"The East Is Red," and some other Chinese revolutionary songs, which Dongmei must have taught them. They also chorused Korean folk songs, whose names and words I couldn't know. I liked those songs best. Contrary to the strident fighting airs, the folk songs sounded gentle and nostalgic, at times almost angelic. One morning I caught sight of two toddlers, a boy and a girl, playing with tin cans and wooden sticks in the women's compound. They looked dirty and wore rags, but they laughed and ran about nimbly. With their mothers jailed here, they too had become POWs.

Not far away from our compound was the First Closure's admission center, where the prisoners were registered and processed. In front of that hut there were dozens of corpses stacked together like firewood. I wondered why the Americans didn't immediately get rid of those nameless bodies, which gave out a fetid odor – made even worse as it combined with the smell of the open-air public latrine. The latrine was fenced with a tarpaulin wall and had four hundred pits in it.

One afternoon as I was limping along the fence, I saw a tall man in the adjacent compound whose large, bony body and shoulders, viewed from the side, looked familiar. He was smoking beyond the four rows of barbed wire. I walked over. His hair was disheveled and his face emaciated, marred by a curved scar; his right forearm was bandaged. My heart began kicking as I recognized him – Commissar Pei!

He turned to face me. His eyes brightened, but he didn't say a word, just smiled. Quietly I stopped before him and said, "How are you, Commi – "

"Shh, I'm Wei Hailong now and used to be a cook. Call me Old Wei."

"Sure, I'll do that in front of others." I had to raise my voice a little because we were about fifteen feet apart.

"Always say you didn't know me until we met here," he said.

"I'll remember that. My name is Feng Yan now. I told them I was a secretary in an infantry company."

"Good."

While we were talking, we both kept glancing right and left to make sure we were alone. He had been captured a month ago, together with the only three men left with him. To date his identity hadn't been disclosed, though he jokingly said this was just temporary. He was certain somebody would betray him soon, because there were so many prisoners who had seen him as their commissar. I reported to him on my situation. To my surprise, he had heard of my association with Dr. Greene and encouraged me to get along with her so as to obtain information on the outside world. I told him about the Panmunjom talks, of which he had also learned. Though in disguise, he was apparently still a leader here, well informed and full of plans. He wanted me to remain loyal to our country and to pass on to him any news I heard.

To me his words were orders, so I became more at ease during my later meetings with Dr. Greene. I gave some of the paper she had left with me to Commissar Pei, which he needed badly.

About half a month later, Dr. Greene found a lump in my thigh. She felt it with her fingertips for a long while, then told me, "It looks like I should give you another operation."

My heart trembled. "Do you have to?"

"Yes. But it'll be a small procedure."

She let me feel the lump in the back of my left thigh. True enough, it was hard and as large as an egg. She said, "I was worried that the muscle damage was so massive that some extravasated blood might form a lump. At the last operation I cleaned everything, but even so, a lump has now grown inside. If we don't get rid of it in time, it may develop into a tumor. I don't want to leave it to chance."

Knowing that another doctor might not be so willing to help me, I said, "I'll follow your decision."

The morning after the next I had the surgery. And because I lay prone on the table this time, Dr. Greene assigned a male nurse to hold my chin so that I wouldn't suffocate. This time Dr. Thomas again assisted her. He seemed more skilled than before; perhaps I had that impression because I no longer hated him. I didn't wear an ether mask, so I remained conscious the whole time. While Dr. Thomas was giving me stitches, Dr. Greene replaced the nurse and held my chin until the entire procedure was over.

The operation was a complete success. From then on I could walk steadily, though I still needed a crutch for the time being. Whenever Dr. Greene came to check my condition and hand in her homework, I would ask her whether there was new progress in the Panmunjom negotiations, which we knew had run into difficulties. Then I would pass any new information on to Commissar Pei the following afternoon.

Three days after the Spring Festival of 1952, Dr. Greene came into our tent and said gloomily that there would be a group of patients going to Koje Island soon, and that I was on the list. So was my friend Wanlin. She took out a sheet of paper and told me, "I wrote a doctor's note for you. It says you shouldn't do any heavy work at least for half a year. If they want you to work, you can show them this."

I took the note but was nonplussed. All I could bring out was "Dr. Greene, I will remember you for the rest of my life. Thank you for saving my leg!"

"That's a doctor's job." She smiled and went on, "You can keep the pen as a souvenir. Maybe someday I'll go to China to take calligraphy lessons from you again."

I must have looked teary, because she said with genuine feeling, "Don't be upset. We'll meet again. All my friends and former classmates are still in China. They're waiting for me to go back."

She pulled out a large manila envelope and handed it to me. She said, "Remember to give this to the doctor in the camp."

The envelope contained my medical records and x-rays. In a way I wanted to leave the hospital, because I could move around quite well now. Also, our ward had grown spooky lately. A week ago a legless man, a Korean officer, had hanged himself on a tent pole. I couldn't imagine that he could have done that alone – some of his comrades must have given him a hand.

Dr. Greene stood up to leave. As she walked out, both Wanlin and I went to the door and watched her moving away with slightly lurching steps. We shouted, "Thank you, Dr. Greene! We'll remember you. Good-bye."

She turned around and waved at us, then proceeded with her ward rounds. In no time she disappeared beyond the gate guarded by two South Koreans. It was snowing, the wind whistling and howling by turns. Fat snowflakes were fluttering down like swarms of moths.

"I'll miss her," Wanlin said to me and grimaced in an effort to smile.

5. COMPOUND 72 ON KOJEISLAND

Koje Island lies southwest of Pusan, about twenty-five miles across the sea. In ancient times, it was a place to which criminals and exiles were banished. During the Second World War the Japanese had incarcerated American POWs there. Now the expanded prison site had become the central camp that held the majority of Korean and Chinese captives. On our way to the Pusan dock, I grew more anxious about the trip. Although I was going to join thousands of my countrymen, among whom I might feel less vulnerable, life in that camp would undoubtedly be much harsher than that in the hospital. I was agitated by the thought that the prison officers might ignore Dr. Greene's letter and subject me to hard labor that could reinjure my femur.

Together with over two hundred prisoners, I was herded into a U.S. landing ship, whose coverless interior reminded me of a railroad cargo wagon. Above our heads stretched many horizontal steel bars that would support canvas if it rained. The ship, designed for transporting vehicles and tanks, was too lightly loaded, and as it plowed through the ocean it shuddered without stopping. Some prisoners unbuttoned their jackets and even took off their shoes to sun themselves. The guards didn't bother to interfere. I dozed all the way, leaning against a hot, sweating wall.