War Trash

by Ha Jin

  Toward three p.m. a short officer showed up, accompanied by the gangly Lieutenant East. The small man introduced himself as Major Leach and said to us, “I represent General Bell and you can talk to me. He’s busy at the moment.” Somehow his narrow face reminded me of a possum.

  “We will speak only to General Bell in person,” said Danwei, the head of the third group of demonstrators.

  I translated his reply. Then to whatever the major said the prisoners wouldn’t respond. The six hundred men just stood there, arms folded on their chests. After half an hour’s coaxing and blustering to no avail, Major Leach left in a huff.

  The next morning a hunger strike started in our compound, but no demonstrators got to the yard, and only two dozen pickets stood near the front entrance. Some mess tins and bowls were hung on the barbed-wire fence to express our determination not to eat. A truckload of barley, spinach, and radishes was delivered at midmorning, but our pickets blocked the vehicle, so everything was unloaded and placed outside the gate. Chaolin and I went to talk with Lieutenant East. We asked him to inform General Bell that only by meeting our representatives personally could this crisis be resolved, and that we trusted nobody but the general because only he could guarantee our safety.

  Lieutenant East spat out some tobacco juice and said, “Who gives a fuck if you eat or not? Starve as long as you like. I won’t pass him your word.”

  We were worried about his refusal, but Commissar Pei told us to be patient, saying the lieutenant wouldn’t dare suppress our request without reporting it to General Bell. Both Ming and I felt frustrated and talked about this matter in private. Why couldn’t the Koreans just execute the kidnapping by themselves? Why did this have to be so elaborate and involve us? They could have just invited the general to their compound and seized him there. Probably they were apprehensive and wanted a broader base of support for their plan. Then why wouldn’t they adopt a less risky form of protest? They might get more than they bargained for.

  Sure enough, as Commissar Pei predicted, the next morning a jeep appeared at the gate. In it were seated General Bell and Major Leach; behind them followed about twenty GIs in a ten-wheeled truck. I was summoned to our headquarters while Ming set off to inform the Americans that we would like to talk with the general in the tent of our Secretariat. A few minutes later Ming returned with a message from Lieutenant East, who insisted we go to the front entrance and speak with the general there. So Chaolin, I, and six other men approached the gate, behind which we were ordered to remain.

  Lieutenant East went up to the jeep to brief General Bell. Bell was a robust man with a ruddy complexion, in his mid-forties, wearing shiny boots and a diamond ring, which made him look rather urbane. Below his cap a bit of gray hair was visible. He seemed to have spruced up for this occasion, and even the insignia on his cap was shiny. Following him was the short major with a briefcase under his arm and a thick book in his hand. All the GIs had jumped down from the truck and stood in a fan shape, holding M1 Garand rifles. Chaolin said to me, “They really believe we’re going to hurt him, don’t they?” Then we stepped closer to meet the officers.

  Through the barbed wire on the gate, Chaolin said, “Welcome, General Bell. Thank you for taking the trouble to come personally.”

  I translated his words. Bell nodded with a complacent smile and said, “I respect you Chinese. And your compound is a model of discipline and cleanliness. You can let me know your gripes now.”

  Chaolin smiled and said again, “We’d like to invite you to inspect the malnutrition most of the inmates have suffered here. Many wounded men are bedridden and need medical treatment, but we don’t have enough medicines and staff to help them. Most of the prisoners in this compound suffer from night blindness, scurvy, beriberi, skin disorders, and other diseases because we haven’t eaten enough vegetables. We hope you will observe the Geneva Convention and treat us decently.” Chaolin’s description of the inmates’ physical condition was true on the whole. Some prisoners could see nothing but a wall of darkness at night, and some still had running wounds.

  The general cleared his throat and said, “We have always abided by the Geneva Convention and tried our best to honor all the articles, although I don’t have enough staff and materials at my disposal. Let me ask my aide to read some paragraphs from the convention to refresh your memory.”

