At the Break of Day (35 page)

In April they watched the hills bloom with a profusion of colour which he had never dreamed could exist in this land where there seemed only harshness and poverty.

They watched from the hill as the transport became bogged down in the spring mud, they cleared out the fox-holes and cursed it. Their uniforms were wet from the rains, their skin sore from the chapping, but the war was as good as over, they would be going home soon. So they laughed and smoked, leaning on the stone-built barricades, hearing the rain on their tin hats, on their capes, and thought of England. Of its greenness, its rain, its fog, its rationing, and longed to be there.

They heard that the Gloucesters held the most exposed position on the direct approach to Seoul across the Imjin River but surely the Chinese wouldn’t come again. They were beaten. There would be peace, MacArthur had been sacked on 11 April.

But they did come again, at the end of April as green was sprinkling the rice fields and new life was beginning all around. They came with their bugles blowing and the Gloucesters saved the left flank of the UN Corps and held up the advance of the Chinese so that the line could be reformed and held. Out of a force of 622, forty-six officers and men returned.

But Jack didn’t have time to grieve, because the Chinese were storming his hill, too, and the air was rent with bugles and cymbals and screams, but Jack wasn’t screaming, he was lining up the Sten, hearing it clink against the stones of the barrier, and now he was firing it, as the first wave of Chinese rushed up the hill.

How did they move so fast, for God’s sake? He heard the gun, felt it judder, concentrated on that, not the bugles, nor the cymbals. He just fired, while Bert fed in the ammunition and threw water on the barrel to cool it as the night wore on, and there was no sense of surprise any more. He was getting used to all this.

He saw four Shooting Stars scream into the valley and bombard the enemy with rockets and cannon fire and napalm and this time he didn’t feel sick. He was angry because he should be going home to Rosie. Not firing through showers of mud thrown up by mortar, not lifting a water bottle to his parched lips, not looking at the men he killed, feeling nothing because more would come in their place to kill him and he would never see Rosie again.

They fought all that day, keeping them at bay, waiting for reinforcements but none came. There were too many Chinese storming the whole line. There were supplies though.

‘Thank God,’ Nigel said as he slapped Jack’s shoulder, telling him he would send a relief to take over the Sten soon.

Jack could see the parachutes with ammunition cases dropping amongst the Chinese instead.

‘Oh Christ,’ Nigel groaned.

They fought into the evening. They fought as the sun dropped, brilliant red, behind the hills and now, in the dark, they fired by the light of flares, picking out the Chinese, who were still crawling across the valley and up the base of the hill, getting closer to them now.

Nigel came running out to him, crouching, looking at the rain-sodden maps. ‘Can you both hold out for a while longer? They’re coming up three sides. No relief teams to spare.’

Jack nodded. ‘Keep your bloody head down, Nigel.’ He turned. He hadn’t called him Sir. They looked at one another and smiled. There was no time for anything but friendship now.

Bullets were thwacking into the mud in front of them as Nigel ran back, dodging, shouting to the Sergeant, ‘Get that man down.’ But he was too late. Jack saw the radio operator fall, blood spurting from his chest, his radio set blown apart on his back.

There was so much mud flying into the air from mortar explosions, and there was the noise. So much noise and so many Chinese.

At midnight the order came through to pull out, down the hill, deploy six hundred yards to the rear.

They moved, each acting as rearguard, each doing as they were ordered without question, each saving the lives of their friends, and the parade ground flashed into Jack’s mind as he skidded down the hill, taking up position as others slid past, then moving again.

They took up positions along the further side of a stream, wading through the water, holding their weapons above their heads, spreading out, flanking the valley, waiting because they knew the Chinese would keep on coming and that their own reinforcements would not.

The enemy came with the dawn. The machine gunners found their targets, and now the British counter-attacked, roaring towards the Chinese as they forded the stream, bogged down in the mud. The rain was in Jack’s face, he could taste it, but his mouth was still dry as he ran towards the enemy, firing.

