally in the state-run economy. The state would control every facet of life and provide for everyone from cradle to grave. A Utopia where everyone would share equally. In their convoluted way of thinking this would lead us to the conclusion that socialism/communism would benefit all mankind. I believe this was not really intended to produce turncoats for anything more than propaganda; however, I think they hoped that some of the returning POWs would believe enough that they would spread the seeds of doctrine when they returned to their country. This was a tough sell to the group I was in. We outwardly challenged the loss of individual freedom under their system. The Chinese became quite agitated.

However, it was no joke to the Chinese. We were repeatedly being taken to the Chinese headquarters and questioned about the lecture and why we were not cooperating in our room discussions. I became one of their prime targets. I was taken to the headquarters on numerous occasions. It was always the same thing. Attempts to reeducate me, which always broke down, then threats and promises that things would get better once I cooperated.

The Chinese had a small group of American and British prisoners who helped with lectures, wrote propaganda and even taped anti-American broadcasts. In return, they were being fed better than the rest of the prisoners. One or two were seen coming and going outside the camp without guards. I learned early on not to accuse someone of being an informer or collaborator based on rumors. The Chinese were smart and made it look as though an individual was cooperating, hoping that rejection by the other prisoners would force him to seek comfort.

When I was called to a session with an interrogator, I always made myself believe I had one or two of my roommates with me. If I said anything, I first thought what would Doyle think if he could hear me. Most times I just kept silent. I’d learned that outwitting the interrogator was impossible. The less I said, the better. I just looked at them with a blank stare. I was getting very good at detaching myself from the conversation. I knew that they would like to kill me, but they needed to be careful not to destroy their so-called lenient policy without a damned good explanation or lie.

We all tried to resist, even if it only meant not paying attention. One night the Chinese had been going at a large group of us and it was getting close to morning. Lectures followed by discussion all designed to keep us up—they hoped our sleep-deprived minds would give in to their demands.

Finally, one of the men in the group stood up and started singing “God Bless America.” Before the Chinese realized what was happening, we were all on our feet singing. The Chinese let us finish, but we knew a punishment was coming.

A few days later, the guards surrounded our buildings. They formed us up in a column of threes and moved us to the road that ran down the valley to the river. The first platoon of which I was a part consisted of about sixty prisoners. With the two other platoons, we totaled about 150 men. The rest of the men in the camp lined up along the road. An English-speaking Chinese officer announced over the loudspeaker that we were being moved to a work camp.

We were all scared. This had never happened before. But we walked down the road with our heads held high and smiling. As they marched us onto two barges at the dock, the Chinese guards also told the other prisoners that we were to be worked to death and they would never see us again. The Chinese were in such a hurry to get rid of us that one of the barges we were loaded on tore down an electric wire as it pulled away from the dock.

The farther we got from shore, the more nervous I got. Standing at the rail and looking into the dark, cold, swirling water, I worried that these bastards were going to get us in the deep water and pull the plug and sink the barges. We were in no condition to swim very far.

We sailed a few miles down the river. I kept my eyes fixed on the shore, hoping to be back on land soon. Finally, the Chinese guards unloaded us at a pier and marched us north to a clearing on the backwater of the Yalu River. The North Koreans were going to build long houses by the bank, and we spent the next few days carrying lumber down from the hills. We had to walk three or four miles to the hills where we were cutting the timber. Word was that the six long houses were being built to house more prisoners. The work was hard, but it beat sitting through the lectures.

The next day, we were taken back to the dock, where we started to unload the supply barges. We were unloading burlap bags full of grain. It took two of us side by side to carry one sack. We’d periodically drop a sack in the water. But the Chinese caught on and made us fish the sacks out of the water. They became our rations. The Chinese had a scale by the docks, and some of us got a chance to weigh ourselves. I weighed a grand total of 108 pounds.

