As it turned out, it was just about the stupidest thing I could have done. Two days later Lieutenant Dinh asked for the return of the newspaper, and when I couldn’t produce it I made up a story that I’d passed it on to some GIs passing the compound and I couldn’t remember who they were. The guards searched our houses and found several tiny scraps of the paper and two hoarded bush tobacco cigarettes wrapped in it. I was marched away to the dreaded row of buildings on the edge of the camp.
The camp prison was a row of small rooms with tiny windows placed high in three of the walls. Entry was through a small grilled door. I was forced to sit at attention from four-thirty in the morning until eleven p.m. at night. My wounded leg ached unmercifully, but if I moved and a guard observed me he would open the grille and kick me and knock my torso to the ground with his rifle butt. They would routinely pull me out and beat me with long bamboo sticks. A favourite trick was to push a small bamboo rod through the grille so that it protruded on both sides, whereupon I was required to kneel and take my end of the stick between my teeth, which had been loosened by malnutrition with several broken off at the stumps from copping the rifle butt to the side of my jaw on the night of the chocolate incident when I’d first been captured. From time to time the guard would hit the stick as he passed, slamming my end of the stick to the side of my mouth – or worse, down my throat, forcing me to swallow the blood, which in turn brought on a raging thirst I was unable to quench with the meagre ration of water I was given. Finally, I was never allowed to sleep for any sustained period. As I lay without a blanket on the floor, the guard would frequently wake me up by prodding me through the grille until I sat up. This would happen perhaps twenty times each night. What I didn’t know at the time was that this was only the beginning – the softening-up process – before my serious interrogation began.
Every afternoon I was hauled out of my cell for interrogation, each day more exhausted and confused. I was accused of ‘destroying the people’s property’ – a very serious charge, they insisted, and one that might lead to me being shot. After a few days of this, and when I refused to give them the names of all the men who had benefited from the illicit tobacco and subsequent destruction of the newspaper, they moved me to a second cell. This one was no different from the one I’d been in except for a solid beam that ran across the ceiling.
Now my interrogation turned to my personal attitude – my hostile attitude to ‘the truth’. The interrogators read out screeds of notes made by Lieutenant Dinh that detailed the conversations we’d had in the discussion groups, and emphasised my replies. Jimmy had been right – the more relaxed attitude Dinh had adopted was designed to flush out the hardliners. They accused me of being an unrepentant war criminal, and therefore outside the Lenient Policy.
Then one afternoon, out of the blue, they accused me of aiding in the escape of one of the prisoners in our house, a man named Joe Bellows. I was the monitor and was accused of not reporting his absence from the compound. In the ghetto we’d looked after our own sick, but when the conditions improved in the hospital and some sulphur drugs were being used we’d grabbed the chance and taken him to the camp hospital. I’d forgotten to report his absence from the compound. As it eventually turned out, Joe, in a state of delirium, had staggered out of the hospital and was eventually found dead just outside the perimeter of the camp. I was accused of aiding in his escape, and the real torture began.
My hands were tied behind my back using a long rope that was then swung over the ceiling beam and pulled up until my arms were fully stretched and felt as if they were about to be torn from my shoulder sockets, and my toes only just touched the floor. Seemingly in minutes the pain began. If I relaxed my legs by lifting my toes from the floor my arms attempted to pop out of their sockets; if I maintained the position where my toes balanced my body keeping it steady, the pain in my legs, particularly the one that had been broken, became excruciating. I was kept like this for hours at a time, and when I was eventually taken down I would be given a severe beating.
They accused me of being on the escape committee and demanded to know the names of the other men on it. I admitted to forgetting to report Joe Bellows’ absence, but vehemently denied the rest. In fact, I knew the name of one of the men involved, as Jimmy had been asked by Doug Waterman to join the committee but had refused. At the time it became another one of his decisions I was hard put to understand. They’d loosen the rope and say, ‘You give names now!’ I’d shake my head and deny I knew anything, upon which they’d yank the rope tight leaving me dangling and screaming in agony. This would go on for two or three hours at a time. After a week, when I frequently begged them to kill me, I was interrogated one last time, this time by Dinh himself, and then dragged back to the ghetto by two guards with Dinh accompanying us. I was made to stand in front of our compound, which had been assembled for the purpose of hearing me confess to wantonly destroying the people’s property.
