The Edge of the Sword

by General Sir Anthony Farrar-Hockley

  “Though the final points do not show an equal victory, actually Russia should be shown as First-equal because she would have won the necessary points at the Games but for biased judging against her in the following competitions …”!

  Now the Olympic Games idea had been adopted as a super-propaganda stunt for the prison-camps and there was considerable doubt amongst us as to whether we should participate or not. The factor which really decided that we should take part as an officers’ camp was that we would have an oppotunity to communicate with men of our units held in other camps. The senior Air Force Lieu-tenant-Colonel was the leader of the party of participators and spectators, and Donald was the senior Briton. He returned on the eve of Thanksgiving Day with many cheering messages from our men in other camps and a most interesting account of all that had occurred.

  Sensing the temper of their captives, the Chinese had made no attempt to hold “Fight-for-Peace” parades before the games, as they had done so often in the past. There was a review of the competitors by a Chinese General at the outset, which we had had to accept, but the many, inevitable speeches made only a few mild references to a hope for peace in Korea. The main snag was that a large number of photographers were present. Photographs were taken, not only of the events, but of the vastly improved food which was served at every meal—photographs that might well be presented to the outside world as an illustration of our normal daily meals at a time when we were living off cabbage and potato soup, the new winter diet. Certainly one of the Press representatives there must have welcomed the opportunity to exploit the situation for propaganda purposes. I refer to Alan Winnington, the London Daily Worker correspondent, who had assisted the North Koreans to interrogate United Nations’ captives and consistently misrepresented our treatment to the advantage of our enemies and the detriment of his fellow-countrymen. When Donald approached him, he attempted a false joviality and said that he was hoping to come out to our camp to interview us. Donald asked him if he would care to interview him, personally, there and then; but Winnington regretted that he had other business and moved away, promising that he would come back to make an appointment. He avoided Donald for the rest of the meeting.

  As we expected, in due course an illustrated book was produced concerning the Olympics, with captions that advised the reader of our happiness in the prison camps on the Yalu River. It made no reference to the many men undergoing solitary confinement, such as the Colonel (whose sentence had long since expired) or others, like Sam, who remained unsentenced, or others again who, held in lone huts in the mountains, were being tortured in order to obtain more “confessions” to waging Germ Warfare in Korea.

  The peace talks were in abeyance when Thanksgiving Day came round again but, fortunately for us, the Chinese were now trying to convince the outside world that they were treating their prisoners with generosity; and that the United Nations Command was consistently maltreating the prisoners they held. As a result, we had extra food once again for Thanksgiving Day and, later, for Christmas and the New Year. But we paid for our feasting by reverting to a steady diet of cabbages, potatoes, and, at intervals, beans, immediately the feast-day had passed. Undoubtedly, conditions of living had improved; but almost all we had to cook our vegetables with was salt and water and there were times when it was difficult to face the same meal morning and evening, day after day.

  Another improvement in our camp life as the year waned was the introduction of non-political fiction into the new Library. There had been a small consignment of books in the summer which contained one or two works by Leo Tolstoy and two by Dickens. Now, further additions appeared, stamped with the mark of the French Bookshop in Tientsin. This confirmed the statement by Camp Headquarters that considerably more money had been allotted for our welfare. Our supply of newspapers and magazines was supplemented, too, but these were all devoted to the Marxist cause. The London Daily Worker appeared with fair regularity, three months in arrears, and continued to provide us with good sports news and a heavily biased picture of life in the world in general and the United Kingdom in particular. One day, whilst I was reading the Daily Worker, James told me that he had seen a picture of an American prisoner published under the caption “Not much ill-treatment here” or something of the sort. The picture showed an officer shaving while a comrade looked on, smiling. The prisoner was evidently healthy: the picture was taken only a fortnight after his capture. But it was actually published in the London Daily Worker nine months after the man had died of untreated dysentry. A death certificate had been signed by an American doctor who was with James at the time.

