War Trash

by Ha Jin

  More surprising was that toward evening we received congratulations from Commissar Pei. I had seen Ming walking left and right behind the window of the war criminal’s cell, busy sending out a message. He appeared rather stooped and coughed into his fist from time to time. In addition to congratulating us on “the glorious victory,” the message declared that all the comrades who had sacrificed their lives today were named Hero Fighters, that every man in the Seventh Battalion had earned a second-class merit citation, that every member on the shock team was awarded a citation of the special class, and that on every wounded comrade in both compounds was conferred a firstclass citation. Pei also called on us to salute the men of the Seventh Battalion and to learn from the example of their mettle.

  I was more dubious about this business of the citations now. Indeed, a senior officer like Pei was entitled to issue a few awards once in a while, but definitely not so many of them. Why had he acted as though all the citations had been in his pockets and he were at liberty to hand out as many as he liked? I had been awarded three already, but never had I seen a medal, and I couldn’t help but doubt their value. Accompanying each major citation—the first or the special class—one should also receive a raise in both rank and salary, but never had that been mentioned. These awards might just be a hoax; I truly doubted if Pei had even kept a record of the hundreds of citations he had bestowed on us. Who had ever heard of every member of a battalion being given a second-class citation? This kind of award inflation seemed fraudulent, but the men were not skeptical of them. They tended to take the citations as something that might reconfirm their loyalty to our country and the revolution, and therefore as something that could reduce their shame. Some men in our barracks even envied those in Compound 7.

  The next day Chaolin presented to the Americans a written protest on behalf of all the prisoners in the camp. In the letter we demanded that Colonel Kelly let us send a representative to the Panmunjom armistice talks. Kelly thought we were crazy, in his words “a bunch of loonies,” and he dismissed our demand, saying this was beyond his power. Commissar Pei had a long cloth banner hung out from his window—a white sheet bearing these words in English: “Stop Butchering My Comrades!” A squad of GIs went there, ripped the sign away, and thrashed the three men in the cell with rifle butts.

  Not until six days later were we allowed to gather in front of the barracks within each compound and hold a memorial service for the dead, who had all been buried on a hill slope used as a graveyard by the island natives. After some argument, the Americans let us choose five representatives from each battalion, who went to lay wreaths at the graves of the dead comrades. I remember that one of the wreaths was draped with two strips of white paper that bore two lines of ancient poetry:

  Yearn not for native soil—

  Your loyal bones can lie in any green hill.

  25. ANOTHER SACRIFICED LIFE

  Gradually I figured out why, despite the massacre, the leaders considered the flag-raising battle a victory. They ignored the casualties and cared only about the news value of the incident. The more people got killed, the more sensational the event, and the more reverberant the victory would be.

  To Commissar Pei, the ideal aftermath of the massacre would be some strong response from the Chinese government and from our delegates at the Panmunjom talks. He must have believed China would take advantage of the incident to start another propaganda campaign to embarrass the United States. I too felt that some international repercussions would follow the sixty-three deaths.

  Week after week we expected some news, but nothing happened. No reporter came, and no change could be noticed in the Americans, as if this island were a deserted corner forgotten by the world. The feeling of isolation must have become all the more unbearable to Commissar Pei. By contrast, most of the POWs didn’t seem to feel isolated at all; they bore the monotony of prison life with vegetative patience. As long as the top leader was with them, they could set their minds at ease—he was their mental mainstay. They couldn’t see that like themselves, Pei too was apprehensive, probably more so than they were, because he had no superior to rely on. On the other hand, he understood that to many of them he embodied the Party, so he had to appear resolute and full of certainty. In mid-October a GI shot a prisoner, a latrine man, who had accidentally tripped and splattered a bucket of night soil onto the jeep the GI was driving. The man bled to death before the ambulance came. Yet even such gratuitous violence didn’t kindle any disturbance in the camp. Commissar Pei seemed to be sinking into deep lassitude.

  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, hard-working, 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 snow-storms 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 Japan
ese 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.

  “Put that down, you bastard!” the GI roared. Shenning kept running and running. How frightened we were! The armed guards outside the fence might have opened up on him, but luckily they didn’t. Instead, they seemed to relish the scene, some smirking and some laughing.

  Gradually the husky GI caught up with Shenning, who rolled the flag into a ball and threw it to Wenfu, the skinny orderly. Wenfu in turn pitched it into the opened window of the kitchen; immediately a cook removed a cauldron and spread the flag over a stove, whose flames at once engulfed the fabric. With the shovel the GI began hitting Shenning, who was rolling on the ground but didn’t scream.

  “Yeah, let him have it good!” yelled Captain Larsen, with both hands on his hips.

