War Trash (7 page)

Outside the compound fenced with barbed wire, forty yards away from the gate, stood a white-stuccoed building, two stories high, with a red-tiled roof and dormer windows. Before the war it had been a schoolhouse, and now it was occupied by the Operating Section, which the patients called the Butchery. Almost every day dead bodies were carried out of it and then stacked in front of the closure's admission center, to join those who had died en route to the hospital. I had spent four hours in that building three days before. After I was placed on a table, two doctors had talked in whispers about my leg. I couldn't understand their words completely, because I was still delirious and unfamiliar with their medical vocabulary. They sounded unsure about the procedure to come. An anesthetist injected some drug into my lower abdomen and the small of my back, and then they tied down my arms and calves. When a nurse had spread a white sheet over my belly, one of the doctors smirked, saying, "I never thought there'd be so many patients to cut when I was drafted. This definitely beats any residency."

"I guess I'll be qualified for chief surgeon after the war is over," said a tall doctor with blond eyebrows. Apparently he was in charge of the operation.

My heart shuddered as I realized they were two medical school students who probably hadn't completed their course work yet. I closed my eyes tight wondering if I should beg them to save my leg, but I decided not to talk and just endure it. Outside, a downpour lashed and blurred the windowpanes.

"Ow!" I yelled as one of them poked my wound.

"It hurts?" asked a concerned voice.

Before I could answer, the tall doctor said, "We should start."

The anesthesia hadn't taken full effect yet when they began cutting me. Bouts of pain radiated to my insides and to my neck and head. Despite gritting my teeth, I couldn't stop groaning and twisting while their instruments explored my wound.

The room turned foggy. All the objects – the intense lights, the bottles hung on a steel stand, the bluish caps on the human heads – all seemed to be floating and bobbing around. A moment later I blacked out.

When I came to, my left thigh was dressed with a wooden board tied alongside my leg and hip. "You're all set for the time being," the tall doctor said to me with a grin. "You'll keep your leg."

"Thank you," I sighed.

"You speak English?"

I shook my head and regretted having blurted that out.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" he asked again.

I didn't respond, just stared at him. With a wave of his hand he summoned two orderlies to take me away on a stretcher.

Besides the American medical staff, there were more than three dozen orderlies working in the hospital. Most of them were Chinese who had cooperated with our captors and had been assigned to work in the building, carrying patients and cleaning. As "collaborators," they probably wouldn't be going back to mainland China, where they would be held accountable for their behavior here, so they treated us according to their own moods and whims. Sometimes they even beat patients. The two orderlies who carried me back to the ward made fun of me all the way, saying I was lucky the doctors hadn't sawed off my leg.

The minute I was returned to the tent I began shivering. The doctor hadn't prescribed any painkiller for me, so I sweated and moaned throughout the night and the next morning. Thanks to the fellow inmates who gave me water to drink and even fed me some rice porridge, I survived that night. Among the ward mates there was a man from the Guards Company of our division, Ding Wanlin by name, who had suffered a bullet wound in his left side, which had almost healed. His bed was next to mine. He had recognized me, having seen me with Commissar Pei a few times, but I didn't remember him. He was considerate to me and sat at my bedside for several hours that night, wiping the sweat and tears off my face now and then. Meantime, a Korean man, wounded in the chest, raved continually and flung his hands as though quarreling with someone.

Later Ding Wanlin told me that our divisional staff had been captured by the enemy two days after they had abandoned us in the valley strewn with the stragglers, but Commander Niu had managed to flee back to North Korea with his orderly and a few officers, because a squad of guards had run in the opposite direction and drawn the enemy away.

In spite of my weak condition, I could eat. My appetite was remarkably good, perhaps kindled by the hunger I had suffered in the wilderness. At long last there was food, though we couldn't eat our fill. I was given a bowl of dry milk every morning and sometimes a can of beef or tuna for dinner. Once we were each issued a fruit compote, which I enjoyed very much. At a regular meal each patient could have one bowl of steamed rice, usually with a ladle of vegetables, salty turnip or carrots or cabbage. Sometimes a half mug of soup was added as a side dish. The standard enamel bowl the prisoners used was not small, four inches tall, six inches in diameter at its top and four inches across at its bottom. To be honest, the food was better than I had expected. I told myself I must eat to get well so that I could return home in one piece.