  Solemnly Major Leach opened the big green book and began reading in a bass voice. I didn’t bother to translate, because Chaolin was familiar with the Chinese version of the relevant articles. Meanwhile, General Bell looked absentminded, shifting his weight from one foot to another. To my amazement, he took nail clippers out of his jacket pocket and picked his nails with the tip of the file. The backs of his hands were bristly with brown hair.

  We knew those articles by heart, so none of us listened to the major. To the Americans’ credit, I should mention that they had posted the relevant clauses of the international law in every compound, in both Chinese and Korean, and that they also issued to every platoon a booklet containing the text. Before seeing the booklet, we had only heard of the Geneva Convention but hadn’t known its contents. Having studied the document thoroughly, our leaders concluded that the Americans had contravened Article 118, which stated: “Prisoners of war shall be released and repatriated without delay after the cessation of hostilities.” However, when the regulation had been drafted three years before, the world had been less complicated and none of the participating countries had been able to imagine our situation—in which more than two-thirds of the Chinese POWs wouldn’t be going home. Still, whenever possible, we would confront our captors with their violation of Article 118, and most of the time we could get the upper hand.

  In addition to the issue of repatriation, our leaders also accused the American side of some other serious violations of the convention. To be fair, I didn’t feel that our captors treated us very badly. At least we were sheltered and had food. Most of the wounded prisoners had access to medical treatment, though conditions still had room for improvement. About six thousand people had been crowded into a small compound, with no disease springing up, because sanitation had been adequately maintained. Some inmates had even gained a little healthy color, especially some cooks whose cheeks had grown thicker. We often joked that the latrines in the compound were better equipped than those in our barracks back in China. Seats had been installed in them, and at the centers of the rooms were washing facilities—faucets for running water and metal basins set into round concrete tables. On the whole, I had to admit that the Americans were generous, at least materially. Besides food, each POW was given at least one pack of cigarettes a week, and sometimes two packs. I saw with my own eyes that American medical personnel treated injured civilians at the Pusan prison hospital. Here in every compound the United Nations had set up a program for civilian education that distributed books among the inmates, offered courses in mechanics, science, and Christianity, and often showed movies. Unfortunately our compound, controlled by the Communists, wouldn’t have anything to do with such a program. Whenever a prisoner reported that he had lost his blanket or mat, he would be issued another one, since there was always a surplus of these things within the compound. Sometimes this would even apply to uniforms. Such replenishment was unthinkable in our own army, in which you would be disciplined for the loss. Back in China I had never heard of a soldier losing his bedroll.

  Chaolin had a sharp tongue. The moment the major finished reading, Chaolin said, “Obviously our treatment falls short of the standard set by the convention. For example, we Chinese don’t eat barley, which is fed to livestock back home. But you have made barley the staple of our diet, and most of the time there isn’t enough barley for everyone. Each man can have only two bowls a day, and the calories are way below the minimum need of the body. What’s worse, there’s very little vegetable in our diet, and meat is absolutely a rarity. If your country has difficulties, please notify our country. I’m sure China will send over shiploads of rice, meat, a
nd eggs to keep us from starving.”

  What he had said about barley wasn’t true. No Chinese would feed animals barley, which we didn’t like as much as rice but which tasted better than corn and sorghum, the principal foodstuffs in northern China. Having heard my translation, General Bell reddened and said, “I will take your unusual Chinese dietary habits into consideration and try to solve this problem. If you always feel hungry, I suggest that you stop the hunger strike now, which will just increase your fellow men’s misery and waste food. As for the medical conditions, I will see what I can do.”

  Chaolin replied, “We appreciate that. If you agree to take steps to improve our living conditions, we’ll be glad to end the hunger strike.”

  General Bell straightened up and promised, “I give you my word.”

  Chaolin and the other men looked at one another for a few seconds. Then he said, “We’re willing to believe your sincerity, General Bell. Please accept our gratitude for coming to meet us personally.”

  “Does this mean you will call off the hunger strike?”

  “Yes, we shall do it today.”

  “Very good, I’m glad we’ve met and talked.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  Bell nodded with a satisfied smile and then headed back. He got into his jeep, which pulled away, splashing muddy water from a puddle.

