After breakfast that morning—millet again!—I was allowed to visit the latrine, and made the best use of my few minutes in the open to see how my bunker lay in relation to the outside world. I think that I first realized that I was sick when I went outside; I felt very faint when I stood up, and after a few paces vomited. Immediately I thought it was merely an attack of tonsilitis; my throat was becoming swollen and painful in a way I had experienced before. In addition to this, the cut in my foot, caused by the steel rod of the guards in my former cell, was turning septic. I decided to ask if there was a doctor or medical orderly in the village, showing the sentry my foot. He was a good-natured fellow, I am sure. He clicked his tongue, when he saw how swollen and inflamed the cut appeared, nodded when I drew a cross in the sand. My visit to the latrine had been extremely successful.
For two days I worked on a tunnel, carefully disposing the earth by scattering it over the bunker floor under the straw. On the second day, a medical orderly appeared as I returned from the morning visit to the latrine; a pleasant, smiling little man, who dressed my foot very competently but regretted that he had nothing to give me for my throat. I noticed that he looked at my eyes very closely after he had examined my throat, turning me round to face the sunlight so that he could see more clearly. I tried to ask him what he was so interested in but our sign language was insufficiently comprehensive for him to tell me. As I crawled back into my bunker. I reflected that he was probably merely curious at seeing a man with blue eyes.
Next day I could eat nothing, but knowing how badly I should need food, I stored it away against future needs, hoping that the millet would not turn sour.
On returning from the latrine in the morning, I was horrified to see two of the local officers inspecting the inside of the bunker with flashlights and poking at the walls. One of them came out and addressed me angrily in Chinese, shaking his finger at me. It was very difficult to pretend that I was at ease; my heart was beating violently. Why were they going over the bunker? Why was the outside now being examined? What had the Chinese said to me so threateningly? I sat down by the bunker to wait, knowing that they only had to pull away some stones to find the entrance to my tunnel. Even now, the second officer was emerging with a stone in his hand. He joined the man examining the outside of the bunker, engaged him in a short conversation and then—they both made off! The sentry returned me to the bunker where I lay for many hours like the most model prisoner, fearful that they were waiting for me to make a move that would reveal the tunnel. But no one returned and, after several hours of darkness, I returned to work.
Each evening, the bulk of the village garrison went up to the hillside opposite my bunker. There they followed a routine common amongst Chinese troops in Korea: they learned a song in praise of their leaders, or in denunciation of their enemies—in the latter case, the Americans were the favourite subject. Their evening exercise accomplished, they would round off the meeting with a few rousing choruses of those songs they had learnt previously. As my fourth night in the village drew on, I heard the troops pass along the path below my bunker with their rather slow marching step. Soon after, a pleasant tenor voice began to sing on the hill across the valley, the troops repeating the words after him, line by line. I approached the oil drum and put my eyes to the crack. By good fortune, the sentry was within my limited line of vision, standing by the tree, looking up at the heavens. There would never be a better opportunity than this. On my side, I crawled back to the far end of the bunker and removed the stones which had hidden the tunnel I had dug with my hands and a piece of sharp wood, torn from the roof-timbers. It was a small tunnel and I am a wide chap. I had measured off the width as best I could and physically tested the entrance by wriggling into it, but could not risk going further. I realized now that it was going to be a tight squeeze. I had to clear away about another foot of earth before I broke out on to the hillside and I knew that I must make at least one trip back into the bunker to see what the sentry was doing. I would have laboured in vain if I appeared on the far side of the tunnel to find him peering down to see what sort of a mole would emerge; for my point of exit lay on his beat. Yet I could not make the journey up and down the tunnel too many times—the sides or roof might well fall inwards from the hillside. As soon as I estimated that I had only a few more inches to clear, I wriggled back into the bunker to look for the sentry. It was now twilight: I could only just see the tree. The sentry was not there. I waited for some time, wondering where on earth he could be on the beat. A moment later, the crack at the side of the oil drum became dark and I heard the sound of his footsteps. He was standing right outside my bunker. If he came in now, my plans would be discovered! I sat in the darkness, waiting for him to move, expecting that the oil drum would be pulled back at any moment and the light of his torch shine in.
He was so close that I could hear him breathing. Time dragged in the darkness. I seemed to have been sitting there for hours. Then, hawking and spitting, he strolled on in the direction of Duncan’s bunker. A few minutes later I could see his outline standing by the tree.
Now was the time to move quickly. I slid into the tunnel, and worked my body up it to the point where the earth sealed me off from the outside. I dug my wood spike into the earth, tore away with my hands, packing the earth into the sides of the tunnel. After about a minute the earth broke under my hand and I felt the chill night air on my flesh. I had reached the end of the tunnel! I got my shoulders through the opening and was able to look over the top of my bunker
The sentry was talking to a friend nearby. He had his back to me—but it was a back less than twenty feet away. Slowly I emerged from the tunnel; the ground seemed to resound with every grain of earth that fell back behind me. I stole across the open to the maize which lay on the far side, entered it and crawled up the hill towards the bushes on the upper slopes. The cold, wet maize leaves ended, the bushes closed around me. Five minutes more and I reached a burial clearing just below the crest. I leapt up from the bushes, doubled across the open ground and ran as fast as I could along the path that led between the fields beyond, heading for the hill to the north. For the moment, my sickness was forgotten; I felt no fatigue. The night air smelt of freedom and filled my veins with fire!
