The Edge of the Sword

by General Sir Anthony Farrar-Hockley

  The Chinese got to know of both these incidents, though there were no Chinese present during the reading. Perhaps because they knew that we still retained control within the compounds, Camp Headquarters became particularly watchful and nervous. In late June, I was re-arrested.

  On this occasion, I occupied the room formerly used by Denis in February-March. Four nights of examination followed, at which Chen presided until, to my delight, he was forced to retire when an abscess burst in his mouth. Moaning, spitting blood and pus, he hurried away and I was left with two Chinese I had never seen before. The fourth night’s interrogation was the longest: I was questioned and harangued until dawn, when it seemed to me that my inquisitors were as exhausted as I was. Later, after I had slept for a time, and when I was quite alone, I tried to puzzle out what they were getting at.

  The questions had referred to the Coronation, to the orders issued about our behaviour in the event of a truce, and to escape activities—concerning which they were evidently guessing. But none of these points had been pressed. I had been told to confess to my crime—yet nothing specific seemed to have been mentioned. I could not understand it.

  Perhaps, in all the world, there is no race as accomplished as the Chinese at auto-suggestion. In retrospect, as the days passed without further visits from the interrogators, I felt that they had been trying to suggest something to me; and that this period of respite was to serve as one in which I could dwell on their words and realize what it was that I should confess to. After coming to this conclusion, I reached another: they believed me to be in possession of knowledge I did not possess. I began to feel as if I was reaching the end of a mystery story, the plot of which I had failed to follow in detail. Thus the words of the detective just prior to the denouement made no sense to me as they dealt with matters I knew nothing about.

  On July 19th, I had the good fortune to find out what it was all about.

  Visiting the latrine that day, I managed to make a brief contact with Guido, who had come down to the village on a labour detail in the hope that he would see me. He told me of an attempt to assassinate the Camp Commander.

  “What’s happened in the truce talks?” I asked him. “Arc they coming together again after the release of the prisoners by Syngman Rhee?”

  “Well,” said Guido, “General Nam Il says——”

  But I was not to learn what he said. At this crucial moment, an interrogator appeared and almost tore us apart in his fury. To my dismay, Guido was marched away and I was returned to my room. From that hour on, a Chinese orderly lived with me night and day, except during interrogation. I had no opportunity to make any further contacts with the compounds.

  However, Guido’s words had served to enlighten me on the question of my guilt.

  A few days before my arrest, Guido and Walt, the American fighter-pilot, whilst on a detail chasing pigs that had escaped from the sty, managed to slip away. The two had stayed out several hours, making a general reconnaissance of the area in case the need to escape arose, returning of their own accord to the compound. Evidently the Camp Headquarters had been perplexed by this. To them, it seemed that these two had gone off for one of two reasons: cither to escape—which they had not done; or to make contact with secret agents in the hills. It was a constant bogy of theirs that every boulder, every tree hid a secret agent—the Oriental mind has been so busy with secret plots for centuries past that it has a congenital plot-complex. But though they were wrong about Guido’s activities on this occasion, they had not been wrong, apparently, about the agent. On the day following my arrest—an arrest aimed at finding out who Guido had contacted, supposedly on Denis’s and my orders—a Korean had walked up to Ding, as he left his house, and discharged a revolver at him. Unfortunately, he missed! The only injury Ding had sustained was a graze from stumbling in his flight from the would-be assassin—who had been killed by guards a few seconds later.

  Having no evidence against me, but convinced by their imagination, the Chinese were now hoping that I would confess that we had sent Guido and Walt out to identify Ding, by means of a photograph, to the man who had been sent as executioner.

  It began to look as if I was in a very difficult position. I could only hope that the proximity of a truce would continue to save me extreme pressure in interrogation as, very probably, it had saved me until then. How I wished I had heard what General Nam Il said!

  When Big Chu visited me, I knew that something important was going to happen. After two hours’ conversation one afternoon, he went away. At a quarter past eight that evening, I was taken before Ding and formally charged with being an accomplice before the fact in the attempt on his life. I had never seen Ding more angry; nor more frightened. He smoked incessantly and his hands trembled. He was a changed man from the Ding who had lectured to us so confidently early in 1952 and, before my arrival, threatened those who were “the people’s enemies” with life imprisonment in labour camps.

  Though Ding spoke for over an hour, what he actually said was this: a truce was near but I would not benefit from it as he had every right to hold me prisoner for committing an offence against international law. If I confessed to Denis’s part, I would be released, having acted under his orders. But failure to confess would be interpreted as a hostile act, clearly demonstrating that I was in sympathy with the crime. It was up to me.

  I returned to my cell with my escort, where I remained for several days without receiving further visits. Then, on the morning of July 27th a Chinese whom I had never seen before came into my cell carrying a long paper rolled up in his hand.

  “Read that,” he said.

  I took it from him and unrolled it, expecting to see a sentence of imprisonment. It was a formal notice signed by General Wang Yang-Kung stating that the Truce would come into effect that morning at eleven o’clock. I asked the time and he showed me his wrist-watch. It was a quarter to eleven.

