The Yellow Papers

by Dominique Wilson

  He trained his field glasses towards the village and watched Communist soldiers begin their day. There were few villagers left in the settlement, for the months of war had driven many to live in caves or set up camps in the forests, and there were no men except for the very old, as most would have been conscripted. Edward watched cooking fires being lit, a soldier washing himself, another urinating by a bush. Tiny little figures, unaware of being watched. He rose and went back into the cave.

  He checked his equipment to pass the time – the Russianmade ‘burp’ gun, a submachine gun so called because of the sound it made, the Chinese-made grenades, and his favourite weapon of all – a long slender-bladed knife, favoured because it killed without a sound. How many men had he killed with this knife? He’d become so efficient with it that he could hit any target at ten metres, throwing with either hand. Not that he’d ever risk his knife in combat that way – apart from the risk of leaving himself without a weapon and arming his enemy, he knew the velocity and power behind such a slim knife was too low to do much damage. Better to slit their throats instead. But still, he liked to practise.

  The noise of engines from down in the valley reached him. From the entrance of the cave he watched the Communist army pull out of the village. He followed their trucks with his field glasses as they wound their way along the road until they disappeared over a ridge, then aimed his glasses back to the huddle of reed-thatched roofs in the valley. Before long, others appeared out of the forest surrounding the village – women and children hiding from the soldiers, scavenging for anything left behind that would make their camps more comfortable.

  A movement amongst the trees, on the mountain ledge across from where he lay, caught his attention. It was a Tibetan wolf, white chested and thin legged, its greyish winter coat shaggy even from this distance. Edward scanned the area behind the animal – there, partially hidden by trees, was its mate. This was an easy winter for them, for as long as men continued killing each other food would be plentiful. The wolf stopped and raised its head, its ears pricked. It listened for a moment then turned, and as one the pair ran back into the forest. Edward scanned the area but could see nothing that could have frightened the animals. Then he heard it, the drone of strategic bombers.

  They appeared in formation, pregnant with napalm. He saw them fly overhead, bank and turn. Fly low over the valley. Saw the lazy fall of the canisters, the trailing of cloth tails that fluttered behind like the tails of obscene kites. The pure white flash of phosphorous. The eruption of black-orange smoke rising, coiling upon itself before the blanket of fire that spread hundreds of feet in diameter. Even this high up he felt the sudden surge of heat. Felt he couldn’t breathe though he knew he was too far away to suffocate from lack of oxygen. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see more but still he saw the bodies cooking, the skin curling away, crisp and brown like crackling on a Sunday roast. Saw the tongues of blazing jellied kerosene cling to the walls of huts, caress the scalps of infants screaming whilst fragments of phosphorous from burster tubes burrowed deep into their flesh, only to burst into flames later when exposed to air, and though they burned still some would live.

  Back in the cave he flicked his knife into a log. Retrieved it. Flick, retrieve. Flick, retrieve. He had no idea how far down the valley Bae and Hana had been when the bombers attacked. Their chances of survival were slim. Flick, retrieve. He could only wait. Flick, retrieve. Flick, retrieve. He would wait till nightfall. Flick.

  He paced the cave. He didn’t want to watch the final effects of the bombing – he’d seen it all too often already. How he hated this war! All wars were heinous, but this was beyond heinous. The US was dropping an average of 250,000 pounds of napalm a day, and he’d passed many a spot that was no more than a violet pile of ash to indicate that here was once a village. Civilians fleeing war zones were also purposely napalmed under the pretext that they may have enemy infiltrators amongst them. But this war was no different to any other, so why did he hate it so?

  Because this time, waiting outside villages for his agents, working mainly on his own, he had time to think. Here he couldn’t hide behind the myth of war. Alone with his thoughts, waiting in a cave or a forest, he couldn’t hide behind the idea of a just war, of men being heroes, defeating evil for God and country. Because it wasn’t just men that were in this war – it was women and children and babies too.