  Not far from the gate, a middle-aged woman in a ruffly white dress was squatting on her haunches at a garbage dump, digging around with a mattock about two feet long. She was blind but came here every day to rummage around for edibles. On her neck was a healed gash. Beside her were a large gourd bowl and a small girl, four or five years old, whose hair had been cut straight across at the upper ends of her ears. The child held a bunch of grasshoppers, all strung through the mouths by a straw of dogtail grass. Now and then she ran away from her mother to catch a grasshopper. For a moment I was lost in a memory of my childhood, when my pals and I had often gone into the wilderness to catch insects and roasted them to eat. Cicadas and grasshoppers had been our favorites. My reverie was cut short by the woman’s calling to her daughter, asking her what she herself was holding in her leathery hand. It was a piece of turnip peel, the child told her. The woman raised the thing and smelled it, then with a faint smile put it into the gourd bowl.

  No matter how awful our situation was, there were always others who had it worse. The image of this blind woman would come back to haunt me for many years. Sometimes when I was losing heart, my mind would return to this war-mangled woman and to her eerie smile at a mere turnip peel. Then the desire for life and the will to continue would again stir in my chest.

  “Hey, let’s go,” Chaolin said, bringing my mind back to the camp. Together we returned to the headquarters to give an account of the negotiation.

  All the men who heard our report got excited, and some believed General Bell was a jackass. Yet to me he seemed to be an honorable man, perhaps somewhat naive; he couldn’t possibly see through our ruse. I felt rather sad, because Bell’s promise to improve our living conditions would come to nothing if he was kidnapped.

  On a sheet of ruled paper Ming wrote down a brief account of our meeting with the general, particularly his manner and the state of his vigilance. The information was delivered to the Korean comrades that same evening.

  17. THE ABDUCTION OF GENERAL BELL

  On the evening of May 7 Major Leach arrived in a jeep. He wanted two of our officers to go with him right away, to Compound 76, the one that held Korean prisoners.

  “What for?” we asked.

  He said General Bell was going to hold a meeting and had invited representatives from different compounds to attend. Chaolin gave me a meaningful grin that revealed his ulcerated gums. We guessed something unusual must be afoot. We hurried back to our headquarters and reported the new development to Commissar Pei. Pei sent Chaolin and me to go with Major Leach because we had met the Koreans and Bell before. We picked up our protest letter and memorandum on our captors’ crimes, both written the previous night, and came out to join Leach. With Ming’s permission, I brought along the English-Japanese dictionary as well. Before we set off, Commissar Pei’s orderly ran out, waving for us to stop. He rushed over and handed us each a service medal, which Chaolin and I put on as the jeep rolled away.

  It was slightly windy, gray clouds chasing one another in the north as if following us. The dusk was smoky and flickered with puffs of midges, which brushed my face time and again. A flock of swifts twittered sharply and snapped at mosquitoes and gnats, soaring, diving, and spiraling like miniature aircraft in a dogfight. On the roadside rhododendrons and crimson azaleas bloomed in clusters, and rice paddies stretched in the fields studded with yellow forsythia, though half of the land was unused, overgrown with weeds. As soon as we passed a cattle pond, we saw large crowds of Korean prisoners gathering in various compounds. Most of them stood arm in arm swaying in rhythm and chanting battle songs. Seeing the jeep, a few men waved red flags, most of which were just pieces of shapeless cloth. They also shouted slogans. They seemed to know something extraordinary had just taken place.

  Approaching Compound 76, the jeep slowed down a little. The road was lined with American tanks and half-tracks topped with machine guns. Military police and hundreds of marines stood around, all toting rifles. A radioman was shouting into a walkie-talkie that sat on the hood of a light truck, its antenna jittering. As we passed them, I felt almost as if we were their honored guests—all the prisoners and the Americans gazed at us intently. Near the gate to Compound 76 gathered more vehicles and marines, whose steel helmets were reflecting the shifting columns of searchlights beamed from the guard towers. Portable floodlights had been set along the barbed-wire fence, and somewhere a generator was whining. Beside the compound’s gate hung a huge piece of white cloth—some sheets sewn together, six by thirty feet—which bore these English words: “WE CAPTURED BELL. AS LONG AS OUR DEMAND IS MET HIS SAFETY IS SECURED. IF THERE IS BRUTAL ACT SUCH AS SHOOTING AND BOMBING, HIS LIFE IS IN DANGER!” The exclamation mark was twice the size of a letter. I was impressed by the Koreans’ thorough preparation; the sign must have taken a lot of work to make.

