Horseface dropped his butt at the same time he raised his voice at the other guards, berating them for smoking on duty. They stood to attention as Yuan drew closer. Horseface advanced on Shard, yelling incoherently. He swung his rifle butt, determined to show Comrade Yuan he was on top of the lazy recruits and even lazier prisoners. The rifle caught Shard on the shoulder, sending him tumbling to the ground. Shard’s cap flew off, revealing the hidden stash of bright green cabbage.
Shard instinctively curled up as boots and rifle butts crashed into his torso. He heard Skitter begging Horseface to stop, but all else was lost in a torrent of high-pitched yells, Horseface screaming his lungs out, hoping his fury would distract Comrade Yuan from his lack of diligence. A prisoner could be shot for stealing food. A guard could end up in the front ranks of a human wave attack for letting him get away with it.
Yuan’s voice broke through the melee, and the blows stopped immediately. “Stand, Prisoner Shard!”
“Yes, Comrade Yuan,” Shard said, wincing as he spoke.
“You are stealing the people’s food.”
“Capitalism is theft, isn’t that what you taught us?” Shard asked, remembering a phrase from the indoctrination classes. “I was brought up a capitalist. It’s a hard habit to shake.”
“At least you were paying attention,” Yuan said, stepping closer and studying Shard’s face. Then he backed up, perhaps uncomfortable at having to stare up at the tall American. “But tell me, why steal a few cabbage leaves? Is that worth a life?”
“I apologize, Comrade Yuan,” Shard said, hating himself for the bow he gave. “I failed to control myself.” Shard figured it was worth a try. Maybe Yuan would be in a merciful mood.
“I do not sense sincerity,” Yuan said with an irritated sigh. He spoke to the guards and they grabbed Shard by the arms. “Now you will be shot.”
Shard twisted his arms as the guards held him tight. He felt fear in the pit of his stomach, and relief at the back of his mind. He didn’t know which was more frightening.
“Comrade Yuan, please wait,” Skitter said, as Yuan unbuckled his holster.
“What?” Yuan snapped. Skitter was one of the leading progressives, a valued prisoner who eagerly participated in political classes and showed interest in the Marxist line. If anyone else had interrupted an execution, it would have meant two corpses.
“You asked for prisoners to come forward and confess,” Skitter said, his eyes darting from Yuan to Shard, then back to Yuan’s hand on his pistol. “About the germ warfare. I’m ready. I helped load the planes in Japan.”
“Good,” Yuan said, extending his arm, aiming the pistol at Shard’s forehead.
“But Shard is my friend. He’s misguided, that’s all. Please, spare him, Comrade Yuan.”
“You will make the recording? A full confession?” Yuan kept the pistol trained on Shard.
“Yes.”
“Good. Tomorrow, then,” Yuan said, holstering his pistol. “Or you will both be shot.”
Yuan turned on his heel, barking orders to the guards. They began to beat Shard, on Yuan’s instruction or on general principles, it was hard to tell. Shard felt himself go unconscious as he hit the ground. A minute, or an hour, later Skitter was helping him get up.
“What’d you do?” Shard said, wincing as Skitter helped him walk.
“I made a deal,” Skitter said. “I’m going to confess, about germ warfare. Yuan’s been after someone to do it.”
“But there’s no germ warfare, it’s all Red propaganda.”
“That’s exactly why I can do it,” Skitter said. “Everyone knows its bullshit. So why not?”
“Because it’s aiding the enemy,” Shard said, doing his best not to hobble as they made their way back to their hut. “What the hell do you know about germ warfare anyway?”
“Well, we were right next to an airbase,” Skitter said. “Close enough.”
“I shouldn’t complain,” Shard said. “Thanks for saving my life.”
“Works both ways. I owe you,” Skitter said, helping Shard to sit on the log bench outside their hut.
Minutes later, four guards marched double-time out of the administration building, rifles at the ready. Shard watched their approach carefully, calculating at a certain point that they were not coming for him, but heading for the officers’ enclosure.
