by Ha Jin
Wordlessly we regrouped before him, but everyone seemed to have brightened up some. Larsen blustered, “I want you to disband quietly. Everybody keep your mouth shut when I let you go. If you don’t follow my orders this time, I’ll cut your rations for a week.”
I told the crowd his warning, but they just stared at him without betraying any emotion. Then I saw a smirk cross Wanren’s stubbly face; he seemed at ease, wanting to let this confrontation continue.
“Attention!” Larsen called.
Some of us clicked our heels. The captain coughed, then shouted, “Now you’re dismissed.”
“Kill!” all the prisoners thundered in one voice.
Larsen turned around and ordered the squad of GIs, “Take a few of them to my office.”
His men rushed over, some brandishing pistols, grabbed three inmates, and dragged them away. We hadn’t expected he would make arrests indiscriminately. Nor had we thought the GIs carried handguns underneath their jackets; if they had been unarmed, some of us might have charged at them to rescue the three men. Before we recovered from the shock, the GIs had taken the fellows out the front gate, shoving them and prodding their backs with handguns. All the other prisoners could do was call Larsen names, which he didn’t understand anyway.
Without delay the heads of the companies gathered at our headquarters to discuss the situation and make plans of action. I was unsure whether it was wise to be so confrontational. No doubt the three detainees were going to suffer for us, so we shouldn’t let the hostility escalate. In any event we must prevent Larsen from hurting them. Yet there seemed no way to make the enemy relent if we didn’t resort to some kind of pressure or force. Words alone wouldn’t be sufficient. While the leaders were arguing, I sat on an upturned crate listening without expressing my view. The new orderly, Shanmin, was sitting next to me, but he just went on slapping at flies with a self-made swatter, a scrap of perforated leather affixed to the end of a bamboo stick. He had a theory about swatting flies, which, according to him, couldn’t take off without shifting position first, so you should strike at them only when they were on the move or rubbing their legs. I saw a black mosquito on his neck working so hard that it looked as if it were standing on its head, so I swatted it. Shanmin was startled, then relaxed, seeing the bloodstain on my palm.
Soon the leaders reached a consensus: we would go on a hunger strike and demand to talk with Colonel Kelly in person. Since it was already too dark to contact the prison house and the other compounds, they decided that we should go ahead and act on our own the next day.
The kitchen was ordered not to make breakfast, so the cooks happily slept in the next morning. As soon as it was light we signaled our decision to the other compounds and then to Commissar Pei. The guards on the tower noticed that few inmates stirred, so they asked us why the compound was so quiet. Having learned about the hunger strike and our demand, they reported the situation to their superior without delay, but Captain Larsen ignored us.
For a whole morning our barracks lost its daily activity; most prisoners lounged in bed doing nothing. Nobody was allowed to leave his shed unless he had to go to the outhouse. Our leaders had told us not to make any noise, because they intended to affect the guards with our silence. After ten-thirty, the time for the cooks to prepare the midday meal, none of the chimneys in the ten compounds spat smoke, and all the kitchens remained locked. This unnerved Larsen, who hadn’t expected that the entire camp would participate in the hunger strike. He came to our front gate and stood beside the three gunnysacks of barley and a huge hamper of turnip greens, delivered by a truck two hours ago but rejected by our cooks. From time to time Larsen beckoned to inmates passing by, probably meaning he’d like to talk with them, but they ignored him. He lit a cigarette and chatted with the guards for a while. Then a GI handed him a megaphone, through which the captain yelled at us, “I order you to eat lunch. The vegetable is rotting in the sun, and I won’t tolerate this kind of waste.”
His words amused some prisoners, who laughed, saying, “As though he owned our mouths.”
This was the first time that all the compounds had gone on a hunger strike in Camp 8. When we were on Koje Island, this kind of protest had been commonplace and the prison authorities had known how to cope with it, but here Colonel Kelly, somewhat disturbed, readily agreed to meet with the chiefs of the battalions. We were encouraged by his agreement, though uncertain whether he really intended to resolve the crisis.
