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Reflections of Ken Towery
Prison Reflections In Search Of Ge Qingyu The long search for Ge Qingyu is over. Ge Qingyu died of a stroke in Shilihe Village in North China, some 50 kilometers from Shenyang, in 1989. The information was relayed to me by Yang Jing, a citizen of China and a resident of Shenyang, who has taken an interest in the fate of both the survivors and bricks of the Hoten prison camp. Yang Jing took it upon himself to find Ge Qingyu (whom I called Guh Ching-yu for many years) where the efforts of others had failed. That, plus the opening of China to much more personal freedom, made it all possible. This story began a long time ago, nearly 60 years ago as the calendar tells time. Still, history continues and ghosts of the past have a way of resurfacing. In this instance, the ghosts of the past were never very far below the surface. So read on…. Not long ago, someone sent me, via the internet, the translation of a story that had appeared in the China Daily News, a newspaper published in Beijing, China. For obvious reasons, the sender found the story fascinating, as did I. (The story dealt with the Prisoner of War camp in Shenyang, China where I spent a few mostly unhappy years. The prison camp, in what used to be Manchuria, but is now simply the "northeastern province", had, over the years, become home to many, many squatters who had built lean-to's around the old brick walls that used to enclose us. That was just fine and dandy with the Communist government of Mao Tse-tung, but in late years the prison had become a sort of Mecca for those who wanted to emphasize Japanese wartime treatment of lesser peoples, which included both American POWs and the Chinese people. The current government evidently wanted to clean up the place and make it fitting for tourists. So, they went in and tore down all the old lean-to's. The resulting outcry was as predictable as it was useless. Needless to say, a lot of people were both unhappy and loud. The Beijing paper, many miles away, picked up on the flap, and a reporter named Wu Yong wrote a very good story about the affair. I merely sought to get in touch with him and tell him it was a good story, and that it was being read and reread in the United States. There, of course, my own efforts came to a grinding halt, ( Despite the fact that the paper had a web address (http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/english/doc/2005-01/18/content 409813.htm, repeated attempts to deliver a message there failed, No response.) Then, another thought entered the picture. Many years before he became President of the United States, when the elder Bush was Ambassador to China following his stint as head of the CIA, (and following his thankless job as U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations) I had written to him, asking if he could arrange for me to enter the Shenyang region and search for an old friend, Gu (or Guh) Ching-yu, a civilian guard at the MKK factory who was a friend of mine, and who once was part of a smuggling ring that occasionally fenced roller bearings for at least one prisoner (myself) …roller bearings that had been deliberately left out of re-assembled machinery destined for distant factories. In return, Ching-yu would occasionally hide a raw egg in a sawdust pile on the factory grounds, and I would go there, when it was appropriate, and scrounge around until I found it. George wrote back that Shenyang (or Mukden, as the Japanese called it) was still "off limits" to foreigners. No one was being allowed into the region. Knowing George, I knew also that he was not willing to rock any boats, that the dreams I had to search for Ching-yu some day were just that…dreams. And I realized that the anticipation I had when he was named Ambassador to China were somewhat exaggerated. He advised me that any attempt to locate Guh Ching-yu be abandoned or placed on hold until things changed, that any attempt to locate my friend would likely end in his death. I had known George since the days when we were trying to build a Republican Party in Texas (he was a Congressman from Houston then, and I was a top aide to Senator John Tower of Texas), and at a later time, when I was Deputy Director of the United States Information Agency and he was Ambassador to the United Nations, his staff was required to coordinate public statements with my own staff. We both got our marching orders from the Secretary of State (or, more accurately, from Richard Nixon, passed along through the National Security Agency, then headed by some guy named Henry Kissinger). Later, when Bush went to the CIA, he asked that I come with him as his right arm, with duties largely undefined. I passed, and returned to Texas to work for…of all places…the University of Texas System, trying to raise additional money for that poor, bedraggled resting place for left-wing professors. Shortly thereafter, we bought the Floyd County Hesperian and the Lockney Beacon, thank goodness, and all our troubles were over. Anyhow…during the days immediately after World War 11, in 1945, when chaos prevailed throughout that region of North China, Ching-yu (or Qingyu) and I had exchanged notes that