We continued to sabotage the Chinese effort when we could. At the bottom of the hill there were telephone lines running along the side of the road. As we carried the wood down the hill to the work site, we’d drop a log against the line, snapping it. Each time, Chinese repairmen would walk up the road and splice it back together. After we did this a few times, we decided that we should take out a huge piece of the line. Using two logs, we knocked down a large section of the wire farther up the hill and hid the broken wire. We could always find a use for it. When the repairmen found the problem, they had no wire with them. What was normally a six-mile hike turned into twelve that day.

A couple of the guys picked up some good lighters with plenty of pinesap in them. As we walked along the road, we set the thatched roofs of the Chinese houses on fire. By the time the houses started burning, we were well down the road. We burned three houses before the Chinese became suspicious.

Despite working many hours building the long houses, we were still required to attend lectures. And once a Chinese acting troupe came to town. It was their version of a USO show, called The White-Haired Girl.

The story line was simple. A peasant family could not pay the taxes demanded by the dastardly landowner. So he takes the peasant’s beautiful young black-haired daughter as his concubine. She suffers terribly under his demented demands but eventually escapes to the mountains. Years later as the People’s Liberation Army frees the people, the girl returns to the village. But now her hair has turned completely white.

The play was well done, and the Chinese officers and soldiers hung on every word. They saw the girl’s story as their own. They clapped when the People’s Liberation Army arrived. The play, of course, omitted the fact that Mao killed thousands of people in his drive to take control of China. We laughed and cheered when the landlord dragged the young girl away. The Chinese guards were not amused, and for days after there was an awkward silence.

Later, the Chinese political officers held a lecture on the American Civil War. We paid no attention to the Chinese lecturers, and fifty-eight years later I still don’t remember much of what was said. After the presentation, the political officer passed out questions dealing with the lecture. It had always been my policy not to write anything on these papers; however, on this particular one I wrote one sentence: “The war was fought to preserve the Union.”

The next day, the political officer started the lecture with a reward ceremony. The officer read off a few soldiers’ names and gave each one a packet of tobacco. Mine was the first on the list. To say I was shocked is an understatement. I looked around at Doyle and Smoak.

I basically believed that most of the men in our camp at this time would not collaborate with the Chinese. However, prudence called for confidence in a very small number. My circle became very tight. I only shared my thoughts and plans with Doyle and Smoak. We tried to keep a low profile, thereby giving us a better chance of being successful in coming up with an escape plan or sabotage.

I was completely dumbfounded as I stepped up and took my pack of tobacco and sat back down to a chorus of boos. On the return trip to our house, some of the other prisoners started to yell at me. They called me a collaborator and a traitor. They might as well have beaten me to a pulp. It wouldn’t have hurt as much. Some of the others stuck up for me. Lucky for me the majority of the men knew me well enough that there was not a doubt in their minds that the Chinese were attempting to destroy my influence. I knew what would follow: numerous visits to the headquarters. The bastards had set me up and would now try for the kill.

That afternoon, the guards came to take me up to the headquarters. I walked into the room, which was sparsely decorated with a single table. Sitting behind the table were three of the Chinese political lecturers. As soon as I sat down, they started on me. One told me how I had listened and showed that I was willing to learn. They waited for me to answer.

Their faces were flushed. One of them headed toward me like he was going to hit me, but he pulled up short. I tried to stare them all down. I had hoped they would beat me or throw me in the hole. However, in my mind I knew that they would not do this because they would only waste this attempt to undermine my influence on the rest of the men.

My heart was pumping a mile a minute. I didn’t say another word. After hours of questions, they finally let me go and walked me back to my room. When I got there, I told Doyle and Smoak what had taken place. Smoak looked at me in disbelief.

On my next visit to the headquarters they didn’t mince words. They told me in no uncertain terms that if I continued to disrespect them and be outwardly uncooperative, when the war ended I would not be released. I would be held back for five years. This was not the first or last time I would hear this, and I shook it off as one of their idle threats. But unlike before, I didn’t assault them with curse words. Instead, I just stared ahead and tried to think of anything but their questions.

