At 8:56 one cool, grey morning last week, a drab Molotov truck pulled up with a growl in front of the triple-arched "Freedom Gate" at Panmunjom. Pale hands and paler faces appeared from behind the grey canvas that covered the van.
One by one, U.S., Turkish and South Korean soldiers leaped from the tailgate or climbed down a blue ladder to freedom.
Some grinned, some wept, some stared.
A major shouted his name to correspond ents. "Operation Big Switch'' had begun.
Every day last week, approximately 400 U.N. prisoners arrived at Panmun jom and, by helicopter, truck and ambulance, were sped back to Freedom Village near Munsan. Some of the survivors of Communist prison camps were healthy, robust men, who grinned, waved and danced on the gravel path to the receiving tents. Some could not dance, because they were emaciated or had only one leg. Others were litter cases, undernourished or sick with tuberculosis or dysentery.
"They Laugh More." Almost without exception, the men who came back last week were in better spirits than the sick, wounded and dull-eyed wrecks who were exchanged in "Little Switch" last spring.
Said a U.S. doctor: "These boys are more alive. They laugh more. They seem more aware of everything that is going on around them." An Army psychiatrist thought he knew why: prisoners learn to dull their hopes, accept their lot, and live only for the day; the men of Little Switch, abruptly given freedom, were still in that mood. But this week's prisoners, knowing of the truce, have had a chance to stir memories and anticipations.
At a much faster rate, because the U.N. holds many more prisoners, the U.N. handed over some 2.700 Communists daily. Some of them were litter cases, too. Obviously under orders. Chinese returnees solemnly ripped up their newly issued uniforms and rolled in the dirt, to present as dismal a picture as possible for their propaganda photographers. The North Koreans threw canteens, shoes, crutches and clothing at U.N. roster officers.
Such planned nonsense, docilely executed, had an eerie sadness all its own: a strange contrast to the scenes in the big receiving shed in Munsan. There, returning U.N. soldiers found it hard to remember what freedom was like. They laughed and cried, swallowed great quantities of ice cream, milk and boiled steaks, but asked timidly whether they could write more than one letter home.
Most of them said "sir," even to enlisted attendants. A few, glancing through new magazines, asked: "Who's this Marilyn Monroe dame?" A Turk spotted the Turkish flag hanging among others, buried his face in it, and cried, when an officer took it down and gave it to him. One prisoner walked all around a room, sticking close to the wall, when he might have strolled right across. A 50-year-old U.S. warrant officer bounced on an air mattress in the Freedom Village Red Cross lounge, drawled: "I just love to sit here and look at those capitalistic lamps built by you American warmongers." A moment later, after mention of his wife, he was weeping.