Another time, following a conversation about politics, he asked me to write what I'd said. I did and the next day he returned somewhat excited. Contradiction plays a part in the Communist ideology, and he said he'd studied what I'd written and found a contradiction. Though I don't recall its content, I explained the passage to him. Again he was perplexed and gave up the argument. He wasn't as well equipped for his job as Good Guy had been.

Once he offered me a bottle of beer because it was the Chinese National Day. I respectfully declined. He had difficulty understanding an American not accepting a bottle of beer, but I didn't care that much for it and could see no point in drinking a bottle after a long time without any. Certainly, I wasn't burning with a desire to help him celebrate his National Day.

One day Kwong took me to a room on the floor above. There were books, a large table, a record player and a violin. He identified this as a recreation room. We talked for a while, and he asked, “Do you play the violin?”

I said, “No.” Then, looking at my hands, I laughed and said “And it's a damned good thing I don't.” I think I meant to jab him a bit — dirty pool!

He was silent for only a few seconds, then said he'd play a record for me which I probably wouldn't like. He spun “The Volga Boatman.” I said I'd known that since I was a kid and began to hum along with the record. Not giving up, he showed me an article from “The London Daily Worker”, a Communist Party paper, about the burning of Mark Twain's books in the United States. If someone was burning books, I didn't know who nor why. I simply said, “I don't believe it.”

It was from Kwong that I learned what had bitten me on the train. I showed him the large, red, itching welts. He looked at them and matter of factly said, “Bed Bugs.” That was my first experience with the critters.

Here at Mukden, there was a taller-than-average, solidly built soldier who brought me my meals sometimes and a magazine on a couple of occasions. He was rather friendly, but I had no name for him until a couple of days before I was transferred. He walked in with a complete set of blue, padded clothes, including sneakers padded with horse hair. His name — the Supply Sergeant.

Up to this time, I still had hopes, faint though they were, of getting out of this mess sooner than later. But now these hopes were almost completely dashed. It was early fall, and padded clothing could only mean that it was planned that I'd be a guest of the Chinese for, at least, the winter. The Supply Sergeant seemed to sense how this made me feel because he was very solicitous regarding the fit of the clothing. We exchanged, at least, one piece for a better fit. Surely, he knew I was about to leave after only two weeks at Mukden.

Late on the evening of departure, we went to the train station and boarded a private railroad car on which the blinds were drawn. When I say “private” I mean just that. The “we” included the guest of honor (me, that is), Bad Guy, Supply Sergeant, and two no'count guards. I was placed in the center of the car all by myself. This car wasn't a sleeper. It was a large, American style, day-coach.

As the engine jerked out of the station, I once more began calculations designed to identify my destination, which I felt I already knew. I guessed, that by now, I was a “star” in some sort of production and probably would be playing Peking. Peking was also called Peiping, and is presently called Bejing. But, whatever the name, I was sure it bode no good for me.

The next day, while rolling along, I began to wonder when we'd pass beneath the Great Wall, which according to my mental map, we almost certainly had to do. Not long after the thought, I managed to sneak another peek between the window casing and the blind. I was just in time to see the Wall coming into view. That was strong evidence supporting the results I'd calculated by combining my “superb” skills with the “vast” amount of empirical data and navigational paraphernalia I had at my disposal! (The sun had been on the left side of the train in the morning.)

The clincher came after the train stopped at about 1400 hours — two in the afternoon. I was placed in a car, not a Jeep. The blinds were drawn. Over my eyes I wore a pair of what seemed like kid's aviator goggles with cardboard lenses. But, even with these precautions, I was able to find peepholes to the outside and saw Tien An Men square as we passed. I'd seen several pictures of the Square, which is the center of many large celebrations in China.

After a few changes in direction, the car slowed, then stopped. At this point a bit of nonverbal communication took place which said more than many paragraphs could have. The Supply Sergeant was beside me in the back seat; and just before the back door opened, he placed his hand on my thigh and gave a gentle squeeze. To me, already quite apprehensive, this said, “Good luck, buddy. You'll need it.”

My heart replaced my stomach and my stomach was swallowed by my intestines, which was probably why I felt I needed a restroom.

I was guided into a building, down a hall, and into a small room. Here they relieved me of my few remaining personal belongings, took the belt from my trousers, the shoelaces from my shoes, and tore the metal hooks and eyes from my clothing. My crutches were placed against the wall. One kindly looking fellow placed my arms over his shoulders, crossed them in front of him, and lifted me onto his back. He carried me out of the room, through a gated rotunda, and down a long corridor. On either side of the corridor were many small, red doors. He stopped near the far end, at the cell which had the Chinese Numbers for thirty-eight over it. He deposited me inside.

I was now, officially, a resident of a prison in Peking, China.