  We all shouted at the GI, but he wouldn’t give up thwacking our man. One blow hit Shenning’s face and he stopped moving instantly. Meanwhile, Larsen ordered his men to round up all those who had participated in retaking the flag. Little Hou, Wenfu, the cook, and many others were singled out and forced to leave with their hands clasped on their crowns. The GIs prodded them with bayonets all the way to a truck parked outside the front entrance. They shipped them away to a large pit behind the fuel depot west of the prison camp. Later that evening Shenning was also sent there, directly from the hospital. Altogether they had seized eighteen prisoners.

  Our leaders were worried, but mainly about the safety of Little Hou, without whom the camp’s communication with Commissar Pei would be disrupted. How could we get him back? They thought hard for a solution, but couldn’t find one.

  Afternoon darkened into evening at the fuel depot, but the enemy still wouldn’t release the detainees. Having eaten nothing, the eighteen men were shaking with cold and huddled together in the pit, which was actually a collapsed bunker. Above it stood more than a dozen GIs, all fully armed. A pair of searchlights formed two long, luminous cones atop the pit throughout the night. The prisoners were soon tired out and some fell asleep. Toward daybreak, the GIs began throwing stones into the pit, and several sleepers were hit and injured. One chunk of cement tile struck the cook in the forehead and opened a cut about two inches long, and blood spurted out. But the prisoners knew the enemy hoped to have a pretext for shooting at them, so they didn’t respond to the provocation. Nevertheless, half an hour later, a submachine gun fired at them. A bullet struck Wenfu’s head and killed him on the spot. The detainees raised a shirt soaked with blood, which stopped the gunfire.

  The lieutenant in charge came over with five GIs and saw the body of our orderly. “Damn, it was so accurate,” he muttered, then strode off to call for an ambulance.

  A van came twenty minutes later and carried Wenfu’s body away, together with four wounded men. The rest of them couldn’t leave the pit until late that night. They had been starved for more than thirty hours. Our kitchen cooked millet porridge for them, because in such a state it was dangerous for them to eat solid food right away.

  The same thing happened again: Commissar Pei sent his condolences and awards—on Wenfu was conferred the title of Revolutionary Martyr and the first-class merit citation, which was also issued to Shenning, Little Hou, and the cook—Huang Jian. Now that the battalion chief’s orderly was gone, Shanmin was chosen for the job. I told my young friend that from now on he should give his cigarettes to Wanren, who could protect him. Wanren was a decent man and had never taken anything more than his own rations, so he might appreciate the extra cigarettes.

  I was ambivalent about the attempt to reseize the flag. On the one hand, I admired the courage our men had displayed, and in a way I’d been awestruck by their passion and bravery, which I have to admit I didn’t share. On the other, I doubted whether it was worth losing a man’s life for the sake of a flag, which, symbolic as it might be, was just a piece of nylon cloth. I had noticed that there was a kind of religious fervor in some of these men, who were capable of laying down their lives for an idea. However silly the idea might be, the act of selfsacrifice made them truly remarkable. Potentially many of them were he
roes.

  26. KILL!

  All the prisoners in our compound were angry at Captain Larsen, believing he was responsible for Wenfu’s death and for the injuries inflicted on the other four fellows. Every evening a duty sergeant would assemble us in the front yard to conduct the head count. Sometimes Larsen would do it personally. I don’t know how this got started. One evening in early November, after Larsen’s count, when he said, “You’re dismissed,” suddenly dozens of prisoners shouted in Chinese, “Kill!”

  Perplexed, Larsen looked around, then grabbed hold of Shanmin, who couldn’t make off fast enough, and asked him what they meant. The boy told him to his face, using the few English words I had taught him, “Kill that bad egg.”

  At once Larsen’s face dilated with rage, his nostrils flaring. He stretched out both hands, flapping them toward his chest as though able to embrace the whole yard into his arms. He lifted his voice and ordered us, “Halt! You all come back and form up again!”

  Reluctantly we reassembled in front of him. He told us, “We’re going to do this one more time. I want you to leave without a peep, got it?”

  I translated his order, but nobody responded. A lull set in as two dogs yapped from a straw shack on a hill slope in the southeast, followed by a pair of magpies that cried sleepily from the wild orange grove beyond the fences of barbed wire. In the south the half moon was hardly visible, obscured by billows of rusty clouds. Larsen jerked his neck and announced, “Now you’re dismissed.”

  “Kill!” roared most of the men, then we all started for our living quarters.

  “Damn it!” Larsen exploded, throwing up his big hands. “You all come back and line up again.” He stamped his foot while the GIs behind him were grinning as if they had been bystanders.