  But wasn’t that the same with every war? Collateral damage, they called it …

  So why had he come? He’d said he’d had no choice, but for centuries men had chopped off their own limbs, faked insanity, gone into hiding or to prison rather than to war. Was there some dark flaw in his psyche? Did he have some perverse need to destroy? To kill? Because kill he had. He could argue that most of his involvement had been to teach others how to survive or be killed, but who was he kidding? What was it Chen Mu had read to him once? Something along the lines of to lead the people to war without having taught them is to throw them away – was this his rationale? Because if it was, he was kidding himself. Ironic, really, war. Kill a man in everyday life and you’re an assassin. Kill thousands under the pretext of war and you’re a hero …

  He knew he was thinking too much, and that such thinking was dangerous, but still he paced. He should stop thinking and eat, while he had the chance, because there was no guarantee when he’d next have the opportunity.

  He took a ration out of his pack – rice impregnated with soya bean and dried meat. He never used the Allied Forces’ rations in case the unfamiliar smell carried to enemy soldiers. With his knife he hacked little ice slivers of food from the container. Each night the food froze solid, and by next evening would have begun to thaw but never completely before freezing again. With the tip of his knife he put a few grains of rice on his tongue and waited for them to warm before swallowing them.

  A muffled crack outside the cave snapped Edward from his musings. Knife in hand and back to the cave wall he approached the entrance. There he waited. Minutes passed. Then the crack again, sharp this time, followed by a muffled phump. He knew that sound – a branch heavy with snow breaking from a tree. Cautiously he went out of the cave. All was still, except for crows flying in the valley; they were already feeding on the bodies below. He was about to re-enter the cave when he heard a moan.

  He found her collapsed in a thicket a short distance from the cave entrance. Incongruously, one full sleeve of her uniform remained un-scorched, the rest of her clothes either missing or burnt to a carbon carapace. One side of her face was untouched, the other a mask of viscous black magma constricting so as to stop the eyelid and lips closing. Over her cheekbone, where phosphorous had burnt deeper, the bone was exposed, indecently white against the scorched flesh.

  Wrapped in a blanket, lying on the floor of the cave, Hana looked like a small black slug. She still hadn’t regained consciousness and Edward knew her chances of survival were slim. Logic told him she should be dead, that she would have passed the edge of human endurance. But still she breathed.

  The soldier in him knew it would be wiser – kinder even – to kill her now. He had little chance of carrying her back to medical help, and even if that were possible, she would likely die anyway. That she’d made it back amazed him. What gave some people such an extreme will to live? He knew the effects of napalm – he’d seen enough of it. Scorched windpipes swelling to restrict breathing, hallucinations from the carbon monoxide, bones fused, and all the while more and more serum oozing from exposed wounds, slowly draining the body of life. But her condition should be none of his concern. He had his orders – observe, contact, get back to base without being caught. If any of his agents looked like defecting, or showed signs of weakness, shoot them. If anything gets in the way of the mission, do whatever it takes to fix it. And Hana was now in its way.

  He should do it now, while she was still unconscious. But something made him hesitate. He kept hoping she’d die by herself.

  He went back to the entrance of the cave. Told himself he
was looking out for Bae though he knew Bae would not be coming back. It was hours since he’d found Hana, and soon it would be dark. He needed a cigarette. Hesitated, knowing the smell of burning tobacco could indicate his position. In the twilight the mountains and valley looked peaceful, almost primeval. An eagle rode the air currents. He decided to chance a cigarette.

  If he left now he could travel for some hours before the fog rolled in so thickly it would make movement impossible. But he’d have to leave Hana. She moaned and he turned, and in the crepuscule, with the un-burnt side of her face towards him, he thought he saw Ming Li.