Toward midafternoon Wanren and I, representing our compound, went to the guards’ headquarters. In the lounge outside Kelly’s office, more than a dozen prisoners were already seated on folding chairs, but the colonel himself was not in. Chaolin nodded at me and I waved back. I went over and sat down behind him. Yet we couldn’t chat freely because Interpreter Peng, an officer from Taiwan working for the camp administration, was within hearing, his rear end resting on the windowsill. Chaolin turned around and said to me, “I’ve heard you did a great job in helping others.” He was alluding to my assistance to Wanren.
I replied, “In a hellhole like this we ought to help each other.” I noticed that Interpreter Peng was all ears, so I switched the topic and asked Chaolin, “Are you ready to spend the winter here?”
“Sure, we each just got another blanket.”
That was news to me; our compound hadn’t received additional clothing for the coming winter yet. A surge of sadness gripped my heart, but I managed to ask him again, referring to the dry socket on his upper gum, “What happened to your tooth?”
“A GI knocked it out of me last month.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“It’s all right now.”
So he had lost an incisor in the battle for raising the flag, and the loss didn’t seem to bother him.
Captain Larsen went to the front and clapped loudly to cut short our chattering. He said, “When Colonel Kelly comes in, everybody must get up, okay?”
There was no response. I sat next to Wanren, fascinated by the rhythmic clatter of a typewriter in a room down the hall. In the opposite corner of the lounge stood a cluster of dwarf bamboos set in an earthen pot. Beside the plant was a coffeemaker on a metal desk, gurgling staccato. The door opened and Colonel Kelly stepped in, but none of us stood up, whereas Captain Larsen and Interpreter Peng both sprang to their feet. Anger distorted Larsen’s face.
The colonel stopped in front of us, a pistol on his brass-studded belt over which hung his beer belly. He bunched up his lips and said to us, “I have only twenty minutes, so just tell me why you started the hunger strike.”
We had figured out our demands beforehand, which Chaolin began to present to him. As Chaolin’s interpreter, I wondered if I should stand up, but decided not to, seeing that he remained seated. Then Colonel Kelly motioned for me to stop because he wanted Peng to do the translation. This was all the better for me.
Chaolin told Kelly that we had two demands: first, Captain Larsen must release our comrades; second, the camp authorities must investigate the death of Wenfu and punish the murderers. To our surprise, Kelly smiled and said, “The three prisoners will be sent back. There’s no reason for us to keep them. Actually they may be already on their way back to the compound.” He fixed a stare on Larsen as though annoyed by his inability to handle us by himself. Then he resumed, “But the investigation of the death will take time, and we cannot reach any conclusion before the process is complete, so I can’t promise you what I’m going to do.”
“Do you agree to investigate or not?” challenged Chaolin.
“Of course I do. I’ll have to write a report to my higher-ups on this case as well, so I’m going to look into it.”
“Will you let us know the result of the investigation?”
“That’s something we can talk about.”
“We want the murderers punished.”
“Let’s not jump the gun, all right? What you should do now is call off the hunger strike.”
“But we want you to promise you’ll inve
stigate the murder case and punish the guilty party.”
“Like I said, I’m going to look into it and if somebody’s guilty, we’ll handle him accordingly. Now, you must stop starving yourselves.”
“Are you going to share the result of the investigation with us or not?”
“I shall do that only if you end the hunger strike.”
“Is this a promise?”
“Yes.”
“In that case our kitchens will cook again.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“Good, I’m pleased to hear that.”
I didn’t expect the dialogue to be so reasonable. Somehow Chaolin and the other chiefs didn’t raise more questions. They should have asked the colonel approximately how long it would take him to finish the investigation and when we would hear from him, just as Kelly had pressed Chaolin for the exact time the hunger strike would be called off. I didn’t remind them of this negligence because I wanted the crisis to end as soon as possible.