Wanlin and I promised each other never to disclose our true names and identities to the enemy. He was twenty-one, two years younger than me, tall and bony, with a straight nose and thin eyes. When he spoke he often burbled a little, as if he were still an adolescent whose careless innocence hindered the clarity of his speech. His smile displayed his yellow, lopsided teeth (most of us hadn't been able to brush our teeth for months, so although we had tooth powder now, our teeth still looked awful). I was grateful to him, because he often helped me relieve myself and fetched meals and water for me.

In our tent there was an emaciated man with a fractured thigh, whose name was Zhou Gushu. He was from a different division and had been captured near Wonju the previous winter. His leg was encased in plaster and had been operated on several times. He hurt terribly and was bedridden. He often cursed Dr. Thomas, the tall, blond one in charge of my case as well, and said that man meant to experiment with his leg. Gushu wept a lot, at times tearlessly. I thought that he was too much of a crybaby and that he had better have more self-control, because the tent housed more than forty Koreans who might laugh at us Chinese and view us as weaklings.

Then one day his pain was so overpowering he couldn't eat his midday meal. Wanlin went over, moved the bowl of cabbage soup closer to him, and tried to persuade him to have some. As he spoke, Wanlin caught sight of a maggot wiggling on Gushu's bed. He opened Gushu's blanket and found more maggots. He put away the bowl and went out. In no time he returned with an empty vial and two thin sticks and told Gushu to turn on his side. After collecting the maggots into the bottle, he raised the tail of Gushu's shirt and saw a swarm of the grubs gathering on his lower back, at least fifty strong. Another two patients also lent a hand in rounding up the larvae. Though they had wiped the small of Gushu's back clean, more maggots were creeping out from the top end of the plaster cast. We were all horrified – there must have been an army of them deep in there eating away at his leg.

At the demand of the other patients, two medical personnel arrived with pliers the next morning. When the cast was pried off, balls and balls of maggots appeared wriggling and crawling about. The flesh around the wound was whitish and decayed, messy with pus and blood; the maggots had even bored into the adjacent areas too, where the skin had been intact originally. I turned my head away, my guts twinging.

For the rest of the day Gushu groaned without stopping; his breathing was labored, and from time to time he would tear at his chest. He cursed Dr. Thomas relentlessly, believing the surgeon had intended to mangle his leg. Most of the patients in the tent shared his belief that he had become a guinea pig for germ experimentation.

He was taken to the Operating Section the following day. A patch of skin was peeled off from his other thigh and grafted onto the wounded one. I wondered if the young doctors here were capable of skin grafting. Maybe this was the first time they had even attempted such a job.

Gushu was carried back in the afternoon. He was given a soporific for the night, so he slept soundly. But from the next day on he couldn't stop moaning with pain. He said, "Why didn't they just finish me off? They can use my body parts any way they like once I'm dead." In fact, as I learned later on, the next year when he went through his seventh operation and his leg became numb, another American doctor insisted on amputation, but Gushu refused, saying he'd die rather than lose his leg. Eventually they did manage to save it, though he had to use crutches when walking.

His condition frightened me, because day by day my thigh was getting hotter and more painful. On the morning the bandage was removed, I saw that my wound hadn't healed at all. Actually it had festered some, though it began scabbing around the dark fringes. There must have been a lot of pus in it. Seeing the mess, I almost broke into tears. Wanlin lifted a mug of cold water to my lips. That kept me from losing my mind. Though I tried, I still couldn't move my bad leg, which felt disconnected from my body and kept shooting jolts of pain to my spine.

That afternoon I was given an x-ray. The film indicated there was another piece of shrapnel in my thigh, causing the infection. I would have to undergo another operation. On his visit the next day, Dr. Thomas told me with a boyish smirk, "If you want to save your leg, you'll have to get another cut. This shouldn't be a big job, though. The bone was set all right. I'm pleased with that."

I glared at him the whole time. Before the Chinese interpreter could translate his words, I yelled in English at the top of my lungs, "I don't want you to operate on me!"

Dr. Thomas was taken aback. "He speaks English," he said to the interpreter.

