I handed it to the GI standing at the middle of the gate with a rifle hung across his chest. He glanced at the card, grabbed my shoulder, and shoved me out of the compound. Near the sentry post was parked a truck whose back was under canvas. A GI beckoned me to get onto the vehicle by the ladder at its rear. Climbing up, I turned around to look at the white tents in hopes that Dajian would be following me.

"Don't look around, you motherfucker!" another GI yelled and pushed me into the back of the truck. There were only about a dozen men in it, most of whom looked unfamiliar to me. I grew more anxious. If only I had given Dajian an eye signal just now! I felt awful for having left him in the lurch.

About ten minutes later the truck rolled away toward a new compound, number 602, where all the would-be repatriates were assembled. Later I heard from a fellow who had joined us in the afternoon that after Dajian returned to my former company, he kept asking others, "Where's Feng Yan? Did you see him?" They all shook their heads. For hours he wept quietly alone. What had happened that morning was that before entering a screening tent, he was sandwiched between two pro-Nationalists, who told him I had just made "the wise choice." So Dajian declared to the arbiters that he would go to Taiwan too.

11. COMPOUND 602

As we were approaching Compound 602, which was just a few minutes' drive from Compound 72, I saw a piece of reddish cloth dangling atop a bamboo pole. Coming closer, I recognized it as our national flag, self-made and with five golden stars on it. The sight of the flag excited us, and we realized this place must be controlled by the Communists.

More than four thousand men had already been here for days, all determined to return to our homeland. This meant we had come back to the ranks of our comrades. Indeed, this place differed greatly from Compound 72. All the tents were the same size and we shared the same mess. Most men looked cheerful and congenial, ready to help others. Later I heard that this place was nicknamed the Mainland Compound and that such an establishment had been achieved only through an arduous struggle. Many of these men had demonstrated and written letters, demanding that they be separated from the non-repatriates. They sent delegates to negotiate with the prison authorities and the pro-Nationalist representatives for three days to little avail. Finally two Swiss from the Red Cross stepped in and mediated a settlement, and thus the Chinese POWs were separated according to our different destinations.

Out of the eight thousand men in Compound 72, only about seven hundred made it here. The rest of them all remained in the old barracks, eagerly waiting to board the ships sent over by Taiwan, as they had been told. But that was a lie or an illusion. No ship whatsoever had come to fetch them.

On the day of my arrival at Compound 602, I was delighted to run into Chang Ming, the editor of our former division's bulletin who had met me regularly across the barbed wire. He and I hugged and broke into tears. He gave me a pack of Korean cigarettes, whose brand I couldn't make out but there were two dolphins printed below some red words. He said we might not be here for long; the Americans hadn't even bothered to organize us into units and everything had been left in our own hands. This state of affairs indicated that the compound must be temporary.

"Where did you hear this?" I asked him, taking a short drag on my cigarette.

"It's just my observation."

"Boy, you're sharp."

He seemed much more experienced and hardened than before, yet his thick lips and broad eyes still betrayed a lot of innocence and good nature. Like an editor, he carried a stout fountain pen in his breast pocket. I asked him how he had managed to keep that. He grinned, and said actually he could not use it for lack of ink. He invited me to join him in his tent, saying that before all the men were put into different units, we had better stay together. I was happy to do that. We two walked to the third tent in the first row of the barracks, in which I was given a mat spread below an opening that served as a window. The air in there smelled grassy – the tent must have been pitched recently. I put down my blanket roll, pleased with the daylight I could use when staying indoors. Ming left for a meeting as soon as I settled down. He must have assumed some kind of leadership in this compound.

That same afternoon I bumped into Hao Chaolin, who didn't greet me enthusiastically. He told me that he had been busy helping Commissar Pei organize the comrades here. Perhaps because he had held a much higher rank than mine in our former division, he was reluctant to be too convivial with me. In any case, I was glad to hear that Commissar Pei was also here and had taken the leadership. I wondered why the Americans had let him join us. This was like releasing a dragon into its native water. What a blunder.

On the other hand, I was saddened to see that there were many more wounded men in the new compound than in the other ones, men missing an arm, men wearing eyeshades to cover their empty eye sockets, men who had lost their hair, ears, and noses to napalm, men who had gone deaf and had to communicate by signs, and men without legs who moved around with the help of crutches and with thick wooden sticks affixed to their stumps. The thought came to me that no country would want these men, who were mere war trash and had no choice but to go back to China, where they still had their families. They had to follow the Communists home.

Dinner was the same stuff, boiled barley and soy sauce soup, but people were equal here and even friendly. There was no fighting over food, and officers didn't get special meals. That evening I went to see Commissar Pei in the tent that served as the headquarters of the compound. Many people lounged on the grass outside that tent, smoking and chatting. They looked relaxed and hopeful, as if we were to depart for home within a few days. This was another reason I wanted to see the commissar, to find out when we could head home. Inside the tent a meeting was in full swing, so a guard stopped me at the entrance, but he announced me without delay.

A minute later Pei came out with measured steps. "Aha, Yu Yuan, we meet again," he said, stretching out his hand, which I held with both of mine. His palm was still smooth and soft as in the old days.

"When can we go home, Commissar Pei?" I asked.

"Can't wait anymore?" A smiling twinkle appeared in his eyes.

"Honestly, no. If only we could flyback!"

"We may have to remain in prison for a while. But don't worry. Here we're among our comrades, and you won't suffer again like in Compound 72."

I pulled up the front of my shirt and showed him the tattoo. " Commissar Pei, do you think I can get rid of this?"

Observing the words, he said, "I heard you were tattooed, but I didn't know it was in English. I know what 'Communism' means, but what's the meaning of the other word?"

"Screw."

He tipped his head back and laughed. "Don't worry. Perhaps you shouldn't have it removed now. Let me think about this, all right?"

"Sure. It really bothers me."

"I understand. But it won't do you any harm for the time being."

He couldn't stay with me for long because of the meeting, so I took my leave and promised to come to see him again. Before I turned back, I glimpsed the scene inside the tent through the flaps spread by his hands. Most of the faces in there looked familiar; they must have been some of the Communists who had served in our former division. Obviously Pei was in firm control here. Officially he held no position whatsoever in this compound, whose chief was Zhao Teng, a rugged, popular man, who had once been a company commander in the 540th Regiment; but it was clear to most that Zhao was just a front man for Commissar Pei. Hao Chaolin was the vice chief of the compound and actually had more say in most matters than Zhao Teng. Probably due to the temporary nature of this compound, the Americans had just appointed the few top leaders and let them organize the prisoners here. Our captors seemed too understaffed to worry about this sort of thing.