  The jeep pulled up at the gate. Major Leach stayed behind while Chaolin and I walked into the compound. It was bright in there, lamps and torches everywhere. Over a hundred prisoners in their baggy uniforms stood in two lines to welcome us, clapping or waving a few tiny Chinese and Korean national flags made of paper. As we went farther in, people began shouting slogans in stiff Chinese: “Korea and China!” “Kim Il Sung and Mao Zedong!” “Welcome Chinese Comrades!”

  We didn’t know Korean, but we were so excited that we shouted: “Salute to our Korean comrades!” “Let us unite like brothers!” “Down with American imperialism!” From behind us came the swearing of the marines, reminding me of all the guns trained at us.

  We were taken into a tent that had been prepared for the representatives from different compounds, among whom, to our surprise, were three young women. We shook hands with one another and even hugged some men as though we had known them for a long time. The tent was humming with chattering voices, Korean and Chinese. The noise made me slightly giddy; I was excited to be here, affected by the euphoric ambience. Everybody looked jubilant and friendly. For the next half hour Colonel Choi described to the representatives how they had caught General Bell.

  By May 7 the men in Compound 76 had been demonstrating for two days, demanding a face-to-face dialogue with Bell. At 1:30 p.m. the general finally came, escorted by a platoon of GIs. Major Leach accompanied him. Together they went over to the front entrance to talk with the Koreans. As they came toward the gate, the GIs all followed them. The Koreans pointed at the troops and asked Bell, “What’s this about? We don’t understand why you, an American general, are afraid of us unarmed prisoners.” Bell looked at his men for a moment, turned to glance at the inside of the compound, then motioned the GIs to move back and keep some distance from the gate. Only Leach stayed with him.<
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  The Koreans enumerated the prison authorities’ violations of the Geneva Convention and then demanded that Bell plead guilty. In the beginning the general was quite serious. He told his aide-decamp to read out some articles of the convention, and then he tried to refute the prisoners’ accusations. But as the Koreans continued to rail at him, he grew impatient and tired, so he stood aside and let Major Leach answer questions for him. He lit a cigarette and smoked absently; every once in a while he shook his head in frustration. Gradually the GIs, fifty yards away from the officers, slackened their vigilance, whispering to one another and standing in disorder.

  At that point a team of latrine cleaners appeared from within the compound and headed for the front entrance, each man carrying two large buckets of night soil with a shoulder pole. The gate was opened for them. The American officers stepped aside, hands over their noses. When the last bucket of night soil had come out, suddenly these latrine men, all members of the compound’s shock unit in disguise, dropped their loads, grabbed the general and Major Leach, and dragged them back into the prison. Leach shouted to the GIs for help, clutching a brace on the gate with both hands, so the Koreans let him go. But General Bell, not as quick as the younger officer, was pulled into the compound. The prisoners immediately bolted the front gate.

  The whole thing had taken place so suddenly that the GIs were too dumbfounded to react. When the idea of a kidnapping had finally sunk in, they rushed to the gate, but it was too late. All they could see was four husky men hauling the general away toward a nearby tent. Bell turned his head and shouted at his troops, “Help me! Goddammit, help me!”

  “Halt! Halt!” Major Leach cried at the prisoners. The guards raised their rifles.

  Two Koreans ran over, displaying the white scroll with the English words on it. Then a battalion of POWs, over seven hundred strong, poured into the yard, holding self-made weapons and ready to confront the Americans. Major Leach ordered the GIs not to open fire, so all they could do was watch their commander disappear from view. At the entrance to the tent, still blustering and swearing, Bell refused to move, so the four men simply carried him, his legs kicking.