I did so, stuttering like a gibbering fool, unable to control my mouth, or the tears that ran down my cheeks, or the shaking as if I was experiencing a high fever.
When I’d finished Dinh held up his hand and then dismissed the prison guards and started to talk. ‘The prisoner has seen the error of his ways and you have heard him confess to destroying the people’s property.’ He paused, then continued. ‘We are not a vengeful people, and I tell you all that the prisoner is now back inside the Lenient Policy.’
There was a sudden murmur from the crowd and Dinh must have taken this as approval for this act of forgiveness, because he was smiling. But the sudden sound had come from Jimmy, pushing his way through the mob. He emerged in front of Dinh and walked directly up to him, halting so close to the little Chinaman that Dinh was forced to take a step backwards. ‘Muth’fucker!’ he said. Dinh reached for his revolver but then hesitated – Jimmy was too close, and would have killed him before he’d got the weapon halfway out of its holster. Jimmy turned and walked up to me and picked me up, allowing Dinh plenty of time to shoot him. Then he turned back towards the officer, now carrying me cradled in his arms. ‘Shoot, you muth’fucker!’ he repeated. I could hear him softly weeping. The crowd surged forward and Dinh, realising he was about to be mobbed, put his hand up and the crowd hesitated momentarily. ‘This is a very brave man,’ he shouted to the crowd. ‘It is also a fortunate man who has such a friend – he will not be punished!’ Dinh must have been a brave man himself, and also a resourceful one, because he had just averted his own death by keeping his cool.
Jimmy put me straight to bed and nursed me, spending every moment he was allowed at my side. I was black and blue and couldn’t use my arms, so he had to feed me my morning bowl of millet. My mouth had become infected and I couldn’t talk or eat properly. On the third day I felt a little better and was able to rise from my pallet and make the confession that had plagued my mind since leaving the prison.
‘Jimmy, I have something to say,’ I began.
‘Brother Fish, yoh rest now. Talk later.’
I shook my head. ‘No, I have something I have to tell you.’
‘Okay, fire,’ he said, trying to sound cheerful.
I explained that I’d tried to hold out and I’d never given them Doug’s name. They still wouldn’t let up even though, in the end, I think they believed that I had nothing to do with the escape committee and didn’t know who they were. Eventually the pain got so bad I thought I was going to die. Then, when they realised I didn’t care, they made a deal – no more torture if I turned informer. I started to weep. ‘I agreed,’ I stammered.
Jimmy grinned. ‘It don’t matter, Brother Fish, yoh safe now,’ he said, attempting to comfort me.
I shook my head vigorously. ‘No, no! You don’t understand, mate. I couldn’t go through that again. From time to time they’re gunna haul me up and grill me for information and they’ll threaten to take me back to the torture cell, and I can’t trust myself not to tell them all I know!’
‘Well, we lost our jobs, man! I’s
no longer squad leader and yoh no longer mon-it-or, so we know nothin’ – no way, eh, Brother Fish?’
But this wasn’t good enough to comfort me. ‘Jimmy, you’ve got to promise to tell me nothing and pass the word to the other blokes, they mustn’t tell me anything!’
He nodded quietly. ‘I got it.’
Jimmy and I were not the only ones to lose our positions – almost all the squad officers and Daily Life Committee members were being carted off for interrogation, where they were made to confess their unsuitability for the job and dismissed. Doug Waterman reported the same was true for the Ulster mob. They’d returned, having been dismissed from their previous positions. Soon enough a pattern formed – for a couple of weeks the political officers at the indoctrination sessions raved on about the ‘reactionaries’, heaping more and more scorn on us, while at the same time they spoke of the good sense of the ‘progressives’. Pretty soon all the committee members, squad leaders and monitors were progressives who started having separate meetings where they were given extra rations.
