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
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
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