  Edward lit another cigarette from the first and his hands shook. He should have killed her as soon as he’d found her. He knew now why he’d hesitated. He told himself he would wait a little longer for Bae. He would finish his cigarette. Then he would use the knife – it would be kinder. Cleaner. He would psyche himself up as he finished his smoke, then just do it. This wasn’t Ming Li. He imagined himself kneeling astride of Hana’s body. Gauging the angle of the knife. The thrust. The slight tension of flesh before it gave. The blade entering the heart. The hot gush of blood on his hand. She would die without ever regaining consciousness. It was better that way.

  It struck him in the shoulder, massive and hammer-like. An electric current where none could exist. The crack and whine of gunfire echoed and reverberated throughout the cave and commingled with the sound of his knife dropping to the cave floor. Another struck him in the leg and he knew then he’d been shot and with that realisation came the pain.

  Three North Korean soldiers stood at the cave entrance, guns aimed towards him, shouting orders, signalling for him to move away from Hana’s body but Edward drifted between substance and illusion and he watched them recede into the distance – three little soldiers far far away – then they were near again and he felt dazed, suddenly weakened and he was falling. His head hit the rocky floor and he was staring into Hana’s eyes.

  ‘Jugye,’ she whispered, ‘kill me,’ and he thought yes, that’s what I should do as the cave darkened into nothingness.

  23

  Edward braced his knees against the opposite wall of the latrine, trying to stop his legs falling into the stinking, oozing hole below. Flies swarmed over his emaciated body and lice sucked his blood but he didn’t feel them anymore. Wedged like this between the two walls no more than eighteen inches apart, his backside on one of the small logs covered in shit, he could even sleep if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to sleep. He had to think. He knew they’d keep him in this stinkhole for days, and who knew how long his mind would hold out this time, when the heat of the day turned this box into an oven. He had to force his brain to function.

  Peace talks. Were the rumours correct? Had they really begun to talk, to try and put an end to this madness? How long would that take? Weeks, at least. How long had he been here? He’d been captured in February, that much he remembered. They had walked for days, weeks – was it months? – from village to village, over mountains and through what had once been paddy fields but were then nothing but frozen mud, a bedraggled group of prisoners under North Korean guard. He’d been luckier than some in his padded Chinese clothes that kept out some of the cold. Cold. So cold. So cold and so hungry.

  No – concentrate! It’s summer now. But he’d already been through one summer in this stinkhole. One summer and another winter and now it was summer again. He’d heard rumours there were peace talks before. Had been for a year now. How long did they need? It was summer – so it must be June or July. August maybe? No, definitely July. July 1952. At Kaesong, they said. The peace talks were at Kaesong. Okay, if these rumours were true, how much longer before they all went home? Surely they’d finish talking soon. Let’s say another month. Two maybe? How long did peace talks take? How long had it taken to end the other war? But the bombs ended that one. Bombs. Napalm. So much napalm. Napalm Bae Hana. Kill Hana. Did he kill Hana? He couldn’t remember. Yes, he must have – there’d been blood. Hana’s blood on his hands. No, his blood. Got shot. Panic, then relief. Wounded at last – paying his dues. Wounded men slowing down the march. Shoot stragglers through the head. Mustn’t slow down the march. Sear his wounds with burning sticks to stop infection. Keep walking. Keep walking or you’ll get shot. Don’t think of the others. Do whatever it takes to stay alive. ‘The earnest officer with a truly humane mind will not save his life if it requires him to sacrifice of his humaneness. He will even sacrifice himself to consummate his humaneness.’ Bullshit! You and your quotes and your Confucius are a load of crap, Chen Mu! What do you know about fear and suffering? About what men are capable of doing to other men? To women and to children? What do you know about hunger? Hungry. So hungry. Wounded men walking walking walking from sun-up to sunset. Frozen bodies. Made to strip and walk naked with their hands on their heads through villages. Angry villagers spitting on them, cursing them, beating them. Keep on walking. Another village. Clothed this time. Villagers throwing stones. A woman with a basket of small cabbages. One of the prisoners swapped his watch for two cabbages. He remembered that. They shot the woman for fraternising with the enemy. Shot the prisoner too. No more cabbages. Walking until they reached PyokTong. A clutter of camps by the Yalu River, just south of Manchuria. Camp Five. Chinese guards now. Did it matter? Rifle butts and kicking boots. Chinese, Korean, all the same. Sign here. Confess. Admit you have engaged in germ warfare. Are you a reactionary? Confess. Haunted looks on skeletal faces. Fake executions. Confess. Sign this confession. No? Ready, aim, fire – click. Next time for real. Confess. God it’s hot! How long had he been in this sweatbox? Confess confess confess confess …