Jimmy laughed. ‘I hope dem progressive cats don’t think dat chow gonna be for free,’ he said.
It didn’t take long before the Central Committee started producing documents criticising American aggression. Nor were the Brits spared – I recall one such document was headed ‘Britain: Running Dog of the American Imperialists’, which got a big mention in The
Daily Worker of my previous downfall. But the big news item that consistently appeared in the newspaper was the Chinese insistence, backed by dozens of affidavits from converts and progressives, that as the committee was democratically elected it spoke for all the prisoners. There are always people who are prepared to believe this kind of propaganda, and there was no one who could refute this blatant codswallop by telling the outside world things were not quite the way they appeared in the columns of the pro-communist newspaper.
Things began to hot up, but it was the ‘Petition for the Cessation of Hostilities’ that really caused the proverbial to hit the fan. It accused the United States of making unreasonable demands at the peace talks and unnecessarily prolonging the war. The Chinese were running out of time and they needed us to sign. The political officers emphasised at each indoctrination meeting that failure to sign was tantamount to the betrayal of true democracy and deserved no leniency. Attempts to argue with prisoners who refused to sign ceased, and they were labelled reactionaries and severely punished. This reached the stage where it was pointless not to sign. So some bright spark – I wish it had been me – signed his name and then added ‘Mickey Mouse’ beside it. This sparked a process where the document was filled with names such as the Lone Ranger, Donald Duck, Goofy, Horace Horse, Snow White, Uncle Sam, Abraham Lincoln, Joe Louis, Superman and the like, which rendered it useless for propaganda purposes. It became a small win for the side of the reactionaries.
But it was to be the only bright spot in my life for some time to come. Shortly after the abortive document, we were required to attend another gathering on the main parade ground. This time I arrived alone, as Jimmy had been in one work party and I in another. It was obvious the Chinese regarded this parade as important as the commandant was present, perched on the stage directly below the big picture of Chairman Mao, which was fixed in a wooden frame to the main administration building. We waited for him to front the microphone and begin one of his diatribes. Then I noticed the bricks in place under the microphone that made it much too high for the tiny commandant. He remained seated then finally turned in the direction of the wooden step leading up to the platform and nodded. To my absolute astonishment, moments later Jimmy appeared and walked, unescorted, to the microphone. Jesus, what’s going on? I thought to myself.
Jimmy paused and looked around, and for a moment I thought he’d picked me out in the crowd, but then his eyes swept on. ‘My Negro brothers,’ he began, ‘we must all unite to defeat American imperialism. Those of you who are reactionaries must look into your past. What has America given you? Let me tell you. It brought you in as slaves, and we are still slaves. The American Bill of Rights does not apply to you – you have been duped! Your brothers are in the prisons, your wives have become whores to feed your starving children! The American Negro does not have freedom, no Lenient Policy applies to us . . .’
I was too shocked to quite register what was happening. My heart was thumping in my chest and I thought I was going to throw up – my best mate, the bloke I loved the best in the world and trusted with my life, was collaborating with the enemy. Jimmy’s speech went on and on but I heard none of it after the opening few words. My entire world had been shattered, smashed to smithereens. The parade finally came to an end and I hardly know how I got back to the ghetto. But when I arrived one of the blokes said Jimmy had checked out and had asked me not to look for him. As long as I stayed a reactionary we could no longer be friends.
‘Where’d he go to?’ I asked.
‘Special compound. He’s been elected to the Central Committee,’ came the answer.
