War Trash

"Ouch, ouch!" my friend finally said. "I have a stomachache!"

Interpreter Peng told the sergeant, "He has stomach trouble."

To our astonishment, Harris picked up a turd with his bayonet, thrust it to Weiming's mouth, and ordered, "Open wide!"

Weiming was too flabbergasted to say a word. The sergeant yelled at him again, "Eat this! It'll cure your stomach problem. If you don't, I'll finish you off right here."

Weiming looked at me and then at Interpreter Peng, but he wouldn't open his mouth. I intervened, saying, "Sarge, please don't be so – "

"Shut up!" His elbow jabbed me in the sternum. "You fucking liar! You said he had dysentery. Look at his shit, solid like stone. I tell you, if you mess with my job again, I'm go

Strangely enough, Interpreter Peng said in his clipped English, "Sergeant, please stop abusing him. He just answered a call of nature. We all do the same."

These unmodulated words seemed to stun Harris, who looked at the interpreter for a moment, then asked, "What did you say?"

"Please stop beating him."

"Who the fuck do you think you are? Get out of my face!"

With trembling lips Peng said, "Colonel Kelly assigned me to accompany you, so I too am responsible for keeping order here. If you don't like my suggestion, you can complain to your superiors."

"You little shit, you think you can order me around?"

"You have been unreasonable."

"Whose side are you on, eh?"

"That has nothing to do with this. You're wrong. Who can eat his own shit?"

"Fuck you, chink! You're helping them Commies. You think I can't see through you?"

While they were wrangling, I dragged Weiming back into the ranks of the prisoners. I was afraid that Sergeant Harris would attack the interpreter. But a moment later they came back, both with sullen faces. Officer Peng didn't walk with the GIs on the way back to the camp; instead, he followed us, alone and rather absentminded. I turned to glance at him from time to time. He looked pensive, his face tauter than an hour ago.

Back in our compound, Weiming described the incident to the other prisoners, who were all amazed, because we had always held in contempt the Nationalist officers working here and believed all they dared to do was say "Yes sir" to the Americans. Nobody had expected that the interpreter would intercede for a POW, an enemy he was supposed to hate. A week later Officer Peng left the camp. Some people said he had been called back to Taiwan, some believed he had applied for a discharge of his own accord, and some guessed he might have gotten demoted. What happened to him? I asked several Americans, but they didn't know either.

I have often thought of this scrawny man. Over the years, his smooth face and close-set eyes have grown more and more distinct in my memory.

30. THE FINAL ORDER

Winter was short on Cheju, though it wasn't over in February yet. Nothing newsworthy had happened since November. It was peaceful on the island, but the peace was not easy for our leaders to take. We had learned that the truce talks at Panmunjom had broken off some months ago and hadn't yet resumed. One day in late February, Colonel Kelly informed us that four of our officers must go to Pusan to get reregistered. Among them were Hao Chaolin and Chang Ming. We all thought they would be interrogated again, and that probably the Americans meant to put them away before the repatriation began. Ming was still with Commissar Pei in the prison house; it might do him good to get out of the confinement for some time, though the reregistration sounded treacherous. I often saw him moving left and right behind the window of that cell, transmitting messages. His movement was slow. His health had deteriorated, and I had heard that he suffered from arthritis. The inside of that prison was extremely damp; it was on the edge of the beach, and sometimes at high tide, seawater would reach the base of the exterior wall.

A message regarding the reregistration was sent to Commissar Pei. The next afternoon he replied: "Feng Wen ca

Having read the message, I was overtaken by anger and fear. I left my shed without a word and walked along the barbed-wire fence alone. The yard was slushy in places and the mud felt sticky under my boots, but I didn't care and just let my feet go anywhere they wanted. My face was hot, as if I were ru

Then the thought crossed my mind that probably this was because I was not a Party member; I was, like a regular soldier, dispensable. Perhaps the commissar believed that the repatriation would start soon, and wanted to save his own men. Had he gotten enough use out of me? Was he ready to discard me now? What did Ming think of this decision? Had he been involved in making it? I wondered if he too meant to do me in, just to protect himself.

It also dawned on me that since we were in a relatively safe situation on Cheju Island, none of us wanted to leave this oasis alone, at least for the time being. The less you met the enemy individually, the safer your future was likely to be. When we returned to China, every one of us might face the problem of clearing himself. As long as you had stayed with your comrades constantly, you might avoid the Party's suspicion, because your fellow inmates could testify to your role and activities in the camp. This might explain Ming's preference for remaining with Commissar Pei – he wanted to keep his credentials impeccable for the Party.

When I returned to the barracks, my comrades already knew of Pei 's decision. Our battalion chief, Wanren, came up to me and shook my hand with genuine feeling. He didn't even bother to ask if I would go, knowing I had no choice but to obey the order. I handed him my ID tag, which he would surely pass on to Ming. I said, "I'll set out tomorrow."

At those words, Shanmin broke into tears, rushed over and hugged me tightly. "I'll miss you, elder brother!" he said.

A few men sighed. Someone suggested they throw me a send-off party that evening. So after di