The Flag

I started moving slowly down the hollow and headed toward the straw house. I had absolutely no feeling in my legs. After taking only a couple of steps, I fell. I attempted to get to my feet, but I couldn’t, so I rolled and slid the rest of the way down the hillside. Once I reached the bottom, I struggled to get back on my feet. Finally, after much exertion, I succeeded.

Unsure whether or not I could trust the inhabitants of the straw house, I stood in the yard staring at the door. Several minutes later the door opened and an elderly couple came out. They walked toward me, looked me over carefully, and then smiled. The old man tugged at his right earlobe. As they got closer, they smiled again and then turned onto a path and headed up the valley.

Assuming that the old man had given me the correct pre-arranged signal, I thought that all of the inhabitants of the house were with the underground. I wobbled over to the door and knocked. A middle-aged woman opened the door and let me in.

As I shuffled into the house, I saw a concrete structure where a fire was burning. The woman stared at my swollen, discolored hands and face and shook her head in disbelief. She quickly filled an aluminum washbasin with hot coals and placed it on a bed board near the concrete structure. I held my hands over the hot coals. All the while, her little boy watched me. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. I tried to give the woman and her child articles (fountain pen, watch, needles, thread, etc.) from my Escape and Evasion kit, but she refused them. Neither would she let the child touch anything I offered. She seemed extremely upset over the articles.

Although the woman showed only kindness at first, within a short time her terror of the communists overcame her Christian charity. While I was occupied warming myself and trying to make friends with her small boy, she slipped out of the house. It was perhaps five or ten minutes before I sensed her absence. I quickly realized that I had made a terrible mistake in trusting her. I was about to leave the house and head for the woods. Just as I reached the door, it flew open and the women and eight local Korean militiamen dressed in blue cotton padded uniforms rushed into the house.

I reached for my .45 pistol, but they grabbed my arms and forced them up behind my back. They relieved me of the pistol, my E & E kit, and then they searched me. They just glared at me as they examined the contents of the E & E kit. I tried to get them to read the blood chit, and one of them read aloud the Korean writing on it, after which they all laughed about it.

A few minutes later eight more militiamen arrived, and my .45 pistol was given to one of the newcomers who, by his actions and air of authority, appeared to be their leader. He, too, took the blood chit and read it aloud; then he and his comrades laughed hysterically. (In brief, the blood chit stated that I was a United Nations airman, and the United States Government would pay a reward to anyone who helped me get back to my unit so that I might continue my fight against communist aggression).

I stood there filled with deathly fear while my captors kept up a constant chatter. I was still weak from my long exposure to the bitter cold; I was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, so my comprehension of what was happening to me was beyond my scope at that moment. It all seemed like a hellish nightmare.

Just then another militiaman entered the house carrying a large strand of rope. He came to me and started to tie my hands behind my back, but his leader motioned him away. Instead, they grasped my arms and led me out of the straw house.

Sam rushed to our cell, berated me for my recalcitrant behavior, and ordered me to move my bed board from under the window. I refused to obey, so he moved it himself and then left.

When I heard the bolt slide on the door, I moved the board back under the window. The guard, whose lack of brains was always quite obvious, peeped in again and saw what I had done. When he started screaming at me, I gave him the finger again and told him to go to hell.

He did what I expected: he went for Sam again. Sam came, chewed me out, moved the board, and left to do his normal duty of letting prisoners out of their cells to fetch their wash water from the water barrel. While he was thus engaged, I moved my board back under the window. Then, when he came to let Schmidt and me out to get our water, he moved it away from the outside wall again.

It was silly, but so aggravating to them, that I could not help but pursue the "battle of wills" to its conclusion, whatever that might be. So, after I returned to the cell, brushed my teeth, and washed my face and hands, I put the board back in its original position under the window.

Sam came in to check on me again, found the board under the window, and tried to move it. I stood in his way and wouldn’t let him. He started yelling, whether for help or out of frustration, I never knew. I suddenly had the urge to urinate, so I went to the honey bucket to do so. While I was there, Sam moved the board again. As soon as I finished, I moved it back under the window.

Sam was totally exasperated; and, although I was getting tired of the stupid game, I was determined to resist being pushed around. He clenched and unclenched his fists and rushed from the cell. Ten minutes later he returned and was followed by Babyface, the "little wheel." They ordered me to move the board, and I refused to do it. Then they threatened me with handcuffs.

I shrugged my shoulders, extended my arms, and said, "Go ahead. I don’t care."

Sam removed a pair of shiny new cuffs from his back pocket and was about to clamp them on when Babyface stopped him and said something in Mandarin. Sam put the shiny cuffs back and pulled out a dirty, rusty pair of wrist clamps. The mere sight of that tortuous device brought back many painful memories.

I pulled my hands back and said, "Oh no you don’t. You can put the cuffs on me, but not those rusty clamps."

They both grabbed me and tried to force the clamps on me, but I jerked free. I shoved them away and backed into a corner. They came after me and yelled for reinforcements while they chased me around the cell.

The guard heard their call for help, sounded the alarm, and then came rushing into our cell. Schmidt, who to this point had watched the episode with a big grin on his face, jumped from his board and, clutching his sore right side with his right hand, intercepted and grabbed the guard with his free hand. He managed to twist the guard’s arm behind his back and force him against the wall, thus putting him out of action.

"Damn, Kiba," Schmidt said. "Look what you’ve gotten us into now."

About that time seven or eight more angry, gung-ho Redchink goons piled into our cell and headed for me.

"We’re kind of outnumbered, Schmidt," I said.