Ha Jin - War Trash

This situation agitated me. In appearance I was calm, like an experienced officer, but at heart I was afraid that our country had forsaken us and that the commissar might wage another full-blown battle to create another newsworthy incident. Some time ago I had read in Stars and Stripes that the U.S. delegates at the Panmunjom negotiations had made the issue of POWs their top priority, whereas the Korean and Chinese generals had refused to consider the issue first – instead, they wanted to focus on the territorial dispute. I hadn't told the news to anyone, not even to our battalion chief, Wanren.

Later, some years after we returned to China, I came across an article that reported that the top Korean delegate at the cease-fire talks at Panmunjom, General Nam Il, had launched a protest about the massacre in our camp at General William Harrison on October 4, 1952, but the Chinese side had remained reticent. Clearly the POWs were not an urgent item on our generals' agenda, though as usual, our delegates demanded that all the Chinese prisoners be repatriated, including those who refused to go home.

Leaves began dropping from elms and oaks, and grass was turning yellow. In the morning the ground was often sprinkled with patches of hoarfrost, and in the south Mount Halla, over six thousand feet tall, which was said to be the highest in Korea, had lost its green cover; more rocks were visible on its rugged ridges now. Cheju Town was in the east, tucked away from the turbulence of the war. It had several two-story buildings and hundreds of houses that all had hip roofs and latticed windows covered with white paper instead of panes. From the distance they looked like a swarm of hayricks. I had passed that town once with a group of prisoners in a truck. Unlike the houses on the Korean mainland, the homes here were all built of volcanic rocks. Their thatched roofs were fastened with hemp ropes, evenly crisscrossed, to keep the rice straw from being blown away by sea winds.

Viewed from nearby, the roofs brought to mind turtle shells, convex and neatly checkered. As an interpreter I had the opportunity to leave the camp once in a while. One day, standing at the shoulder of the eastern knoll, I had gazed at that town, whose sun-drenched tranquillity moved me. The rice paddies beyond a thin brook reminded me of the countryside near the Yangtze River, where my paternal grandparents had lived. Though strewn with rocks, the land here was pretty and peaceful, dotted with clumps of daylilies and wild chrysanthemums. Pampas grass spread everywhere, its long flowers like fluffy rabbit tails rippling in the breeze. If not imprisoned, I wouldn't have minded living for a year or two in such a place, away from the turmoil of the world. If I had not been engaged to Julan or had my old mother at home, I could have imagined myself marrying a Korean woman and settling down here forever, just like many Chinese who had emigrated to Korea before the war. Women on the island were cheerful, hardworking, and tolerant of men; they made devoted wives, I was told. What else should a common man like me want besides a comfortable home filled with children and a good woman? What's more, the island climate was mild, with distinct seasons. Although it was often windy and rained in torrents, there were not the biting winds and the snowstorms of the northern winter.

I was surprised by thoughts of this kind, which I hadn't dared think before. I realized I was more capable of enduring loneliness now. Indeed, I was quiet and preferred to be solitary whenever it was possible.

We were positive that there were guerrillas on the island, because we had heard gunshots several times coming from a hill in the south, on which there were bunkers and tunnels left by the Japanese army garrisoned here during the Second World War. But no Korean comrades had ever contacted us. We were indeed like a batch of lost souls, whose fate the outside world seemed no longer to care about. "This is worse than Siberia, where at least some people would go visit," I often said to myself. If only we could know what was in store for us. If only there were a radio set with which we could hear news.

Ever since the October 1 incident, the Americans had stepped up security in the camp. They often came to search the compounds and made a shambles of our barracks. We knew they wanted to get hold of the self-made weapons we had hidden away. One afternoon in late October, a company of GIs suddenly arrived and ordered us to get out of our living quarters. Our battalion was gathered on the shriveled grass outside the barbed-wire fence. Every one of us was made to turn his pockets inside out and put all his personal belongings in front of him on the ground. While the guards looked through our stuff, we couldn't help but watch the GIs poking and digging around in our barracks with shovels, picks, and spreading forks. By regulations, they were not supposed to take guns into the compounds unless their lives were threatened, so only the guards searching us outside the fence were armed. Captain Larsen, the head of the guards at our compound, was leading the hunt, directing the GIs to rummage through our sheds and kitchen. He was a burly man, over six feet tall, slightly whiskered. He barked at a sergeant, "Hey, Walt, don't let them get smart with you."

"I won't, sir," cried back the sergeant, who was listening to a complaining prisoner.

Suddenly a GI burst out of our headquarters, shouting, "I got it!" He was holding our flag, which we had secreted in a wall. The find excited the Americans so much that some of them whistled. One did a jig with the flag wrapped around himself while others flung their heads back guffawing. Captain Larsen took the flag, raised it above his head, waving it at us, then started tapping his heels.

Although enraged and restless, we had no idea what to do. Most of us thought that at all costs we must not let them take our flag away. Some still remembered the self-sacrifice of the comrades in the Fifth and Seventh Battalions, so they were spoiling for a fight. Stealthily a few leaders went over to Wanren so that they could work out a plan of action. They talked and decided to let Shenning, a stout man who was the head of the Second Company, lead a group of prisoners to get the flag back. Without delay Shenning went to rejoin his men and tell them what to do.

When the Americans had finished searching, we were filing back into our quarters. Outside the fence the guards looked relaxed, while inside the compound their spoils were still on display – besides the flag there were daggers, spears, pliers, flashlights. Captain Larsen gave us a sneering smile that bared his long teeth to the gums. Slowly I was moving toward the gate, anxious about what was going to happen. I could feel the tension in the air. Many eyes were fixed on the flag held by the captain, who somehow didn't sense any danger. As Shenning and his men were approaching the gate, another group of inmates turned up, led by Little Hou, as if they too were coming to charge at Larsen. Shenning hesitated for a moment, wondering why Hou's group had appeared. Little Hou, our only code man, was under special protection and shouldn't participate in such an action. Inquiringly Shenning looked at Little Hou, who just nodded at him without a word. More prisoners entered the gate now. Passing Larsen, Shenning cried, "Get it from him!" In a flash a dozen men surrounded the captain and some grabbed the flag, struggling to pull it away. But Larsen held the other end of the flag with both hands and wouldn't let it go. He yelled at his men, "Give me a hand!" A short tug of war ensued, which scared us – if the GIs outside the fence came in with their weapons we wouldn't be able to continue the tussle. Little Hou bent down and bit the back of Larsen's hand. "Ouch!" the captain yelled and loosened his grip. With the flag in his hands Shenning dashed away, but, unclear where to go, he just ran. One of the GIs grabbed a shovel and set out chasing Shenning, who was frantically bolting along the fence.