  As the Padre had remained with No. I Company, James had taken over the job of Protestant Chaplain for our compound—a task he performed with reverence and dignity. Jumbo had assumed the leadership of the Roman Catholics since the split and, between them, these two kept our Christian worship going. Duke, an American Infantry Major, and Theo, our Machine-Gun Officer set about making a new set of altar furniture for the services, carving candlesticks from firewood, and a cross, lectern, and prie-dieu from some pine trunks we had been given for seats in the Library. The Padre was allowed to visit us on Christmas Day to celebrate Holy Communion and was delighted to see all that had been done. It was less of a pleasure to see Chen Chung Hwei, who accompanied him and tip-toed about wishing people a “Merry Christmas”. I felt less angry at this when I heard that Sam had at least been released back to No. I Company. We now began to hope for the release of our Colonel, the Marine Colonel, and Denis.

  Christmas Day 1952 was a memorable day—particularly the evening. An inter-denominational carol service was held about seven o’clock in a Library gaily decorated with paintings, streamers, and pine branches, the work of Guy, Recce, and the Sergeants-Major, led by Sergant-Major Baker of our Support Company. Our thoughts were very naturally all of home and we were not in the best mood to receive an address from Ding, the Camp Commander, which Chang was to read to us at nine o’clock.

  Chang sensed our mood. He knew that we should not be receptive to his good wishes after what he had to read out, so he extended them beforehand. It was principally an American audience, and Chang spoke with an American accent.

  “Say, I’ve got a Christmas message from Commander Ding for all of you and, in a few minutes, I’mgoing to read it out. But before I do, I want to say ‘Happy Christmas’ everyone. I hope that next year you’ll all be back home with your families. Now here is the message from the Camp Commander.”

  He began to read from a page of typescript in his hand, and his appreciation of our reactions had been accurate. It was in the worst possible taste; for, after starting mildly, Ding had been unable to restrain his fanaticism for the Communist cause. He quoted—or rather, misquoted—the Scriptures, particularly the teachings of Christ. We heard the beloved Christmas words, for instance, rendered as follows: “Peace on earth to men of good will”; and the only men of good will, it seemed, were those who followed the policies of the Cominform group of governments. As Chang read on, the silence seemed to intensify. When he had finished, no one spoke; but I have neither felt nor seen before such profound disgust expressed silently by a body of men.

  “That’s all,” said Chang. He was not sorry for what had been said; only sorry that he had been the one who had had to say it, and so lose popularity.

  The new compound, which had been occupied since late October, was roughly U-shaped. The main living-block was the base running along a platform cut in the eastern slope of the valley; the kitchen and a small living-room formed the left arm; the Library formed the right; within the arms and base was a parade-ground— a “square” of mud we had dug out ourselves. A promenade ran the length of the main living quarters, shorter and narrower than that before the schoolhouse in Pyn-Chong-ni.

  At two minutes to midnight on 31st of December 1952, Sid and I stood on the promenade, looking up at the bright stars shining through the clear, cold night. Suddenly there was a cheer from the Library, and we heard them singing “Auld Lang
Syne.” We looked at one another for a moment and then shook hands.

  “Happy New Year!” we said. The same wish was in both our hearts.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HITHERTO, we had ruled out escape in mid-winter; for in the two earlier winters of the war, prisoners had been too weak to survive exposure in an open boat or the rigours of a prolonged cross-country journey. We now had a plan which dispensed with the latter; and the doctors felt that some of us were sufficiently fit to risk the former. The plan was to escape in February along the frozen surface of the Yalu River to the sea. It was certainly feasible in white clothing on the snow-covered ice for any small party of men determined to succeed. The first two pairs amongst the British began to prepare: Peter, a young subaltern of the Rifles, and Tom, who had commanded a platoon in our D Company, Sid and I. At the same time, Guy heard through his liaison with the Americans that the Air Force Colonel Mac and Harry, an infantry major, were planning to go about the same time. It was agreed that we should all try to make our escape from the compound on the same night; for if one party went several nights ahead of another, the guards, who did not expect a break in this bitter weather, would be alerted and a second escape would thus be far more difficult. We all had to escape with fairly large loads because we needed food more than ever in these low temperatures, and escaping from this compound with such a bundle would be exceptionally difficult if the sentries were alert and at full strength.

