Ha Jin - War Trash

General Bell was so impressed by his accommodations that the next morning he said to General Fulton on the phone, "I'm living like an emperor here." Indeed, the interior of the tent resembled that of a royal Mongolian yurt, perhaps even more luxurious. What's more, his cook was going to come three times a day to deliver his meals, and two American orderlies were allowed to do housekeeping for him here every morning. Bell looked as if he were on vacation, camping on a lakeside or a mountain, though his face was grim.

As Chaolin and I were wondering whether we should go forward or withdraw, General Bell opened his eyes. But he didn't get up and seemed lost in thought. He closed his eyes again and we stepped closer. His large body weighed down the cot noticeably. Two top buttons on his jacket were missing, and his right epaulet, with one star on it, was ripped, barely attached to his shoulder by a few stitches of thread. How different he looked from the spruce general who had spoken with us just a few days ago.

"We should talk with him," whispered Chaolin.

We stepped over, but the general still didn't stir. I tried to guess why he acted this way. Out of anger? Or out of arrogance or contempt? More probably out of uncertainty. Like his men outside the compound, he too must have been at a loss how to deal with his lad-napping. Chaolin and I looked at each other again. He smiled and stuck his tongue out, which was heavily furred. He tilted his head, meaning I should start. I bent down a little and said, "Hello, General Bell, we came to see you."

"Oh, thank you, thank you." He opened his eyes, whose whites were bloodshot. He sat up, combing his sparse hair with his fingers, and shifted his legs out of the bed so as to get to his feet.

"Please remain seated," I said. "We are the representatives of the Chinese prisoners. We met four days ago."

"Really? Oh yes, I promised you I'd solve some problems."

I was surprised that he hadn't recognized us. Chaolin said through my interpretation, "Now we want to see your deeds. We don't want the same result again – where the problems remain unsolved while your men pitch gas grenades into our barracks and even fire at us."

"That has never happened here." Bell wasn't wrong; that kind of violence had occurred in some camps on the Korean mainland, not on this island.

"But your men often beat the inmates," Chaolin pressed on.

"In that case, I should have kept better discipline among my troops."

"What do you think of the way we treat you here?"

The general looked puzzled, not having expected that the Korean prisoners represented us Chinese as well. I too was a little surprised by the collective pronoun "we." Then Bell realized the meaning of the question and muttered, "Yes, I can say the Communists have accommodated me well."

"We're glad you understand this. If only General Ridgway were here to take the same lesson."

"I can pass the message on to him and – " Catching himself, Bell looked abashed.

"We'll talk more about the treatment of the prisoners at the conference tomorrow. Meanwhile, take it easy and rest well."

"I will."

"Good-bye now."

"Bye." He stood up, and his hand moved but didn't stretch out.

The moment we came out of the tent, Chaolin burst into laughter, holding his sides with both hands. I joined him in laughing too. A Korean officer, who had been at the entrance to the tent during our meeting with Bell, remarked in English, "American general is just so-so, a paper tiger, like Stalin says."

I don't know where Stalin said that. Amused, I translated his words to Chaolin. That brought out more laughter. Without further delay the Korean officer led us to a tent at the back of the barracks, where we were to meet their top leader.

At the sight of us Mr. Park got up from a reed mat and came to hug us. He said in barely comprehensible Chinese, "Ah my friends, welcome!"

He gestured for us to sit down on the mat. I noticed that unlike the others, he sat on a sheepskin, its white fur mottled with black blotches. With ease we entered into conversation. The slim Colonel Lee sat beside the leader, serving as his interpreter, so I could relax now. Mr. Park showed deep concern about our living conditions and asked us how well we were organized in Compound 602. Chaolin reported to him briefly on the newly founded United Communist Association. Mr. Park was impressed by the intention to include as many people in the organization as possible while maintaining the Party's leadership and principles at the core. He said, "I always admire the Chinese Communist Party. You have more experience and more strategies. I'm sorry we haven't given enough support to your struggle."

Chaolin seemed touched and replied, "Under your leadership the Korean comrades captured General Bell. This is an extraordinary event in the history of warfare, and it dealt a crushing blow to our common enemy. It has also inspired us tremendously. We must learn from our Korean comrades' courage and bravery."

"Well, without your help we couldn't have done it at all," said Mr. Park, smiling. "So half of the victory belongs to you. The Chinese comrades showed us how to stage a hunger strike and how to lure Bell to our compound, otherwise we couldn't have brought him in. This victory is only a part of our two peoples' joint struggle."

He turned aside and whispered to an aide. Lee winked at us and said, "Mr. Park would like to invite you to dinner."

"Please don't treat us like guests," I said.

"You are our honored guests," replied Lee, smiling meaningfully. He got up and went out, apparently to make arrangements for the dinner.

I wondered what kind of food Mr. Park could offer us in such a place. Maybe a bowl of white rice and a bit of kimchee, at most accompanied by a few pieces of dried fish or some baked squid. My thoughts were interrupted by the hearty laughter from both Chaolin and our host. Mr. Park inquired after Commissar Pei and sent him his regards, which Chaolin promised to convey. I forced myself not to think of the promised dinner so as to remain in the conversation.

Then a young man stepped in, carrying a large cauldron lid filled with steaming dumplings made of wheat flour, quite thick. We were flabbergasted – this was the best Chinese food a host could offer! Where on earth could they get the stuff for such a meal?

Mr. Park smiled and opened his arms almost mischievously, saying, "Help yourselves, please."

"Let's eat together," said Chaolin, motioning for them to sit closer.

"No, we already ate."

"How can we thank you enough for this?"

"Stop talking and eat. You don't have to thank us. Everything came from the Americans. If they hadn't delivered the flour and the meat, we wouldn't have known what to come up with. So enjoy yourselves. Excuse me for a moment." Mr. Park stood up and went into a corner to discuss something with a group of officers.

We each picked up a wooden spoon and began eating. The fillings were made of corned beef mixed with young cabbage. There was so much meat in the dumplings that they dripped oil whenever we took a bite. I tried hard to eat slowly while Chaolin grinned at me and went on licking his lips. He said, "After we go back home, I'll tell my wife to make dumplings every weekend."

"This is the best meal I've had since we crossed the Yalu," I said with a catch in my throat.

"I know. Come on, don't be too emotional, Yuan. They're watching us."

I checked my tears. Despite enjoying the food, I wasn't happy exactly. My emotions were mixed, evoked by Chaolin's mention of his wife. I remembered the crabmeat wontons my mother and my fiancee had cooked for me the day before I left home. But I broke my reverie and forced myself to smile and not to think about my family in a situation like this. It was embarrassing to let your personal emotions interfere with your work. From now on I must build a closet in my heart, in which I would lock up my personal thoughts and feelings so that they couldn't crop up at the wrong time.