Something had gone wrong; the Chinese and North Korean generals needed to have a try at fixing it. Upon critiquing the events of the evening, they apparently decided that the sirens were at the center of the problem. Consequently and henceforth, all sirens, which had blasted exactly eight times to warn of a raid, now would sound twenty times. Remember, it wasn't that the sirens hadn't sounded enough, before the bombs hit — they hadn't sounded at all! I didn't think they'd hit on the correct solution.

The next day the guard opened the window, then quickly closed it, but not before I got a glimpse of a large piece of aluminum lying on the ground. (Hey! that was a bit close, after all!) The guard left the room.

Upon returning, he again opened the window. The metal was gone. I'm not sure why he thought I should not see what was certainly a piece of an airplane, unless it had Chinese markings on it.

A window in my room had been cracked by the concussive force of the nearby anti-aircraft guns. The bombs hadn't dropped closely enough to do that.

Much later I was to read in some material given to me, that Chou En-lai, the Prime Minister, had accused the United States of deliberately bombing a Chinese village on that night. I knew this to be untrue, because my guard told me that the plane I'd heard coming down, had crashed into a village, certainly not a deliberate act.

There was another “special” patient in the hospital. I got my first clue when Good Guy, who brought me candy now and then, one day had two bags. Suspecting something, I asked him why he'd brought the other bag. He would only say it was for another patient. Later a worker told me there was another American flyer in the hospital. I wondered if he was from a fighter or bomber shot down that night. After my release I learned he was Colonel Heller, a fighter pilot. I never learned when he was captured.

I had some concluding thoughts about that particular raid. They had interrogated me on several occasions, but never asked about my knowledge of upcoming raids. Did they really have nothing more, as this point, than: William H. Baumer, Major, USAF, A07733786? Had they connected me to the 91st Squadron, but then didn't know my job? Was it possible they didn't realize the extent of coordination between the bombing units and the recon units? Maybe they were so focused in on trying to learn about, or fabricate, our particular mission that they excluded all other aspects of my job and title, if they knew them. Maybe they just thought I was dumb — not too far off the mark. Whatever the reason, it saved me from having to “dance” with them to that tune.

The lump-in-the-throat homesickness, which hit me soon after I arrived at the hospital, gradually ebbed. There were interesting things demanding my attention. They were taking place at various parts of my body, as the aftermath of frostbite progressed through the first couple of operations. My conception of the amputations had been that they would involve suturing skin over the stumps. However, to leave as much finger as possible, the flesh was left bare and skin was encouraged to grow over the ends. Because of my ignorance regarding this procedure, I thought that, once the operations were over, I was well on my way to recovery and release.

Contrary to my expectations, the formation of new skin was agonizingly slow. I began to monitor closely the changing of the dressings, chafing when I felt that a hasty or careless tug had removed some newly formed skin. The pain that was caused by the removal of the bandages went practically unnoticed, so intense was my critical observation of the work of the nurse. I became crestfallen when the masked nurse of the zephyr-like touch was not the one performing the task. She took almost extreme care as she deftly lifted each strip of gauze lying next to new skin. Other nurses were quick and unconcerned about what came away with the bandages. I silently cursed their hurried methods.

It was maddening to watch this creeping process. I needed to look for other persuits. Now there aren't many things available to a bed-bound, hand-bandaged individual in a hospital room with no radio or TV and a vanishing or sleeping roommate. Nothing — except the mind, that confounding, mysterious thing. It began to drift, to remember, to fantasize.

It fantasized abut rescue, about being home. But the ride back to reality from that mythical flight home was a bummer. There would be no rescue and probably no trip home for some time. There had to be other fantasies.