CHAPTER SIX
IWAS still climbing when I heard a rifle shot from the valley I had just left—another followed, a few seconds later. It could only have been a short time before the wretched sentry, circling his beat, had become aware of a pile of loose earth on the hillside and had rolled the oil drum away from the bunker entrance to find the bird had flown! I reached the dense underbrush just below the hill-top, and sat down to see what line and form the enemy pursuit would take—if any: following a man in darkness on that hard ground was impossible, I believed.
Apparently, they thought that it was not. Ten minutes later I heard voices shouting from either side of the track that led due west. Torches began to flash. Once I heard the sound of dogs barking, and feared that they might have put some on my trail. A moment later I realized that this was nonsense: I had merely heard the village dogs demanding to know what all the excitement was about. The shouts died away as I went through the brush over the top of the hill, making for the pinewoods through which we had come on the truck from Sinmak. There I should find cover amongst the trees, deserted tracks, and water to quench the thirst that escaping had given me.
My journey to the west had begun!
There were many difficulties in making the journey to the coast. The flooded rice-paddy that I met again and again caused me to make detours in the early stages. There were rivers without fords or stepping stones, which had to be swum; and the effort involved taxed my few reserves of physical strength considerably. After three days I realized why the Chinese medical orderly had peered so curiously into my eyes: it was not the blue pupil which had interested him, but the yellow that had spread over the iris. From the colour of my urine I felt almost certain that I had jaundice; and when I looked at my reflection in a p
ool of clear water, I saw that I was right. My tonsilitis, too, was troubling me a good deal. I swallowed with difficulty the maize that I took from the fields each day. Throughout each night journey, the hills and valleys seemed determined to hinder me, forever lying across my course, never with it.
It took me two days to return to Sinmak; two days later, I was still only a dozen miles from it. Resting on some pine branches after my night march, I realized that I would have to devise a different system of travel, if I was to hope for success. Originally, I had based my calculations on a fifteen-day journey from the point of escape to the nearest suitable point on the coast. On arrival there, I had to be prepared to take anything up to three days to find a boat, bringing the total estimated time to eighteen days. The journey from there was a comparatively short one—perhaps only a few hours, if wind, tide, and current favoured me; but I could not bank on this. I estimated that I might well be at sea, needing sufficient strength to handle a boat single-handed, for anything up to two or three days. The grand total for all phases thus came up to twenty-one. Taking into account my sickness, and my diet of raw maize, I felt that three weeks was about the maximum period I might expect to remain active. It was now clear that I was not going to cover the distance in fifteen days, since I was not covering ten miles a day—the estimate on which I had based my calculations. For ten miles a day meant reducing the distance between me and the coast by ten miles, not the actual distance marched up hill and down dale to accomplish this—a much higher figure. In four days I had travelled, perhaps, twenty-four miles. Already I was sixteen miles behind schedule. As the sun rose and I ate my morning meal of maize, I decided on a new plan.
I slept until the sun was overhead. As usual, I had climbed at dawn to a high, thickly-wooded hill and would have remained there, under my previous plan, until late afternoon or early evening. On this day I rose on waking and climbed to the highest point I could find. From there I selected a route through the pine trees which I would travel in daylight; for I had decided that it was necessary to take this risk, in order to make up and keep to my time-plan. Although there was a chance of running into wooding parties, signallers laying telephone cable, or air-raid sentries, it soon became clear that this disadvantage was heavily outweighed. Selecting the route now took less time; I stopped only infrequently to check my direction. Moreover, now I could select my entire route each day; hitherto, I had been able to do this for the first part of the night march only, continuing by the stars across hill and valley, rarely finding a clear path, often making detours round rice paddy or thick bush.
Although I was anxious to make up for lost time, I realized, as I marched along during the afternoon, that I could hardly have risked moving in daylight before. East of the main highway that runs through Sinmak, every village was packed with troops or depots or both. In the area of the town there were many administrative units, including numbers of railway repair gangs, who lived in caves in the hills to the west as well as to the east: there were few buildings unbombed in Sinmak. Now, moving into the huge western peninsula, I saw very few soldiers; which accounted for Byron’s information that we had established a bomb-line approximately ten miles west of the main highway, and that our aircraft were forbidden to operate west of this line apart from reconnaissance and special missions. I was fortunate, too, in that the general line of the hills began to favour me, at last, running towards the coast and not parallel to it, except for odd ranges which I often managed to avoid. In spite of the frequent river-crossings, I felt satisfied that my strength was going to last, for I was doing more than ten miles a day. After twelve days, I began to look over each hill for a sign of the sea.