Before we left, the colonel even shook Chaolin’s hand as though they had known each other for years. I was surprised by his cordiality, which made Chaolin so uncomfortable that he grinned at us tightly.
The three detained men had been returned while Wanren and I were away at the guards’ headquarters. One had suffered a smashed hand and the other two had swollen faces. Although we agreed to eat dinner that day, that same evening we again shouted “Kill!” when Larsen dismissed us at the end of the head count. Crimson-faced, he got hold of Wanren and said, “Will you please stop this silly trick?” I translated the question.
Our chief answered, “You beat up my men and we must get even.”
Larsen put on an innocent look and said, “I didn’t touch them, I swear. It was those guys at the central office who mishandled them. I protested to them already and said they just made my job more difficult. Will you stop your men from shouting that silly word?”
His explanation seemed convincing to Wanren, who had heard from the three injured fellows that some strange Americans had whacked them. Slow of words, Wanren didn’t counter with the fact that it had been Larsen who ordered their arrest. Instead, he argued, “We have freedom of speech, don’t we? We’ve done nothing wrong.”
I translated this a little differently, saying, “Captain, you shouldn’t get annoyed. In our army we often use the word ‘Kill’ as an exclamation, like ‘hurray’ or ‘whoopee.’ You wouldn’t make us give up our language, would you?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You respect freedom of speech, don’t you?”
“Sure we do.”
“So no hard feelings.”
He sighed, shaking his lumpy chin. From then on we would continue to shout “Kill!” whenever Larsen conducted the head count, and he would turn a deaf ear to it.
Colonel Kelly didn’t keep his promise. We never heard from him about the result of the investigation, which perhaps hadn’t taken place, and we knew for a fact that nobody was punished for the death of Wenfu. Wenfu hadn’t had any close friend among the prisoners, so nobody mentioned him again.
27. A TALK WITH CAPTAIN LARSEN
One morning in early December Wanren came back from the guardhouse, holding a paper bag that contained a dozen cans of smoked sausages. At the sight of the cans the men at our battalion headquarters all got excited. Wanren told us, “Larsen gave me these.”
“Why was he so generous today?” I said.
“I have no clue. He asked me to come into his office and then he let me take these cans.”
This was bizarre. “He didn’t want you to do anything else?”
“Nothing but a signature.”
“For what?”
“For the cans.”
His answer sounded odd, but I didn’t question him further. The men around were disappointed that our chief wouldn’t open a can of sausages for everybody to try. Instead, Wanren declared he would give the cans to the wounded men who hadn’t recovered yet. When everybody had turned away, I said to him, “I have a question for you, chief, but it might offend you.”
“Fire away. You know I don’t like men who keep their opinions to themselves.”
“All right then, on what kind of paper did Larsen have you sign your name?”
“A large writing pad.”
“Was it blank?”
“No, there were some words on it.”
“What did they say?”
“I have no idea. Probably a record of how he distributed the food.”
“Are you positive about that?”
“No, I’m not. It could be a receipt too.”
“Don’t you think he might have made you sign an important document?”
He blushed, his lips quivering. “Well, he was smiling all the while, very friendly. To be honest, that thought never crossed my mind.”
“He might have wanted your signature on something that he can use against us.”
“It didn’t look that serious. Every word was handwritten on a piece of lined paper.”
“To the Americans as long as your signature appears on paper, it will be good legally. They don’t use a personal seal like us.”
“Well, what should we do now?” He looked a bit flustered, twitching his nose.
He was slow-witted, an able warrior but not an exceptional leader. How could the enemy take him in so easily? I was quite sure that the signature was intended for something else. Captain Larsen must have sensed Wanren’s inadequacy, so he dealt with him exclusively. Still, I felt for Wanren, who obviously had been so eager to get the sausages for the wounded men that he hadn’t thought twice about putting his name down.
