Compound 72 that I started to smoke. Initially, after a few puffs I felt woozy, but two packs later I began to enjoy smoking, though it aggravated my coughing. In the daytime our small tent was full of hubbub, so I sat outside whenever it was possible. These men unnerved me and I grew more withdrawn. How I wished Wanlin were here.
The men in the large tents were no better. They too gambled, with even more clamor and fierce squabbles. Some of them had lost everything they had, even their caps, shoes, and underwear. I wasn't sure who had provided them with mah-jongg, perhaps the prison authorities, or perhaps Father Hu, who preached here on Sundays. The gamblers had made card tables themselves, which were just slapdash pieces of carpentry. Without work and with too much free time, the prisoners simply had no other outlet for their energy and distress. The gambling had reduced some of them to insolent louts. Fights broke out time and again. How idleness could foster vices and bring out the worst in a man! If only they had been put to hard labor. Then at least they would have been too tired to behave aggressively.
Another thing upset me: the prisoners often fought over food in the mess lines. The men living in the large tents would eat before those of us from the small tents. The rule was that the daily ration for every prisoner should be 1.15 pounds of grain, but the leaders at all levels in the compound would take the lion's share first. For example, the regimental chief, Han Shu, a fluent English speaker who had been a platoon leader in the Communist army and had capitulated to the Americans without firing a single shot, would eat four dishes and soup at every meal, prepared by his personal cook, who had been seized from a fishing boat on the Yellow Sea. All the company and battalion leaders enjoyed special mess too. As a result, the prisoners who wanted to be repatriated to China could have, at most, half rations. Many men would hurl abuse randomly at the mess lines and wouldn't think twice about using brute force on others. I noticed that the illiterate ones among us were particularly quick-tempered at mealtimes. For a bowl of boiled barley, some of them wouldn't hesitate to knock a tooth out of another man's mouth or to give him a bloody nose. Every day there were at least two fights; sometimes half a dozen. Once the North Korean prisoners in the compound across the front road went on a hunger strike; the Americans left barrels of food at their front gate, but nobody would come out to pick up the rice and stewed radish. Then the camp's executive officer, Captain Lennon, came to ask us to show the Koreans how good this meal tasted. Shamelessly, two hundred Chinese POWs flocked there, gorging themselves on the lunch, grinning and grunting like animals. I often wondered if some of these men would kill their siblings just for a ladle of boiled soybeans.
I still remember a fight I witnessed one day. At dinner, two men before me in the waiting line suddenly started yelling at each other. "You're behind me!" said a squat man with a Cantonese accent, baring his broad teeth.
"No, I'm in front of you," countered a tall fellow.
"Don't butt in again!"
"Damn it, when did I do that?"
"Right now!"
"Fuck off, okay?" The tall man poked the other in the chest with his fist.
"If you touch me again I'll kill you!"
"So." He poked him once more.
The short fellow lunged forward with his bowl raised in the air to hit the other man's skull. A few men stepped out of the line, restrained him, and pulled him away.
The scene saddened me. Why had they been so pugnacious? There was enough barley for everyone to have half a bowl, and they were not busy and had time to wait. Why did they act like such hoodlums? In private I shared my dismay with a fellow in my platoon, Bai Dajian, and he explained that they had feared the battalion chief, Liu Tai-an, would show up and ruin the meal, so they had wanted to reach the food barrels as quickly as
The men in the large tents were no better. They too gambled, with even more clamor and fierce squabbles. Some of them had lost everything they had, even their caps, shoes, and underwear. I wasn't sure who had provided them with mah-jongg, perhaps the prison authorities, or perhaps Father Hu, who preached here on Sundays. The gamblers had made card tables themselves, which were just slapdash pieces of carpentry. Without work and with too much free time, the prisoners simply had no other outlet for their energy and distress. The gambling had reduced some of them to insolent louts. Fights broke out time and again. How idleness could foster vices and bring out the worst in a man! If only they had been put to hard labor. Then at least they would have been too tired to behave aggressively.
Another thing upset me: the prisoners often fought over food in the mess lines. The men living in the large tents would eat before those of us from the small tents. The rule was that the daily ration for every prisoner should be 1.15 pounds of grain, but the leaders at all levels in the compound would take the lion's share first. For example, the regimental chief, Han Shu, a fluent English speaker who had been a platoon leader in the Communist army and had capitulated to the Americans without firing a single shot, would eat four dishes and soup at every meal, prepared by his personal cook, who had been seized from a fishing boat on the Yellow Sea. All the company and battalion leaders enjoyed special mess too. As a result, the prisoners who wanted to be repatriated to China could have, at most, half rations. Many men would hurl abuse randomly at the mess lines and wouldn't think twice about using brute force on others. I noticed that the illiterate ones among us were particularly quick-tempered at mealtimes. For a bowl of boiled barley, some of them wouldn't hesitate to knock a tooth out of another man's mouth or to give him a bloody nose. Every day there were at least two fights; sometimes half a dozen. Once the North Korean prisoners in the compound across the front road went on a hunger strike; the Americans left barrels of food at their front gate, but nobody would come out to pick up the rice and stewed radish. Then the camp's executive officer, Captain Lennon, came to ask us to show the Koreans how good this meal tasted. Shamelessly, two hundred Chinese POWs flocked there, gorging themselves on the lunch, grinning and grunting like animals. I often wondered if some of these men would kill their siblings just for a ladle of boiled soybeans.
I still remember a fight I witnessed one day. At dinner, two men before me in the waiting line suddenly started yelling at each other. "You're behind me!" said a squat man with a Cantonese accent, baring his broad teeth.
"No, I'm in front of you," countered a tall fellow.
"Don't butt in again!"
"Damn it, when did I do that?"
"Right now!"
"Fuck off, okay?" The tall man poked the other in the chest with his fist.
"If you touch me again I'll kill you!"
"So." He poked him once more.
The short fellow lunged forward with his bowl raised in the air to hit the other man's skull. A few men stepped out of the line, restrained him, and pulled him away.
The scene saddened me. Why had they been so pugnacious? There was enough barley for everyone to have half a bowl, and they were not busy and had time to wait. Why did they act like such hoodlums? In private I shared my dismay with a fellow in my platoon, Bai Dajian, and he explained that they had feared the battalion chief, Liu Tai-an, would show up and ruin the meal, so they had wanted to reach the food barrels as quickly as
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