One day I heard a child crying in a room near mine. I asked Li Chin-tsu what had happened to the child. He told me the kid had been hit by a car. He said that the driver was a Russian and that he'd come to visit the little patient. To indicate a Russian, he pantomimed a large nose.

So, Americans are light in color and Russians have big noses.

The next time Good Guy brought me candy, I sent some over to the little patient, employing Li Chin-tsu as bagman.

Incidentally, I had been given a choice between hard candy and cigarettes, I chose the candy which caused a childish encounter with one of my guards. I had just been given a small bag which was on my nightstand. Whenever I had a piece, I offered the guard one, which he accepted. Naturally, he liked candy too and soon began helping himself. He began dipping into the bag more frequently than I, and the supply dwindled fast in just the first day. My schedule of rationing was completely destroyed. It was my “fan tung” period (which I'll define shortly), and I became alarmed. I decided to divide the remaining contents of the bag into two equal parts. I gave the guard one portion, with the admonition that, when it was gone, he'd had it! He smiled and that solved my problem. It was important to me then, but it was childish of me, because back home I probably had more access to candy in a couple of years than he would in a lifetime.

My “fan tung” period began with the discovery that, if I kept my stomach full, I was less likely to become depressed. It was a sort of “food stupor.” Of course, my body's need to rebuild encouraged this demand for food, which developed to such a degree that it embarrasses me to recall it. A good example of the depths to which I had slipped has to do with the day the guard had been so upset by Grumpy that he couldn't finish his meal. I finished it for him!

The staff learned of my increased appetite and began bringing me rice left over from the mealtime rounds. They also started to call me “fan tung,” in a good natured fashion. I asked Good Guy what it meant. He laughed and said, “Food barrel.” I thought it mildly funny, but a bit degrading, so I made a real effort to cool it.

I was by no means getting fat, but I was gaining some of the lost weight and replenishing my depleted blood supply. The personnel told me I was looking better.

One day the hospital people began wearing black armbands. Someone important had died. I asked, but they would only shake their heads. Much later, I learned it had been Joe Stalin. I thought it a crying, danged shame.

I wonder if he was poisoned. I've read that he created many enemies among those close to him. These certainly had a motive. Although several “died,” maybe some of the survivors got to him.

One day Li Chin-tsu burst into the room, very excited, and began speaking very rapidly. All I could decipher was something that sounded like “clock.” Finally, after laboring hard at his game of charades, I gathered he was telling me that General Mark Clark had signed the armistice for the United Nations. The war had ended and Li said I would be going home.

I, too, began planning my trip, but with some foreboding. I couldn't forget that my interrogators had called me a war criminal and had said the Geneva Convention Rules of War didn't apply to me. Actually, neither Red China nor North Korea had ever agreed to the Convention. I remembered that “Good Guy” once accused me of having been involved with A B C warfare. (I had to have him explain that he meant atomic, bacteriological, and chemical warfare.) He even said he thought I was an FBI agent. That was obviously a “fishing” expedition with some obscure purpose. However, I couldn't discount their overall attitude and some of the threats. I did bring the matter of my going home to the attention of one of my interrogators. He said, “Your case is different.”

Was it ever!!

With the arrival of my homemade crutches, I was able to walk around my room. The crutches were fashioned from two poles that looked as though they'd gone directly from the tree to the crutchmaker who may have cut down the tree. The poles were nearly two inches in diameter, and they had been split to about eighteen inches from the bottom, where a pin had been inserted in each to prevent it from splitting further. Crosspieces were nailed to the tops and were smoothed so they could fit into my armpits comfortably. The hand-grips were inserted at the proper places, and the crutches were then varnished. There were no fancy rubber tips on them, and they were just a bit short, but they served the purpose adequately.

Shortly after I got them, Number Two stopped by to see how I was doing. He'd not seen me standing before and remarked that I was tall. I was also surprised at how I compared to the Chinese people I'd met to that time. I discovered that there was only one person who may have been as tall or taller than I. That was Good Guy.

During the afternoon of “crutch-day” Number One came to look me over. I took the opportunity to ask him about my leg. At this stage all the toes were gone, as was part of the heel, and the ankle was locked at a forty-five degree angle. The leg, itself, was little more than a stick from the knee down, and the blood supply was the bare minimum required to keep it alive. I was sure it would have to be amputated eventually, and this was the question I put to the doctor. He was hesitant about answering. I believe he was uncertain as to whether I was mentally prepared. Finally he decided in the affirmative and said, “Yes.” When I asked him at what point, he drew an imaginary mark on my leg with his finger. If he'd drawn the mark with an indelible pencil, I'll bet the men at Walter Reed would have cut within millimeters of it. Number One must have had a lot of experience.

Incidentally, this mark was aboout six inches below my knee. If I had applied a tourniquet on the night I was shot down, this mark may well have been six inches above the knee; a much more difficult amputation with which to deal.

Now that I could stand for more than a few seconds, the whole perspective changed. The room got smaller and the people shrunk. But I didn't have to deal with my altered surroundings for very long. Number One had told me I was to be taken out of the hospital that evening.

After supper I was walking down the hall, with a heavy military escort. Nodding at, and saying goodbye to familiar faces as I went, I remember seeing the nurse who had the feather touch. She was without her mask. She was not pretty, but I was right about the eyes being part of a smiling face. I always felt that she would have been worth knowing and a good friend.

I felt this way about most of the medical people I'd met at Antung General.