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.

I nodded yes. As she bent down to examine my thigh, the other doctor and nurses also gathered around to observe. My wound was very close to my groin, so my sex was fully exposed, which made my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Wordlessly I shut my eyes tight. Her fingers were sensitive, touching and pressing my wound gently. I felt as if something cool and soothing were being applied to it, easing the pain somewhat.

After examining me, she drew herself up and said, "Your wound is very deep and was already festering when you arrived. We had to get rid of the gangrenous tissue first and wait for the inflammation to subside a little before we could take out the bone fragments and the shrapnel. I can assure you that Dr. Thomas did a good job in setting the femur last time, so today we can open the wound to remove the shrapnel and the bone fragments."

"Thank you. I was so worried," I sighed and turned to look at Dr. Thomas, who was a first lieutenant. He grinned at me like a big boy.

"I understand," she said.

After talking with Dr. Thomas briefly, she asked me with a smile, "Can I operate on you today?"

Eagerly I nodded my agreement. She ordered the nurses to give me an IV and put the ether mask on me. I felt calm in her presence, as if she had been sent over to save me. At the same time I heard some metallic clanks that were disquieting, and something warm was placed on my right leg.

Soon I lost consciousness.

I don't know how long I was out. It must have been three or four hours, because when I woke up I heard a male voice shout in the corridor, "Chow time." Then I saw beads of perspiration on the woman doctor's smooth forehead. Her large eyes observed me intently as she said, "Do you want to see what I got out of your leg?"

I nodded, so parched I couldn't utter a word. With forceps she lifted from a white enamel dish a splinter of shrapnel, black and bloody like a twisted button. She said, "It was this sucker that shattered your femur. We took out all the bone fragments too."