  There were many anxious moments. Mr. Hobbs had procured us beans from the cook-house previously, and Donald—now a cook— had supplemented these with other items. Sergeant-Major Askew, of Franke’s Mortar Troop, had stolen meat for us. Sid was parching the dried beans over a kang fire behind the huts one morning when one of the Chinese compound staff appeared—an unpleasant man we called Clem. Something had gone wrong with the warning system and I saw the blood ebb from Sid’s face as he threw the beans far into the back of the fire and pretended to be heating up some potato soup saved from breakfast. Clem was looking in all the fixe boxes as he came along; he paused and looked in the one where Sid was sitting. I thought he was never going on but, at last, he seemed satisfied and walked away. The days passed as we slowly assembled the various items of kit that we needed. Duggie, the 8th Hussars Doctor, and Bob, checked on the food value of each item we intended to carry in our rations and warned us that we should be existing on an absolute minimum diet.

  Colonel Mac very kindly offered us the first place in the order of escape. Tom drew cards with me to see who should go out first: he won. That night we dressed in our kit and prepared to break out as soon as possible after dark. But, to our annoyance, the guards seemed unusually alert, and the compound staff were inside the compound in strength, shining their torches around the square whilst the sentries did likewise behind the buildings. We decided that it would be better to postpone the attempt for twenty-four hours, expecting that the state of alertness would diminish.

  On the following night, the first two pairs got dressed again; Colonel Mac and Harry got ready to pull their kit out of hiding as soon as they had the signal that Tom and Peter had gone and we were in process of going. But we got no further than that. Two members of the compound staff came straight up to Peter and picked him up with all his kit on him, arresting Tom in the same way a few minutes later while he was actually in his room. Then they began looking about for more of us. I had barely stripped myself of my foodpack and handed it to Sergeant-Major Strong for disposal before Yang came up to me and shone his torch all over my clothing. Plainly I had no pack or bundle on me and he went off unhappily, muttering rude Chinese words, looking for Sid, who had just managed to get rid of his kit also.

  We had just recently started to have gramophone concerts of classical music—another result of the increased allowance for prisoners. That particular night in late February, one of these concerts was in progress. Sergeant-Major Strong and Anthony sat listening to Tchaikowsky in apparent rapture as they dispersed the contents of a large pack of concentrated food. Fortunately, we were able to wam Colonel Mac and Harry in time to stop them from getting out their kit from its hiding-place.

  As we went to bed that night, heavy-hearted at our failure and at the arrest of Tom and Peter, one thing became abundantly clear. Someone in the compound was acting as informer for the enemy— a suspicion we had formed long ago. Only a fellow-captive could have told the Chinese who was taking part in the escape, and when. Either through fear or malice, someone had told them what he knew, and they had thus been able to come straight into the compound, pick up Peter and Tom, and check the remaining four. Someone had signalled to our enemies that two men had got dressed for an escape while Sid and I were actually in the process of dressing. We retired to our kangs with bitter hearts.

  Nothing happened for four days. Peter and Tom, who had been held in arrest near the Company Headquarters for the first night, were removed to the village. On the fourth day after their arrest, Chen Chung Hwei arrived at the Company Headquarters and sent for me. He informed me that he had positive information that I was one of those responsible for putting Peter and Tom up to an escape—they had actually planned it themselves—and that I had plans to escape myself If I confessed now, I would save myself a great deal of bother and retain my freedom within the compound. If not.… He cannot have been very sure of his ground for, after haranguing me for half an hour, during which I declined to speak, he gave me twenty-four hours to think the alternative over, reminding me that I had received a warning twice before about breaking the regulations, and that I had already served a jail sentence for escaping. I thanked Heaven that their records were so bad that they knew nothing about my other escapes, and went back to the compound. I had an uneasy feeling that he was not bluffing; and I disposed of the more precious articles of my kit with Mr. Hobbs and Sergeant-Major Baker.