I had never felt so alone, and the following morning I was told that I was to leave the ghetto and be housed with the Commonwealth prisoners. I tried to pick up the pieces and see if they made sense. My febrile imagination soon took over and I saw all sorts of signs I hadn’t noticed before. Jimmy had been planning to betray me all along. It was obvious he’d danced with the devil. Why, I asked myself, hadn’t Lieutenant Dinh shot him when he’d broken ranks and called him a ‘muth’fucker’? Not once, but twice. The second time Dinh could easily have plugged him. The Chinaman had lost enormous face, and it was unimaginable that he wouldn’t repay the insult with death. There was only one reason: it had all been a set-up between Dinh and Jimmy. The fucking nigger was always gunna betray you! my mind screamed, forgetting all we’d been through together and the fact that I owed my very life to him. I had never had a racist thought in my life, and now the silent use of the word ‘nigger’ to describe Jimmy caused an inward pain that seemed unbearable. I thought of John Lazarou and how I’d always dismissed him as a boofhead and often sent him up. How he’d stuck with me and how he’d slipped into the weapon pit at Kapyong, sacrificing a much safer position in the rear, prepared to die alongside me simply because I was his mate. Some bloody mate! I was ashamed and mortified at my careless behaviour towards such a good bloke, and didn’t know if I really wanted to continue living. Now I was getting my comeuppance. I walked around like a zombie for days, and then I was hit with yet another terrible blow.
There was another reason the Chinese were not too concerned about having no perimeter fence and watchtowers – their network of undercover progressives. Doug Waterman had been informed on and accused of being on the escape committee and they’d dragged him off to the cells. I confess I had been so distressed and preoccupied with Jimmy’s betrayal that I hadn’t paid sufficient attention to this second catastrophe. When he returned ten days later I could barely recognise him. I had returned from the cells in pretty bad shape, but he was ten times worse. I sat beside his pallet where he lay motionless for three days, taking turns with his many friends to give him a little water. Finally on the fourth day he managed to talk, and he told me he could take no more.
‘You can do it, Dougie, we’re almost there – the peace talks are progressing. Hang in, mate, we need you!’ I begged.
‘Jacko, I’ve agreed to be an informer,’ he whispered.
‘Me too!’ I protested. ‘You don’t have to inform, the beatings aren’t too severe.’ But my heart skipped a beat. My situation had been different. I genuinely didn’t know anyone on the escape committee. I hadn’t even been absolutely sure that Doug was a member. But he probably knew everyone on it and if the Chinese hadn’t got their names from him they eventually would – nothing was more certain.
Doug lay on his bed and looked at the wall and said not a word more. We tried everything, even force-feeding him, but the food just came up again. Finally he refused water, and his eyes remained mostly closed for the next thre
e days. He had survived the death march. He had survived near-starvation, the brutality of the earlier camp and the harsh punishments that killed so many of his mates. But he couldn’t survive the shame of being an informer. The thought of the further torture to come if he didn’t inform was too much, and his spirit had finally been broken. A week after he came back from the cells I was seated beside his bed and he whispered through cracked lips that he wanted water. My heart surged, and I reached for the tin mug on the floor beside him and poured a few drops into his mouth. He opened his eyes and looked up at me. ‘I’m so ashamed,’ he said, and then he died.
We buried him the following day, and while I wept I was conscious that I was also weeping for myself. I had lost a mate who refused to betray his friends and one who had willingly done so. The day of Doug’s funeral was without any doubt the most miserable of my life. I confess that on more than one occasion during the days that followed I determined to join Doug Waterman. But I guess I didn’t have the guts to kill myself, and decided I would have to leave it to the Chinese to do it for me. I vowed that I would remain a reactionary with whatever defiance remained in me until they did the job and I was put out of my misery.
If I appear to be wallowing in self-pity then I apologise. Being an informer, I found myself utterly alone. I couldn’t talk to anyone, or they to me. Most things concerning the human soul are healed by talk, and I lived and breathed among a thousand men yet I was completely isolated. While things were hotting up, and the interrogation sessions getting more and more intense, even Dinh seemed to give up on me. This had the effect of isolating me even further – even my intellectual enemy had withdrawn from me. He would send me off to be beaten without explaining the reason. I seemed to have become impervious to pain. ‘More,’ I’d say to them. ‘Kill me now, you bastards!’ Looking back it was too bloody pathetic for words, and I still feel ashamed thinking about it.
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