In ten minutes they returned with Lieutenant John Cooper, prodding him with bayonets toward the admin building. He looked at Shard as they passed, accusation burning in his eyes.
“Christ,” Shard swore. “He has to think I betrayed him so Yuan would let me go.”
“It had to be Horseface,” Skitter said, as they watched the guards shove Cooper. “Cooper’ll figure it out. Maybe he doesn’t even know what happened.”
“News travels fast,” Shard said, standing and groaning. The story of Shard, his cabbage leaves, and near execution probably went through the camp in minutes.
“Horseface might’ve reported that Cooper tried to bribe him, to get back in Yuan’s good graces,” Skitter said. “It would have been a good move.”
Yuan descended the steps of the admin building. They were close enough to see Cooper struggle in the grip of the guards.
Saw the guards lean away as Yuan drew his pistol and fired.
Cooper’s head snapped back and his body slumped, then crumpled as the guards let go. A blossom of bright red blood fed the snow, the crimson color fading to pink as it soaked into the soft whiteness.
“Shit,” Skitter said. “One more for the list.”
The list of the dead. At first, they’d memorized the names of the dead, chanting them under their breath as they marched. After fifty, it was impossible to remember all of them, so Shard and Collier started a secret list, using whatever scraps of paper they could scrounge. The Chinese didn’t want to admit how many POWs had died in their care, so it was a forbidden activity. Only Shard and Collier knew where the list was hidden. It was their mission to bring the list out when they were freed, to bear witness to what the North Koreans and Chinese had done.
“You sure the list’s safe?” Skitter said, pulling at Shard’s sleeve. There had been two lists. The duplicate was discovered by the Chinese three months ago. The reprisals had been ferocious.
“We’re fine,” Shard said, shaking off Skitter’s grip. “I’m going to take a walk. See you in a few.”
“Sure. I’ll see if I can find out anything about Horseface. Be good to know if more trouble’s brewing.” Shard didn’t answer. He was too stunned by the execution. An hour ago, it could have been his blood and brains in the snow.
He limped toward the garbage pit, thinking about what he knew and what he guessed. He caught a glance of Skitter moving fast, making a circuit around the administration building, head down and hands bunched in his pockets, a shadow darting from one dark corner to another.
Shard feared Cooper would join Schuman in his dreams tonight. He sought a distraction, anything to stop the mad swirl in his brain. He walked to the kitchen. No guards at the door. Maybe all the commotion had disrupted things. Worth a look. It was locked between mealtimes, the penalty for breaking and entering, death.
But the door was open, inviting. No guards in sight. He took a step inside, ready to retreat, bribe, grovel, whatever he had to do, the lure of food too great to resist. He stood in the hallway leading into the main kitchen, the cooks intent on their tasks. He laid his hand on the pantry latch and pressed, quietly and slowly, holding it tight as he pushed the door open.
He froze.
Horseface was on the floor, straddled by a chunky Korean girl, her back to Shard. She was naked from the waist down, Horseface’s pants down around his ankles. She moved languidly, her long black hair caressing Horseface in undulating silence. Shard edged back, one hand reaching for a can of tinned pork as the other pulled the door shut
without a sound. He waited for a moment, listening for any sign he’d been heard. Then he left, the can in his pocket and the image of the girl’s buttocks burned into his mind.
Later, Shard and Skitter sat hunched in their hut. Skitter had come back saying he’d seen Horseface getting a tongue-lashing from Yuan. He claimed that gave credence to his notion of Horseface fingering Cooper for attempting to bribe a guard. But Shard had seen Horseface, and it wasn’t Yuan who’d been lashing him.
Shard spoke after the silence had become too heavy. “Someone’s gotta pay.”
“Sure,” Skitter said. “But it ain’t gonna happen. It’s not like the last war where we won and put people on trial.”
Shard didn’t reply. He inhaled deeply, drawing the cold air into his lungs. The faint aroma of fried fish rose in his nostrils.
Then, he understood what Schuman had been trying to tell him.