  Twenty-four hours passed and I remained in possession of my limited liberty. On the following evening, Yang came down to my room after supper and told me to pack my kit. It was the 1st of March and the day had been bright and comparatively warm. However, the evening sky was filled with thick, grey clouds, and the temperature seemed to be dropping. As I left my room, carrying my bedding, eating bowk and spare clothing, an American major called out:

  “Never mind! It’s better to go to jail when the winter’s over. You’ve managed to stay loose until the spring.”

  I was to remember his words later on that night.

  After eight hours examination during the night, I was allowed to leave my examiners to get some rest—I thought. Chen had left us after two or three hours, handing over to a tall Chinese with an irritable face and spectacles in yellow-tinted frames. His name was Kung.

  Kung followed me out on to the road and passed a remark to the guard commander who had joined us as soon as I left the house. We went back to the newly prepared cell-block (now on the south side of the road) and I expected to be put into the cell where I had stowed my kit on coming back into Pyn-Chong-ni, but I was mistaken. I was taken to an outhouse at the end of the cell block, stripped of my padded jacket, pushed inside, and locked in. I was uncomfortably aware that it had been snowing for several hours and that the temperature was well below freezing point. The outhouse was filled with old pieces of timber and a few agricultural implements but it had nothing to keep me warm. I took a certain amount of exercise but dared not sweat too much in case the moisture froze. If that happened, I should have frostbite before morning. I spent an extremely uncomfortable night, being unable to sleep because of the cold; my whole body ached with it. When the dawn came, I saw with dismay that it was still snowing.

  I was not given breakfast that morning—but that might have been as much due to administrative inefficiency as malice on the part of Kung; I had been forgotten before in this way whilst in prison. An evening meal arrived just before dusk. Shortly after, Kung arrived to ask me if I had changed my mind about making a confession. I had not, and he went away without further comment. My second night was even
more miserable than the first: I could not stop shivering; at times, my whole body shook uncontrollably. In the light of morning, I discovered that my fingers were blue and badly swollen: my numbed feet were in an even worse condition. I realized that I was already in the throes of cold shock.

  In order to draw some attention to my condition, I refused breakfast when it came; and I refused the evening meal Evidently the guard commander reported this, for Kung appeared again at dusk, to ask what was the matter with me. I showed him my fingers. He grunted, said nothing, and went away. The sentry on duty closed the door and my heart sank: I feared that I had not been successful. At this stage of our captivity, with our names released as prisoners, I had been sure that they would not carry the cold-treatment to such extremes as the loss of limbs from frostbite. I had believed that they would stop when the danger point was reached. I had become finally convinced of my error when the door was reopened and a medical orderly came in—a decent little chap whom Tony and Sid had named “Dolly”. He took my temperature, examined my fingers and one of my feet by torchlight, and then went out again. Ten minutes later, he returned with a vile-tasting draught of medicine and instructions to move me elsewhere.

  One never knew what to expect from the Chinese. I was placed in a room with a heated floor, so hot that I had to place most of my clothes underneath me in order to lie down in reasonable comfort. On the following morning, I wakened from a sound sleep to find that my shirt had a huge scorch mark on it!

  My new circumstances were vastly improved. Firstly, Kung did not reappear—he had evidently had to report failure of his measures and did not want to lose more face. Secondly, some items of my kit were returned to me. Though I was not permitted tobacco, of course, I was given my pencil, but no paper of any sort. The fire was kept going under the floor for several days while the extreme cold lasted and, for two days, I continued to receive my draughts of medicine twice daily. My two daily meals were served to me regularly and, generally, fairly hot. Although they were Chinese-cooked and very monotonous, they kept my strength up. I did physical training exercises daily when the sentry was not watching.