On arrival, at the sight of the prison, he blustered and made a scene, accusing the Americans of breaking their promise and not giving him freedom. Of course they wouldn't listen to him and just put him into the camp. Later, in Compound 72, again afraid of being killed, he agreed to go to Taiwan and had himself tattooed.
Never had I expected Jiafu would become such a wretch in this camp. He had gone insane the previous summer when all the pro-Nationalist prisoners arrived here and were ordered to construct enclosures and barracks for themselves. Apparently at that time the Americans treated them with little difference from the pro-Communists, so these nonrepatriates feared that they might never be able to reach Taiwan and even believed they could be delivered to Red China, which wasn't that far away – Tsingtao was just three hundred miles to the west. They even imagined that the Americans might mislead them onto ships and then send them back to the mainland. Their anxiety wasn't totally unjustified. Anything could happen at the Panmunjom talks, and the United States could hand them back to
China at any time if there was enough to gain from their repatriation. So all the fourteen thousand prisoners were terrified by the prospect; dreading the Communists' retaliation, some of them planned to drown themselves together in the ocean if they were forced to board ships. Some suggested that if worse came to worst, they would break prison and flee to Mount Halla, where they could live as guerrillas. Many began to make spears, knives, and cudgels. Indeed those first few months here were the nadir of their life in captivity. Several men attempted suicide – one of them plunged headlong into a latrine to drown himself, but he was saved by his fellow townsmen. They looked after him, and he recovered from his depression half a year later. It was during this time that Jiafu went crazy too, but unlike the others, he never regained his sanity.
Sometimes when I passed Enclosure 1, I would stop to speak to him. He had such a vacant face that he must surely have lost his memory, though he still remembered his birthplace and his family, calling to his parents as if they were somewhere nearby. On his forehead was a tattooed Nationalist emblem like a black sunflower. Whenever you asked him whether he wanted to go to Taiwan or the mainland, he would shake his head and croak, "Send me to Haicheng." That was his hometown in Manchuria.
I missed home terribly too. I had written to my fiancee only once since I'd been taken prisoner. Near the compound gate a metal mailbox hung on a pole; yet few men would drop letters into it because most POWs had adopted aliases and believed that both the American and the Chinese authorities would monitor our mail. We were afraid of implicating our families, who would be made to suffer for their sons' staying in the pro-Nationalist camp and refusing to return. It would be better if the government classified us as "missing in action," so that our families could benefit from our absence – by rule they would be treated as Revolutionary Martyrs' families. In the Communist-dominated camp, the prisoners didn't write home either, mainly because they feared that the Americans would open the mail and find out their true identities. Here, once in a while, an inmate did slip a letter into the mailbox, but often with a nicknamed sender on the envelope, such as Second Ox or Little Pillar or Mountain Boy, to reduce the risk of being identified. Naturally none of us had ever heard from home; nor did we know if our mail had ever reached our families. Through our contact with the Americans, we knew they received letters and parcels regularly. How we envied them!
Whenever I was alone, I would think about how to return to China. I didn't believe the Nationalist army could ever defeat the Communists and regain control of the mainland. I had seen how the People's Liberation Army had crushed them in the civil war. Although they were equipped with American weaponry and originally had more manpower, they were no match for the Communists, who had mustered the people's support. In all probability red flags would be flying over Taiwan in the near future.
I hadn't changed my mind about going home, but I just couldn't figure out a way. For a whole spring and summer the men in my compound talked about Taiwan, a place none of them had ever been to but had learned about through reading magazines. They imagined the restaurants and theaters they would patronize once they got there. Now the end of the war was imminent, and we all could feel it. Since April, groups of crippled POWs, as reported in the newspapers, had been returned to North Korea and mainland China. This might herald the final departure of all the prisoners.
In late June we heard that the South Korean guards at the camps in the Pusan area had set free twenty-seven thousand Korean nonrepatriates. In just one night all those POWs had vanished among the civilians. Enraged, the Chinese and the North Korean armies launched a major attack on the positions held by the South Korean army and devastated their lines. The release of those prisoners, however, inspired the inmates here, who began to demand to be freed in the same way so that they wouldn't have to face repatriation. The prison authorities ignored the demand, so the prisoners went on a hunger strike, which didn't last long because Father Hu, who often came to the camps to preach, mediated for the United Nations and assured us that we would never be delivered into the Communists' hands. He said this was a matter of principle for the Americans, who respected human rights. Still, three inmates in Enclosure 2 were so depressed and so tired of the long wait that they hanged themselves. I could see that these men dreaded the reprisals in store for them and would do anything to avoid going home.
Toward the end of July, word came that the armistice had been signed at Panmunjom. The war was finally over; this meant our imprisonment would end soon. Again the inmates were tossed into a great tumult, terrified by the possibility of repatriation. But I was on edge for a different reason: if I couldn't find a way back to China, I might have to depart for Taiwan with these men.
Then it was said that all the POWs would be sent to the Korean mainland again to go through the final screening called "the persuasion." This frightened the prisoners, who would do anything to avoid reentering the Iron Curtain. Many of them began talking about a massive demonstration. A few even offered to kill themselves, since they'd be killed anyway if they were returned to Red China. Some planned to jump into the ocean if they were forced to board ships heading that way.
But before any drastic action took place, there came Chiang Kai-shek's letter, read by himself on the radio and broadcast through amplifiers all over the camp. In an elderly voice the generalissimo urged us to trust the United Nations' arrangements, and he promised to bring us to Taiwan safely. The next day we were each given a Nationalist flag, on whose back was printed Chiang's letter in its entirety. He instructed us:
In order to realize your freedom, you must endure the next few months and must cooperate with the U.N. authorities. In the meantime, your compatriots in Free China will join forces with you to bring about your final liberation. I shall personally see to this matter and ascertain that the United Nations will abide by its principle of respecting the POWs' choice for freedom. In addition, I shall make the United Nations adhere to its promise that it will not send you anywhere against your will, so that you can come to Taiwan, the true China…
This letter pacified the prisoners, though it made me all the more anxious because I wanted to go home. Yet home seemed ominous now – I was unsure what would happen to me if I went back. If only there were a third choice so that I could disentangle myself from the fracas between the Communists and the Nationalists.
In mid-August we heard that many POWs in Camp 8 had left Cheju for China. This meant we might have to depart soon. A recent issue of News World, a weekly published in Hong Kong, showed some pictures of Korean women prisoners burning their mats and blankets before they started out for the North. Here the prison authorities informed us that we, the nonrepatriates, would be sent to a place near Kaesong called the Neutral Zone, where we would stay for three months to go through the final persuasion. The Communists insisted that many of us had been coerced into choosing Taiwan, so they wanted us to listen to their representatives explain their policy regarding the returned captives.