I was filled with panic. Being a strong swimmer from childhood, I had never before experienced such terrors. As I came to the surface for a moment, I looked up to see a single bright star shining from the cloudy sky. For some reason, this brought me to my senses. 1 drew off my beret which was filled with water, tore the binoculars from their hiding place beneath my arm and, free of these extra weights, turned over on to my back, pushing my head almost under water. Clumsily, with much splashing at first, but heedless of discovery in this moment of crisis, I began to swim towards the south bank where I knew I should find shallow water.
It was a difficult task. The current tended to keep me in midstream so that my course towards the shore was oblique. It was too dark to distinguish progress; I could not be absolutely certain that I was making any progress at all. My arms and legs protesting more and more over the work to which I was putting them, I struggled on, pausing every two hundred strokes to put a foot down to see if I had reached a standing point. On my fourth attempt, when my legs were almost too stiff to move, I felt sand under my boots. Slowly, like a very old man, I began to wade to dry land.
The beach was deserted; there were no footprints in the sand that I could see. I walked on up to the river bank, my teeth chattering with the cold, looking for somewhere to rest and recover my strength. After a while, I was able to increase my pace, and was just ridding myself of the numbness caused by the cold, when I stumbled against a dead mule. I sank to the ground, and listened carefully before going on. There was no sound of voices or movement; so I decided to explore.
The mule was at the edge of a hollow; into this I descended. There were other mules there—and men, too—the remains of an artillery troop which had received attention from our air force during the battle. They were all very dead. I saw nothing worth taking except an old mule blanket, which was a most valuable find. Clutching this like a conspirator, I crept away into the night, found a hole in the river bank and, wrapped in my newly acquired covering, dropped into a sound sleep.
I did not wake up until twenty minutes past eight on the following morning. I should not have awakened then, but for the fact that I heard footsteps coming towards me; and I think the events of the past few days had sharpened the alarm system in my brain. The footsteps grew louder. The hole that gave me shelter was in the river bank itself and, here, the bank was broad enough to permit a cart to move along it. I lay back in my shelter, hoping that whoever was passing that way would do so on the far side, and so miss me.
The next moment, two pairs of feet came into view, marching in single file. Looking a little higher I saw the faces of two Chinese soldiers. They carried rifles.
They did not see me instantly: I lay still and looked as dead as I could. Then the rear man stopped, said something to the other, and pointed to me. The front man stopped also, and turned his head. I did not move; I had stopped breathing; my jaw hung open, conveying, I hoped, that rigor mortis had set in! Whatever they thought, they could not have considered me dangerous. After a few moments, the leading man grunted, and went along the bank; a second or so later his companion followed. It was only after they had completely disappeared from view that I breathed again.
Emerging from the hole in the bank, I made a swift reconnaissance. There was no one in sight. I should have to take a chance on that particular part of the river bank being under observation. What I could not risk was the return of a party of Chinese, after the two passers-by had reported my presence—dead or alive. I looked round for a place to conceal myself. The whole area of the south bank was open; there was absolutely no cover, apart from hollows and re-entrants, which might well be used by the Chinese themselves for reinforcements or stores. The north bank rose steeply across the river, but was split, here and there, by re-entrants in which scrub and pine abounded. There was only one course open to me: I must cross the river before nightfall.
I hurried down to the beach, and began to look for the most suitable crossing place. I needed, first, a point where I could enter the water without leaving footprints. Secondly, in view of the current, I wanted to be sure that there was a re-entrant into the northern cliffs at a suitable distance—certainly one that I should not overshoot. I found a patch of shingle that would take me to the water’s edge and, about four hundred yards down-stream, a small V-shaped re-entrant that looked ideal. Reluctantly, I waded into the chill water and began to swim across.
It did not take me very long; I swam strongly after my night’s rest, and I was spurred, too, by fear of discovery. My clothing soaked again, I climbed up the re-entrant from the water, selected a hiding place, and stripped off my outer garments. There was a cold wind that morning, but my hiding place sheltered me from this. Whenever the sun appeared from behind the clouds, its warmth came through a hole in the cover above me and helped to keep my spirits up, in addition to drying my clothes. In this way, I spent the hours of daylight, resting, and preparing for the journey back to our own lines.
Looking at my damp maps, I saw that I had about seventeen thousand yards to go to the nearest suitable point on the new defence line. My quickest route lay back over the western spur of Castle Hill, up the valley in which I had been captured, and over the saddle which we had hoped to climb. The alternative was to float down the Imjin River to the confluence of the Han and Imjin rivers and thence across to the Kimpo peninsula and safety. Frankly, with the memory of the previous night’s experience in the water, I was not anxious to take this course. It was not merely that I feared the possibility of drowning through cramp or fatigue in a river that would grow ever deeper as I neared the sea—though I was afraid of that. What dissuaded me most was my knowledge of the powerful tidal races at the mouth of the two rivers and the extreme unlikelihood of my having the strength to overcome these single-handed, even if I had a boat. In spite of these difficulties, I could see that the river-route offered a speedy way out if luck went with me. I decided to chance it if I could find a boat or, better, some buoyant object on which I could ride down on the current, and yet remain concealed. During the afternoon I began to look about and, after an hour’s fruitless search, I remembered that, several weeks before, I had noticed a large, empty, fifty-gallon fuel drum on the sand spit in the river. If it was still there, I might be able to roll it into the water and climb on to the rear-end, using my legs as a rudder. In the shadow of the pines along the clifftops, I walked up-stream towards the sand spit. Once round the last bend I found it easily; it was lying just as I had remembered it, no more than thirty yards from the water. I sat down to wait for dusk, when I planned to cross back to the south bank.