we hoped would be helpful, depending on the way things went. American planes had dropped leaflets over our prison camp, telling us that the entire region was to be under Soviet influence, that the Red Army would be there shortly (which it was) and that we were not, under any circumstance, to accept the surrender of Japanese troops, that that was to be the responsibility of the Soviets. Obviously, we had no idea what exactly was going to happen. We did not know that Stalin, Churchill and Roosevelt had met at Yalta and divided up the world. We did not know that an old, sick, ailing President of the United States had essentially abandoned his duties, that Stalin got to play with everything down to "the 38th parallel." All we knew then was that America had turned the region over to the Soviets, that the Soviets had a friend in Mao still holed up in Western China, and that Stalin would ultimately arrange things so Mao would inherit that region of North China. (That is exactly what happened, as Stalin saw to it that the arms of the defeated Japanese were turned over to friends of Mao, and that ultimately that act gave a leg up to Mao in the warring factions that would ultimately rule China.) Guh Ching-yu (or Ge Qingyu) was an ardent anti-Communist. He believed, and at that time was not bashful in saying so, that "all Red Soldiers have rotten hearts." He felt, or seemed to feel, that Mao was bent on destroying traditional China, that if Mao prevailed, Chinese family life would be a thing of the past, as would the traditions that held China together. He had fought Mao's troops as one of Chiang's followers, and he knew, as well as anyone, that the future did not bode well for him, his wife and newborn son. So my note for him, in English, was that he had been a good friend of America and Americans who were prisoners of the Japanese, that I hoped any American, or friend of America, he might come in contact with would treat him accordingly. He was to know who could see the note. The way things turned out, I can only hope he destroyed my message. His note to me, which I still have, is in Chinese, which I do not read. But I have since had it translated, and basically it told me that should I find myself friendless in China, I should go to the address listed in the message, where members of his family would see to my welfare. It was that message that I intended to take with me to China, should Bush be successful in arranging for me to visit the Shenyang region. He was not. So the entire matter was put on a sort of "hold," but it was never entirely forgotten. One does not forget another human being who lends help in those circumstances. And the help of Ge Qingyu extended far beyond the nuts and bolts of everyday existence. It went to the very heart of that existence. It must be remembered that we had no radio, no newspapers, no independent means of learning anything, or verifying any rumor that swept the camp. Through it all he was the rock. When we would hear rumors of the impending end of hostilities, I would check with him and he would say: "No, not yet." Then one day, and I remember it as if it were yesterday, he took me aside and said the war would soon be over. I asked how he knew. His response was very simple and direct. The Soviet Union, which until then had stayed out of the Far East conflict, had entered the war. "And they would not come in at this late date and declare war on Japan unless they felt the war would soon be over." I remember also that that particular conversation continued along the vein of the impending Cold War. The United States and Russia would someday fight, he said, simply "because the world is not big enough for both of them." The two systems of government could not, and would not, he thought, get along without much, much, friction. Again, he was right. The Cold War did ensue. Friction between the two supposed "allies" did, in fact, develop and blossom, much quicker, in hind sight, than many of us believed at the time. He was right on so many things. That may sound somewhat trite to some, but to people starved of news from "the outside", it was a breath of fresh air. And it would be difficult, to some, to comprehend the chaos that prevailed there at that time. The Japanese, who had run that region for many, many years, were no longer top dogs. But the Red Army, which was to occupy the country and accept the surrender of the Japanese, was not yet there. American prisoners had been ordered not to accept the surrender of Japanese troops, who wanted desperately to surrender to the Americans in order to prevent surrender to the Soviets, whom they knew had a long and abiding hatred for them. (Their fears were well founded. Some 300,000 Japanese, men, women and children, were ultimately rounded up and sent to Siberia to do Russian bidding.) Under those conditions, old scores were being settled. More than a few dead bodies were scattered throughout Mukden, (or Shenyang) as this or that hated Japanese individual got killed. Even one of our own guards was found in a ditch near camp with a bullet hole between his eyes. I do not know for certain who killed him. One of the ex-prisoners claimed credit, but it could just as easily have been one of the