There was some news that might have disheartened our comrades, so I didn't translate everything. For example, it was reported that North Korean and Chinese servicemen had occasionally shot prisoners who were too weak to keep up with the other captives in their march to prison camps. Another report said that a secret investigation was under way in the People's Volunteer Army, intended to "ferret out those disguised counterrevolutionaries," the primary targets of the scrutiny being the new recruits with unclear political backgrounds and the defectors from the former Nationalist army, like myself. I didn't mention this to anyone. But I told Commissar Pei that Chairman Mao's eldest son, Mao Anying, had been killed in an air raid. Pei was stunned and couldn't speak for a long while.
"This doesn't seem like a pure accident," I hazarded. "How could the American bombers be so accurate? He was in a shelter when they went to attack."
"Don't let anyone else know of this," Pei said.
"I won't."
"Our Chairman's other son is demented. This must've been a heavy blow to the old man, who must hate the American imperialists all the more. I'm afraid we won't see the end of this war soon."
My ability to control the flow of information in Compound 602 gave me a sense of power, which, to be honest, I relished. Yet what pleased me most was the opportunity to improve my English and the access to the kind of news regular Chinese publications wouldn't carry. Each issue of the newspaper consisted of more than twenty pages and many photographs, and I read every word of it.
Soon the GIs noticed that our men were pilfering their paper, so they stopped tossing it around. Our supply of Stars and Stripes became more erratic – sometimes we got five or six copies of the same issue, but then we wouldn't have any for an entire week.
So I was assigned to chat with the guards as often as possible to collect information from them. I found that most of the Americans were quite talkative. Almost without exception they enjoyed being listened to, especially by an enemy soldier who could understand their language. Sometimes after a bout of talk they would return to the sentry post; then a few minutes later they'd stroll back to me and start talking again. They too seemed lonesome and hated this place intensely. So I often listened to them talk, and from them I gathered useful bits of news.
I wasn't the only information collector. There were numerous other sources as well. The night soil team did a remarkable job in smuggling newspapers and magazines back into the compound; they stank so repulsively that few GIs would bother searching them. Most often, the guards, holding their breath, just waved the whole group past. Every morning over a dozen inmates cleaned the latrines here, carried buckets of night soil with shoulder poles to the beach, and dumped it all into the ocean. A mild-tempered GI, Jim Baker, a stout, light-skinned Negro, escorted them back and forth; they called him Sergeant, though he was just a private. He treated them kindly and had a soft spot for flattery, which they would lavish on him. They went so far as to say that he was the most handsome black man they had ever met, and that some Chinese girls would be swept off their feet by his big smile. Even when they called him "Turtle Egg" and some other names, he didn't take offense, always smiling with his bright white teeth. He knew the meanings of those swearwords, since he had been learning Chinese from a member in the night soil squad. Besides collecting information, these latrine men also passed messages on to other compounds, especially to the Korean prisoners, who had their night soil teams too.
There was a corporal, Richard, who had deep-set blue eyes and freckles on both sides of his prominent nose. His last name was Randell or Randal, if I remember it correctly. He was on guard duty in the morning on weekdays. He looked older than most of his fellow GIs, and had a girlfriend back home. Before coming to Korea he had been a technician in a farm-tool factory in Detroit. One day, he was telling me how he and his girlfriend had camped on a lake, building a fire and frying trout and whitefish in bacon grease. I somehow could no longer control my emotions and squatted down, covering my face with both hands. I wasn't crying, I just felt miserable, and didn't want him to see my woeful face.
"It's tough, man. I know it's tough," he kept saying with some feeling.
I didn't know how intimate he had been with his girlfriend. His talk reminded me of Julan, who was more than a fiancee to me. Two days before our division left Szechuan, she had asked me to make love to her, saying she wanted to have my baby. I guessed she was afraid I might never return from the war, so a baby could become something of mine for her to keep. For a whole night we made love again and again, almost desperately; it was as though I meant to pour all of myself into her so that a part of me would remain home. With furious hunger she received me, also with hot tears and silent spasms. The next morning she broke her white jade barrette in two and gave me a half, saying with her eyes lowered, "From this day on I'm your wife. Remember, even if I'm dead, my ghost shall be with you." I promised her that I would return to her as long as I was alive. Since that day I had carried the broken jade with me. Whenever I was about to be searched, I would hide it behind my belt or in my shoe. I didn't know if Julan was pregnant, though I had written to her once and alluded to it. I dared not ask her explicitly because I was sure that the mail was monitored. There was a mailbox by the front gate of every compound, into which we dropped our letters once in a while, but nobody among us had ever heard a word from home.
Little by little I began to become friendlier with Richard. He would give me cigarillos and lemon drops. If he had a newspaper on him, he'd slip it through the barbed wire to me. He seemed quite smart, often smiling cynically. One morning he asked me, "Can you do me a favor, Feng Yan?"
"Sure, if I can." I was surprised, wondering howl, a helpless prisoner, could be of use to him.
He said with a small grin, "If this damn war heats up again, I may see action at the front. Can you help me get a safety certificate?"
"What's that?"
"You don't know?"
"I really don't."
"I've never seen one either. But I'm told it has some Chinese or Korean words on it, saying, 'Don't kill this guy, he's our friend.' Something like that."
"What's it for?"
"You Chinese shoot prisoners, you know. I heard that an officer shot more than forty U.S. POWs because he'd lost his regiment on the front. If you get me this piece of paper, I can show it to them if they catch me, and they may not kill me."
I was surprised by his candid words, but I made no comment and just promised to help. To some extent, I admired him for speaking about his fear without any shame or embarrassment, so I pulled the bottom of my shirt out of my belt and showed him the tattoo – FUCK COMMUNISM. He laughed and said, "Man, you got that right!"