There were no bugles now and the British pushed back towards the valley again, yard by yard, until the day passed and the evening came again but the Chinese rallied and stormed, wave upon wave, as the last of the sun lit the spring flowers, and Bert was killed and Nigel dropped, wounded, his arm useless, and the Sergeant didn’t shout any longer, for he was dead.

Jack dragged Nigel towards the base of the hill, ignoring his screams. There were too many all around to listen to just one.

‘Break out, all of you that can,’ the Captain shouted.

Jack heaped Nigel on to his back, but he was too heavy. He slapped Nigel’s face. There was a bullet graze on his forehead and a flesh wound on his arm. He stirred.

‘Stand up or die, Nigel,’ he shouted, holding his face, looking around, then back at Nigel. ‘Stand up, damn you.’

Nigel stirred, groaned. ‘Stand up,’ Jack repeated. Nigel stumbled to his feet, and Jack slung his arm over his shoulder, taking his weight, moving through the mud, slipping on the stones, but they were moving. At last they were moving.

He dragged Nigel, hearing his breathing, feeling it on his neck. His mouth was still dry from fear and exhaustion. His eyes were sore as he peered into the moonlight. God, Nigel was heavy.

He stopped, and lay down with Nigel beside him at the edge of a paddy field. He could smell the mud, the generations of excrement, and so he thought of the hop-fields, the gentle hills, and when he had rested he moved again. But this time small brown young-looking men loomed up in front of him in the moonlight and the green lush fields of Herefordshire were gone as they shouted and pushed and made Jack walk with his hands on his head in front of Nigel.

When he turned to look at his friend he was prodded with a rifle butt and he was afraid because he had heard of the cruelty of the North Koreans and this is what these men were.

Nigel moaned with every step and Jack breathed in time with his moaning. They could barely see the ground but there was enough light from the cloudless night to avoid the boulders, to stay with the track, and now there were others with them and Chinese soldiers too and Jack breathed more easily.

They were allowed to drop their hands but their fear remained. He stopped and looked back at Nigel, whose feet were dragging, who dripped blood with every step, and the Chinese guard nodded. Jack took his friend’s weight and the man behind stepped forward and eased his arm round Nigel’s body.

‘Let me give you a hand, soldier.’ It was a drawl, but Nigel needed help and so Jack nodded but didn’t look.

They walked all night and came to a village as dawn broke. They were lined up in the courtyard and there were other Chinese soldiers there. They were given sweetened rice to eat and Jack pushed it into Nigel’s mouth, waiting while he gagged, then giving him more.

‘Prop him up between us,’ the American said, nodding to a cart which was taking other wounded. ‘We’ve heard that they’re never seen again. They shouldn’t know that he’s wounded.’

So they pulled Nigel up, tying the sleeve of his shirt round his arm, needing water to wash the wound, but not daring to ask.

They were searched. Mirrors, scissors, knives were taken by the Chinese who didn’t speak and who didn’t notice Nigel’s arm with the American’s jacket slung over it. All the time the North Koreans loitered at the edge of the courtyard, watching.

A Chinese officer came into the courtyard in the cool of the morning sun. He stood before them.

‘You are prisoners of the Chinese People’s Volunteer Forces in Korea. You have been duped by the American imperialists. You are tools of the reactionary warmongers, fighting against the righteous cause of the Korean people.’ He paused, looked around.

Jack tightened his hold on Nigel’s good arm. He saw the American clasp his arm more tightly round his body. There were ten men in front of them. Nigel’s head was lolling.

‘Hold your head up,’ Jack hissed and Nigel did.

‘You are hirelings of the Rhee puppet government but you will be given the chance to learn the truth through study and you will correct your mistakes. We shall not harm you. At home your loved ones await you. Obey our rules and regulations and you will not be shot.’

They were allowed to sit down and Jack found some shade near the edge of the compound. The mud was deep. It soaked through their clothes but all Jack thought of was Rosie reading his letter, waiting for him, and it gave him strength. But only until a peasant came and struck two prisoners in front of Jack and then turned, hitting him and Nigel with a stick, again and again until blood burst from their lips and heads, because his family had been killed in a raid.

