The hospital routine, as it affected me, settled in. Early in the morning a short, plump woman, her hair knotted at the back, would come into my room. She shuffled in peculiar, short, almost dainty steps, not because of advanced age, which I judged to be in the forties, but because she had very tiny, narrow, misshapen feet. These feet had been bound tightly when she was little — a cruel custom applied to girls in early China. This woman would wash my face and wipe the cloth across my hair, thus performing my daily bath. I received no washing other than this for five months.

A bit more about this taciturn individual, whose name I never learned. From time to time, while I watched her work, I noticed she glanced into my eyes as though she were trying to communicate. Finally, one morning when the guard was out of the room, she pointed to the cross which I wore on a chain around my neck. She pointed to herself and placed her hands together as though she were praying. She again pointed to herself, then to me, and then skyward. She was indicating that we were Christians and would go to heaven. Next she pointed to the guard's bed. She made an angry face, stamped her little feet, and pointed downward. Obviously, the guard, who represented the communists, was no good and was headed for hell.

The lady disappeared and I was attended by an elderly woman who would not communicate with me. Then, a few days prior to my release from the hospital, many months later, the door opened and the lady with the bound feet stepped in. The guard was elsewhere and she came in for a short visit. We smiled at each other, then she grew very solemn and, after a pause, used words and motions to tell me that my mother would cry when she saw my hands which were now missing quite a few fingers. Again a pause, a smile, and she slipped out.

I had become accustomed to my sistuation but that little scene choked me up.

Every couple of days my bandages were changed by a nurse whose eyes sort of sparkled and who had the touch of a feather. She was a nurse to whom Number One doctor had given the instructions at the outset of my treatment. She always wore her white, tam-like cap, and a mask. I felt she was often smiling, but the mask, which muffled her voice, hid her face as well. I was not to see that face for quite a while because others soon assumed the duty of changing my dressings.

The swelling in my hands subsided and now came a period of waiting. During this time I became really amazed. The waiting was for the frozen flesh to separate from the healthy flesh. It eventually did, with marked definition. In fact, I was shocked the day a nurse removed the bandage from my left foot, which was being treated as my fingers were. I looked down at my big toe. Like the others, it had darkened in color, and was now completely separated from the foot in one spot. I could see through the line of demarkation to the bandage lying beneath the foot! I didn't faint, but I'll bet you'd have had a tough time finding where my pajamas ended and I began.

Daily I watched the process. My fingers and toes of my left foot gradually turned nearly black, leather-like and hard. They were attached to my foot and hands only by the respective bones. The shock had worn off and I was able to adopt a sort of clinical interest in what was taking place.

Late one afternoon Number One told me I was going to be operated on that evening. After supper I heard something coming down the hall. It sounded as though it had a flat wheel. My door flew open and a couple of male attendants rolled a gurney into the room. It did have a defective wheel. They told me to climb aboard; and for the first time since my arrival, I was out of my room. We went down the hall and I became a tourist, too interested in the surroundings to attend to the direction — but then I wasn't driving.

The walls of the operating room were hidden by the white-clad bodies of many observers. I was the star, but I don't remember much of the performance. Furthermore, my lines were limited to counting backward from 100. I hoped to demonstrate my facility with the language and began to count in Chinese; but for some reason, I soon became befuddled and switched to English, which was good for only a few more numbers. I've always suspected that the needle they inserted into my arm had something to do with this confusion and with my subsequent inability to account for the rest of the drama. It may even have been a comedy, for all I know.

Later that evening I began to become aware again, slowly realizing I was back in my room. I became aware of something else — pain! My fingers and left foot hurt.

I had learned from the hospital personnel that “tung” meant hurt, pain, ouch, or somesuch. In my drowsy state I heard myself giving tongue to this expression rather loudly — so loudly, in fact, that a nurse came running, looked at me and, saying she'd be back shortly, took off down the hall. She returned with a syringe containing a pain killer of some nature. I was fully awake now and protested, saying I'd be alright. She insisted and I was soon without pain.

The guard berated me for this show of weakness and I felt he had a point. For the record, I was able to eliminate this kind of behavior following the remainder of my operations. It seemed important to me not to show weakness to these people, especially the guards. After all, I represented the U.S. Military.

There was one time I weakened to a degree. During the first operation, when they amputated some fingers and the left toes, they also cleaned the hole in my leg. A day later I began to experience pain in the leg. It intensified and I became nauseated. I guess I rolled and moaned enough to bother the guard who told me to knock it off and shape up, or something to that effect. After awhile his attitude changed to one of concern, though I no longer moaned but continued to roll and bite my lip. He called a nurse who came and took my temperature. She called Number One who examined my leg. He told me it was infected and he would have to scrape the bone.

Down the hall came the flat-wheeled “meat wagon,” and I was off to the room with the bright lights. On this trip I wasn't too concerned about anything. I followed “counting” instructions with no attempt to show off, and another block of time was erased from my life. Time resumed when I was back in my room.

The next morning when Number Two made his rounds, I was feeling much improved. Number Two was younger, taller, and thinner than Number One, but his English was about on a par with my Chinese. He did have a more open personality and was more willing to communicate than Number One. He asked me if I was feeling better and told me he'd heard I'd had a high temperature the day before. He said the wound would improve now.