For the whole afternoon he and I considered what to do. Should we discuss this matter among the officers in our battalion? Or should we report it to Commissar Pei and request instructions? Or should we just go ahead and make amends by ourselves?
Wanren, at a loss, said we probably should let Chaolin and Commissar Pei know right away. I didn’t feel it was a wise idea. “Look,” I said, “don’t you think they may take you to task? Besides, we’re not clear what Larsen has been hatching exactly.”
“Tell me what we should do, Yuan.” He looked dejected, rubbing his stubbly chin with his palm.
I was just an interpreter, the compound’s spokesman, and should not be advising him in such a matter. But I believed we shouldn’t let too many people know or there might be another battle, with more men butchered. What Wanren had signed must be something about the incident a month ago—perhaps Captain Larsen felt uneasy about the death of our former orderly and wanted to clear himself by making it look as though we were to blame for the loss of life. If this was the case, it implied that Colonel Kelly had indeed started an investigation. At least Larsen must have thought Kelly would act on his promise, so he had taken steps to protect himself. I said to Wanren, “I can give you some suggestions, but you’re the chief and have to decide what to do on your own.”
“Sure, let me hear your opinion.”
“To me, the fewer people we let know of this, the better the outcome. We should resolve it by ourselves quietly.”
“But how?”
“How about this. Tomorrow we’ll go to Larsen and invite him to inspect the sanitary conditions of our compound. If he comes, we’ll have him detained and demand that he return your signature to us.”
“Shouldn’t we inform our men of this plan?”
I gave thought to that and said, “I don’t think so. Just let our Security Platoon know and prepare to detain him. That should be enough. Besides, Larsen may not take the bait. Even if he comes, we may not be able to hold him if the situation isn’t favorable to us. We should be flexible. Above all, we mustn’t lose any life.”
“You’re a smart man, Yuan.”
I felt uncomfortable that he used my real name. He was the only man who did that in our compound; apparently he had come to know my name through Commissar Pei. I said, “Don’t tell others that I’m involved in maki
ng the decision. I should serve as your interpreter only.”
“Sure, this is just between us.”
At nine o’clock the next morning he and I went to the guardhouse to see Captain Larsen. We were led in without waiting. Larsen was sitting behind a metal desk, smoking a cigar and reading a magazine, on the back of which was the picture of a young woman in a frilled swim-suit and high heels. I was amazed to see a plaster bust of Larsen himself on the utility shelf behind him. The figure resembled him on the whole, a full forehead, a heavy chin, bell cheeks, and downcast eyes, but there was something distinctly Mongoloid in it—the face was a bit too round and the lids too thick. I remembered that Dr. Wang was fond of sculpting human figures in his spare time. A medic had once told us that an American officer had asked the doctor to make a plaster bust of himself. That officer must have been Captain Larsen. In contrast to most of the Americans, he looked urbane and often wore a sneer on his lips, but I hadn’t thought he was so vain and narcissistic. Then I sensed something more about the statue, something juvenile, a boy’s longing to become somebody, a significant man or a hero. This realization touched me a little; I guessed that deep inside, Larsen might be similar to many of our men, most of whom hadn’t mentally reached manhood yet.
Wanren bowed and thanked the captain for the sausages he had received yesterday, then asked for a box of corned beef or any kind of canned meat. I translated his request to Larsen, who lifted his eyebrows in disbelief. Wanren pressed on: “There’re dozens of wounded men suffering from malnutrition in our compound, and some still have festering wounds. A man is what he eats, you know. The regular prison food can’t help them recover. The sausages you gave us were great, but not enough to go around among the wounded men. Please let us have some more.”
“No way,” Larsen said. “You took away a dozen cans yesterday.”
“Captain,” I said, “we mean to cooperate in any way you want us to. We understand you’d like to make our compound a model for the entire camp, so we cleaned our quarters thoroughly yesterday, just to show our gratitude to you.”
“Well, how clean are they?” He grinned, the corner of his mouth tilting. “No flies in the latrine?”