The truth came at him hard, and he retreated into another deep silence, until Skitter roused him to search for firewood. The guards let them wander as far as they wanted; after all, there was nowhere to run.
“How’d we ever make it that first winter?” Shard said, as they picked up branches and twigs. “No boots, rags for shoes, never enough to eat.”
“You taking a trip down memory lane today, Shard?” Skitter said, hefting his load of branches. “More ghosts?”
“Ghosts are just bad memories,” Shard said. “The bad things burned into our minds.”
“I try not to think about it,” Skitter said, uneasy with talk of things past.
“Does that work?”
“No. Not really.”
“You got boots that winter, didn’t you?” Shard said, his eyes watching Skitter, taking his measure.
“Yeah. Traded a pocket knife to a guard.”
“You were lucky he didn’t turn you in.”
“It was Cho, remember him? Crookedest Commie you’d ever want to meet.”
“Yeah, Cho. He’d trade anything, not that we had much,” Shard said. “How’d you get that knife anyway?”
“Traded up for it. Started out with hard candies in the first Red Cross parcel we got. Christmas, remember? Then got some cigarettes, and the guy who had smuggled the pocket knife in was dying for a smoke, so he traded. I showed it to Cho and he wanted it right away. I knew he wouldn’t snitch, since that way he’d get a pat on the head but no jackknife. He came through with the boots and a couple pair of socks, remember? I gave you a pair.”
“Best Christmas of my life,” Shard said. All POWs had been stripped of their combat boots, many of them marching barefoot in snow and ice. Finally, Shard had been given a pair of worn out North Korean sneakers. With the wool socks, he had an edge, enough to avoid frostbite.
“You took a chance to get those boots,” Shard said, holding his bundle of firewood under one arm as they walked. “Cho could have turned you in; what do you think they would have done to a prisoner with a weapon?”
“Aw hell, it was only a little pocket knife,” Skitter said. “The real risk was getting frostbite.”
“Yeah,” Shard agreed. Frostbite was a death sentence. “Who did you trade with for the knife?”
“Uh, Schuman. John Schuman,” Skitter said, after a moment’s thought. “Hey, the guy you dreamed about. Funny, huh? I almost forgot his name.”
They walked in silence back to their hut, memories of that terrible winter swirling in Shard’s mind like remnants of a nightmare, a vision that remains even as you tell yourself you’re fully awake.
After dumping the firewood at their hut, Skitter made for the recreation hall and class with Comrade Yuan while Shard waited for the afternoon meal. Rice balls with millet for the reactionaries, while the progressives ate rice with vegetables off real plates in the rec hall. A lot of guys attended the sessions for the extra food, but many got kicked out. You had to show interest in the class struggle, be willing to criticize yourself, your buddies, your country, over and over again until Yuan was satisfied. But he never stayed satisfied. That was the problem with giving in; the demands never ended, there was always another bit of your soul to surrender.
“Look,” Shard said, as he met up with Skitter after class. “I went into the admin building while you were critiquing the ruling class and asked about hot water for baths. They threw me out, but not before I got these off an orderly’s desk.” He opened his pocket, showing Skitter a pack of Chinese cigarettes. Skitter told Shard he took too many risks, and that the big news was that the Chinese were looking for volunteers to refuse repatriation when the war ended. They wanted some American soldiers to make Red China their home, to counter-balance the thousands of North Koreans and Chinese who were likely to decline repatriation. No one had raised their hand.
They walked through the crowd of progressives leaving class. They had a fullness to their faces from the extra midday rations. Shard got whatever fullness he had from thievery and trading, while half-starved POWs suffered with gaunt, sunken cheeks, night blindness, and swollen gums.
It began to snow. They made it their hut as heavy flakes fresh from Siberia draped the compound.
“Hey, O’Hara, you’re back,” Shard said. O’Hara was one of the prisoners from the original group.
“Been to the Yalu River, unloading barges at night,” O’Hara said.
“Feed you okay?” Shard asked.