The American, whose name was Steve, stood up and took the stick from the Korean, then the North Koreans moved, pushing through the seated ranks. The mud was in Jack’s mouth and nose and he pushed up with his hands and saw the North Koreans take the Yank, pushing him before them towards the edge of the village. He looked for the Chinese but they had gone.

Jack rose, staggered and almost fell but then he was on his feet. He followed Steve and clutched a guard. ‘Leave him,’ he croaked. ‘Leave the Yank.’ He was grabbed too. He pulled away but was hit again by the peasant and the blood was running down his face. He turned, called, ‘Look after Nigel,’ and thought of Rosie as they hauled him, shouting, their breath sour, in his face.

‘Hang on, bud,’ the American shouted over his shoulder.

They were hauled to a pit, pushed in and there was white blossom on the branch of a tree which hung between them and the sky. Rifles were fired at the walls so that the bullets ricocheted around them, but they were not hit. The North Koreans laughed and the earth smelled of urine, of faeces, but Jack didn’t look at the base of the pit, or into the dark flat faces. He thought of Rosie and the bines which swung as though in the sea. And white blossom.

Steve was silent. He stood with Jack, unmoving, until the bullets ceased, and still he said nothing and Jack had no voice with which to speak. Fear had taken it from him.

They were hauled from the pit and a revolver was placed at the American’s head.

‘Confess your crime, imperialist dog,’ the largest North Korean said.

The American said nothing and the hammer clicked but the chamber was empty.

The North Korean opened the chamber and showed Jack. There were two bullets. He spun it, closed it. He held it to Jack’s head.

‘Confess your crime,’ he said again.

Jack looked across the space to the other men, some of whom were visible between the village huts. He thought of Rosie, her mouth, her eyes, and said nothing because there was nothing to say.

But there was no bullet, only the noise of the hammer striking the empty chamber reverberating along the barrel, through the skin into his mind, but Rosie was there, and there was no room for the scream which wanted to leave his mouth.

The Chinese came then, pushing the North Koreans to one side, shoving Steve and Jack before them, back to the village square, and they sat on either side of Nigel and neither spoke because now their legs and their hands were trembling.

They drank the water that the Chinese soldiers passed round and when they had gone Jack cleaned Nigel’s wound with the sleeve he had soaked, and dripped water into his friend’s mouth, careful not to let the guards see because one man had been beaten for washing his face with the water. He had insulted the guard by using it in that way.

They stayed in the village during the day, pressed up against the hut walls in case the US planes strafed the village. Jack lay listening to the bullfrogs, listening to Nigel’s groans, but Steve said little, especially when the North Koreans were near because, he explained, he was American, and the gooks hated them above all else. Jack was glad of his silence. He didn’t want to speak to this man.

Each soldier in turn was taken to a hut and interviewed by a high-ranking Chinese officer who asked his rank, name and number, and asked why he supported the Wall Street warmongers who had helped South Korea invade North Korea in July 1950. Jack didn’t answer.

‘We Chinese believe in a lenient policy to preserve lives so that you imperialist tools can learn the truth. The North Koreans are different. Do not try and escape. They wait for you to do so.’

When Jack came out the North Koreans were there, waiting.

They took Steve too and now they knew that he was American, but there were others who were aircrew and they became the targets of the interrogation instead.

The day passed and at six p.m. the guards came round with sorghum which Jack and Steve ate from cigarette tins because they had lost their hats in the mêlée. A British Sergeant came round too and said that more marching was expected tomorrow and there’d better be a better exhibition than there was today or he’d want to know the reason why.

It raised a smile, it raised morale, and Jack watched the flares and the tracers in the sky, and wondered how this could have happened when they thought they were going home, when he thought he was going home to Rosie.

The landlady stopped Rosie in the hall in March as she searched the wire letter-box for the letter that just might be there. The woman’s hair was newly permed and smelt as Norah’s had. She wore lipstick and an overall and crossed her arms over her sagging breasts. There was a cigarette in her left hand and the ash drooped, then fell on to the linoleum.

‘You’ve put on a lot of weight. You must think I’m daft. You’ll have to leave when that baby you’re carrying’s due. I wouldn’t have that sort of thing here, even if you were married.’