  That night, Big Chu returned. He read a confession by the American Colonel who had signed the order on our conduct in the camps after the Truce came into effect. He added that the Colonel, the senior Major in No. 1 Company, and Sam had been given prison sentences—a year each for Sam and the Colonel, six months for the major. I asked to see Sam’s confession.

  “He has not confessed,” said Big Chu. “He is a very stubborn man who refuses to admit his mistakes.”

  The whole point of showing me these confessions and sentences was to impress on me that they could keep captives under sentence after the others had gone home. I said nothing further and he left me.

  I had one more interview with Ding; one final opportunity to confess, he said. Our Colonel, Denis, Sam and I—together with many others—were hoping for rewards when we returned home. This and not political conviction had led us to resist the truth our captors had put before us. We had sold ourselves; we were the proven enemies of the people. But even if we were returned home, let us not think that we had escaped from the power of the mighty Chinese people. They could punish us anywhere: they would follow us to the ends of the earth.

  Ding’s snake eyes smouldered, the nostrils on his thin nose dilated. I suddenly realized what it meant to him to find his captives slipping away from him still unconverted to Communism. All the pain and suffering he and his staff had inflicted on prisoners in the Camp had been to no purpose. We were going and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  On August 5th, the day the first prisoners started for home, I was released—the last member but one of the prisoners kept in isolation in the village. Ding had released me without a confession. He knew perfectly well that he had no right to keep me, though there had been times when I wondered how far he would take his bluff! Back at the Company Headquarters, I found that a new company commander had arrived—a man with tinted spectacles, nicknamed “Tints”. He spoke to me through one of the interpreters.

  “No trouble from you,” he said. “Now there is peace in Korea. Soon you will go home to your dear ones to lead a peaceful life. No trouble from you
and you will be all right.”

  I walked back down the path into the compound.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE whole atmosphere in the compound had changed. Our attitude was one of impatience to depart, mingled with doubts that our captors would fulfil their part of the bargain. They had tricked us so often in the past, and we had looked forward to this day so much, that, now it had arrived, we could not bring ourselves to believe absolutely that it was all coming true. But day by day the Peking Radio news gave details of the exchanges at Panmunjon, describing the affecting scenes when their own men returned from the cruel United Nations Command—and the reluctance with which United Nations’ captives left Communist custody to return once more to the harsh capitalist world!

  One of the popular subjects for discussion was the expected visit of the Red Cross representatives—a subject which interested the Chinese as much as us, apparently. Big Chu made several visits to the Company Headquarters to ask individuals and small groups, called up from the compound, what their views were on this matter.

  “What will happen when the Red Cross people come?” asked Chu. “What will you say to them?”

  These questions were put to us by Chang and other interpreters, also. It was plain that they did not want to lose face by having to listen to reports about the days when it had been of no concern whether a prisoner lived or died; and the days, not so far back, when the fate of a prisoner removed from the compound was very uncertain.

  Big Chu had more to say on the Red Cross.

  “You must admit to them that we have done everything to improve your living standards. Why, only recently, the General Commanding all Prisoners-of-War held a conference in Pyoktong to examine your demands for improvements in your daily life—you sent two representatives from each company.”

  His listeners reminded him that such a conference was, indeed, “only recently”. Memories went back further than May 1953.

  “And if the Red Cross should come—and we are not frightened of showing the Red Cross how we have treated you—what could they do for you?”

  The question of Red Cross comforts was raised.

  “Cigarettes? Candy?” asked Chu. “But the Chinese Peoples’ Volunteers can give you all you need of these things.”

  Sure enough, not long after my return to the compound, cigarettes and other comforts were issued in quantity. We had been accustomed to receiving one packet of cigarettes at feast times, such as Thanksgiving and Christmas. On the signing of the Truce Agreement, two hundred cigarettes had been given to each man. Now we had five hundred apiece; and with the cigarettes, many other good things. Two days later, Chang said, very casually, to our compound leader:

  “By the way, there are some Red Cross gifts for you to collect. You can send a detail down for them if you want them.”

  The detail brought back American cigarettes by the crate, shaving gear, soap, matches, to wels—many, many items, the familiar names of which suddenly brought home really near to us.

  On August 17th we left our compound forever. A convoy of trucks arrived in the morning rain; we climbed aboard and drove down along the rough track to the road, passing for the last time the few houses near the compound fence, and the schoolhouse where the track joined the road.

  Outside the main gate of No. 1 Company Compound, the trucks stopped; we were told to dismount and go inside. The square was flooded after two days of rainfall and we waded round it to ascend the steps at the western end of the promenade. The first person I met inside the schoolhouse door was Sandy, the Rifles doctor.

  “The Colonel’s back,” he said. “Came back last night—he’s over there.”

  I pushed my way through the crowds in the old library, squeezing between little knots of excited people who were exchanging the news of the two compounds. Near the end of the room, I stopped for a second to look at the Colonel, before taking my place in a queue of men who were anxious to shake his hand. He was very thin; his face was drawn and his eyes tired. Seeing him there, I really began to believe for the first time that the Chinese intended to release us.