Watching the river as it came round the sand-spit, I was struck by the way in which the waters began to tumble at a certain point between the two banks. Examining the banks themselves, I saw a mass of footprints on either side, though it was too far for me to see in which direction they led. What became perfectly plain, however, was that there must be a second under-water bridge here, the one, almost certainly, by which the Chinese had crossed to attack Castle Hill on the night of the 22nd. Such a bridge would save me a second swim and thus permit me to make my journey in dry boots, should I decide finally on the land route back. In the twilight, I made my way down a steep path to the northern shore and stripped, making a bundle of my clothing inside my smock. I now followed the foot and hoof-prints to the edge of the water, and began to cross.
The water was up to my waist before I was half-way across, but, knowing myself to be taller than the average Chinese, I persevered. Holding my clothes bundle high above my head, I went slowly on. To my relief, after rising an inch or two more, the water stayed at a constant level until, as I neared the wide sand beach on the south side, it began to recede again. Two minutes later I was dressing myself under the cover of the river bank.
About half-past eleven that night, I reached the western spur of Castle Hill, with the river behind me. The fifty-gallon drum had proved to have a huge hole in its side, and I lacked confidence in my ability to survive another
eight- or ten-hour river trip without it—even if only partly clothed. I had chosen the land route.
The clouds had dispersed and the whole heaven was bright with stars. I had made my way with great caution for the first part of my journey since, while I was still on the river bank, I had heard once more the distant clamour from Gloster Crossing. I felt sure that there were units still quartered in the Choksong area.
The approach to Castle Hill had taken me across an old stream-bed, in which I had found what I took to be the remainder of the battery whose annihilated troop had supplied me with a blanket for my night’s rest. They, too, had been destroyed by an air strike. Now, as I moved across the western spur, I found more bodies on all sides—bodies that had lain there since Castle Hill had fallen, part of the huge losses inflicted on the enemy by A Company. I was glad to descend into the broad valley on the far side.
It took me four hours to reach the point of my capture. There were vehicles on the roads I had to cross, and the hillsides in the valley were still burning from the napalm, illuminating the whole area. At last, however, I began to climb the saddle which I had failed to reach two mornings before and, finally, I stood on top of it, the first phase of my journey over. There was no path down the other side but I could see that a passage had been forced through the underbrush and trees in a dozen places—probably by our own men less than forty-eight hours earlier. I selected one of those openings near me and began the downward climb.
When God made the world, he invented, for some excellent reason unknown to me, a bush which puts out long, thin tendrils, covered with tiny thorns. The sole purpose of this bush seems to be to impede and exasperate such passers-by as are unwary enough to come within range of it. I swear that the other side of that saddle was covered with those bushes. No sooner had I released myself from one set of thorns than another bush had me in its grasp, and I descended, cursing, sweating, and growing progressively angrier, as my clothing, flesh, and hair became entangled. To add to my difficulties, a part of the slope was covered with loose shale, and my attempts to move silently were thwarted at almost every step. By good fortune, however, there were no sentries at the bottom of the saddle and I broke out on to a path without entering an ambush.
I knew from the map that the course of the re-entrant, at the head of which I now stood, led directly along my route. I decided to follow the path down this into the valley, as dawn would break in less than an hour and before full daylight I must be in the hills on the far side. Apart from a few turns, here and there, round a rock-face, the path was reasonably straight. I made good progress, moving in bounds of about forty yards, pausing at the end of each to listen as I crouched by the side of the path. This policy served me well. I had been travelling for less than half an hour and was expecting to see the valley at any moment when, listening at the end of a bound, I heard voices quite close by. They seemed to come from the end of the re-entrant—perhaps at the very point where it opened into the valley. I moved on very slowly.
A hundred yards further on, rice paddy began, and the path swung to the right to run along the base of the hill. Looking down, I could just see the end of the re-entrant and the valley beyond. Between this and my position, a large body of the enemy were digging weapon pits in the paddy banks and on the hill slopes on either side as far as I could see.
I had to make up my mind quickly. Either I must pass through the line of troops ahead of me, or I would have to make a detour round their flanks. If I took the former course, I had to chance finding others in the valley and on the hills beyond it. The alternative risk was that their flanks might extend for several miles in either direction—might even be unbroken as far as the Uijong-bu road to the east, or the Munsan-ni road on the west. I decided that my original intention to cross the valley before daylight must be adhered to if I was not to lose valuable time: I began to move down the re-entrant.
