Chapter 4

Before long a truckload of North Korean soldiers came along. Usually they would just run over a body in the road and keep going. The driver seeing this one wasn't iced over stopped to rifle it for the prizes rich Americans were known to have. He found none that on West but noticed he was still alive and decided to take him back to the base. They had been told to mainly bring back pilots but the Commandant might like to practice his interrogation techniques. West was loaded into the truck. He woke up on the floor looking at the soldiers boots. The back of the truck was heated and West was warmer than he'd been in days so he curled up and fell asleep thinking, "I hope they don't wake me up to kill me."

He was rudely awakened when the truck stopped. Being grabbed by the collar and thrown off the back of the truck added to his bruises. His legs were asleep so they had to drag him into the building. A group of enemy soldiers stood over him yelling. The Commandant argued the merchandise was damaged. West had so much blood on him they thought he had been riddled with bullets. They pulled off his uniform until he was left in his shorts. Those items would be cleaned and sold on the Commandant's private black market. He truly hated Americans. He'd had a good thing going in his collaboration with the Japanese during their recent occupation. The Americans had ruined all that. Always an opportunist, he had to change his identity and allegiance to the North Koreans and Chinese. He'd risen to command this base-prison camp and was paid to keep a small number of American's. They like to spread out the POW's so there would be less chance of a mass rescue or escape.

Seeing West only had a slight head wound he paid the driver a bottle for the captive. Unbeknownst to West it was the second time in his life he was sold. The Commandant snatched the dog tags from his neck barely glancing at them. They sat his shivering body in a chair and tied his arms behind his back. Twisting the ropes so tight that West's left arm popped out of its socket. A white hot flash of pain went thru him causing him to yelp. Then the questioning began, he knew they were shouting at him in English but couldn't understand them. He had no intention of talking to them anyway. He stared at the floor. First came the slapping then the punching. He averted his head and tried to squirm sideways to deflect the blows. It was his experience haven taken and given many beatings that the more you react the more violent the aggressor became. Best to just clam up and hope they get tired.

He was punched so hard it broke his right cheekbone and caused the chair to tumble over. After a few vicious kicks to the ribs he was untied. The interrogator, maddened by West's unresponsiveness grabbed his chin and screamed, spit flying into his face. Exactly like West's father did when he would refuse to look at him. His father would enjoy seeing fear in the boy's face when he slapped him around. As the child grew older that fearful look turned into a glare of defiant hatred. To that his father would scream, "Don't give me that go to hell look!" and slap him harder. That was the look West gave his tormenter now. He worked his mouth to get up some spit to hurl back hoping to end it then. His mouth was just to dry, it was his last effort before his eyes rolled back and he went limp. Cold water and shaking wouldn't revive him so the Commandant ordered him thrown in with the Officers. West was drug across the compound and dropped on the dirt floor in front of two stunned airmen.

Captain Dan Ross was tall with dark brown hair greying at the temples and sharp bright green eyes. He had crashed early in the war so was the longest held captive in the camp. He kept up an unwavering confidence that the war would end soon. How could an enemy with such little technology defeat an international force with jet aircraft? He'd undergone captivity by imagining himself testifying at the Commandant's war crimes trial. They had them after the last war didn't they? The Commandant was destined for a hanging. An F 68 Sabre pilot, Captain Ross trained at Nellis AFB. He had seen plenty of his friends die in training crashes. That was the price they paid to fly the new cutting edge jet aircraft. To them it was an acceptable risk to be crushed or burned to death in a crash. He never imagined instead facing death like an experimental rat in a cage. Any thoughts of escape were abandoned early on. The compound was a garrison of solders with multiple layers of fences and guards. Even if you could get out you were deep in enemy territory, an alien instantly spotted.