Chinese. Perhaps a flavor of the times can be illustrated by an anecdote that I know to be true. In our camp there was a prisoner who had served many years in the U.S. Navy, named J.D. Osborne. He had spent most of his time in the Orient, and would be today what is called "an old China hand." He knew how to speak Chinese. When the war ended, and before the Soviets got there, we had taken over administration of the camp. That included, for a time, checking people through the front gate. Obviously, we had taken over the arms of the Japanese guards, and the ammunition that went with those arms. Osborne, because of his ability to comprehend Chinese, was assigned to duty at the front gate simply because we were getting so many Chinese coming to the camp and asking for a single bullet. Why did he want a single bullet?, Osborne asked one Chinese. He was very ill, was the reply. He had a bad headache, and he could drink a potion of water and the bullet's powder, and immediately feel better. Well, Ozzie told the Chinese, if that was the reason, he would simply just take the bullet apart and give the Chinese the powder, which he could then take home and drink. No dice. He left without his bullet. He was not interested in pursuing the matter. But….things change. The current government of China, beginning with the death of Mao, has gradually undergone a transformation, in which it is no longer a crime to get rich. In fact, riches now seem to be downright acceptable. Oh, the government still runs things with an iron hand, when it deems it necessary (they still don't like any religion other than their own), but there now seems to be an appreciation of wealth…to the extent that the government seems bound to exercise its weight and its wealth all around the world. How all this squares with the philosophy of Mao, despite the fact that his portraits still adorn the walls of China, is another matter entirely. In this country (the USA) a parallel would be George W. Bush praising Ronald Reagan as the father of his own policy of turning America's foreign policy over to Israel. A few people would notice, perhaps, but many, many more would simply be happy that Bush was saying nice things about Reagan, regardless of the fact that his own policy and Reagan's policy toward the Middle East were diametrically different. It is somewhat that way in China today. Millions upon millions applaud any move toward financial and/or personal openness…as long as Mao's memory is kept sacred among those who still regard him as a saint. After all, Mao was the enemy of rich people. The nuances of how all that is accomplished depends on the political shrewdness of whoever is in charge. Hoping to take advantage of what was seen as a relative change in policy toward a little more "openness", and for some strange reasons probably akin to serendipity, we checked "Google" and then followed directions. Lo and behold, the Department of State listed a Consul General in…of all places…Shenyang, China. Why in the world any government, even our own, would open a Consulate in Shenyang is beyond the comprehension of most of us who were there for a few years. But I, for one, am happy they did. It's an ancient city, true enough. Ancient walls are built around, and outside, previous walls. Siberia is not far distant. Neither is the Gobi desert. The weather can get very cold. At that time (in 1945) there was not much there but factories of various kinds and a railroad that runs all the way from the coast to Vladivostoc and on to Moscow, plus, of course, some very rich surrounding farmland. The countryside has been fought over for centuries by the Japanese, the Russians, the Chinese, the Manchus, the Mongols, and just about anybody else who has taken a fancy to the area throughout history. At that particular moment, the Japanese ruled things, and it was there they sent a bunch of us to do the military's bidding. The Japanese had won the war in the Philippines. Bataan and Corregidor were lost, and Japan called the shots. But Shenyang does one thing that has captured the imagination of some. It has a former POW camp that has acquired a certain amount of notoriety, and one that gets visited by tourists and even occasionally by a few prison camp survivors. Those prisoners, including myself, tilled the fields and built buildings, worked in the factories…did, in fact…whatever the Japanese instructed us to do. Given the anxieties of the moment, and learning of what we thought had transpired, we wasted no time in contacting the Shenyang Consulate. The result was most gratifying. A young State Department Cultural Officer named Cynthia Caples was exceptionally responsive. The Consulate put us in touch with a wonderful Chinese individual named Yang Jing (we don't know now whether it is a man or woman, but we will assume it is a man and hereafter refer to Yang Jing as "he") who has taken an interest in the camp and its fate. Yang Jing, in tandem with a former prisoner of war, has written a book about the camp and its inmates, and volunteered to take up the search for Ge Qingyu, whose family home, it turns out, is in a village not far distant from Shenyang. Ultimately, in cooperation with the General Consul in Shenyang, Yang Jing