Part 14 (1/2)

'You've spoken to him?'

'Yes.'

'How did you recognise him?'

'I was working in the compound when I heard a man call another by the name Ross. I worked my way over to him and, without looking, told him to be ready because friends were near. You should have seen his face!' Wung smiled at the recollection. 'He could not think it was me, a dirty Chinese labourer, speaking in English, and he stared about him as if the voice had come from the air. He needed a tonic, poor fellow, for he looked so lonely and depressed.'

'He didn't speak to you?'

'No. I walked on.'

'What do you mean by the compound?'

'Within the barbed wire fence that surrounds the prisoners' quarters.'

'How did you come to be there?'

'I was working a” emptying the garbage cans, and that sort of thing. I have been working all the time. I can't say that I liked it, but it served my purpose well.'

'How did this come about?'

'I made my way to the camp shortly after daylight. Without any attempt at concealment, I approached with confidence, knowing that no one would suspect me of being anything but what I appeared to be. There were many others exactly like me moving about, miserable, poverty-stricken inhabitants of the village a” one can hardly call the collection of hovels a town. The wretched people were being mustered into gangs for labour.

There must have been nearly two hundred of them. A nasty-looking man, a North Korean I think, told me to get in my place, so I joined the nearest gang. No one took the slightest notice of me. We were given a miserable ration of rice to keep us alive and then we went to work.'

'What sort of work are all these people doing?'

'They're doing many things. It is quite certain that the place is being enlarged, although for what purpose I could not find out. For one thing, a single track railway is being built.

It is almost complete. From the direction it takes I would think it joins the main Trans-Siberian line farther north. An airfield is also under construction. There is already a landing-field of sorts. It is being improved. All transport comes by air, as one would expect, for there is no road worthy of the name. There is a temporary shelter for an aeroplane. An aeroplane is in it now, but I could not say what sort.

There is also a petrol store. The first train, which came in while I was there, brought in a load of petrol, also some fuel oil for the engine that makes the electricity. There is also some ammunition, which is stored in the open under tarpaulins.'

'Did you learn what this was for?'

'No. Every gang worked under a foreman, and I joined a different gang each day in order to cover as much ground as possible. That is how I got into the compound. One of the duties was scrubbing the huts and taking away the rubbish. I am not quite certain how many men live in the compound because they come and go all the time. At present there are not more than twelve. I could judge their nationality by the language they spoke. I made out five British, four Americans, two Frenchmen and one other. At one time there were more than this, but some have moved on. I will tell you where, and why, presently.

First I must deal with the compound as it is of most importance to you.'

Wung pulled a photograph towards him and put a finger on the spot.

'This is it,' he continued. 'First of all, you must understand, there is a barbed wire fence round the whole camp. It is of five strands and does not offer a serious obstacle. It is simply to keep the natives from wandering into the place, I imagine. Within this outer fence there is another, smaller one, also of barbed wire. It is higher and has eight strands.

Inside are the prisoners' quarters consisting of three wooden buildings, two large and one small. One is a dining and recreation room; another is the sleeping accommodation; the third one is a wash-house. They are all built of wooden planks.'

'Tell us about the sleeping quarters,' requested Biggles. 'We shall make our raid at night, of course, so that is where we shall find the prisoners.'

'It is one large room with trestle beds round the wall,' explained Wung.

'The end is part.i.tioned off to make a small cubicle for the man in charge. At present this is occupied by an extremely unpleasant fellow who, I am sorry to say, is an Englishman. At least, he speaks English. The prisoners call him sergeant. He is a bad man, ugly of face and ugly of temper. It seemed to me that he took delight in making the lives of the prisoners unbearable, shouting at them with much beastly language. This man, by the way, keeps the key of the hut, although the door is seldom locked. It hangs on a nail in his room. Work stops at sundown, when the prisoners, after a meal, retire to the sleeping hut.

There is only one way in and out of the compound. It is a gate, with a sentry box. A Chinese soldier is always on duty there. He is changed every four hours.'

'Did you get the actual times?' asked Biggles.

'Yes. A new guard comes on at midnight. The next one comes at four a.m.

There are about fifty Chinese soldiers altogether. There is a Russian officer, but what he does I do not know.'

'From what you tell me, the place doesn't seem very well guarded,'

observed Biggles.

'Nor is it. I got the impression, from the casual way things are done, that the last thing the people in the camp expect is trouble. It would be a fairly easy matter for the prisoners to get out of their compound. They would merely need a tool to cut the wire. But even if they did this they would not get far. Where could they go? The land around is absolutely flat, and is either boggy or paddy fields. These stretch for miles, and are more efficacious than iron bars. From the camp one can see for miles.

If a man tried to run away in daylight he would certainly be seen from the camp. If he tried to travel in the dark he would flounder about in the bogs and perhaps lose his life in one of them. He might also wander about in circles, for there is usually a mist at night. And as I have said, at the finish, where would he go?'

'What do the soldiers do?' asked Biggles.

'They kick a football about, mostly. They take turns at guard duty, but it is all very haphazard. Apart from the people I have mentioned there is a fairly large population of men whom I took to be mechanics and engineers in charge of the wireless rooms and the power station. They live by themselves.' Wung referred again to the photograph. 'This is the power station, here. Among other things it provides the camp with electric light. I need say nothing about the village of Kratsen. As you can see, it is some little way away from the camp. Presently I will mark on this photograph the purpose of every building shown on it, so that it can be studied by everyone at leisure.

After three days in the place I could find my way about even on a dark night.'

'What is this building over here, standing by itself?' inquired Biggles, pointing.

'That is the bungalow of the overall commander of the station. I saw him only once, at a distance. I believe he is a Russian. At any rate, he is known as Commandant Kubenoff. It is said that he is usually the worse for drink.'

'I suppose the camp is on the telephone?'

'Yes.'

'You were going to say something about the prisoners who have been to the camp but are no longer there?' prompted Biggles.

'Oh yes. The talk is, these are the men who are trusted by the Communists. They are taken to Korea where, in captured uniforms of the United Nations, they are infiltrated through the lines to act as spies and saboteurs. A North Korean boasted to me of this.

The headquarters of these renegades happens to be in his own village, a place on the coast called Fashtun, near the Russian frontier.'

'We'll bear that name in mind,' said Biggles grimly. 'Anything else, Wung?'

'That is all I can think of for the moment. No doubt other minor points will occur to me from time to time. I can tell you the names of most of the men in the camp should you require them. I often heard them being called.

Every little while one is taken to the broadcasting room, where, I understand, he is made to read from a paper. There is much secret grumbling about this; but to refuse means death.'

Was one of the names that you heard Macdonald?' asked Biggles.

Wung thought for a moment. 'No. I don't remember hearing that name.'