  He had been in solitary confinement for nineteen months.

  Our departure was delayed for two days by the heavy summer rains. Sections of the road eastward to Manpo-Jin—the entraining point—had been washed away.

  On the night before we left, Ron—the Australian pilot with whom I had escaped at Pyongyang—came back from Pyoktong. He had been to see the Red Cross with an American from the compound and he had a most interesting story to tell.

  Apparently, the Red Cross had been scheduled to visit our Camp in a few days time. They had now been told that the repatriation programme had been accelerated and that we were due to move to the staging point at Kaesong over a week before the date originally notified, thus making it impossible for them to come to see us. Having no immediate inspection on hand, the team volunteered to come at once; but the Chinese had regretted that this was impossible: the road from Pyoktong had been washed away, they said. It was so impassable that they had taken Ron and the American along it to visit the Red Cross Headquarters—and sent them back the same way by truck. In spite of Big Chu’s assertion, our opinion that the Chinese did not want the Red Cross to visit us was being steadily strengthened.

  The two representatives from our Camp had been given a very limited opportunity to talk to the Red Cross team. Whenever a question was asked concerning conditions before the New Year 1953, the Chinese Red Cross representative insisted that the question was irrelevant, or that they had no time to conduct a long inquiry. It was plain that the characters of our captors had not changed in any way.

  It now remained to be seen whether there had been a general acceleration in repatriation, or whether we were merely being moved south towards Kaesong to keep us away from the Red Cross.

  On the morning of August 19th, the motor column moved out of Pyn-Chong-ni to the east.

  It was an uneventful journey. The Korean people waved to us, apparently knowing that we were going home. No enmity was shown, except where this had been organized. In a few villages, small groups of youths had been assembled to shake their fists at us and throw stones as we passed. In the late afternoon we reached the rail centre of Manpo-Jin and, by dusk, a train was drawing us south.

  On the platform at Manpo-Jin, where we entrained in box-cars, we saw Sam and others under sentence. Kept separately, they were put aboard the train under the arrangements of the Public Prosecutor, Chen Chung Hwei.

  By the following evening we had reached Pyongyang, where we changed to another train. Next morning, we passed through the country across which I had escaped to the coast in the late summer of 1951—I noted the point at which I had crossed the railway line. In the afternoon, we drew up in Kaesong station, which I had not seen since I detrained there with my Battalion in November 1950, just prior to the advance north through Pyongyang.

  Clear of the town, we passed between the green rice paddy and looked eagerly towards the south. There, unmistakable in the afternoon sunlight, was the huge, jagged range that lies between Kaesong and Seoul; a range that lies south of the Imjin River.

  We were looking at territory held by our own side.

  The staging area consisted of a series of tented camps south-cast of Kaesong, set on the sides of the small, rolling hills that lie between the jagged peaks round the town and the river-shore. After one night in the first camp we entered, we were moved to another over the hill, but left the sergeants behind. In the new camp, Sam and the others, hitherto held apart, joined us. At last, we were all together.

  The standard of the food deteriorated as the days passed, and it did not increase our happiness to discover that we had been brought south merely to mark time within sight of our own lines. The stratagem to keep the Red Cross from seeing us had worked. Our only advantage lay in the fact that we were near enough to have a better chance of escape if something went wrong.

  After eight days, repatriation began from our camp. Every night, about ten of o
ur number would go out; a proportion being taken from each nationality represented. Every day one hoped that one might be lucky that night, and after each disappointment, there was always the hope that to-morrow might bring better luck.

  The Colonel was taken out one afternoon. We awaited his return anxiously, discussing what action we should take if, at the last moment, they tried to hold him back. He returned after about an hour and a half, however, to tell us that he had been taken over the hill to the sergeants’ camp for an interview with Wilfred Burchett, correspondent of the newspaper L’ Humanite, who had reported from the Communist side of the line for some considerable time. The interview had been designed to obtain the Colonel’s views on his captivity—in particular his solitary confinement. The Colonel had given him a very concise reply:

  “The food was rotten, and I was damned bored!”

  That was not the story, however, which the Communist Press printed. Nor did they describe Burchett’s reception by the sergeants. He had been booed from the moment of his entry through the gate just as he had been booed by our soldiers when he attempted to lecture them many months previously in Camp I on the Yalu River. On that occasion, they had had prior notice of his arrival and had prepared miniature hangman’s nooses, which they swung to and fro as they sat on the ground beneath the platform from which he spoke.

  The Padre held a Church Service for the Protestants each Sunday in the mat and timber structure which served us as a dining-hall. On the second Sunday, we read Psalm 126:

  “When the Lord turned again the captivity of Sion”

  “Then were we like unto them that dream”

  “Then was our mouth filled with laughter”

  “And our tongue with joy.…”

  I looked south to the hills beyond the Imjin River, and felt that I ought to remember the words; and to remember all my many prayers that had been answered during my captivity. Returning to the increased tempo of life which awaited me once I crossed into Sion, it would be so easy to forget.