I left my cover and began the journey downhill through a pine-wood. By one o’clock, I had reached the edge of the cultivated area on the hillside about a mile south of the big village. Here, in a hollow, I had seen a sort of lean-to shelter, made of rice sacks set on a wooden frame. Running out of the woods, I took the biggest rice sack I could find, doubling back into my cover immediately afterwards. Under the pine trees, I cut open one side of the sack, threw it over my shoulders and continued my walk parallel with the cultivated ground, until I reached the spot where the road rose temporarily from the valley into a cutting on the hillside. With great reluctance, I removed my smock and hid it here; concealed my watch, pen, pipes, cigarette lighter and handkerchief about my clothing; darkened my face with earth—and stepped out on to the road, the sack about my shoulders.
All was quiet. I did not hasten, trying to give the impression of age. Leaving the head of the valley, and coming into strange country through a cutting, I found part of a thin branch of a tree which I picked up to use as a walking stick. As I took it from the roadside, I spotted a telephone cable running along the ditch. It looked exactly like the line used by the Americans and I thought that it might have been left by the 1st ROK Division. I decided to keep my eye on it. Watching the cable that disappeared occasionally into the trees beside the cutting, I eventually came to a sign in white on a black background. It said:
“3783”, and an arrow pointed straight on.
Now, the use of figures to denote units is general amongst British forces: it is a means of maintaining security. I tried to remember if the ROKs had the same custom, but could not recall whether they did or not. One thing I could not believe was that the Chinese would employ such a symbol; the figures were Arabic and I felt sure that they had figure characters of their own. I began to wonder if I was in No Man’s Land; if I had just come through the Chinese front line; if the Chinese in the village behind were merely troops who formed the extension of that line; if. … I almost convinced myself that I was through their lines. Only two points prevented me from hurrying on: first, I had seen a mountain gun right amongst what I was calling their most forward positions; second, why were they not in occupation of that dominant feature? I realized that I had been indulging in wishful thinking: the cable and sign were left-overs from the withdrawal a day or so before. The speed with which our troops had fallen back accounted for their overlooking the signs, and being unable to wind in their telephone line. All this went through my mind as I plodded on down the Korean country road.
I passed through a deserted village where the road forked: still no sign of the enemy. Taking the right fork, I shuffled into the front room of a house where I checked my position on my map. It was now only eighteen hundred yards from the new defence line which we reportedly planned to hold at all costs, and I was over two thousand yards south of the outpost line held at the time of our capture. Squatting in the corner of that room, my back against the mud and wattle wall, I decided that I could not risk delay at this point. At any time the village or the hills round might be occupied in strength by the Chinese; I must go on. Pulling my sack up on my shoulders I set out on what I hoped was the last stage of my journey.
Every yard seemed a mile; I felt that the whole area was filled with observers. The road wound between low, tree-covered hills, partly shrouded in mist. The only sounds were the sound of my own boots on the road and the light pattering of the rain. Otherwise there was a complete, unnatural silence. The village vanished behind a bend in the road; a few rice fields ran up a tiny re-entrant to my right. I tried not to hurry my steps.
“Hi!”
Someone had called me from the hill to my right: I felt like saying:
“Who—me?”
A figure came running down from the trees, the bushes rustling loudly as he passed through them. I saw that it was a Chinese; in his hand he carried a long-barrelled pistol that looked like a Mauser. It was pointing in my direction. I decided that the time had come to try the biggest hoax of all; for above me I saw two yellow faces looking down along the barrel of a light machine-gun.
He ran up to me, motioning me to raise my hands. I did so. Satisfied that I had no weapons in them he ran his hands over me, turned me round and raised the rice sack over my shoulders. I had screwed up my eyes in an effort to distort their roundness and now, in a shaking voice that was not entirely feigned, I pointed up the road and said almost the only words I knew in Korean:
“Comupsom-nida”—which is, “Thank you.”
I could not tell whether he was impressed or not. He circled round me twice, evidently not sure what to make of me. Then, to my amazement, he seemed satisfied and waved me on. I did not look back, but kept going until I had turned the next bend in the road, where I paused, ostensibly to wipe the rain from my face. It was, in fact, sweat.
I could not believe my good fortune at first. When I was able to realize that I had got past, I felt that I was experiencing a tremendous run of luck. Relating this incident to my journey as a whole, it seemed to me that at last I really had passed through the Chinese forward lines. This theory was supported by the position of their mountain-gun. The other area was obviously a reserve defence-line which, though dug, was unmanned on such a day as this, the troops remaining in shelter below. I had now much less than a thousand yards to go to our defence-line, and so must be in No Man’s Land quite certainly. Yet, in spite of my growing conviction that I really was through the enemy lines, I maintained my gait, and held on to my rice sack as before; a patrol might be following me.
