People got excited about our report on the Koreans' plan. The commissar instructed us to demonstrate the next day and then go on a hunger strike. Meanwhile, the Secretariat must gather evidence for the crimes committed by our captors so that we could charge General Bell when he fell into the Koreans' hands. After the meeting, Ming went about writing two letters, one addressed to our delegates at the Panmunjom talks and the other to the International Red Cross, exposing the maltreatment the POWs had suffered and demanding that the Americans return all the bodies of our comrades killed on the battleground, that they stop backing the pro-Nationalist force in the prison camp, and that they take measures to stamp out violence and bring the murderers to justice. The first of the demands surprised me, because I remembered the dead our former division had buried along our way to the front in the spring of 1951. Hundreds of men had been killed in air raids and left in the wilderness, and I was sure none of their bodies would ever be shipped back to our homeland.
Ming and I both worked as translators in the compound. I spoke English better, so I was present most of the time when we met with the Americans. He was a Party member and attended their secret meetings, for which I wasn't qualified. We two got along well and often compared notes, so I knew quite a bit about the happenings within the Party.
16. MEETING WITH GENERAL BELL
The next afternoon we presented to Lieutenant East, the officer in charge of guarding our compound, a formal letter that demanded the improvement of our living conditions and also a face-to-face talk with General Bell. I had spent a whole morning putting the letter into English. Ming, who seemed to have infinite connections, had bartered an American army overcoat with a South Korean officer for an English-Japanese dictionary. Since in many cases we could guess the meanings of Japanese words without knowing the language, this dictionary was quite handy. Without it I couldn't have rendered any document accurately into English.
Having gotten no response to our letter, we demonstrated in the compound the following day. Three groups of men, each six hundred strong, by turns went to the area close to the southern fence, shouted slogans, and raised pieces of hardboard that carried words in both English and Chinese, such as "Uphold the Geneva Convention!," "Treat Us Like Human Beings!," "Stop Violence in the Prison!," "Punish the Murderers!" The guards were nervous, but some of them mocked us and gave us the finger. One shouted, "Okay, if you want us to treat you better, tell Chairman Mao to sign the Geneva Convention first."
I didn't translate those words for my comrades. I had read in Stars and Stripes some time ago that neither China nor North Korea had signed the convention, and that the United States had signed it, but its Congress hadn't ratified it yet. On Capitol Hill there had been a debate over whether the U.S. Army should actually abide by the convention. Few of the Chinese prisoners knew the truth, which would be hard to explain to them, and which our leaders, believing ignorance was strength that could enable their men to fight bravely, wouldn't want us to know.
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 midmoming, 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 Ml 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.