“That’s why I should go into combat,” Wu replied defiantly. “Our nation needs its best and brightest in the lead.”
“And that, of course, means you!” Han snapped, barely managing to contain his anger. “You’re a…!” Han began, but he bit off the words and forced his mouth closed. He turned to take in the views of Hell beneath them. “What did they teach you in military school, Wu?” The father’s and son’s eyes now both roamed the battlefield. “Have you been initiated into the cult of death like the others? Is this the glorious ‘victory’ to which you aspire?”
“You’re being defeatist,” Wu mumbled, casting a dangerous criminal charge at his father in a halfhearted tone.
The two glared at each other in open hostility until they were interrupted. Wu’s civilian aide clawed his way on all fours over the mounds of freshly churned earth then brushed the dirt from his manicured hands. “Excuse me, Administrator Han — Lieutenant Han Wushi — but there is a delegation of American civilians from a nearby town that would like to speak to you.” He nodded down the reverse slope toward the dirt road on which Han’s motorcade was parked. Three Americans stood amid twice as many armed soldiers.
Han, still seething at his son’s arrogant accusation, retraced their route down the hill without saying a word. Wu and Han’s aide followed. Han shook hands with the three Americans, who stood amid the half-dozen muzzles. Han waved the soldiers away.
“I’m the mayor of Augusta,” an elderly woman said. Han smiled and said he was pleased to make her acquaintance and that he looked forward to working with… “Your army is massacring my people,” she interrupted. “Innocent civilians. They’re being rounded up and sent to a concentration camp.”
Han’s mood changed abruptly from gracious to angry. “Where?” was all he asked. They gave directions, but Han had them point out the place on his aide’s map. The man nodded to Han when he had what he needed, and Han ordered his entourage to board their two armored scout cars, which sandwiched Han’s limousine and communications van. Han’s aide held the limo’s door open, and Han got inside. Wu stood on the road wearing a defiant expression. “Get in,” Han ordered his son.
After an hour’s ride in total silence, Han and Wu passed through a barbed-wire enclosure. To both sides of the asphalt road, American POWs sat or lay in open pens. Many, if not most, were grievously wounded. Pitiful soldiers held their arms out and shouted pleas for food, water, medicine. Wu seemed struck by their sight. In his short life, he had seen war only in censored newsreels.
The camp commandant greeted Han at the steps of his air-conditioned trailer. Wu saluted the colonel, who didn’t bother to return the martial salutation but instead shook the young lieutenant’s hand. He had obviously been forewarned of their arrival and knew exactly who Wu was. He ushered Han and Wu inside and seated them on a comfortable sofa. Soldiers served them hot tea, sweets, and salted meats. Han ate mainly to rid his mouth of the taste of death from the Savannah River. Wu picked at the food and glanced repeatedly at his watch.
“We’ve heard reports,” Han said to the camp commandant, “of civilian disappearances from the town of Augusta, Georgia.”
The colonel seemed surprised. “That’s in my district, but I’ve heard nothing about any disappearances. I can’t imagine, really, that anyone would know because our census hasn’t even begun. It’s probably just people who’ve ignored our orders and left their homes in search of a way across the lines.”
Han smiled and nodded as if satisfied by the answer.
Wu looked back and forth between the two men. “Well, that’s not what we just heard,” he said in an insolent tone. “They had very specific reports of people who had been taken from their homes by our troops.”
“Who is ‘they’?” the colonel asked pleasantly, reaching for a pad and pen.
Wu’s eyes narrowed and he kept his mouth shut.
Good, Han noted as he took a last sip of his tea and rose. “Thank you, Colonel. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” They shook hands again. “It looks like you’ve got quite a few POWs to contend with.”
“What a wonderful victory, wasn’t it?” the commandant said. He turned to Wu. “Maybe one day you can return to your alma mater and teach a course on how we won the great Battle of the Savannah River!” The colonel laughed and raised his hand to shake Wu’s.
Wu stared at the man, ignoring the proffered hand.
Han took it all in and then thanked the colonel again. They left the cool trailer for the increasingly hot morning sun. Han could detect the faint smell of death in the air, and he checked to ensure that Wu smelled it too. He did, the boy’s glance told his father. Several hundred yards away, a gathering of American soldiers was pleading for something. Stoic camp guards on the opposite side of thin wire made no reply but held their weapons up and at the ready.
Han and Wu got into Han’s limousine and followed the pointed directions of a guard who trotted ahead of the lead vehicle. His hand signals directed them to go to the next intersection and turn right. Han picked up the phone and ordered the motorcade commander to turn left, instead. The four-vehicle procession thus began wandering seemingly randomly among the POW enclosures and makeshift barracks, but Han directed each turn. Wu split his time between looking out the windows and watching his father. American POWs gently slid a body wrapped in bloody bandages under the wire. Chinese guards wearing paper masks tossed the corpse into the back of a truck.
A short while later, Han said, “Stop the car,” on an empty stretch of road. American POWs surrounded by soldiers wearing cotton masks dug with shovels in an empty field. Han got out and beckoned the sullen Wu to follow. A dozen trucks were parked bumper to bumper along the side of the field. Their drivers tossed cigarettes onto the ground and wandered off, fleeing the civilians in expensive suits.
Wu winced and covered his mouth and nose. Han’s aide — who had been with Han through a decade of similar visits — turned up the corners of his lips in amusement. Wu noticed and forced his hand to his side, and he followed his father to the back of an army truck. Its green fenders and canvas looked brown under the thick coat of dust. At the tailgate, Han threw back the canvas.
Wu recoiled in utter disgust. Flies boiled above stacks of half-clothed bodies, which lay pale and bullet-riddled. They were mostly men, but some were women. They were mostly adults, but some were children.
They were all, clearly, civilians.
Wu vomited, emptying his belly of the undigested sweets and tea. His father closed the canvas and escorted Wu down the road. A cordon of army guards — Han’s ever-present escort — kept a respectful distance from their charge.
“Why?” was all the pale boy could ask while half doubled over his still uncertain stomach.
“This is war, Wu!” Han said. “You’ve been lied to! Brainwashed!”
Wu spat, stood erect, and forced a hard stare at the mass grave. “Why is our army doing this?” he asked.
“Because my job is to convince the Americans to return to work,” Han explained. “They’re not working because they’re frightened. Your General Sheng is trying to keep it that way.”
“But the whole point of the war is to harness American productivity!”