I discovered that the diggers were Chinese. They were laughing and joking a great deal amongst themselves in between spells of work, and seemed very confident that they were secure; I saw only two sentries. Wriggling along on my stomach, crawling on hands and knees, sometimes running for short distances under cover of a bank higher than the others, I moved obliquely across the floor of the re-entrant, wending my way between them. Once, I thought I had been seen by a soldier who threw down his pick and came towards me, looking directly at me. He was only drawing aside to urinate, however, and I moved on with a thudding heart as soon as he had gone back to work. The darkness was already waning when I reached the far side of the re-entrant a short way from the valley. There was no cover through which I could move—the rice paddy continued into the valley. I began to climb the hill on my left, crawling through the scrub.
At the top of the hill I came across open ground; in the centre was a set of large stone burial tablets. After listening carefully, I ran across this towards a group of young pines. Standing there, I could see the valley below me in the first light of dawn. It was going to be a race against the daylight. I ran on down the hill.
The whole valley was given over to rice cultivation. I kept running across the tiny, flat fields, jumping the few irrigation ditches that lay across my path. Suddenly the ground sloped away, and I recalled that a stream flowed along the valley’s length. This was it. It seemed fairly deep, but I felt sure that somewhere near there would be a crossing point for the villagers. I turned right, deciding to search no more than a couple of hundred yards before fording. I walked along the river path, peering down at the water for a line of stepping stones. After about two minutes I found what I was looking for—and more.
Overlooking the crossing was a sentry with a burp-gun.
Other than surrender on the spot, there was only one thing I could do. I descended the bank a few yards away from him and put my foot on the first stepping stone. He called something to me that sounded less like a challenge than a remark. I mumbled something back—as incomprehensible to me as it must have been to him—hawked and spat in the way of the Orient for the sake of effect, and crossed the stream, taking my time. I expected a burst from the burp-gun at any moment—but nothing happened. I did not dare speed up until I was well over the top of the other bank.
As soon as possible, I left the path and began to ascend the hill ahead of me; a high hill that was heavily wooded on the upper slopes. Pausing for a moment to check my bearings, I heard the jingling of harness; and a few seconds later, voices came from a small pinewood a short distance away. I hurried away to the east, and struck a track leading up to the top of the hill. I was about to cross it when a voice challenged me; the opening and closing of a rifle bolt followed almost immediately. I gave a complaining mumble—the sort of mumble that I hoped would say, “Good Heavens, one can’t move an inch on this hill without being challenged!”—and followed it with another spitting sequence. This time it only half-worked. The sentry did not fire but he did ask another question, which I felt would not be satisfied by more mumbling. Taking a chance, I dodged round a bush on to the path and ran as fast as I could go. Soon I was nearing the hilltop—and none too soon: it was daybreak. I could see the valley clearly now through the trees and, not more than two hundred feet below, a team of mules pulling a mountain gun into position. Here was the explanation for the jingling I had heard. Although there were no signs of pursuit, I felt very exposed in spite of the cover of the trees, and climbed on to the top of the hill.
The huge feature which I had ascended was roughly triangular in shape, and bore three peaks, the highest of which now lay beyond me to the south-west. Like the others, it was well wooded and contained much closer cover in the form of evergreen bushes. It lay sufficiently near to my route to form an ideal observation post from which I could study the ground and the dispositions of the enemy. I left my own hill-top and crossed the saddle towards it. Bight in the centre, half-sitting in a slit trench was a dead Chinese, still wearing his steel helmet, his rifle smashed by fire. He had not been dead for more than a day or so—I hoped that he
had been killed only yesterday, as this could mean that many of our men had reached the safety of our own lines in this very area. But his position on the saddle was right in the open—it must have been dug during a night attack—and I could not risk a closer examination in what was now full daylight. I hurried on.
As I had expected, the next hill-top gave me a splendid view of the country for several miles along the valleys on either side, and upwards of ten miles across the hills. There was all the cover I needed in which to rest after my night’s journey; only the weather seemed against me. The clear night had given way to a cloudy dawn. It began to drizzle; the drizzle turned to a steady, light rain. Unable to sleep, I sat up to watch for the enemy, hoping to get some clear idea of the direction and extent of his line in this area; the battle line had undoubtedly changed considerably since our last information forty-eight hours ago.
My route back now lay almost due south. The feature on which I sat extended in that direction, as did the valley I overlooked. The former was trackless in the direction I wished to follow; the latter was cultivated up to and including the lower hill slopes, with one quite large village in the centre, and a few scattered hamlets along the hillside, as well as on a road running south beside a small river. There were Chinese in the village. Careless of their movement, now that the low clouds hid them from aircraft, they ran about from house to house, and even cooked in an open-fronted barn. I saw nothing in the hamlets but Korean peasants, who did not move beyond their garden fences or borders throughout the morning. The only people on the roads were a few bent old men, their clothing protected from the rain by rice sacks. As the rain continued to keep the enemy indoors, a fresh plan—perhaps provoked by my successful bluff at dawn—came into my mind; a plan which became more and more attractive, as I saw the clouds descend lower and lower until they threatened to obscure my view of the valley completely. At a quarter to one in the afternoon, I made up my mind.
The Edge of the Sword Page 9