  ‘Why are you being so stubborn? Do you think us fools?’

  Edward glanced at Comrade P’i Gao – or, as the men had nicknamed him because of his appearance, Comrade Ghoul. With no eyebrows or eyelashes, or a single hair anywhere on his face or body, this Chinese stirred something at the back of Edward’s mind that he couldn’t grasp. Something about his manner. Had he seen him before? Here in Korea? In China? It was no use – he couldn’t remember. There was so much he couldn’t remember … so much …

  ‘We have evidence. You are a capitalist spy. Why do you not confess?’

  ‘Produce your bloody evidence then, if you have any.’

  ‘What is your name? Why do the men call you Oz? That’s not your name. Why do you not state your name, rank and service number? Every prisoner is allowed to state his name, rank and service number. Why do you refuse?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘That attitude will not help you, but it is my duty to help you. To help you come to an understanding of what you have done. What did your government ask you to do?’

  ‘I thought you had evidence …’

  ‘Your attitude is arrogant. You need to change your attitude, comrade. Show your repentance by giving a full confession.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘You’re a fool. But I can wait. Remember, I am here to help you. You’ll come to see that I am right.’ He signalled to a guard by the door. ‘Take him out.’

  They took him to the centre of the compound and made him strip. The temperature was well below zero and dropping, the snow hard and compact. He knew what was coming. Soon it would be dark. Would he live through another night? No. No no no no no. Please God no. Your attitude is arrogant. Too right, you bastards. You’ll come to see I’m right, comrade. They tied his hands behind his back with wire come to see I’m right. Another guard approached, carrying a bucket of water. Oh God! Come on you bastard get it over with! Slowly the guard poured the water over him. Oh God it’s cold so cold! He felt the water running down his body so cold so cold so cold felt the water pool around his feet you’ll come to see you’ll come so cold so cold you’ll come you’ll come you bastards you won’t break me felt the water begin to freeze his feet to the ground you’ll come you’ll come you’ll come a waltzing Matilda with me waltzing Maltilda waltzing you fucking bastards waltzing waltzing by a billabong fuck you
all once a jolly swagman you’ll come to see you’llcomeyou’llcomeyou’llcome …

  He lost three of his toes to frostbite. The first was cut off with gardening shears at the camp hospital. When those on his other foot also turned black, he cut them off himself rather than go back.

  Change came suddenly with the arrival of new Chinese officers who spoke better English than the grunts. The dried millet that had been their staple diet was replaced with rice, though not enough to feed them all, and meat appeared in the camp occasionally – a box of pig livers one day, then some weeks later one small pig to feed 200 men for a week.

  Attempts at getting prisoners to confess lessened and Peace Committees were set up. Prisoners were asked to sign peace appeals to send to the UN. Don’t you want peace? Are you really a warmonger? No? Then sign, if you really want peace.

  One day the prisoners were given clean new clothes and posed in front of tables laden with food. Photographs were taken, then the food was removed.

  Then came the lectures. POWs were now ‘students’ – victims of the Western ruling classes who needed to be educated to the truth. Daily propaganda lectures, hours at a time, day in, day out. Study groups. Discuss Communism. Discuss Marxism. Explain the dangers of Capitalism. And the Geneva Convention? An instrument of bourgeois idealism, impossible to carry out.