Because Grumpy was a night person, a very interesting event took place one day. He was asleep when the door opened and a nurse walked in. Her apparent intent was to clean my window in spite of his presence. Quietly, she got up on a stool and began wiping the glass. While she worked, she watched the guard out of the corner of her eye. Finally, satisfied that he was truly asleep, she got down from the stool, turned to face me, and gave me one of the smartest salutes I've ever had. Without changing expression she marched out, leaving me with my mouth agape. I have always regretted that I was too flabbergasted to return the salute.

I witnessed an even more open display of anti-Communist sentiment. One of the staff had come into my room and noticed a book on the absent guard's nightstand. It had a picture of Lenin on the cover. The individual picked up the book, leafed through it for a couple of seconds, then clapped it shut and, with curled lip, snorted disapproval. The book was dropped to the stand with a thump. I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd heard the words, “What horse shit!”

Imagine yourself in a foreign hospital, unable to leave the room, and requiring the use of a bedpan. Some form of paper, or suitable substitute, is a requirement. Now, imagine that the hospital attendant brings only the bedpan; and when questioned, states flatly, “There is no paper!”

No toilet paper in a hospital?

Right. No paper!

My eyes searched the room and fell upon a near-empty cigarette pack in the guard's pocket. I convinced him that the paper package had a nobler calling, beyond merely containing the couple of cigarettes still there. He conceded. This got to be a part of my regular routine; having guards give me empty cigarette packs. It was one big reason I had to be clever with Grumpy; I needed his cigarette packs. He'd snarl and throw the pack to the floor from where I was forced to crawl on my hands and knees to retrieve it. I could have complained to the interpreter (which may or may not have gotten me anywhere), but I wanted to deal with Grumpy myself. I'd say, “Shsh ni,” and he'd snort. I would have sooner told him to apply the paper to himself, whether he needed it or not.

Grumpy may not have been the worst I met, but he was in the top ten.

There was a much more amusing incident regarding the bedpan. One evening I was afflicted with bowel cramps which demanded the immediate use of the bedpan. The guard was out of the room, so I pressed the questionable bell button. No response. I jabbed at it several more times. Still no results! Perspiration began forming on my brow. I called several times. Nothing! The situation was becoming alarming!!

I needed a real attention getter. I grabbed one of the chopsticks from the nightstand drawer. Balancing myself, one foot on the floor and my other knee on the bed, I reached up and began beating on the metal light shade.

Footsteps came pounding down the hall and the door went crashing against the wall. I shouted, “Dabien pen!” to two anxious faces before me. One face disappeared, soon to reappear. The hands belonging to the face held the dabien pen and, miraculously, some paper! Giggling, the nurses left. I was saved — but so were they.

At Antung General they took even less notice of my need for a shave than they did my need for a bath. This lack of interest may have stemmed from the fact that most Chinese men had no whiskers or only very thin beards. One guard even used a paper clamp, such as is attached to a clipboard, to pull hairs f rom his face whenever he found them.

I wanted to see how I looked with whiskers. So, one day I hopped over to the window to look at my reflection. The guard, who had been out of the room, reentered as I was admiring my fine red beard. Neither of us said anything for a moment. I knew I wasn't supposed to be at the window, so I had nothing to say. But why did he just stand there with a perplexed look on his face.

He glanced at me and then at his bed. Suddenly, I caught on. There was something else involved in this encounter.

This particular guard had adopted an alternative to carrying his pistol wherever he went. Not a very thoughtful alternative, to be sure — he'd put it under his pillow.

I had been aware of this practice almost from its inception, but I certainly wasn't going to go hopping, on one leg, around a Chinese hospital, waving a pistol about, making stupid threats.

This guard now had a problem. He wasn't certain I didn't have his weapon.

He finally made a decision. He told me I wasn't supposed to be at the window. I smiled at him and hopped back to bed.

He casually strolled to his bed and sat down. I decided I was really going to put his acting ability to the test, so I just sat looking at him.

Gradually, he felt beneath his pillow and upon touching his gun, almost fell off the bed with relief. He then reclined and I watched as, while facing the wall, he “surreptitiously” slid the gun from under his pillow to his belt.

That was fun, but my beard was still there.

A general and a couple of other people came in one day. I knew he was a general because someone introduced him as such. One of the others was a cameraman. The general decided I needed a shave before my picture was taken, so Number One was summoned. He listened to instructions from the general who then left. Number One directed one of the young hospital workers to get soap and a razor.

The doctor began to shave me with cold water, cake soap, and a dull blade — not the best shave I'd ever had. All the while he muttered to himself. A couple of hospital plersonnel stood in the corner giggling. I'm sure the doctor was cursing the general in terms which went something like this: “I spend seven years in med school, a number of years in internship, and have twenty-plus years of experience in medicine, and all of a sudden, I'm a barber! Who the hell does he think he is?”

The shave was completed, the general returned and the photo session began. They dressed me in my coveralls and my flying jacket. My hair stood out in all directions. They snapped away, then were gone.

One of the soldiers present was Bad Guy interrogator. I hadn't seen Bad Guy since he'd tried to question me for the last time, which had been a few weeks earlier. He'd had a frustrating experience then, as he'd had before. On his last try, his timing had been off.

Just before his entry, I'd spilled the “duck” (urinal), and the workers were busy cleaning up the mess. Instead of leaving, to return later, he stood over in a corner like a piece of furniture. This of course, nullified his effectiveness with me — I certainly wasn't going to answer questions for a “chair.” So, when he discovered this, he left, disappointed again.