began looking for Ge Qingyu, and I am forever indebted to him for his having done so. A series of correspondence, via e-mail, between myself and Yang Jing, the General Consul, and the Cultural Officer, Miss, (or Mrs.) Cynthia Caples , ended up with Yang Jing locating the family in the village of Shilihe in North China, not terribly far from Shenyang where we discussed matters of great moment in 1945. when I was a prisoner of the Japanese. I can say it no better, nor report it any better, than to relay to you the message he sent me a few days ago. He had gone…well let us let him relay the message…it is very poignant, and I recommend it to all readers: Dear Mr. Towery, Thanks to the address you sent me, I did go out to that place this morning. It took me 2 hours by two relay buses to get there - Shilihe Village, but it turned out that I got off at a wrong place at first. When I went in to a Ge's house in that village, they told me that I was wrong. They pointed out that the address I have was actually indicating the name of a train station with the same name of Shilihe. This was one along the South Manchurian Railroad which led you to Dalian in September 1945. So I took another bus to the area of that train station; however, the train station had been shutoff for more than a year. Believe it or not, when I stopped a farmer who was working on a hand truck that carried fertilizer, I asked him for a way to the Ge's house. He asked who, and I said Ge's family. He asked which GE? I was asking myself in the heart if he knew someone of the GE's? I said Ge Qingyu. He waited a while, and said he was my father! What a coincidence! I was so happy at that very moment that I found HIM. I then hurried him to take me to his house. There I met his wife. He was the second son of GE. I then told them who I am and why I was here. He then went for his elder brother, the oldest son. I then had a very nice talk with them. The elder son recalled that the father mentioned his American friend, the shaving blades and sunglasses his American friend gave him. However, it turned out to be quite a sad and disappointing news that GE died of a stroke in 1989 at the age 69. His wife passed away even earlier in late 70's. The son you saw in GE's house in Shenyang accidentally died at a very young age, just days after GE and his wife got back home from Shenyang in 1948. GE there since lived a very simple and peaceful life in the countryside as a farmer. He had five children (three sons and two daughters), and 9 grandchildren. The two sons felt so much touched by your remembering of the father. They asked me to convey their best wishes to you, and they treasure you as their friend, too. They said they would like to see the friendship passed along to the new generation. They also expressed a warm warm welcome to their house if you have the chance to visit Shenyang. I did not meet other children of GE since they are not living near. We had a lunch together in a nearby restaurant, and they are nice and wonderful men - hard working and low profile. I took several pictures of them. I will send you copies when I have them printed. And please advise if you have any question about this visit, and please feel free to let me know if there is anything you may require from this side. I got back home late this afternoon, but I can't make myself quiet down. I have to admit that I was once again strongly touched today, as I had always been when I did my research on POW issues. I can only say that it well worth telling. This is not only a story, but also a history. No war is a good war, but no history is a bad history. It always tells the right from the wrong. Learning from the history is a life long lesson. Thanks and best regards, Yang Jing So Ge Qingyu is no more. I do not remember him as an old man, which he finally became before he died. I remember him only as a young man who came to our prison camp almost every morning, took charge of the prisoners when the Japanese had finished counting off those who would work that day, strutting like a peacock leading the prisoners to work while Japanese guards walked alongside with bayonets, relaying to us what the Japanese wanted us to do once we got to the factory, and, in the final analysis, being a true friend of Americans in dire straits. It is probable that not too many people will remember Ge Qingyu, but those who do will remember one whose heart was "not rotten." And, on top of everything else, I am happy that Ge Qingyu spoke, to his children (and perhaps to his grandchildren) of the razor blades and sunglasses. I remember it well. When the war ended, American B-29's dropped tons of supplies into an area just outside our camp. They had no idea what we needed, they just had a bunch of stuff on hand back in Saipan, or somewhere, and they were told to deliver it to us. A lot of the stuff was useless, to us, since we were only going to be there, we thought, a few days. The planes came in very low, disgorged tons of supplies on racks helped downward by parachutes that sometimes held firm. Among those supplies was a pair of sunglasses and some razor blades, which I gave to Qingyu. I am happy he remembered.
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