About this time, my shoes began to cause me concern. I had marched part of the way to Munha-ri in them and all the way south to the village of Namchon-jom from which I had escaped. Escaping, I had travelled frequently over rough and precipitous ground. Now, to my dismay, the heel of my right foot split, and I lost two precious hours sewing it back on with wire from some old signal cable I had picked up on a track—a very clumsy piece of cobbling: my needle was a rusty nail! Whether due to slipping on the hillside when my heel went, or from some other cause, I discovered when I finally got up to walk on that the cut made in my foot by the rod of the Chinese jailers had opened. I bound it with a piece of rag and continued the journey, determined not to be set back at this stage.
The fifteenth day came and went; but there was still no sign of the sea. At dusk I made my bed as usual on and under pine branches, very tired, conscious that my legs were weakening, that my heart was now finding every climb a great effort. I had so hoped that I should see the sea that day. I dropped off to sleep, reminding myself that I must redouble my resolve at this stage. I was sure that I must reach the sea within another three days.
On the following morning I slept late. My long rest had refreshed me; my spirits were high. The sun warmed me, as I came through a small clearing in the silent woods. The scent of the pines seemed invigorating. I stopped at a small stream to wash and drink, eating my breakfast by it and hiding the cobs under some stones by a waterfall. The narrow path led straight up a slope to the top of the hill, where it passed out of sight between two huge boulders. I moved slowly towards these, wishing to avoid an unexpected encounter with anyone on the far side. Near the top I had to pause for rest; my heart was beating like a hammer after the short ascent, and I felt very faint. Recovering after some minutes, I reached the boulders, listened, and moved on between them to the edge of a small cliff The path turned sharply left, descending the western slope through more pinewoods—but I did not take it. For there, through the few trees on the cliff edge, my eye was caught by the reflection of sun on water. Beyond the pinewoods, far below me, lay the sea.
I rested in a group of thick bushes a little way down the path. I could not bring myself to leave that view while I was resting. Proud Cortes did not look upon the Pacific Ocean with an eye more appreciative than mine, as I gazed on the Yellow Sea that morning. It was foolish of me, of course; but I had walked such a long, long way to see it.
Eventually I forced myself to get up to continue the rest of the march. I still had a considerable distance to go, and there was much to be done before nightfall—by which time I must reach a covered observation point. Now that I had arrived at the coast, my second problem arose: to find a boat, with a sail which I could manage myself. The tremendous tide along this coast—a rise and fall of thirty odd feet—and the problem of mud flats, thrown up by the estuary of the Taedong River, had to be reckoned with, too. I was thankful that the path now led downhill through the woods, for I realized that my reserves of strength were fast running out.
What happened next, I am unable to say. Some time later in the morning—it may even have been the afternoon by then—I found myself walking through an open field, sown, I think, with beans. Nearer, much nearer, was the sea; on it, two fishing boats with grey sails. I said aloud to myself: “What on earth are you doing here in the open? You’ll be seen.”
I walked across the fields into the trees, but cannot remember which way I went.
I next recall a track with fields of standing maize on either side. Again, I realized that I must seek shelter, and turned towards the stalks on one side of the road. Whether I reached them or not, I cannot say.
The smell of smoke was in my nostrils; beneath me, I felt a soft bed. When I opened my eyes I thought at first that it was night, for it seemed quite dark. Then I discerned some tiny cracks of light high upon my left side and, putting out my hand, I touched a light wall, which gave a little under the weight of my hand. My other hand found a wall to my right. I seemed to be in some sort of passage.
I did not care very much where I was: I just lay there, glad to be still and quiet. Presently, I heard voices beyond the left-hand wall: Korean voices. They continued talking for such a long time that I identified three adult voices and a child’s. Two of the adults were women. I was still listening when the talk stopped. For a few minutes the
re was silence, except for a whisper. Then, half of the left hand wall slid back and the daylight came streaming in, blinding me momentarily.
There were three adults, as I had thought. The man was old in appearance; yet probably not more than forty. The Koreans age so swiftly from their incessant toil and poor food. The nearest woman looked old, too, though she was probably under fifty. Only the girl and the child—her child it seemed—were young; the mother under twenty, the little girl about four years old. Standing in the room of the mud house, they all stared at me as the light fell on my bearded face. There was no hostility in their eyes; only kindness, shyness, and curiosity. As much as five minutes passed before, finally, the old man spoke. He said something in Korean I did not understand at all, waited for a moment while I shook my head, and then pointed, first to his mouth and then to his stomach, which he rubbed. Thinking he meant food, I shook my head, meaning to say that I had had none for some time. They all moved then, the old man coming over to the sliding door he had opened—which formed part of my left wall—closing it to within a few inches of the end of the frame. He patted my arm through the crack that remained and stood there, smoking a long, thin metal pipe with a tiny bowl, such as all the old Korean men smoke. After another short interval, his wife returned with a heaped-up bowl of rice and some soup. The thought of eating rice made me feel like vomiting, but I managed to eat about half the soup before I lay back, doing my best to keep it inside me—and succeeding. This was the first of many acts of kindness bestowed on me by these good people.
The Edge of the Sword Page 16