Free War Trash by Ha Jin Page B

your feet."
    When I turned to look at her, she was heading for the door. Her white back was straight, her shoulders thin and delicate.
    This operation alleviated my pain and I began to mend both physically and mentally, though I had grown more homesick, often fingering my half of the jade barrette at night. My captors had stripped me of everything except for this token of Julan's love and her snapshot, both concealed in my undershirt pocket. The smoothness of the jade reminded me of my fiancee's skin and often set me daydreaming.
    Sometimes I also thought of other women – some Korean women who, from somewhere close by, would sing in chorus for an hour or two every evening. Their songs would drift in the dusk, sad and soulful. Sometimes the tunes were wistful as though complaining about a betrayal or a missed opportunity that wouldn't be offered again. Whenever they started their chorus, I would listen to them. As they sang, the air would seem galvanized and the men in the ward would stop chatting, their eyes turning more distant, brighter, and sometimes watery. How I wished I could have made out the women's words. Their fearless voices brought to mind the girls in the countryside of my home province, who often vied with one another in singing love songs when they were working in the rice paddies or picking tea leaves on the hills. If only I could have walked out of the tent and looked at those women across the barbed wire!
    Wanlin and I talked about them, but he couldn't figure out who they were either. In the evening he often went out; once he saw a few Korean women who were all civilians, though they seemed to be detainees too. Our Korean ward mates certainly knew more about the singers, but there was no way for us to communicate with them on such a subject. I felt too awkward to ask Captain Yoon about them.
    In the meantime, Gushu's leg, unlike mine, was deteriorating. Seeing that I was recovering rapidly, he pleaded with the hospital to let Dr. Greene treat him too, or to give him Colonel Osman, who was an experienced surgeon from Florida, known to the prisoners as a kind-hearted man.
    Two weeks after my operation, Dr. Greene and Dr. Thomas came to our tent, both wearing white coats. At the sight of them I tried to sit up, but she stopped me and said in English, "Lie down. We just came to see how you've been doing."
    She and Dr. Thomas must have been making their ward rounds. She checked my wound. "Excellent, it's healing very well," she said, her eyes lighting up. "Tomorrow we can operate on you to repair the bone once and for all."
    "Thank you, Dr. Greene," I said.
    I was still excited after they left. At last I believed I would walk on both legs again.
    The following day I was taken to the Operating Section for the third time. Again Dr. Thomas was present in the room. After I was laid on the table, Dr. Greene bent forward a little, putting on gloves. She asked me, "You very much want to walk without a crutch, don't you?"
    I nodded.
    "After this operation," she said, "you should be able to walk soon."
    My eyes misted, so I shut them immediately. She didn't see my face, since the chubby anesthetist was putting the ether mask on me. Soon I was unconscious.
    When I woke up, I saw Dr. Greene leaning against the wall with her eyes closed. She looked pale and exhausted. I wasn't sure whether she was taking a breather or was already done with the operation. The front of her white gown was stained with my blood, but she didn't wear gloves. Seeing that I had come to, she gave me a half-smile and said, "Everything went well." Her words set my mind at rest.
    Every three days after the operation, she came to check on me and the other orthopedic patients. It was getting cold: cicadas had stopped chirring in the willow crowns and all the bumblebees had vanished. In the early morning I often saw little frost clouds hanging above my ward mates' faces. We had been issued more used clothing. Each man now had a felt coat, another