The patients in the tent were surprised too. I shouted at him again, "You're just a clumsy butcher who didn't even finish medical school."

He paused. "How can you be sure of that? Do I need to show you my diploma?" He looked quite innocent and screwed up his left eye, grinning.

"You said that last time when you were cutting me. You're just a pseudo-doctor in job training."

"Well, I'm impressed by your memory. You know what? I don't enjoy working here. I'm sick of cutting people day in and day out. These endless surgeries have ruined my spirit, not to mention my appetite. These days I hardly eat lunch. You're right – treating you guys makes me feel like a butcher."

"I don't want you to treat me."

"I'll see what I can do about that. Wait till tomorrow. You're not the one who calls the shots, you know."

I didn't say another word. He turned to the door, followed by the spindly interpreter.

The moment Dr. Thomas disappeared, the other inmates began gathering around me. "You speak English good," said a long-faced Korean man, who called himself Captain Yoon. He looked urbane and expansive; I had often seen him sitting by himself near the side entrance of the ward, thumbing through a thick book.

I was disconcerted. Now they thought of me as an officer. This might expose me to danger, and the enemy might interrogate me thoroughly. What should I do? Admit to these fellows that I studied in college? No, somebody would betray me if I told them the truth.

I managed to say in English to Captain Yoon, "I've almost forgotten my English. Just now I was angry, so some words came back to me."

"Did you go to college? Me went Seoul University, major in economics, but I joined the North Korean People's Army. I want liberate and unite my country."

"I didn't go to college," I said. "I learned some English from a missionary in my hometown."

"Good, me impressed." He gave a loud bray of laughter.

Six or seven Korean men cackled too. I wasn't sure if they understood our exchange. They must all have been loyal to the Communist army, otherwise Captain Yoon wouldn't have talked about himself so offhandedly. I had heard that the North Korean POWs were well organized in the prison camps. Some doctors and nurses at the hospital were Koreans too, captured by the U.N. forces, and the Korean Communists had penetrated many parts of the prison system. It was whispered that there was even a Kim Il Sung University established secretly in a camp.

The next day, when I was placed on the table for the second operation, I was terrified to see Dr. Thomas in the high-ceilinged room. He came over and patted me on the upper arm, smiling. "Look, Comrade Feng Yan, I may have to do the job today."

"I don't want you to touch me!" I said. "Send me back."

"Wait a minute. Let's be clear about this." The smile vanished from his face. "The other doctors have their patients to take care of, so I have to do the job."

"I don't want to be operated on today."

"Can't you see that I'm helping you, to save your leg?"

"I don't need any help from a pseudo-doctor like you."

"You Reds are hard to please."

"Send me back!" I shouted.

"Stop yelling!" jumped in a male nurse.

Another one added, "You shouldn't be insulting Dr. Thomas this way. He's doing his best for you."

I caught sight of two orderlies passing the door, so I cried at them in Chinese, "Come and help me, brothers! Rescue your compatriot!"

The American medical personnel seemed puzzled, looking at one another without a word. I saw hesitation and worry in Dr. Thomas's eyes. I yelled in Chinese again, "Help me! Take me back to my tent! Brothers, we're still comrades-in-arms! Save me please!"

But neither of the orderlies came in. Eyes closed, I went on shouting for all I was worth. By now the doctor and nurses had stepped aside. They gathered by a window and whispered something I couldn't quite hear. Then a nurse left the room.

I continued yelling and kicking my right leg, sickened by the smell of putrefaction and rubbing alcohol. Two or three minutes later the nurse returned with a doctor I hadn't met before. The new arrival came up to me and patted my forehead. I opened my eyes fully and was amazed to see a female face. She was in her late twenties, slender with gaunt features, and the insignia on her cap indicated the rank of major. Her auburn hair, short but neat, stuck out from beneath the brim of her cap. Her clear hazel eyes gazed at me kindly as a smile displayed her uneven teeth. To my astonishment, she said in excellent Mandarin, "I'm Dr. Greene. Can I take a look at your wound?" She had a slight Shanghai accent, but she spoke so spontaneously that I wondered if I had heard her right. Dumbfounded, I just stared at her. She smiled again, this time coaxingly. "Can I look at your wound?" she repeated.