The distance to my destination decreased steadily: eight hundred yards—seven hundred—six hundred—the road ran now up a slight incline towards yet another small cutting. In the centre of this, a pit had been dug in the road—presumably to cover our withdrawal. I skirted it and walked out through the far side of the cutting. Facing me at a distance of about fifteen feet, as I came round the bend, was a beetle-browed young man in a navy blue serge uniform which I knew, at once, to belong to the North Korean Army. He was in the process of unwrapping an automatic pistol from a piece of red silk, as I appeared, and, before I could excuse myself, he was pointing it at my chest. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was recaptured!
CHAPTER TWO
IHAD played my luck too long and it had run out. I could not hope to convince this man that I was a Korean; it would only make matters worse if I did. When I tried to confuse him, he picked up a large, sharp stone and threw it at me with considerable accuracy; when I failed to obey his instructions to walk back down the road, he threw more. All the time, he kept his pistol pointed at me steadily, but remained sufficiently far away to avoid assault. Eventually, I got tired of being stoned and so, with a heavy heart, I began to walk back along the road. He would not even permit me the shelter of the rice sack but kicked it into the ditch; so I was both wet and miserable.
Just before we reached the bend in the road where I had been challenged by the Chinese, we turned off towards the east along a narrow path. As we came to junctions or forks along it, he would indicate the new direction to me with a grunt and a nod of his head. At the third turning, the telephone cable reappeared and by it I saw, with horror, a sign:
“3783.”
It had never occurred to me that this was the sign of a North Korean unit! We were to follow it for the next two hours.
Our immediate destination was, apparently, a Korean village, considerably north and east of the road down which I had walked. I decided that it must lie midway between this road and our own original Battalion supply route. I did not deem it politic to take my map out just then to make a check. Here, in the centre of the village, we met another group of officers outside the school on which someone had fixed a large, new, red star, and a heavily varnished picture of Kim II Sung, the President of North Korea. My captor was a Second Lieutenant—the North Koreans wear badges of rank, unlike the Chinese. He was warmly congratulated on his work by the others we met, all senior to him. They crowded round me, and
regarded me rather as one might a hare that some friend has got with a chance shot on the road. I felt the analogy keenly.
After a few minutes chatter with a Korean civilian, who had evidently taken over the village leadership, they slung their leather map-cases over their shoulders and left the village at the opposite end to that of our entry. Two officers now guarded me with drawn pistols as we marched, but my Second Lieutenant kept on coming back to ensure that they had not lost me and were keeping me subdued. For good measure, he landed a couple of hearty kicks on the side of my leg as I passed.
By nightfall, it became apparent that we were lost. Every few minutes the party would stop, whilst one of the two Majors with us would inquire from a civilian household which route we should take, and once he attempted to get information in this respect out of a passing Chinese. I was now thoroughly wet and cold, to say nothing of my depression at being recaptured just when everything had seemed set so fair. However, as we marched, I consoled myself with the thought that we were still south of the Imjin River and that to-morrow—maybe even to-night—there might be another chance to escape. But I was not sorry when our journey ended. The Majors were fed up with the rain, it seemed: they turned a family out of the next house they came to and began to make preparations for the night.
There were fires under the floors, which was a blessing, and the one girl with my party—a civilian camp-follower, by her clothes—began to cook a meal. Soon a borrowed tray was set with large bowls of rice and soup. As it disappeared into their quarters, I became very much aware that I had not had a meal for over three days. Later, the shorter of the two Majors came over to me and, with much secrecy, gave me a small brown-paper parcel. Unwrapping it, after he had left me, I found it contained a ball of cold rice—perhaps a picnic dinner he had forgotten. I admit that I ate it with relish.
The next morning was bright and sunny. As there had been no opportunity to escape during the night, I began to look about me as soon as we set out towards our real destination. The “3783” signs appeared at intervals along the route, so I was reasonably sure that we had not lost our way altogether during the night march. What I was anxious to do was to spot some recognizable landmark by which I could fix my position. Unfortunately, just before starting that morning, it had occurred to them that I ought to be searched thoroughly. I had lost almost everything: maps, compass, watch, knife, pipes, tobacco, lighter, and pen. But this was not a major setback. I knew the general direction of our line, and once I could find a landmark, I should be well prepared.
Early on an argument took place between us about carrying their gear. I refused to carry loads, particularly as I had been given no breakfast. But when they told me to pick up a rice sack I changed my mind, hoping that I might get an opportunity to steal a few handfuls during the march.
There was another incident which served to cool our relationship. At mid-morning, we came to an area below a hill where a large group of North Korean soldiers had gathered, talking excitedly. We also stopped to examine the spot. To my horror, I saw that they were looking at the bodies of three American soldiers who had been shot through the back of the head. Their hands were still fastened behind their backs with thin telephone cable—assault cable, in military parlance—and they had been shot but recently. A great argument began about me, almost immediately, and I quickly realized that, if it was a question of a straight vote, I should join those poor GIs. I think it was the little Major who saved me. He spoke for about five minutes with great heat, and his words must have been powerful ones. With obvious reluctance, the crowd began to disperse and one man, who had cocked his pistol meaningly while standing by my side, walked sulkily away.