“Yeah, we ate pretty much what the soldiers got. Rice with beans and some kinda greens. Wasn’t bad.” O’Hara shrugged. “Not as good as what the birdies get, though. Skitter, you’re looking well.”
“I don’t mind listening to the Reds,” Skitter snapped. “And I don’t mind eating their food. Small price to pay.”
“If you say so,” O’Hara said. Skitter glanced at Shard, eager to leave, even with the snow.
“Hey O’Hara,” Shard said, as if he’d just thought of it, “weren’t you and Schuman buddies?”
“Yeah. We were together since basic.”
“Me and Skitter were talking about him and his jackknife,” Shard said. Skitter shuffled his feet in the enclosed space, staring at the floor. “Skitter traded with him about then, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Skitter said.
“I told him a million times, he was taking a chance keeping that jackknife,” O’Hara said.
“That’s what he traded with me,” Skitter said, looking to Shard.
“Naw,” O’Hara said. “His granddaddy gave him that knife. He’d never have traded it. But the damn Chinks found it. Threw him in the hole for that little knife. Lasted three days before he froze.”
“No, really, I traded with him,” Skitter said. “I gave him stuff from my Red Cross parcel. Food. A pocket knife doesn’t do you much good if you starve to death, does it?”
“You still got it?” O’Hara asked.
“I traded it on to Cho. For boots.”
“They shipped Cho out last spring. Bastard always was good for a trade,” O’Hara said.
“Yeah. My feet were in bad shape,” Skitter said. Shard knew how much his feet had hurt on that first march after they’d been captured. He’d watched men with black, frostbitten feet wrapped in rags, limping through the snow as tears froze on their cheeks. Saw them fall and welcome death.
Shard recalled the last time Skitter told the story of the jackknife. Before, he said he’d traded cigarettes for the knife. Now it was food. Shard felt sick, the certainty of betrayal like a rock in his gut.
“Let’s go see Marty and Hughes,” Shard said. “They’ll want to trade for these cigarettes.”
“You could trade with anybody,” Skitter said. “Why them?”
“Because they’re new,” Shard said, tossing a wave to O’Hara, who’d grown silent. “They haven’t had time to shake the nicotine habit, so I’ll get the most from them.”
“Yeah
, makes sense. And the sooner you ditch those Chinese cigarettes the better.” Skitter shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold, shuffling through the freshly fallen snow. In one of the huts, men sang half-hearted Christmas carols. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” with the mocking refrain, If only in my dreams. “Why are we making the grand tour today, anyway?”
“It’s like that story, Schuman had to be the ghost of Christmas past,” Shard said, watching as glints of sunlight broke through the rapidly moving clouds. “You know, A Christmas Carol? Hell, he died on Christmas Eve, and I saw his ghost. And Cooper, he has to be the ghost of Christmas present, since he died today. Right?” He watched Skitter out of the corner of his eye, catching the frightened look on his face, there and gone.
“You’re crazy,” Skitter said, shaking his head.
“Could be. Can’t even remember the whole story. How about you?”
“I don’t know,” Skitter said. “Some little crippled kid died, I think. Drop the ghost stuff, okay?”
Shard ignored his plea, watching a group of prisoners light a fire outside their hut. They had two rats ready to roast. Catching, gutting, and cooking a rat, without benefit of a knife, was a valued skill in Camp Eleven. Country guys were the best at it, and this hut was lucky enough to house three backwoods boys and a cook from Brooklyn.
They found Marty and Hughes sitting outside the next hut.
“Hey guys,” Marty said, raising a hand in greeting. Shard and Skitter took a seat on a log. Marty was thickset, with dark wiry hair and the scarred hands of a mechanic. Hughes was younger, thinner, and wary. He nodded a greeting and went back to staring off in the distance.
“Thought you boys might want to trade,” Shard said, after they’d settled into the silence for a while. “Chinese cigarettes, a dozen.”
“Wouldn’t mind,” Marty said. Hughes nodded his assent. “What’re you askin’?”
The Usual Santas Page 17