When it got warm enough, the Chinese let us stake out a baseball field near the river. We didn’t have any balls or bats, but we went through the motions. We made teams and selected umpires. We called balls and strikes. It sounds weird, but we had a lot of fun. We spent hours out there.

Sometimes, we’d stop the game to watch dogfights, since the camp was right under MiG Alley. The Chinese fighters would come across the Manchurian border and American fighters would soon appear. I stood on the bank and watched as the fighters, high above, corkscrewed and banked in their elaborate dance of death. Most times the fights ended in a draw, with the planes flying off out of sight. Sometimes, we’d see a parachute descend. It took an unbelievable amount of time before the pilot disappeared behind the mountain. I have no idea how high they must have been when they bailed out.

Late one afternoon, a lone American fighter jet came screaming down the river. We were out on the ball field. At first, it scared the hell out of us. It went by in a flash but doubled back and flew straight down the river. We could see the pilot looking down, and as he passed, the pilot waved and wiggled his wings at us. There were no words to describe how that incident made us feel. God bless him. He probably never knew what that simple act did for us. It was a very long time before we stopped talking about it. And we’d achieved our goal with the ball field. The Chinese refused to identify POW camps, but the ball field did the trick.

A company of prisoners was brought in from Camp 5 near Pyoktong that fall. Just before their arrival we were told that peace talks had begun in July of 1951. Coinciding with this we were given a Chinese newspaper printed in English. It was full of Communist propaganda, including how the North Koreans were bending over backward to accommodate all the ridiculous demands made by the United Nations delegation. Despite the outlandish bickering, the peace talks were moving forward only because of the tireless efforts of the North Korean delegation.

The new prisoners brought information that the peace talks had terminated due to the U.N. forces’ violation of the Panmunjom restricted area, a no-man’s-land along the 38th parallel that separated the countries. Whatever this was about, we were sure we would soon be told how the UN forces deliberately undermined the talks. The new prisoners also told us that the Chinese had formalized courses of instruction to the point that the prisoners were now calling Camp 5 “The University of Pyoktong.” Like us, this new batch of prisoners had become a disruptive force. So the Chinese shipped them down to our camp.

We finished the buildings that fall and were surprised when the Chinese let us move in. The buildings were sixty feet long and sixteen feet wide. Thirty of us were sleeping on each side of the buildings, with a four-foot aisle running from one end to the other. Each end had a single door. When it got cold, the Chinese issued us a winter-padded jacket, pants and hat similar to the Chinese uniform. They also set up a potbellied stove in each dorm. It did little to heat the building, but psychologically it did wonders. Soon after winter set in, I got sick. I started running a high fever and was coughing up green and yellow mucus. Doyle and Smoak moved me near the stove and kept me hydrated with hot water. A medic told me I had pneumonia. I thought of Graves and was grateful that I wasn’t still in the morgue. After a couple of days, the fever broke and I got better. Doyle and Smoak both said they were sure I’d make it.

We’d stolen a rope, and one night we rigged up one of the guys by putting the rope under his shirt so that he could be suspended from the exposed roof beam. We tied a hangman’s noose and slipped it around his neck. Then we waited. We heard the dirt crunch under his boots as the Chinese officer approached the door and stepped into the building. A thin beam of light from his flashlight cut through the darkness. It swept back and forth across the room, pausing for a second on each bed.

The Chinese guard stopped immediately and took a deep breath. The light moved quickly up the hanging man, finally stopping on his face, head cocked to one side, tongue hanging out. The officer dropped the light and we could hear him dash for the door. Two minutes later, ten guards arrived. They were all trying to squeeze in the doorway. All of them were talking at once. In the lead was the officer, who was pointing where he’d found the man hanging. But when he got back, there was no body. There was no rope. And there was no flashlight. All gone, never to be seen again. The Chinese were raising hell and we were all lying there snickering. Finally, they stomped out, the officer protesting and still pointing to where the body was.