At least he had an ally in the camp from the beginning. He'd broken some ribs when he parachuted thru trees. Being one of the first pilots captured he was valuable. They didn't want to chance him dying so they allowed the camp Doctor to see him. Doctor Kim spoke perfect English having being educated in Australia. He declared the Captain to weak for questioning, It bought Captain Ross another week before they did come for him. He became good friends with the Doctor during his captivity. Although kept on a tight leash the Doctor made excuses for inspecting the prisoners to avoid any epidemic that could be a threat to the captors. Having no medicine to offer he often turned to his mother's and grandmother's home remedies using plants he gathered outside the compound. He'd been a surgeon at Soul University Hospital. The North Koreans had killed almost everyone in the hospital and so many in the city that the Doctor had no idea if his family had survived. He begged the Captain to try and find them if he ever got out. To Captain Ross Doctor Kim seemed like a man that had lost all hope. The Doctor felt as if he had betrayed his profession, keeping men alive so they could be tortured again.

The other man in the cell was Lieutenant Tony Corso. He had come to this place through his own ordeal. Smaller and younger than the Captain with jet black hair and an olive complexion. He had large brown eyes and a scar under his bottom lip like many athletes have from falling and having their teeth go through. Corso was from Atlanta but grew up in military schools so he only had a hint of Southern accent. He never knew if he was hit by enemy fire or if his plane malfunctioned. They had been having trouble with some of the Sabre's on the line. All he knew was that it happened suddenly. His right arm was broken in two places when his ejector seat deployed. All hope of escape faded when he saw a dozen enemy soldiers running toward where he was landing. Unable to control his descent he landed hard. He clawed at his parachute harness but couldn't get it off with one hand. Caught out in the open, it was to late anyway, The enemy soldiers were on him.

He couldn't help but cry out when they grabbed his arms to stand him up twisting his badly broken one. They tore his gear off searching every pocket. Then they made him walk to a nearby village. He stumbled twice falling to his knees only to be struck in the back by a rifle butt. Some of the villagers stared at him as he passed. They shoved him into a small shed chickens had been kept in. The fowl were all gone but it stank terribly in the summer heat. Finding there wasn't a clean spot in the room to rest he sank down against the wall cradling his throbbing, swelling arm. After an endless, sleepless night they came back for him. The guard gave him a tin cup of water, he drank and gestured for more but was ignored. They made him get up and walk to a waiting truck. Once again they grabbed him by his arms to pull him up twisting his arm and evoking another shriek from him.

The truck ride to the camp was agonizing, every bump sent new waves of pain from his arm. The two guards that accompanied him were no less gentle when they drug him off the truck. He was taken into a building where and seated on front of the Commandant. He took one look at the prisoner, seeing the pilot on the verge of shock he ordered him taken to the Doctor. But first they took his boots and dog tags. His arm was too swollen to get his flight suit off and there wasn't a market for it anyway so he was allowed to keep it. He was walked unsteadily across the compound to the infirmary.

The Doctor directed the guards to put Lieutenant Corso on a crude stained table. Then he cut the sleeve off and examined Corso's arm. It was badly swollen, getting hot, the patient was sweating and gasping for air. "I'm going to try and fix it" Corso was surprised to hear the Doctor say in English. Then he said something to the guards he couldn't understand. They gripped his shoulders and feet pressing him to the table. Suddenly it came to him that they were going to amputate his arm right here in this filthy place! Overcome with panic he screamed No! NO! And struggled with all his remaining strength. The Doctor was gathering the supplies he needed. He turned to put a comforting hand on the pilots forehead. "I'm just going to set it" he held up wooden splints. He had no plaster for a proper cast. The Doctor had his own doubts if he could save the arm but he had to try. A man had zero chance of survival with an amputation under these unsanitary conditions.

"I'm sorry I have nothing to give you for the pain. I have to pull it straight, it will hurt a lot." The Lieutenant nodded resigned. The Doctor pulled, The patient screamed in unbearable pain then mercifully fainted while the Doctor set the splint. They put him in the cell with Captain Ross to recover. The Doctor was able to persuade the Commandant to procure antibiotics for the valuable pilot. It was truly a testament to the Doctor's skill and Captain Ross's care that Lieutenant Corso survived.