At noon we stopped to eat. On this occasion, I was given a portion of the food by the girl, on the instructions of the Major I had come to regard as my benefactor. The officers then slept for an hour, whilst the five non-commissioned officers with the party took it in turns to mount a double guard on me, as they had done throughout the previous night. At two, as I saw by my watch on the wrist of one of the captains, we started out again, beginning the ascent of a long, steep path up the side of a mountain. After almost an hour’s climb, we reached a pass between the two highest points. This was our immediate destination; the personnel of “3783” crowded the entire area about us.
I was removed from the curious crowd of ragged male and female soldiers and ordered to sit down by two officers, one of whom was a Colonel. To my surprise, the other, a senior Captain, spoke some English; but the questions were not at all what I had expected:
“Why have you come to Korea?”
I did not answer. He began to supply the answers, reading with difficulty from a small pamphlet he suddenly produced, showing General MacArthur, caricatured as an octopus, feeding Korean women and children into his mouth with four tentacles, and bags of US dollars into it with the others. There was a great deal about American stockbrokers and the gallant fight of the North Koreans to defend their country from this menace. When he had finished, he asked:
“You have understood this?”
“I have nothing to say,” I replied.
“Too many Englishman,” he said, pointing down the track. “Go.”
Feeling that this was rather an ominous statement, I left him and was taken in charge by a warrant officer and two soldiers, who doubled me down the far side of the pass. I was still mulling over what the captain had meant when the answer was provided for me. Mid-way along the column we were overtaking, I found Privates Fox and Graham of my Battalion. What the North Korean had meant to say was:
“Two more Englishmen.”
Here they were.
Graham was a Reservist, a dour north-countryman who was fast growing a magnificent red beard. One of Spike’s Assault Pioneers, he had been caught independently of the main body, having got over the saddle at the end of our valley. Fox was a young volunteer in D Company, originating from Liverpool but living in the Isle of Man. He, too, was growing a beard—a fair one that was beginning to curl most elegantly. The story that he had to tell made it clear to me why we had seen nothing of D Company during the attempt to break out. Mike had seen the fate of those leaving the ridge by our route and had decided to try another way. D Company, Young Bob, and Sergeant Murphy’s machine-gun section made off almost due west, remaining unengaged until they reached a valley, where the 1st ROK Division was fighting a withdrawal action, aided by an armoured force of the 1st Cavalry Division. Their course to this valley had not been entirely fortuitous for, about midway between the tanks and Hill 235, they had been sighted by an alert and courageous Air Observation Pilot. Circling and pointing, he had led them to the tanks. Within sight of escape, their good fortune partly deserted them. First, they came under heavy fire from the Chinese on the hills, as they moved down the valley: Tom and a good many others of D Company were killed or wounded. Then our own tanks, seeing a group of many figures appearing from the east, were temporarily confused and added their fire to that of the Chinese. Disregarding the fire directed to him, the “spotter” pilot made several runs down the valley towards the tanks, making signs to them that Mike’s force was friendly. At length, his meaning became clear to them, and they covered the remainder of Mike’s party up to and through their positions. Fox estimated that about thirty men had reached the tanks uninjured out of the whole force. The remainder of D Company were either killed, wounded or, in a few cases such as his own, captured. Prevented by fire from reaching the tanks, he had slipped into the hills, only to be caught at dusk, while quenching a thirst unsatisfied since the third day of the battle.
We shook hands warmly, and told our stories to one another, as we continued the march in a direction that was generally south-east—approximately towards Uijong-bu, I thought. I explained this to my companions and began to discuss escape, a prospect which they viewed with enthusiasm. My sack of rice had been removed at the pass, so that we had no food between us and, as the Koreans had been giving them very little food, it seemed unlikely that
we should get an opportunity to save up. However, it was a fine, warm day; the three of us were together; we were all set to escape the moment a good opportunity presented itself, and—we were marching in the right direction. Morale was high.
The march continued throughout the afternoon, ending in a valley containing a long, scattered village. Outside a house about half-way down the valley, the column halted and dispersed; we were taken to a Korean house on the low, western slope which was already under occupation by twelve Chinese soldiers. Here we shared a room with three of our Korean porters, one of whom had established himself as the leader and was taking every opportunity to ingratiate himself with our captors. He was a dangerous element in our midst: an informer, a thief, and very lousy. We kicked him over to the other side of the room, which kept him at a distance of six feet. He remained there, glowering and mumbling to himself or at his fellow porters throughout the day, only leaving his corner to spring upon the infrequent meals of boiled rice that were brought to us.
We lived in that house under close guard for five days. Graham had sufficient of a pack of cards to play three-card Brag, and we played endlessly. He was also a master at getting tobacco out of those Chinese soldiers who came to stare at the curious foreign prisoners. On one memorable occasion, he obtained enough to roll us a cigarette each with some left over to put by for a communal one that evening—if we could get a light for it. During the third night, a Puerto Rican, named Morales, was brought in to join us. He had one special virtue in Graham’s eyes: he did not smoke the tobacco scrounged for him.
The Edge of the Sword Page 10
